by George Baxt
“Gregory,” she spoke his name with a caress, “if Madam Dietrich’s life-style is capitalism, then I am more than willing to be seduced. Which of those two do you think dropped the pill?”
“Why so modest? Two? There are seven of us.”
She favored him with a knowing look. He sipped his tea. She sipped her brandy. Both wished aloud there would be no suspenseful delay of further instructions.
The drive back from Marlene’s was even more harrowing than the drive getting there. Raymond Souvir was like a maniac possessed as he took the hairpin curves on two wheels. Dong See shrieked and cried and pummeled the actor’s shoulder, but Souvir was impervious to his entreaties or the pain he was inflicting. When at last Souvir pulled up in front of Dong See’s secluded lair in the Hollywood hills, Dong See surprisingly didn’t fling open the door and make his escape. Instead, he said in threatening and measured words, “You have a suicide wish.”
“I have a wish to get home in a hurry and think.”
“You have a psychological desire to die. If the automobile doesn’t kill you, fear will.”
“I wish I hadn’t come to this damn place.”
“You wanted to be a star in this country. An international celebrity.”
“The newspapers today will make me an international celebrity. Sooner than I expected. Oh Christ, there’s no turning back. There’s no getting out of it. Unless it’s canceled, I have to do the screen test with Marlene. Even if it’s just a screen test, she’ll wipe me off the screen. I’ll never get that part. It’s so hopeless. It’s no use. Mai Mai’s chart said I wouldn’t get the part.”
“Mai Mai was always so right. Her charts don’t lie.”
“There’s another reason I’ll never get the part.”
“What’s that?” asked Dong See through a stifled yawn.
“I can’t act.”
“I thought you were rather nice in your last film.”
“It was wrong to kill Mai Mai at Marlene’s.”
Dong See erupted. “I’m so goddamn tired of hearing that name! Mai Mai this! Mai Mai that! She shouldn’t have been killed at the party! What would have made more sense? The Brown Derby? The balcony of Grauman’s Chinese? The opportunity to kill her obviously presented itself, and so it was done. Now go home and drink a glass of wine and get some sleep, if you don’t kill yourself en route!”
Very greedy woman, thought Ivar Tensha as he soaked in his bathtub scented with salts. The perennial cigar was jammed in his mouth and one could well wonder what Sigmund Freud might make of Tensha’s passion for oversized cigars. On a stool next to the tub, there rested a glass filled with chopped ice and the Italian liqueur, Strega. Strega. The Witch. The Countess di Frasso. Indeed a witch, a very bewitching witch. He’d been tempted to catch the bait she’d dangled in front of him earlier. “Darling, wouldn’t you like to come in for a nightcap?” But the nightcap she offered wasn’t quite the right size. He never dared spend the night with women. Screw them and send them home in his car with perhaps a monetary token of both his esteem and his generosity. But spend the night with one? Heaven forbid. Tensha talked in his sleep and that could prove dangerous. One unfortunate young lady back in Bucharest had to be quietly eliminated because he’d made the mistake of falling drunkenly asleep before he could send her on her way, and did she get an earful. Very tragic. So young. So beautiful. She ached to enter a beauty contest. She might have been a contender. Now she was just a memory.
Monte Trevor is getting wearisome. He sticks to me like a barnacle on the hull of a ship. He does come in handy to run my errands, but sooner or later I might have to succumb to his entreaties to finance a film for him. Who knows? If I finally yield, the damn thing might show a profit. I suppose I could be interested if it’s a movie about Jesse James or the Dalton Boys or any one of those western outlaws. I dote on the stories of their lives, even if they are vastly overexaggerated. After all, I have so much in common with those outlaws. I’m probably the biggest thief in the world. I have billions. Why do I want more? What can I do with more power? Could I finance a search for a cure for cancer? Would I finance such medical research? I hate doctors; I hate doctors as much as I hate chess and lawyers. What do I like? Who do I like? Who did I ever like?
Mai Mai Chu.
There’ll never be another like her. Never. Impossible. After they made her, they shattered the mold. How well she understood me, she and those dreadful charts. How much I once loved her. The infatuation was brief but memorable. April in Paris with Mai Mai. She was not impressed by my vast wealth or my position in the world of finance. She liked me for myself. She made no demands. She was never jealous. She was too proud of her own niche, which she had carved for herself with her unusual gifts. Presentiments. Predictions. The stars. Charts. He was a Gemini. Gemini the twins. Two people. Mai Mai told him she usually liked Geminis, mostly preferring them over those born under the other signs. But reading his chart doomed his presence in her life and she quickly brought to a close their brief liaison. They remained friendly, but try as he may to revive the spark, there was no hope of renewing their romance.
Mai Mai was dead. Mai Mai was poisoned. That is not the way she should have died. Mai Mai was a delicate creature and she should have had a delicate death. A heart attack in her sleep perhaps. Or if it had to be by poison, then a poison less powerful than strychnine. But the opportunity fortuitously presented itself and had to be taken. Like the opportunity to foment the rattling of sabers. War is hell. War is highly profitable. Highly profitable? Don’t be so modest. Immensely profitable. War in the Far East. War in the Near East. War in South America and Central America and in Mexico, where there was always some peasant with the ambition to be another Pancho Villa. Bring on another Armageddon! How he loved the sound of it. Armageddon. He would be forever grateful to Mai Mai for her prediction of a second world war. Had she known the plot was under way to make a deadly reality of her very accurate prediction, would it have provided her a measure of happiness as death quickly overtook her? Another major conflagration. To paraphrase a quotation from the Bible, his treasury would runneth over.
The cigar was dead and there was no match or lighter at hand with which to revive it. He placed the remaining half cigar on the stool, to be smoked later. Waste not, want not. The first light of dawn appeared. Another day in lotus land. This detective. This Villon. He will continue to be a nuisance. The investigation might prove very troublesome. It might be advisable to lead a lamb to the slaughter. Perhaps award a murderer to the eager Villon and have done with it.
Lazily, he added more hot water to his tub. He added more salts and savored the odor. He scrubbed his back with a brush while wishing there was a beauty sharing his tub who would lower her head and pleasure him erotically. Not like that starlet he had entertained several nights earlier, who rebuffed his request because she was a vegetarian.
* * *
Marlene slept fitfully. Twice she looked in on Maria, and the second time her daughter was smiling. Liebchen is having a sweet dream, how nice. Marlene quietly looked in on Anna May. Happily, she was asleep. Unhappily, there were signs on her cheeks that she had been crying. Tears for Mai Mai. A damp memorial. Marlene returned to her room. She went out on the balcony and watched a lovely sunrise. There was a balmy breeze and there was a busy afternoon awaiting her. She also had to learn her lines for Souvir’s screen test, which was scheduled for the next day. Did Souvir have the stuff for stardom? Did Souvir have the stuff to commit a murder? Did Monte Trevor or Dong See? The Ivanovs? Natalia could commit murder, especially if there was a hammer or a sickle handy, but what would compel her? What motive? The seven suspects danced in Marlene’s head and she knew they’d be performing there until the murderer was found. She wanted a bath. It was too early to disturb her maid. She could run her own and be at peace with her own thoughts.
Peace? Would she ever know peace again? A murderer at large. Mai Mai in a refrigerator in the morgue awaiting an autopsy. She wished they had known each o
ther; they might have been good friends. Peace, hah! Von Sternberg’s wife on the warpath threatening to sue Marlene for alienation of affections. What affections? Joe told her he had ceased loving his wife, Riza Royce, at least a year before discovering Marlene. Riza had begged for the lead in The Blue Angel, but she was a mediocre actress. Now she contented herself appearing in foreign-language versions of American films while contemplating separating von Sternberg from a large chunk of cash. The bathroom was steaming up and Marlene poured her special brand of bath salts imported from Italy into the tub. The hot water would relax her, invigorate her. She bunched her hair together and tied it with a ribbon. She lowered herself into the water. She admired her reflection in the mirror. But why was she frowning?
* * *
Morton Duncan’s visitor to his apartment was displeased. “More money? We agreed on one hundred dollars.”
“I didn’t know the pill was poisonous. I didn’t know it would kill her. You said it was a practical joke. It would make her uncomfortable, gassy, something like that. But it killed her. And I had a close call with Dietrich and the detective in the kitchen. I talked my way out of that one all right, but pretty soon they’ll cotton to the fact that I was the only one who could have poisoned the drink. For crying out loud, man. Now I’m a murderer. Indirectly sure, but I could cop a stretch for it! That Villon is no fool. And Dietrich’s a hell of a lot smarter than I thought. I’ve got a brother in San Juan Capistrano. I’m going there until this thing cools down. I want five hundred dollars. Not a penny less.”
“Or else?”
“I’m making no threats. But I agreed to help with a joke, not a murder. Damn you, five hundred dollars!”
“I don’t have that much on me. I have about two hundred. I’ll get the rest to you tomorrow.”
“It’s tomorrow already.”
“You’re a pain in the ass. Can I have a glass of water?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Show me.”
Duncan led the way into the kitchen. He was filling a glass of water as his visitor found a carving knife and plunged it with ferocity into Duncan’s back. The glass fell and shattered in the sink. Duncan clawed at his back with what little strength was left in him. He felt his knees giving way as his visitor stepped back out of the way as Duncan fell forward and lay spread-eagle. His visitor heard Duncan’s death rattle and was satisfied. With a dish towel, he wiped the hilt clean. He tossed the dish towel aside and went back into the combination living room and bedroom. Why, he wondered, was Los Angeles squalor so much more squalid than any other city’s squalor? He had traveled the world and seen slums too awful to describe. He’d seen rats the size of dogs chasing and attacking children. Not that the room wasn’t tidy. There was neatness in its shabbiness. Duncan’s murderer left the building cautiously. It was quiet in the streets. Dawn was just breaking, but the only activity he could see was a milkman with his horse and wagon farther down the street making deliveries. Duncan’s murderer hurried around the corner, where he had parked his sports car, got behind the wheel, and leisurely drove away.
Wearing a terry-cloth robe, Marlene hurried downstairs to the ballroom. She continued down the hall to the room at the end. She had forgotten them in the confusion of the murder. She opened the door to the room and there they were. Fast asleep in easy chairs, Father Time and the New Year’s Baby. Deep in alcoholic stupors. Marlene smiled. They had probably wiped themselves out with gin long before midnight. She went in search of her butler, found him tidying up in the study, and told him to pay them double the promised ten dollars and send them home in a car.
“Don’t wake them up. Let them sleep it off. Give them another couple of hours.” She continued on to the kitchen, eager for breakfast. Anna May Wong had preceded her there and was enjoying a cup of steaming hot coffee and a cigarette.
“Well, good morning early bird. Less than an hour ago I looked in on you and you were fast asleep.”
“A very troubled sleep, let me tell you. Nightmares. Awful.”
“Villon is meeting us here at two,” Marlene reminded her.
“That’ll give me plenty of time to go home, bathe, and change. Is your driver available?”
“He’d better be.” She crossed to the intercom on the wall and buzzed the chauffeur’s quarters above the garage. The voice that finally replied was heavy with sleep. He heard his instructions, and Marlene asked the cook for some wholewheat toast and jam. She said to Anna May, “He’s getting himself together.” The cook brought her a mug of coffee into which Marlene spooned some honey.
Anna May sat back and commented. “How do you do it? You’ve had almost no rest and you’re as fresh as the morning dew.”
“It’s my Italian bath salts. Very restorative. I’ll give you some to take home with you.”
“I have restoratives of my own. My mother has them sent from China.”
“Oh, yes? Maybe I should try some of those. Us girls can’t have too many restoratives. Try some of this honey. It’s local. I buy from a man who claims his bees are oversexed, which is why his honey is richer.”
Anna May shuddered. “What won’t they think of next.” The butler entered. “Miss Dietrich. You have a visitor.”
“I do? I’m not expecting anyone.”
“She apologized for dropping in unexpectedly. She says you were old friends in Berlin.”
Marlene shot a ‘heaven help me’ look at Anna May and then asked the butler, “I presume she gave a name.”
“Yes. Brunhilde Messer.”
NINE
“BRUNHILDE MESSER!”
‘That’s the name she gave me, Miss Dietrich.”
“Oh, that is indeed her name. Tall, stunning figure, strong features, and the inevitable monocle in her left eye.” Anna May envisioned a very striking-looking woman. Marlene asked the butler, “Where is she waiting?”
“In the drawing room.”
“Good. Bring my coffee and a cup for my guest and more toast and whatever cook has handy to impress a girlfriend from the old country. By the way, have the newspapers been delivered?”
“They’re on the table in the drawing room.”
“They’ll give Brunhilde an eyeful. Anna May, my darling, I’ll see you at two. You’ll probably be gone before I’m through with Brunhilde.”
“Brunhilde! How Wagnerian!”
“You’re right on the nose. Brunhilde is a trained soprano, as were her mother and grandmother before her. Very strict and disciplined Junkers. I wonder what brings Brunhilde to Hollywood, and I can’t wait to find out. See you later!”
Brunhilde Messer was indeed a very striking-looking woman, probably a few years older than Dietrich. She sat on a sofa reading the front page of the L.A. Times, which featured photos of Dietrich, Anna May, and Mai Mai. There was a photo of the body being wheeled out of Dietrich’s mansion and a larger photo of a cross section of Marlene’s guests, which was bound to annoy a number of stars caught in various stages of inebriation.
“Brunhilde!” Marlene entered with arms outstretched. Brunhilde dropped the newspaper and with a Wagnerian yodel of “Yo Ho Te Ho!” hurried to Marlene, and they hugged each other with joy. Brunhilde stepped back, adjusted her monocle, and said, “The camera doesn’t lie. You are more gorgeous than ever.”
“What brings you to Hollywood?” They sat next to each other on a sofa as the butler wheeled in a cart on which was laid out a carafe of coffee, toast, breakfast cakes, china, and cutlery. In a tiny Tiffany vase, there was a fresh carnation.
“Such a long story,” said Brunhilde, and Marlene remembered to her regret that long stories were the soprano’s specialty. “Most importantly, I’m here to see you. But first you must tell me about the murder! Have you seen the newspapers?”
“Not yet, not on an empty stomach.” The butler placed the newspapers on the cart and Marlene picked up the one Brunhilde had been perusing. “Always the same damn picture with me displaying my legs. Wait until they find out I’m knock-kneed. Oh God, I s
uppose this will be going on for weeks.” She put the newspaper aside and poured the coffee.
“Who would want to murder Mai Mai Chu? She was such a dumpling!”
“You knew her?”
“Knew her? When she was in Berlin last year she did my chart. She was introduced to me by my friend Adolph Hitler.”
Dietrich was spooning honey into her cup of coffee, but now both hands were frozen in midair. “Hitler’s your friend?”
“Thank God. A very powerful friend. His star is very much in the ascendency in Germany. He has the president right here.” She indicated the palm of her hand. “The president is almost senile. He will have to be deposed in the very near future, and when he is, mark my words, Adolph will become chancellor of Germany.”
The butler was busy fussing about the room. Marlene said, “Just a moment, Brunhilde.” She raised her voice so the butler would know she was addressing him. “That will be all, thank you.”
“Yes, Miss Dietrich.” He left the room hurriedly. Brunhilde asked, “He eavesdrops?”
“Every domestic in Hollywood eavesdrops. It’s a popular pastime, and frequently profitable if there’s some gossip to sell to the columnists. So it was Hitler who introduced you to Mai Mai. I wonder if she ever did his chart.”
“Of course she did. He’s a fanatic about astrology. He doesn’t make a move without having the stars consulted. You certainly remember I share the same enthusiasm. It’s the stars that brought me to Hollywood.”
“So you’re looking for a career here.”
“Not at all! I’m doing superbly back home. Haven’t you heard? I’m producing and directing films. Leni Riefenstahl and I are now arch rivals. Leni isn’t acting anymore.”
“How foolish of her. She’s Germany’s biggest star.”
“Not foolish at all.” She held up a pastry. “What is this?”
“A Danish pastry.”
Brunhilde was impressed. “All the way from Denmark?”
“No, all the way from Levy’s bakery.”
