[Celebrity Murder Case 11] - The William Power and Myrna Loy Murder Case

by George Baxt

  He said firmly as he started to light a cigarette, “Claire didn’t kill Fern Arnold.”

  “I’m convinced you’re right. It’s geographically impossible if she was dictating to Amelia Hubbard in West Hollywood. Still, Villon should have phoned this Hubbard woman to corroborate Claire’s alibi, don’t you agree?”

  Powell exhaled and then studied the lighted end of the cigarette. “Minnie, although I still believe Claire is innocent of what the newspapers will undoubtedly label a heinous crime, Claire could easily have set up an alibi for herself with Miss Hubbard. I think I heard sonewhere that in an earlier incarnation our Miss Hubbard had been one of Claire’s girls.”

  “Oh dear, there is certainly a plethora of Claire’s girls in Hollywood.”

  Villon joined them. He asked, “Still troubled, Myrna?”

  “Well, if you’re wishing I would draw a blank on this case, it’s not all that easy. I’m just an amateur busybody, of course, but to my naked eye, things don’t seem the way they ought to be. Take the poker. The murder weapon. No fingerprints. The handle wiped clean.” Villon nodded. Myrna wasn’t happy. “This killer has seen too many movies. They’re always wiped clean in the movies.”

  “Am I interrupting a conference?” asked Claire Young, holding a mug of coffee.

  “Not at all,” said Powell. “Claire, where’s the help?”

  “I wish I knew. I could certainly use some.”

  “I mean household help, dear. Don’t you have a housekeeper? A butler? Perhaps a bouncer for any fractious patrons.”

  Claire said, “Bill, let me quote from The Madam’s Handbook.”

  Myrna was wide-eyed. “Is there really such a thing?”

  Claire tapped a finger against her head. “It’s in here, Myrna. Etched with lightning. First of all, there is no activity on these premises other than to bring a girl and a score together. They go elsewhere pour le sport, as the French would say. Although Fern keeps a small apartment of her own in West Hollywood, she rarely uses it except for the occasion when she’s been out on the town and is too tired to come back here. We do our own cooking, our own housekeeping, and there’s a maid who comes a couple of times a week, today not being one of them. I don’t get much in the way of drop-in trade because I don’t encourage it. Sometimes the girls come by when they get antsy and I haven’t phoned. Oh Christ, how I’m missing Fern already!”

  “There there dear,” said Myrna, “have you thought of sending for your aunt? You know, the one in Venice.”

  “Maidie?”

  “Do you have any other aunt in Venice?” asked Myrna, wanting to add, Do you have any other anybody? but not asking for fear of landing her foot in her mouth.

  Claire said firmly, “I’d never subject Maidie to this ordeal.”

  “Doesn’t she know how you’ve been earning your living?” asked Myrna.

  “No, she doesn’t. She thinks I run a model agency.”

  Maidie, thought Myrna, has got to be blessedly naive, or feebleminded. And Claire doesn’t like talking about her or about anybody else. Myrna suspected Claire’s brain was a Pandora’s box of dark and dangerous secrets, a very complex personality who could shed one identity and then assume another with the snap of a finger. Audrey Manners into Claire Young quicker than Bill could flip a quip to Myrna. But, thought Myrna, I shouldn’t be so hard on her. She’s dying, her best friend has been murdered right here on the hearth in this very room, and outside of two prostitutes, a mad violinist (who appropriately enough was now scraping away at ‘Melancholy Baby’), and William Powell and Myrna Loy, no one has materialized rallying to her side.

  A detective appeared from the front hall. “Anybody send for a doctor?”

  Myrna blushed. Someone has rallied to Claire’s side. Dollars to doughnuts, thought Myrna, it’s Mitchell Carewe.

  Claire seemed taken by surprise as Mitchell Carewe, carrying his black medical bag, came walking past the detective as though he had every right to be here. He went to Claire. “Are you all right? I was at the hospital and just heard the news on my car radio so I sped here as fast as I could. Are you all right?”

  “About as all right as I can be when my best friend has been found murdered in this room.”

  He put his black bag on Claire’s desk. “You need a sedative.”

  “I don’t need a thing! Mitch, I don’t think you know everyone.” She introduced him, although Myrna got the impression she wished the doctor was anywhere but in this room.

  As Powell shook the doctor’s hand he asked, “How’s for a freebie?” and stuck his tongue out.

  “Bill!” Myrna admonished.

  Carewe laughed and said, “Just like in the movies!”

  “Doctor, I think we’ve met way back when, before last night,” said Powell.

  “I don’t think so. I certainly would have remembered. It’s not every day that one meets William Powell and Myrna Loy.”

  Myrna said quickly, “Oh, we haven’t met before. I’ve seen you, but we’ve never met. Last night at Griselda’s Cage, you were with Fern Arnold.” She added slowly, “The victim.”

  “I’ve known Fern a long time. Met her the same time I met Claire. I didn’t see you at Griselda’s.”

  Myrna said airily, “That’s because you were so engrossed with her before she made her sudden exit leaving you in the lurch.” Herb Villon was thinking, Lucky Myrna Loy wasn’t around at the time of the Spanish Inquisition. She’d have made Torquemada, the cruel Inquisitor, look like an also-ran. Hazel said to him with mock sweetness, “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Quiet,” said Herb. “She moves in mysterious ways and I approve of all of them.”

  Dr. Carewe wore a thin smile. “Fern couldn’t give me much time. She was meeting somebody.”

  Pretty lame excuse, thought Villon. He glanced at Claire. Yes, pretty lame, Claire knows better.

  Powell said, “As I said before, I think we’ve met.”

  “Forgive me, but I repeat, I don’t remember.”

  “It was on the Deerslayer.” He turned to Herb. “You remember the ship, don’t you. Herb?”

  “I helped put it out of business.”

  Powell explained to the room, “It was a gambling ship. Plied its trade outside the five-mile limit. Or was it ten? Anyway, they cleaned out a lot of suckers.”

  “Including you,” said Myrna.

  Powell made a mock bow. “Guilty as charged. Actually, it was the former Mrs. Powell, my beloved Carole, who they were taking to the cleaners until that smarty pants accused the bums of using loaded dice. And they were. I was there. Dr. Carewe, when I believe you were getting wiped out at roulette.”

  Villon was enjoying himself immensely. These movie stars know no shame. They tread where angels fear, and pity the angels who get in their way. They’ll get knocked on their backsides with perhaps only their wings to cushion the shocks.

  Carewe said bravely, “Well, if you say I was there, then perhaps I was. But weren’t gambling ships a long time ago? Six or seven years ago? I was just getting started. I couldn't have had the money with which to gamble.”

  “That’s right. You didn’t. Oh dear. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s one of the many things Mrs. Hornblow and I have in common. We’re very rash and impetuous.”

  “Six or seven years ago,” said Carewe, “I wore a mustache. So I don’t see how you can remember me.”

  “That’s because you didn’t wear a mustache. You look now the way you did then except now you’re more uncomfortable and I do apologize if I’m the cause of it. Claire, aren’t you going to offer the doctor a drink?”

  “Of course,” said Claire, wishing for an earthquake that would scatter everyone, “scotch highball, right?” The doctor nodded. Myrna thought, so she knows what he drinks. Do they belt them back in his office?

  Freda, all smiles and coquetry, asked the doctor, “Arc you hungry? We had sandwiches but they are all gone. I could prepare you an omelet.”

  Claire said, “I’m sorry. There
aren’t any eggs.”

  Doctor Carewe said, “Please don’t fuss. A drink is all I need.” I’ll bet, thought Myrna.

  “There is no fuss. This will be my spécialité. A true Hungarian omelet. Lazio, put aside the fiddle and go steal a dozen eggs.”

  FIFTEEN

  Myrna sat quite still, staring into space. Her head was spinning. Bill remembering Dr. Carewe from a gambling ship. Stealing eggs for an omelet. And now Villon was on the phone speaking to someone he called Howard. Powell caught her attention and mouthed “Strickling.” Myrna’s mouth formed an O. Into the phone Villon said “Sure” followed by “Of course” and then “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it. I’ll keep in touch.” He hung up and crossed to Powell and Loy. “That was Howard Strickling.” The way both feigned a combination of shock and fear, Villon was convinced they’d been rehearsing the act for years. “Papa Mayer is very unhappy.”

  Powell asked, “What young actress had the guts to say no?”

  “He wishes you’d both get the hell out of here and go memorize a script.”

  Myrna said, “I hope you told Strickling to tell Mr. Mayer what we do in our own time is none of his business.”

  Villon said, “Neither gentlemen knew you were here at my invitation to research your next Thin Man film. How could you have forgotten to tell them?”

  Myrna said, “William Powell, shame on you. Keeping such momentous information from the Hardy Boys of Hollywood. That was quick thinking on your part. Herb. Consider your back patted.”

  Villon said, “Pat Strickling on the back. It was his idea, not mine.”

  Powell said to Myrna, “Minnie, what’s ailing you?”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I’m concerned. I’m very unhappy if you’re very unhappy, remember The Corsican Brothers.”

  “I’m still remembering the Maine.”

  “Now don’t be sassy.”

  “How can I be sassy if I’m out of sorts?”

  Powell said, “How out of sorts are you?”

  Myrna began to bristle. “I am not out of sorts. I’m not out of anything. Talk to Claire. She’s out of eggs.”

  “No longer,” said Powell, as Lazio crossed the outer hall on his way to the kitchen carrying a paper bag that Powell was sure contained a carton of eggs. Freda had also spotted the musician and hurried after him. Lucy Rockefeller was off in a comer of the room with Jim Mallory, both occupying a love seat and very deep in conversation.

  Powell persisted. “Minnie, I’m sure the doctor has something in his little black bag that will steady your nerves. We seem to be up to our shoulders in little black somethings. Little black bag. Little black book. And anyone for Little Black Sambo? No? Good. I only remember the title. Dr. Carewe …”

  Carewe and Claire were seated at the desk, Claire behind it and Carewe next to her. Neither one of them seemed to be enjoying their conversation. Upon hearing Powell call his name, the doctor’s head shot around. At the same time the phone rang and Villon, being the closest to it, picked it up.

  Powell said to Carewe, “Myrna seems to be in need of a sedative …”

  “I am not!” insisted Myrna.

  “This is no rime for modesty. Perhaps you have something in your little black bag …”

  “The only thing he might have in that bag that I could use is a good script. Do you have a good script in that bag, Doctor?” Carewe had arisen and was clutching the black bag tightly. ‘Tm afraid all I’m carrying are the instruments I might need when I’m doing my rounds at the hospital.”

  “That sounds terribly efficient,” said Myrna. “Don’t trouble yourself, Doctor. What I need isn’t carried in a medical bag. Now Bill, you shut up. Herb is finished with his call and wants to tell us something.”

  Herb said with a twinkle in his eye, “That was the coroner. I asked him to call as soon as he’d made a preliminary examination of Fern. He’s quite pleased with her.”

  “Oh come on, Herb!” said Hazel.

  “A simple fractured skull. The killer had a powerful wallop.” Claire crossed to the bar and poured herself a neat scotch. “Our coroner is a rather fey gentleman. One of the old school. He’s beside himself that there is no poison involved. I’d go easy on the scotch if I was you, Claire.”

  “Why?” she snapped, “I’ve got plenty.” Her voice was husky and her hands were trembling.

  Hazel said to Villon, “That was unbecoming.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Simple fractured skull. Powerful wallop. No poison. Fern Arnold was Claire’s closest friend. Claire’s hurting bad and you had to make it worse.”

  Villon spoke softly, “There is method to my madness.”

  “I think there’s madness to your method.” She went to Claire. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all.” Claire made room at the bar for Hazel, who methodically mixed a pitcher of gin martinis.

  Powell was watching her and called across the room, “I hope you’re mixing enough for a lot of us.”

  Freda came bustling into the room carrying a tray on which there was a plate of Hungarian omelet with buttered toast and a small vase with an artificial rose. She crossed to the desk with a lavish smile of pride and self-satisfaction while Hazel assured Powell there’d be plenty of martinis for whoever wanted them. Freda set the tray down on the desk and said to Dr. Care we, “Eat! Eat! Look how you look. Here it is. My Hungarian omelet, I don’t make it for everyone. Here is buttered toast and a fork and a knife and a miserable artificial rose I found on the refrigerator. Doctor? Have you lost your appetite?’’

  “I didn’t have one,” he said weakly. “But it looks awfully good.”

  “Aha!” cried Freda triumphantly, “nobody can resist my omelets.”

  Powell said in an aside to Myrna, “I’m sure that’s a metaphor for something racy.”

  Myrna said to Villon, who was now standing with them, “Did you realize how hard you were being on Claire?”

  “Hazel’s already brought it to my attention.” He was lighting a cigarette.

  Myrna now wore a look of curiosity and Powell could tell she was harboring some interesting ideas. He said, “Come, come, Minnie. Let’s have it.” She shot him a look. “I can tell by your very expressive face you’re struggling with something you want to say but can’t make up your mind whether to say it or not.”

  “It isn’t anything I want to say, it’s something I want to ask.”

  Villon said, “Go ahead and ask.”

  “Herb, I have this nagging feeling that you know who financed Claire.”

  “And if I say I don’t?”

  “I’d ask you to swear it on a Bible.”

  “We don’t have a Bible,” said Powell. “And nobody’s going to send out for one.”

  “We don’t have to send out for one, there’s a Bible on that bookshelf. It looks pretty old from here but I’m sure it’s still serviceable.”

  Powell asked, “My dear Minnie, my mind is beginning to boggle. What has Claire’s financing got to do with Fern’s murder?” Myrna looked around with caution. Lazio had resumed his fiddling with “Let’s Have Another Cup of Coffee, Let’s Have Another Piece of Pie.”

  “We can’t be overheard, can we?”

  Powell reassured her. “I’m sure we’re well out of earshot of the others and Lazio is bearing down rather heavily on his instrument. I do wish Hazel would stop being so meticulous with her martini measurements. My tongue is beginning to swell.”

  “Let her take her time. I don’t want her in on any of this.” She took the precaution of looking around again. “When Claire was Audrey Manners, she had a romance with a young intern. Well, it stands to reason that was Mitchell Carewe.”

  “I’m sure at the time there was a vast assortment of interns for Miss Manners to select from, and not necessarily Carewe.”

  Myrna said with patience, “Bill, this is my theory. If it doesn’t interest you, go attack Hazel and develop a theory of your own. Now, may I c
ontinue? Herb, you have one of those looks on your face germane to detectives. Please bear with me.”

  Powell asked, “We’ll bear with you after you explain that remark about the look on Herb’s face being germane to detectives.”

  “Skepticism,’’ said Myrna.

  “Well, can you blame him after the humdingers you’ve already come up with?”

  Myrna chose to ignore the remark. “Dr. Carewe remains my intern of choice because if he isn’t, my theory gets knocked into a cocked hat and I wore one of them in Don Juan and I thought I looked like hell. You figure in this too. Bill.”

  “Oh my! Thank you, Minnie, I’m often at my best figuring in things.”

  “Herb, last night Griselda mentioned that Mitchell Carewe has heavy gambling debts. Well, I think it’s a chronic condition with him harking back to the days when he gambled on the Deerslayer. I think at some point back then the doctor was terrified for his life. He knew Audrey had a wealthy backer and I think he went to her to get her to intercede with him and get the money he needed to pay his gambling debts. You’re not looking so skeptical anymore, Herb.”

  “Because it’s logical. But that is, as Bill isn’t so sure, if Carewe is our pigeon.”

  “Well let’s let him be our pigeon until I’m finished. Look at the poor man struggling with that omelet. He’s terribly attractive, isn’t he?”

  Bill said with exaggerated patience, “He’s not my type.”

  “He’s not mine either,” said Myrna, “but he is terribly attractive even if his eyes are a little too close together.”

  Herb said, “Get back to your theory, Myrna.”

  “Where was I? Oh yes, Audrey to get the money from Mr. Moneybags to settle Carewe’s debt. Well, I think he refused to give it to her.”

  “Why?” asked Bill.

  “Why not?” piped in Villon.

  “I think Mr. Money Bags was an older gentleman. Not much older, but older. I think he was the type of man who had crushes on young blonde starlets.”

  “Why blondes necessarily?” asked Powell.

  “Wasn’t Audrey a blonde? Wasn’t she, Herb?”