by Rex Baron
“But who could have done it?” Lucy asked.
David read further:
Mary Miles Minter and her mother were called on this morning by the police, but Mrs. Shelby seemed already aware of the murder and claimed that a studio executive had been informed simultaneously with the police and had let her know. Both the mother and the young star are to be taken in for questioning due to a series of serious threats on Mr. Taylor's life widely overheard to be made by Charlotte Shelby in connection with Mr. Taylor's alleged involvement with young Mary.
David looked up.
“That's all it says, nothing even about the funeral or a eulogy. I suppose they need to get the scandal covered first, then deal with the amenities later.”
“It's absurd to drag that poor girl into it. Her mother yes, but not poor half-mad Mary,” Lucy said. She narrowed her eyes and locked them on David. “If I had to pick a candidate, I'd choose our Little Helen as having something to do with this.”
“Lucy, that will be enough,” David said, crushing the front page to the table. “Your unnatural dislike for Helen is unbecoming. It's foolish for you to be competitive because she had a few dances with Paulo at a party.”
Lucy tried to reason with him.
“But David, you don't realize what power she has. She has shown herself to be nothing but deceitful, and yet, you intend to drag her along to New York with us. She will only cause trouble. Don't you see that?”
“I only see a side of you that I don't find very attractive,” David said. “Helen has done nothing to you and is hardly likely to threaten your career by singing a small role in an opera or two.”
He got up from the table and rumpled his paper into a messy square. “Isn't murder enough drama for one morning? Still you persist in bringing up this nonsense. I for one need some peace.” With that he left the room.
Lucy did not care that she had made David angry. She was a fool to have got mixed up with these people in the first place. She should have stayed in her own country, where her voice was appreciated and a true value was put on talent and ability. There could be no Helen in Germany. The Germans are true opera lovers. They would see through her ambition and laugh her out of the theater.
Lucy suddenly thought of Paulo. William had been his dearest friend. She called him from the telephone in the hallway, but the operator broke in after several rings to tell her that he was not answering. She placed the same call three more times within the hour, but there was no reply.
•••
Casa Margarita, Mary Miles Minter’s house, Los Angeles
Casa Margarita occupied more than a city block. It was an enormous house by any description, built as a lavish Spanish hacienda surrounded by lush landscaping, fountains and reflecting pools, and paid for by the money made by Mary Miles Minter. It had been meant as a lovely, hospitable place, a place for parties and romantic afternoons that wind their way into twilight, alive with fireflies and the distant glow of early evening stars. But while Charlotte and her daughters lived there, it had become a place of tears behind locked doors, restless evenings in the house, or pacing the grounds, straining for the sound of a motorcar, an illicit assignation and the hope of escape.
The maid answered the door and ushered Lieutenant Sanderson into the drawing room. Charlotte sat on a divan, dressed in black, except for a collar of white lace that stood out from her face like an Elizabethan ruff. Her daughter Margaret sat by her side on the arm of the divan, dressed in white organdy, accented by fresh flowers on a sash at her waist.
The inspector was struck by the beauty of the pair, back-lit by the drawing room window, throwing a silver-white halo around them and playing across the surface of the lace collars. They sat, hands resting in their laps, poised as if awaiting a paintbrush in the hands of some fine Dutch master to capture them.
Charlotte extended her hand and smiled graciously.
“I'm Charlotte Shelby and this is my daughter Margaret,” she said. “This is a very nasty business, and we're more than prepared to be of whatever assistance we can.”
The inspector removed his hat and nodded a respectful greeting to Margaret.
“I'm sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but we need to know who informed you of the murder of Mr. Taylor, and what, in particular, you know about it.”
The inspector eyed a chair but had not been given permission to sit down. Charlotte caught the shift in his glance and let him remain standing.
“I know very little, only what I was told by Mr. Howard at the studio this morning, when he called.”
“Why would he call you? What have you to do with Mr. Taylor? You weren't close friends. In fact, I understand you were on very poor terms with Mr. Taylor.”
Charlotte's powdered complexion remained unmoved.
“Mr. Howard wanted me to break the news to Mary before she read it in the tabloids. My daughter was very fond of Mr. Taylor. She felt she owed much of her success to him, but in reality, it was our own hard work that made her what she is.”
The inspector nodded.
“And where is she now?” he asked. “Mary, I mean.”
The soft smile faded from Charlotte's face. The features froze into a steady glower of hatred. It was a face that could bear to look on suffering without compassion, a face that never produced tears of sorrow or contrition.
“She's up in her room lying down. She said she did not want to be dragged into this business, and I can't say that I blame her.”
“I will need to talk to her,” Mr. Sanderson said, taking a firm stance on the carpet.
“It's quite out of the question, just yet,” Charlotte said coldly. “She was very upset. She needs to rest.”
“I'm afraid something of hers was found at the scene of the murder and I need to find out how it got there.”
“What something of hers?” Charlotte asked, sitting bolt upright. “You mean you've come to accuse her of murder? Preposterous.”
“Please Mrs. Shelby. I must speak with your daughter.”
The inspector's insistence was interrupted by a commotion in the foyer. Mary had come out on the landing to the great spiraling staircase and shouted down in a sing-songy baby's voice.
“Charlotte Shelby killed Bill Taylor. Charlotte Shelby killed Bill Taylor.”
The maid appeared in the doorway and simply held her hands to her face, unable to act.
Charlotte was not afflicted with such indecision. She was up and out the door, almost before the inspector felt the presence of mind to get out of her way.
She stood at the foot of the stairs, two clenched fists at her sides, and with a deadly evenness in her voice, addressed the weeping girl.
“You don't know what you're saying,” she said with anger in her voice. “The doctor gave you a pill and you're half asleep. Go back to your room and don't come out again. I will not tolerate such accusations in my own home from my own daughter.”
Mary's tear-stained face disappeared from between the rungs of the upstairs landing. The Inspector heard a bedroom door slam as Charlotte re-entered the room, paler still beneath her layer of powder.
“You see how she is,” she said with sympathy. “The poor girl is out of her head. It's all been too much of a shock.”
The inspector nodded his head in tenuous agreement.
“Really inspector, those remarks I made about mister Taylor were made in the heat of anger. I do hope they aren't being taken all that seriously. I disapproved of the man, but would scarcely ever consider killing him.”
“That's not what it sounds like when Mary tells it.”
“Mary holds me responsible because I didn't like him. But I assure you, wanting to wring someone's neck is a far cry from actually killing them.”
Once again, a disturbance issued from upstairs. The report of a single pistol shot resonated down through the vaulted hallway.
The inspector bounded up the stairs, two at a time, followed by Charlotte.
The door to Mary's room was unlocked. He pushed
open the door to see Mary lying across the bed, a gash of blood across her head, draining into an alarming pool on the white coverlet. Charlotte came up behind him and clasped her hand to her mouth to muffle a scream.
“Get a doctor, an ambulance,” Sanderson shouted to the maid.
He gently lifted Mary's arm and felt for a pulse.
“She's still alive. It looks like she might have just grazed herself with the bullet. It went into the wall over there.”
Charlotte stared at him, still covering her mouth with her hand, as if she feared a stream of profanities, or demons, or worse might issue forth if she were unwise enough to remove it.
“There's one thing for sure,” the inspector said, picking up the gun. “At least we know where Taylor's murder weapon came from.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Department store, Los Angeles
The young woman turned abruptly and dropped the gray satin evening coat down from her shoulders to reveal a backless dress. She glanced provocatively over her shoulder, her bright red hair cropped bluntly at the jawline, giving the impression of a Grecian helmet worn by a beautiful boy.
The audience applauded.
“And this is called Do you Dare, cunning but never coy… yet another of the lovely things presented by our visiting couturier, Madame Daphne.”
Again, the applause filled the room as another boyish looking girl stepped up on the runway in a dress made of scarves.
Claxton picked at the individual fingers of his gloves, loosening them to pull them off. Dressed in a waistcoat and morning coat, he imperiously strolled the haberdashery department of the department store, nodding to his fans with studied graciousness.
He turned the corner near the tea salon and stood admiring the fashion show on the runway.
A model, draped in strands of shiny fabric edged in monkey fur, loped along the platform, the blaring color of her raspberry stockings drawing his eyes with every step.
“This is called Animal Magnetism,” the commentator read from her notes. Once again, the audience applauded.
Claxton's eyes scanned the rows of women, a likely arena to discover a lovely fan, who had been given permission by her husband to spend the day looking at expensive clothing, or better still, a society beauty of any age, who might succumb to his charming compliments and agree to buy him lunch.
He was almost disappointed to find Helen among the potential prey, wearing a veiled hat and long gloves, looking rather like a lady in spite of herself.
He was annoyed that he would have to deal with the necessities at hand and delay his predatory inclination until another time. He approached and took the empty seat next to her, leaning into her sightline to make his presence known.
“Clever you,” he said. “In times of turmoil a new frock is just the ticket.”
Helen's eyes shifted behind the veil.
“What do you want?” she whispered politely. “Have you come for a lock of my hair to use in one of your infernal little charms?”
Claxton drew himself up into his rhetorical posture.
“Little charms... I like that. I use the word little rather too often, I fear, obviously a subconscious desire to assert my superiority, even though it's infinitely apparent to most people.”
Helen snorted out a cynical laugh.
“The very fact that you incorporate my little idiosyncrasy into your speech implies I've had an affect on you, whether you like it or not.” Claxton smiled with self-satisfaction.
“Rubbish, contemptible rubbish,” Helen said coldly.
“And no, my dear, I won't be needing a snippet of your hair to enchant you and make you mine, although one wonders what perversities cause me to want you in the first place,” Claxton said, whispering close to her ear. “I have something equally potent on a much more exoteric level to make you do my bidding. You see I know who killed Bill Taylor.”
Helen raised an eyebrow and stared at him with a blank expression.
“And why should that interest me?” she asked.
Claxton clapped his hands together.
“I had hoped you would say just that. You see someone who was not truly implicated would have responded with curiosity and asked who had done it, or at least asked to be told what I know. But by your indifference, your actual resistance to the information, you convince me that I was right in believing you killed him yourself.”
Helen turned to him, her mouth open, then she narrowed her eyes and cautiously checked to see that none of the ladies surrounding her had overheard.
“I think we ought to have tea in the salon,” Claxton said, offering his arm.
The dark beauty obediently rose from her chair and took his arm to be escorted out of the room.
When the tea arrived, she raised her veil and dutifully poured a cup for each of them.
“Now this must make a pretty picture,” the little man smiled.
“You haven't told me what you know or what you want,” Helen offered coolly. “After all, I haven't admitted to what you say. In fact, the whole idea is absurd. We're only having tea because I wanted to avoid your making a fool of yourself and scandalizing me in front of that room full of chattering hens.”
“How kind of you to be so concerned about me,” Claxton said.
“Now tell me this glorious piece of fiction you've created,” Helen replied, as she deliberately dropped a cube of sugar into her cup and stirred her tea, watching the hot vortex of liquid spiraling downward.
“I shall begin by telling you that I have no proof, but I know you killed him. Based on the innuendo I made concerning William and Paulo, I believe you acted and acted severely. Their relationship was of no consequence to me, not until you fancied an interest in our little screen idol. I had seen them together once in a car, arguing, then making up. The information was of little value until now... now that you're involved.”
“You keep referring to me as if I have some deep connection in your life. I don't,” Helen stated with marked annoyance. “Casting spells is the only thing we two share.”
“Then you'll just have to find other reasons for yourself,” Claxton replied. “I seem to find you attractive enough as you are, god protect me, but if you must find reasons to be with me, then I suggest you start inventing them. Do try to see my good points, there are many you'll find.”
“Are you telling me that you are blackmailing me into becoming your lover?” Helen asked in full surprise. “You have no proof. Even if I had a reason to kill him, where did the gun come from and when was it done?”
“I have no real intention of going to the trouble of finding out where you got the gun. You see… you already knew there was a gun without having it divulged by the police, another sloppy admission on your part, my dear. The fact is… I want you. I am willing to, as you say, blackmail you into this, although I prefer to think of it as a seduction of sorts.”
Claxton sipped his tea and eyed his prey, who sat glaring from across the table.
“If you remember,” he continued, “I told you I would not use witchcraft against you to make you care for me. As I said, I want an equal not an addled idiot, and I know the love will come in time. But I never told you that I would not use the magic of the Kraft to destroy you if you do not submit.”
Helen's trembling hand slowly replaced her cup on the saucer and moved to cover her mouth, as if to contain her thoughts from spilling out unformed. She did not reply.
“I don't think I ever need to go to the police, do you?” he asked. “You see, I have the capacity to destroy you in this world without magic… but, by all means, we would want to avoid a nasty little life spent in prison for the sake of a laughable crime of passion over, shall we say, a disinterested party. How ridiculous. Or if you choose, I might destroy you, using the power of the Kraft, perhaps for eternity. It's really up to you.”
“But how do you know I won't destroy you first,” she stammered out the words. “I too have the knowledge of the Kraft if you remember.”
Clax
ton roared an uncontained and insulting laugh.
“Yes, and you might be very useful to me one day. But as it stands, you are a child. Your powers are all in the solar plexus where most of humanity resides, concerned with desire and nature, what they need, what they want… a mantra of selfishness repeated again and again. There is a plane above that... where heaven can be reached by the mind, not in the imagination, but in reality. It is far above your tawdry little world of love affairs and lust for popularity.”
“If my world is so repulsive to you, then why are you so determined to have me?” Helen asked with desperate frustration.
“Because I want to take you from your world into mine, a world dedicated to the understanding of true power, and a sharing of that power with God himself.”
The witch had no reply. She needed time to think, time to discover a way of turning what he said to her own advantage.
“I can read what you're thinking,” the little man said, draining the last of his tea. “And although you may discover a viable move in our little game of cat and mouse, I assure you, my dear Helen, you have, at last, met your match. Now be a good girl and finish your tea.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Police station, Los Angeles
“He was quite the lady's man, by all accounts,” Lieutenant Sanderson said, closing the file and tossing it on the desk.
His partner, Thad Brown, puffed on his cigarette and shook his head.
“It's been two days since the killing and already the madness begins. We got another whole bag of mail from cranks confessing to the murder, or telling us they had a dream about it. I'm telling you Leroy, I think I'm getting too old to be working Los Angeles with all these moving picture people. Give me Hancock Park any day, where rich dames simply bash their husband’s brains out in their sleep because they had it coming… none of this guess who done it stuff.”
