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

by George Baxt

  “And no mother to guide her.”

  “Bill Powell, this is no time for non sequiturs.”

  “I was thinking of Claire. No mother to guide her. No one to turn to except that overpowering Hungarian and all she’s interested in is inheriting the business from Claire. I overheard her.”

  “I hope she does. I think she’d make a marvelous madam.”

  “How many madams have you known?

  Myrna chose not to answer, and instead said, “What about this Maidie person out in Venice?”

  “Aunt Maidie?” Powell thought for a moment. “What about her? She’s just an aunt.”

  Myrna suggested slyly, “She could possibly be her mother.”

  “Why not?” asked Powell affably. “Every girl should have a mother unless she’s too poor to afford one. I must say, Minnie, that mind of yours does go off on tangents. How could she possibly be her mother?”

  “Claire is so devious. First Audrey Manners. Then Claire Young. Then that damned little black book. And her memoirs. She’s desperate for money. Who for? Aunt Maidie?”

  “Why not? I’m sure she adores Aunt Maidie. Claire’s scenario could go something like this. She’s orphaned as a child.”

  “I’m stifling a sob,” said Myrna.

  “Aunt Maidie provides a home for her. Sends her to school. Clothes and feeds her. Teaches her the facts of life. Encourages her to become an actress — “

  Myrna took over. “While sitting at home and sewing a scarlet A to the front of her dresses. Dear old Aunt Maidie. Such a comfort. Well, aunt or mother, Claire Young has got to have a deeper reason to accumulate the sum of cash I feel quite safe in assuming she’s after.”

  He stared at her for a moment before concentrating on the traffic ahead of him. “Come come, Minnie. Out with it. The suspense is killing me. What manner of outrage are you entertaining now?”

  “It’s not an outrage, it’s a logical suspicion.”

  “All your suspicions are certainly logical.”

  She said with indignation, “You’re damn right they’re logical. They may be slightly off center but you have to admit they’re logical.”

  “Come on, Minnie, stop staffing.”

  “I’m thinking of the desert.”

  “Okay, so we’re in Palm Springs. Rather warm for Christmas, don’t you think?”

  “Presumably where Claire went with her nervous breakdown. Well, Hollywood ladies go to Palm Springs for other reasons and I’m not talking about suntans or not-so-innocent flirtations with tennis pros.”

  Powell said, “Well, what cuisine I’ve eaten when there has never been terribly exceptional. So they wouldn’t drive out there especially for a meal.”

  “You’re being intentionally dense. Think of Constance Bennett, Miriam Hopkins, Loretta Young.”

  “I love thinking about them. They’re so beautiful and sexy, although Connie is a bitch and Miriam is a pain in the ass and Loretta is so holier-than-thou you’d think she was sired by a priest. All right, now that you’ve got me on track, what about your sister stars?”

  “After a very long absence, they all returned to Hollywood with a babe-in-arms they claimed they had adopted.”

  “Oh fie and for shame!”

  “And they didn’t leave them on anybody’s doorstep either. They just continued to live the lie. I must ask Clark if he still insists Loretta’s daughter isn’t his. The child’s protruding ears are a dead giveaway.”

  “Perhaps the child’s protruding ears are simply protruding ears.”

  “I think Claire Young, while still her earlier self, Audrey Manners, betook herself to Palm Springs and there a little child was born. And not in a manger.”

  “Why Mrs. Arthur Hornblow, Jr., you do come up with some lulus!”

  “Well? It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, it is most certainly possible. In this town illegitimate children are epidemic. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there were some of mine sitting in lawyer’s offices right now preparing lawsuits.”

  Myrna laughed. “Oh Bill, how could you possibly have fathered an illegitimate child?”

  He said casually, “The usual way. Unless I’ve missed out on an alternative.”

  “Now don’t be frivolous!”

  “I’m not in the least bit frivolous. I’m not the frivolous type. You could be right. Now clutched to Aunt Maidie’s protective bosom is a little bastard who calls Claire Mommy. And so Claire needs money to see that the child is well provided for. Minnie,” he said after a pause in which he further weighed the possibility of their supposition, “it’s a likelihood. But even if it is, it doesn’t give us a clue as to who murdered three people.”

  Myrna said, “Mallory and Hazel are pulling in ahead of us.”

  “My eyesight’s quite good. I see them. I see also several police cars. A variety of reporters and camera men. Some nosy neighbors. An ambulance, which means the body has not yet been removed. Oh goody.” He pulled in behind Hazel Dickson’s car. Hazel was on the sidewalk waiting for them. She opened the door on Myrna’s side and leaned in. “I was thinking I’d run interference for you two.”

  Powell said, “Thank you, my dear, but we’re old hands at handling the press.”

  “Oh my God,” said Myrna.

  “Now what?” asked Powell.

  “First Claire’s house, now Amelia Hubbard’s apartment. Mr. Mayer may have a stroke.”

  “What a lovely thought, Minnie. You must hold on to it. Brace yourself. Here comes the gaggle of geese.”

  The press were having a field day, peppering the stars with questions while the newsreel cameras rolled and photographers snapped photos. A few of Amelia Hubbard’s neighbors approached the stars for autographs and the two old pros acquiesced affably although Powell loathed to give autographs. He expressed the fear once that there were larcenous ones who would try to trace his signature onto blank checks.

  A sob sister shouted to Hazel, “You better share some of the items you get with us or I’ll reveal the shame of your birth!”

  Hazel shouted back, “You’re certainly old enough to have been there!”

  Myrna asked Hazel, “Dear, were you born in Palm Springs?”

  Hazel rejoined, “Why would I do a thing like that?”

  In Amelia Hubbard’s apartment, Barney Hoyt was conferring with Herb Villon and Jim Mallory when Myrna, Bill, and Hazel entered. Amelia Hubbard was no longer at her desk. Two of the coroner’s men had moved her to a stretcher where they had wrapped her in a sheet.

  Myrna squeaked, “I can’t look. It’s too awful.”

  “Now Minnie dear,” said Powell, “I’m sure you’ve seen a fair share of bloodied corpses in the course of your career.”

  “Of course I have. But they were mostly extras and bit players.”

  “There were also some notable supporting players. Remember that frightful Frenchwoman who had won the Johnny Weissmuller look-alike contest?”

  “I could use a martini, right now,” said Myrna, knowing full well none would materialize. Villon introduced Powell and Loy to Barney Hoyt, who was indeed short in height, and who immediately began questioning the presence of movie stars at the scene of the crime.

  “It’s okay, Barney,” Villon reassured Hoyt, “they’re researching their next Thin Man movie.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Barney Hoyt. “What’s it called?”

  Powell said pleasantly, “The Thin Man Goes to Palm Springs.” Myrna moved to kick him in the shins but Powell spryly sidestepped. Villon was wondering what they were up to, what was with Palm Springs all of a sudden.

  Villon asked Barney Hoyt, “There should be a stenographer’s pad on her desk.” It was Hazel who found it.

  Hazel asked, “Is this thing important?”

  Villon snatched it from her. “It contains Claire Young’s dictation.”

  Hazel snatched it back. “I can read shorthand.” She opened the pad and flipped several pages. She stopped at one, read the column, and with a cry of de
light yelled, “Louella will plotz when she hears this!”

  Villon beat her to the phone and held it behind his back. “The cops first. Hazel, and then maybe Louella. Now take a seat — not at the desk, the blood’s not dried yet —” Myrna grimaced. “Open the pad, and read to me. You know how I love being read to.”

  “I know,” said Hazel, “but this isn’t pornographic.” The stern look on his face told Hazel to sit and read. She sat and flipped open the pad. “Well, this bit here seems very innocuous. It’s about a little boy. Seems the poor kid’s got polio.”

  “How awful,” said Myrna. “Hazel? Does it say if he lives out in Venice?”

  “Say! Are you a mind reader or something? He lives out in Venice with somebody named Maidie Casson. Myrna, do you know her?”

  “Never met her. But I know her. Don’t we, Bill?”

  SEVENTEEN

  Powell spoke with exaggerated enunciation, reminding Myrna that she longed to play Eliza in Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion but if it ever came to the screen the part would go to Mae West. “Herb, did Audrey Manners have an Aunt Maidie who lived in Venice? Or to couch it slightly differently, does Claire Young have an Aunt Maidie living in Venice?”

  Villon cut through the gristle and got to the meat. “You think that’s Claire’s kid?”

  Powell looked at Myrna, who rewarded him with a blank look, much like Greta Garbo’s in the final frames of Queen Christina. She was not about to commit herself to the status of a small crippled boy who was undoubtedly a bastard but like every small crippled boy, absolutely adorable. Powell finally spoke. “It has to be somebody’s kid.”

  Villon repeated his question. “You think that’s Claire’s kid?”

  “Well, what if it is?” intervened Hazel. “There’s lots of illegitimate kids on the loose in this town. God knows how many could be laid at John Barrymore’s feet. And Charlie Chaplin, let us not forget.”

  Powell asked Villon, “Why not ask Claire?”

  The coroner, after ordering his assistants to carry their grisly burden out to what he unceremoniously referred to as the meat wagon, intervened to announce to Villon, “She was murdered with a sharp pointed instrument. Right in the back of the neck.” He illustrated his statement by poking Hazel in the back of the neck. Hazel yelped while Myrna asked, “You mean something like a knitting needle?”

  The coroner smiled at her. “You’re Myrna Loy.”

  “Are you asking or accusing?”

  “I’m asking and you’re adorable. If I was twenty years younger I’d wrestle you to the floor.” His eyes twinkled and Myrna resisted an urge to pinch his check. He looked like the popular character actor Etienne Girardot, short, slender, and sixtyish. “No, Miss Loy, not a knitting needle. You would use that to poke out an eye or injure an eardrum,” he said as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

  “Or knit a sweater,” added Powell with his ever-present common sense.

  The coroner persisted. “The knitting needle doesn’t get my vote. No, not ever.”

  “How’s for a steak knife?” asked Powell.

  “Actually, I’ve been thinking in terms of something like a dentist’s pick.”

  “Don’t they have a small curve at the tip?” asked Villon. He had said something to Jim Mallory, who was carrying a chair to the closet.

  “There are several dental instruments that are totally devoid of curves. They are straight and if used incorrectly can be deadly. Miss Hubbard’s wound was traumatic. I would say that the attack so stunned her it brought on a heart attack.”

  The room heard Myrna say, “I’m skipping dinner tonight.”

  Jim Mallory was standing on the chair feeling around in the top shelf of the closet. He got down from the chair, crossed to Villon and told him, “They’re gone.” Powell and Loy overheard and realized it had something to do with Claire’s chasing after Villon and buttonholing him in front of her house as they were leaving for Amelia Hubbard’s.

  “What’s gone?” asked Hazel in her usual forthright manner of treading where angels might fear and causing Villon’s rear end to ache.

  Myrna volunteered, “I suspect it’s pages of Claire’s dictation that Amelia typed and consigned to the top shelf of the closet.”

  “How’d you know that?” asked Villon sharply.

  Myrna said staunchly, “I wasn’t imparting knowledge, I was sharing a deduction. And I’ll stand by what I said. People always hide things on the top shelves of closets. I always do but the trouble is I always forget what I hid and what’s worse, why?”

  “You must do an inventory of your top shelves at the earliest possible convenience, Minnie — you may find something of value.”

  Hazel persisted at Villon. “Myrna’s right, isn’t she.”

  Villon knew when he was beaten. “Myrna is right.”

  Myrna smiled victoriously. “So the murderer came here to get those pages, right? He demanded them from Miss Hubbard, whose loyalty overcame what I suppose was her common sense and she said something to the effect that he could not have them and that was that. So he stabbed her with the sharp instrument and set about to find the papers and promptly found them because he probably knows all about people hiding things on the top shelves of their closets.”

  Powell, who had been carefully scrutinizing the contents of the room, said, “One look at this place and the only logical hiding place is the closet. And Minnie?”

  “Yes?”

  “What sharp instrument?” Her free was blank again so he elucidated. “You said he stabbed her with a sharp instrument.”

  “I didn’t.” She indicated the coroner, who was wishing he had taken his father’s advice and become a race track tout. “This adorable darling did.”

  “Oh, never mind,” said Powell, conceding defeat. He asked Villon, “He could have arrived with the weapon concealed on his person. Mr. Hoyt, I presume you didn’t find a bloodstained pointed instrument?”

  “If I had,” replied Barney Hoyt, “we’d be having no problem with the damned thing.”

  “A very sagaciously practical answer. So Herb, there’s a murderer on the loose with a sharp-pointed bloodstained instrument. Do you suppose he’s the same person who murdered Fern Arnold?”

  “Bill,” replied Villon wearily, “it stands to reason.”

  “We think he also murdered Paul Bern, don’t we, Bill,” said Myrna.

  Powell said, trying to assuage the strange look on Herb Villon’s face, “It’s only a supposition.”

  “If he killed Paul Bern,” said Villon, “he’s a long time between murders.”

  Myrna asked, “Don’t murderers take sabbaticals?” The statement was ignored.

  Mallory had been to the kitchen but reported to Villon he’d found no sign of a murder weapon there. Villon told him he didn’t think there would be. Villon was at the desk staring at a phone number penciled on Amelia’s desk calendar. He dialed the number. An efficient female voice trumpeted, “Dr. Carewe’s office.” Villon replaced the phone in its cradle. He was wondering. Was Hubbard also a patient of Carewe’s, and if so, how could she afford him — he was very high priced. Perhaps Carewe was treating her out of friendship, but treating her for what? Or maybe Hubbard had called him to see if Claire was truly fatally ill. Doctors aren’t supposed to share privileged information. Yet perhaps if he and Amelia were buddies from a long way back, he’d have let her in on the diagnosis. And it was a likelihood that Hubbard knew Carewe when they were younger and Carewe was pursuing Audrey Manners.

  “Your cheeks are puffed up,” Hazel said to Villon.

  “They always puff up when I’m thinking.”

  “They’re more puffed up than usual. They look like you’ve got the mumps.” She recognized the expression on Villon’s face. It warned her to back off for the moment, but Hazel wasn’t one who easily shifted to reverse. “What was that number you just dialed?”

  Villon knew that wishing for lightning to strike Hazel was futile. Hazel led a charmed life. In fact she led several cha
rmed lives in addition to her own. Myrna was still wondering if indeed murderers did on occasion take sabbaticals. She remembered reading somewhere about a series of prostitute murders in Los Angeles where the murderer had gone undetected. Then years passed and suddenly prostitutes were being murdered again. It seems there was always open season on ladies of easy virtue, but in this case the fresh murders erupted after a decade’s hiatus and Myrna remembered thinking at the time she’d read the article the killer probably had become bored with retirement as happened to most people in retirement (she had read that statistic too somewhere) and had decided it was high old time to get back to murdering whores.

  Bill Powell was wondering, How does a murderer walk away with a bloodstained instrument? Wrapped in a newspaper? Certainly not tucked in an inside jacket pocket. There’d be telltale stains. He watched a forensics team give the room a thorough going over. He admired them. They were good. They were very very good. Not much chatter either, just almost total concentration on the job at hand.

  Hazel was aching to dial the number Villon had dialed but he had tom the page on which it was written from the desk pad and stuffed it in his pocket. On that page was also a notation signifying that Claire Young was expected at ten that morning. There was a sheet of typing paper rolled up in the carriage of the machine so that it looked totally blank. Villon rolled the carriage. He stared at the paper then tore it out of the machine, folded it, and put in a jacket picket.

  “What was that?” asked Hazel.

  “A sheet of paper,” said Villon.

  “What was written on it?”

  “Nothing. It was blank.”

  “Oh yes? Then why fold it and put it in your pocket?”

  Powell was within earshot. There was so much about Hazel Dickson that reminded him of his ex-wife. Carole Lombard had always strafed him with suspicious questions. Where were you? What did you do? Why did you do it if you did it? How often had he wanted to wring Lombard’s neck and now entertained the same desire for Hazel Dickson. He heard Myrna saying, “I wish there was a butler in this case so we could blame the whole shooting match on him.”