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

by George Baxt

  “Nobody’s been shot in this case,” Powell reminded her but she wasn’t listening. She was off somewhere else, because a thought that had been nagging at her earlier at Claire’s house had resurfaced from her subconscious and was nagging again. “You’re not listening to me, Minnie.” She was muttering something, completely unaware of what she was saying. “Why Minnie,” said an astonished Powell, “what’s wrong?”

  “What? What?”

  “I asked you what’s wrong?”

  Myrna was bewildered. “What’s wrong with what?”

  Powell made no effort to mask his exasperation. “You were reciting the Lord’s Prayer.”

  “I was not!”

  “You were too! ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.”

  “The Bible,” said Myrna.

  “What Bible? The King James Version?”

  “Claire’s Bible.”

  Powell’s hands were on his hips. “Okay. I’ll bite. What about Claire’s Bible?”

  “It's out of place on the shelf.”

  “I see. Well actually I don’t. You’re not making sense.”

  She seemed to be making sense to Villon. He had overheard and joined them, hoping to shake his human barnacle, Hazel Dickson, who was not easily shaken. She dogged his footsteps, determined to ferret out the secret information she was positive he was withholding from her.

  “It’s a very old Bible. One of those old oversized ones I sometimes see on sale in secondhand book stores. Bill, don’t you own a Bible?”

  “As a matter of fact I do. It’s quite a beautiful one and I’m sure quite expensive though I’ve never had it appraised. It was a gift from Carole’s mother that first Christmas she forgave me for marrying her daughter. In fact, I occasionally dip into it when there’s little else in the house for me to read. It’s rather racy in spots, you know.’’

  “Bill, where do you keep your Bible?”

  “When last I saw it it was in my bedroom.”

  “Standing up between bookends?”

  “I don’t have bookends in my bedroom. I disapprove of them.”

  “Isn’t your Bible in a drawer?”

  “When were you in my bedroom?”

  “I’ve never been in your bedroom.” She insisted, “Your Bible is in a drawer, isn’t it?”

  “If you insist.”

  “I’m not insisting, I want to know. There’s a reason I want to know.”

  Villon said, “My Bible is in a drawer.”

  “That’s right,” corroborated Hazel. “It’s in the drawer where he keeps his underwear and his spare revolver. I saw it there.”

  Myrna knew she was suddenly blushing and refused to try to understand why. Whether it was Hazel’s knowledge of the location of Villon’s Bible or the presence of Villon’s underwear.

  Powell said, “I’m standing by you, Herb. Yes, Myrna, my Bible is in a drawer. The one in my night table. Along with an old issue of Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang.” He asked the others in the room, “Any more Bibles to contribute? Miss Loy seems to be on a Bible binge.”

  The coroner piped up. “Miss Loy seems to have many fine nobilities. Miss Loy, where do you keep your Bible.”

  “Oh.” She was nonplused. “My Bible. Well. I don’t own a Bible.”

  “Tsk,” tsked Powell.

  “But I’m buying myself one for Christmas. And it’s not going to be placed on a bookshelf standing up. It shall be laid reverently in a drawer — “

  “With your underwear.” Powell had lighted a cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring which he hoped would settle around the unique tip of Myrna’s nose.

  The coroner was back again. “Miss Loy, I teach a Bible class every Sunday.” He named the church. “I’d be so honored if you’d attend some Sunday soon.”

  “How sweet of you to ask. I’ll discuss it with my publicist. I really think we should be getting back to Claire’s. I’m sure the news of Amelia Hubbard’s murder has been on the radio by now and someone has probably blabbed to Howard Strickling that Bill and I are at the scene of another crime and dear Louis is undoubtedly flat on his back on the floor of his office in a dead faint, the bluffer. Herb, are you aware there’s an informer in your police force? How else could Howard Strickling be privy to our whereabouts so quickly? Unless you’re the blabbermouth, Hazel.”

  “I only blabber for financial rewards,” said Hazel, “and Howard Strickling isn’t very liberal with financial rewards unless Metro is paying for a cover-up, like they’ve been very sub rosa waving a pickle under Claire’s nose for the right to purchase her little black book.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” asked Villon.

  Hazel countered swiftly. “What was that number you dialed? What’s on that sheet of paper you pulled from the typewriter?”

  “Hazel,” said Villon through clenched teeth, “you should be a matron in a women’s jail.”

  “Or at any rate,” Powell whispered to Myrna, “someplace behind bars. I’m beginning to see where Hazel can be very dangerous.”

  Barney Hoyt was assuring Villon he’d have the forensic results as soon as they were collated and studied although Villon had little hope that the team would come up with anything very useful. Villon promised to keep Barney apprised of any fresh developments from his group.

  Hazel had taken Jim Mallory to one side and asked him, “How much info do you share with the waitress?”

  Jim played dumb. “What waitress?”

  “In the Metro executive dining room.”

  “Regan?”

  “There you go. I’ve struck a chord.”

  “Regan isn’t interested in information,” he lied. “She likes to watch autopsies.”

  “Before or after lunch?” Hazel continued, “I won’t snitch to Herb. You’re looking very uncomfortable, Jim.”

  “Your question is very disturbing.”

  “It was meant to be.”

  “One doesn’t hold very deep conversations with Regan. One just stalls for time until she says yes or no.”

  “I don’t think she knows how to say no.”

  “Thank God.”

  That made Hazel smile. She went to the desk because an idea had struck her. She examined the page on the desk calendar, the one under the page Herb had tom off and pocketed. Amelia had pressed down heavily writing what she had written on the page Herb had in his pocket. With her back to the others Hazel surreptitiously took a pencil from a jar that held an array of them and rubbed the lead quickly over the indentations. A phone number appeared. Claire copied it into her notebook, which she had quietly extracted from her handbag. The other indentation told her of Claire’s ten a.m. appointment. She was satisfied, but not totally. She had to know what was on the sheet of paper Villon had pulled from the typewriter.

  Myrna said to Powell sotto voce, “Look at Hazel.”

  “Why? Is she doing card tricks?”

  “She’s looking very smugly self-satisfied.”

  Powell said, “As a matter of fact, so are you. What has Minnie’s nimble brain come up with now?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because it’s purely circumstantial.”

  “What is?”

  “How the murderer got the weapon out of here.” She caught herself. “Oh damn! Damn damn damn.”

  “Don’t be mad, Minnie. I still can’t cotton to what you’re getting at with all these Bibles.”

  “Not all these Bibles, Bill, just one.”

  “The one at Claire’s place.” Myrna said nothing. She turned away from him with a sniff. “Minnie, you’re vexing me. I don’t like being vexed. We’re pals. We’re buddies. And for very good salaries, we are on occasion Nick and Nora Charles.”

  “Well, we aren’t now. We’re Minnie and Mickey.”

  “Heavens! I thought we were Myrna and Bill.”

  “We are! Stop getting me flustered. When I’m flustered I say all the wrong things and think all the wrong things and I think th
e sooner we get back to Claire’s the better.”

  Villon had heard Myrna and when Powell asked “Why?” Villon said, “Because all the answers are there. Let’s get a move on.”

  EIGHTEEN

  At Claire’s Lazio was dispiritedly rendering his own arrangement of Rodgers and Hart’s ‘Love Me Tonight’ and ‘Lover’ because there came a time in every fiddler’s life when he wondered what the future held in store for him. He had heard Freda negotiating with Claire to acquire the rights to her business, which consisted mainly of names, addresses, and unlisted phone numbers. Claire conducted the negotiation listlessly, without enthusiasm, and gave Lazio the impression she wished she was somewhere else. It sounded to him as though Freda was getting the best of the deal and Claire looked to him like she didn’t give a damn.

  Lucy Rockefeller was wondering why Freda wasn’t insisting that the little black book be included in the deal, or maybe it was a tacit understanding that it would be. She hadn’t heard either negotiator mention the item. Dr. Carewe had commandeered the telephone and was giving detailed instructions to his nurse and then to his receptionist. Class, she said to herself, he’s got real class. So distinguished-looking, with the gray highlighting his temples. He spoke with such calm and self-assurance when he was telling one of his ladies, presumably his nurse, that the next morning he would be occupied at the hospital supervising the amputation of the leg of a diabetic patient. He was so persuasive in his delivery that Lucy was almost hypnotized into volunteering an appendage of her own for radical surgery. And then, as her favorite song said, her heart stood still. Jim Mallory had entered the room followed by Villon, Hazel, and then Powell and Myrna. Lucy looked at Jim and discarded any further thoughts of a romantic liaison with Mitchell Carewe. Villon acknowledged Zachary Forrest who sat quietly at the bar.

  In a sense Claire’s heart also stood still. She saw what Hazel was holding. Amelia’s stenographic pad. They had heard about Amelia’s murder on Claire’s console Philco radio but the newscaster had told them very little. The coroner’s report had not been released, so they had no idea as to how Amelia was killed or why. Claire realized Villon was talking to her. “I’m sorry. Herb,” she said, “would you tell me that again?”

  “Amelia’s been taken to the morgue for an autopsy.” He not only had Claire’s attention but everyone else’s. Powell and Loy had stationed themselves at the bar where Powell lost no time reactivating the pitcher which had held gin martinis. They did not talk to each other, but preferred listening to Herb. Myrna studied faces for reactions. She heard Villon saying, “She was stabbed in the back of the neck with what the coroner says was a long, very sharp instrument, probably surgical in origin. Maybe a dentist’s pick. The blow was so powerful, the coroner thinks it might have induced a heart attack.”

  Lucy emitted a squeal.

  Claire questioned Villon under her breath, “The pages?”

  “Gone.”

  Claire paled. Villon feared she was on the verge of fainting. He could never deal with a swooning woman. Hazel had never fainted in all the years she had courted him, she had only passed out from all the booze she frequently imbibed. But Hazel was easy. All he had to do with her was sling her over a shoulder as firemen did with smoke victims and transport her home. Villon said to Claire, “Don’t pass out on me.” She had grabbed his hand to steady herself. He ordered Jim to bring Claire a brandy. Myrna poured the brandy into a snifter and brought it to Mallory, who handed it to Villon, who pressed the snifter to Claire’s lips.

  Powell was moving a vermouth bottle back and forth over the pitcher of gin. This was a new one on Myrna. “Is this some form of ritual you’ve heard about, Bill?”

  “Actually, yes. It was taught to me by W. C. Fields. No need to disturb the gin by pouring in the vermouth. Just wave the vermouth bottle back and forth over the pitcher and it will soon dizzy the gin and then voila, you have a perfectly swell martini.”

  Myrna added wryly, “Inducing a perfectly swell hangover.”

  “We should swallow a spoonful of sweet butter to coat our stomachs — that’ll make us less hangover prone.”

  “It’ll make me fat and I’m not about to go to the kitchen in search of sweet butter. I don’t want to miss a thing going on in here. For instance, Claire looks faint.”

  “Probably heard the papers are missing from the top shelf of Amelia’s living room closet.”

  “Hazel’s not helping much by fanning herself with Amelia’s stenographic pad. She’s about as subtle as a crocodile stalking a water buffalo.” She took the martini he was holding out to her. She sipped it and crossed her eyes. “Wow.”

  “Nice, eh, Minnie?”

  “Very nice. And it’s given me the courage to make my next move. And if Claire is watching me and faints, then you know I’ve struck pay dirt.” She put her martini glass on the bar. “Guard this with your life.” She crossed the room to the bookshelves on the opposite wall, the bookshelves that had been ransacked, and said loudly, “I know I saw one here.”

  Powell picked up the cue. “Saw one what?”

  “A Bible.”

  Claire’s head shot up. “What do you want with a Bible?”

  “I’m looking for a quotation.”

  Villon asked Claire with concern, “What’s wrong? What is it?” Claire was hurrying to Myrna, who had taken the Bible from the shelf and opened it. Myrna gasped.

  “Well, blow me down!” said Myrna triumphantly. “There’s a false center been carved out of this Bible!”

  “Give that to me!” shouted Claire, no longer faint, no longer Camille on the verge of slipping away from her Armand forever. Claire tried to snatch the Bible out of Myrna’s hands but Myrna was too quick for her. She spun about in a pirouette of the sort that must have thrilled the audience at Grauman’s Chinese when Myrna was dancing there. Mitchell Carewe made a move to assist Claire but Powell quickly crossed in front of him shouting, “What you got there, Minnie?”

  “I think it’s the little black book! It’s not all that little and it’s not all that black. In fact, it’s just a plain old ordinary notebook with a spiral spine.” She held the little book in her left hand while holding out the mutilated Bible to Jim Mallory, who quickly appropriated it. Myrna was heading back to the bar but Villon quickly intercepted her.

  “I’ll take the book, Myrna,” said Villon.

  “Oh dear. Now you’ve spoiled everything,” said Myrna as she ceded the book to Villon. “I wanted to look for my husband’s name.”

  “I suppose that dinky little thing is what all the fuss is about,” said Powell blithely. “I’m terribly unimpressed.” Freda snorted while Lucy Rockefeller, seemingly hypnotized by the object, seemed also unimpressed. Powell turned to Myrna. “But full marks to you, Minnie. That’s what all that Bible business was about.”

  “Of course!” said Myrna, once again holding a martini and feeling very proud of herself. “Bibles are always laid out flat like defeated prizefighters, they’re never stood on end.”

  Powell was proud of his Minnie. “Well, Herb Villon, have you no accolade to spare for our Miss Loy?”

  “Sure. Good thinking, Myrna.” Villon put the notebook in a jacket pocket, a snug fit.

  Claire stood in front of him, hand outstretched, the color back in her cheeks. “I want that, Herb.”

  “I’ll return it soon enough.”

  Hazel was waving the stenographic pad in their direction.

  Myrna said to Powell, “Hazel’s up to something.”

  Powell said, “I’d be surprised if she wasn’t. Not very professional of Herb to let her appropriate the pad.”

  “I think it’s an illustration of further method to his madness. I must say, he is one cool detective. Full marks to Herb. I admire him.”

  They heard Hazel ask, “What about Aunt Maidie?”

  Claire spun about. “What about her?” She saw the stenographic pad moving back and forth. She also saw Mitchell Carewe closing in on Hazel.

  So did Villon an
d Mallory. Villon ordered, “Stand back, Dr. Carewe.”

  Carewe was paralyzed by Villon’s tone of voice. “Hazel, give it to Jim,” said Villon.

  “Sure,” said Hazel. She handed the pad to Mallory, who pocketed it. Hazel’s eyes never left Claire’s face. “Is she really your aunt? You’re sure she’s not your mother?”

  “She’s really my aunt, you bitch,” snapped Claire.

  “What’s the little boy’s name?” asked Hazel.

  “Leave him out of this.” Claire was tense, her eyes were narrowed, her look sent a chill up Myrna’s spine.

  Powell had poured himself another martini and was feeling jauntier than ever. “Come, come, Claire. Where’s your sense of sportsmanship? If the little boy is related to you, I should think you’d be proud of him. After all. bravely facing up to his affliction.” He said to the others in the room, “The poor little tyke has been stricken with infantile paralysis. Polio.”

  Lucy Rockefeller looked on the verge of tears. “Oh, the poor kid. Polio. You mean like the lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

  “That’s the Polo lounge,” said Myrna.

  Claire said defiantly, “His name is Elmer. He’s my son.”

  “I knew it!” cried Hazel.

  Claire’s hands were on her hips. “So what?”

  “So a lot of things,” said Bill Powell. “Such as why you need a lot of money. To take care of him. To see he’s well provided for.”

  “And why not?” asked Myrna in defense of Claire and her monetary motive. “Haven’t you heard of mother love? I must be the only actress in Hollywood who didn’t discover in the final reel of a tear-jerker that the young attorney defending her on a charge of murder is really the child she gave up for adoption ten reels back.”

  “You’re lucky to have escaped that fate, Minnie.” Powell thought for a moment, “Have you ever given a child up for adoption?”

  Myrna said softly, “Bill, I’d give the world for a child of my own.” Powell nodded and raised his glass to her in a silent toast.

  Villon shouted, “Hazel Dickson! You stay the hell off that phone! Louella Parsons can wait until I’m finished here!”