by George Baxt
THE
HUMPHREY BOGART
MURDER
CASE
BY
GEORGE BAXT
ST MARTIN'S PRESS
NEW YORK
THE HUMPHREY BOGART MURDER CASE.
Copyright © 1995 by George Baxt.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010
Production Editor: David Stanford Burr
Design: Basha Zapatka
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Baxt, George.
The Humphrey Bogart murder case / George Baxt.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-11828-7
1. Bogart, Humphrey, 1899-1957—Fiction. I. Title. PS3552.A8478H86 1995
813'.54—dc2094-45769
CIP
First Edition: April 1995
ONE
EVELYN WOOD, A HANDSOME WOMAN in her mid-sixties, was furious. Not because she was a woman scorned, but because her apartment had been ransacked. She was a successful, highly respected freelance newspaperwoman here in her hometown of Portland, Oregon. She dwelled fondly on the memory of her late husband, Jack Methot. He had been a sea captain on the Orient run, away for months at a time, which didn’t seem to bother Evelyn. She never referred to herself as Mrs. Methot. Evelyn Wood had a certain celebrity. Evelyn Methot was nobody. They did manage to produce an only child, a daughter who was christened Mayo, presumably after the county in Ireland where Jack Methot was born.
Mayo was a precocious child and while still in her teens, announced to her mother she was off to New York to become an actress. Evelyn wished her Godspeed and good luck, and saw her off at the train station, after which she ate lunch in a coffee shop where she flirted with an army officer. Usually petite, smartly dressed and coiffured, now, thirty-five years later, she was still smartly dressed and coiffured, but in a rage. The two detectives, Marley and Gross, sympathized with her but were surprised when she told them nothing was stolen. They were not too concerned with Evelyn’s break-in. Within the past two weeks both had received greetings from their Uncle Sam and knew they’d soon be inducted into the army. There was a glorious Second World War raging in Europe and they knew it was only a matter of time before the United States would be involved. 1941 would hold little promise for either one of them.
Evelyn led them from the living room to her bedroom and then to what had been Mayo’s bedroom where, now that Mayo was long departed, there was precious little to ransack.
She then led them to the den which also served as her office where havoc had truly been created.
“This is a disgrace!” said Evelyn.
“Yeah,” agreed Gross, “a real disgrace.” Eyes narrowed, Marley shot his partner a look. Gross caught it but ignored it.
“You must do something! I have been vandalised! I feel as though I've been raped!” Now both detectives shot her a look. “Well?” Her hands were on her hips and her eyes were ablaze. Gross thought she looked kind of sexy for an old broad. “What are you going to do about this?”
“Well, Miss Wood,” said Gross, “if you say nothing was stolen, then that leaves us with the crime of breaking and entering. You're sure nothing was stolen?”
She was breathing heavily, her bosom rising and falling like a small craft in a troubled sea. “There’s really nothing much to steal. I own very little jewelry, but it’s been undisturbed. I showed you my bedroom. Nothing’s missing. The radio is still here. My silverware was handed down from several generations back but has only sentimental value.” Gross found it difficult to think of waxing sentimental over some knives and forks. She indicated the desk at which she worked. “They left my typewriter. You might have thought they would have stolen that.” Now she sounded indignant. The fact that the thieves thought she possessed nothing of value to steal was beginning to pain her.
“This looks to me like a case of mischief,” said Marley.
Evelyn stared at him. “Mischief? What do you mean by mischief?”
“A practical joke in very bad taste,” he replied.
“Nonsense! Look at the drawers spilled open. My papers scattered all over the place. Whoever it was was looking for something. Isn't that obvious?”
Marley asked, “Can you think of something you own that somebody might be looking for?” He waited. The look on her face discomforted him. He knew she was thinking they were morons. That was certainly what she was thinking. Throughout her career she’d had occasion to deal with the police, and they were rarely satisfactory. Marley decided Evelyn needed some prompting. “Stocks? Bonds? Bank certificates?”
“They’re in a safety-deposit box.”
Gross had a thought and expressed it. “Love letters?”
“Who from?” she snapped.
“Miss Wood,” asked Marley, “does anyone else have a key to your apartment?”
“My daughter. She’s in Los Angeles.”
Marley continued, “No special person?”
Evelyn Wood permitted a trace of a smile. “I don’t indulge in special persons. There’s a woman who comes in to tidy up twice a week but she doesn’t have a key. I’m usually in when she arrives. If I’m to be out, I leave the key for her at the desk.”
“The door hasn’t been forced,” said Marley.
“And the window opening on the fire escape,” said Gross.
“Oh this is hopeless!” cried Evelyn. “I shall speak to the chief about this.”
“Miss Wood, I doubt if there’s much he can do under the circumstances. We can arrange to have your place dusted for fingerprints. But I doubt if there’ll be much of a yield other than yours and the cleaning woman’s.”
Gross said, “Perhaps your daughter can think of something. Why don’t you tell her about the break-in?”
“My daughter hasn't lived here in over twelve years. She hasn’t visited in over five. She’s in the movies.”
Marley’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah? Maybe I seen her in something.”
“Her name is Mayo Methot.” Her face hardened. “She’s married to a bum named Humphrey Bogart.”
Gross’s eyebrows went up. “Miss Wood, by you he may be a bum, but by me, he’s one hell of a good actor. He was sure swell in High Sierra. Didn’t you think he was terrific in that one?”
“I never see Mr. Bogart’s films. He’s my daughter’s concern, not mine.” The ice in her voice might have given them frostbite.
Marley handed her a card. “If you think of something, Miss Wood, you can reach us at this number. We'll file our report and confer with the chief. There’s little else we can do.”
“Don’t you realize had I been home when the break-in occurred, I might have been injured? I might have been killed?”
“Miss Wood,” Marley said her name with exaggerated patience, “criminals who break into homes usually know when the victim will be away from home. Or make sure the victim will be out of the way.”
“Oh.”
“Yes?” asked Marley.
“I was tricked into leaving the house this morning. A man phoned. Said he was Salvador Dali.” She was sure they’d never heard the name before. “The Spanish surrealist. The artist.”
“We recognize the name, Miss Wood,” said Marley, now with added exaggerated patience. He wished he could contact Humphrey Bogart to tell him what an overbearing bitch his mother-in-law was, though
it immediately occurred to him that Bogart was probably well aware of it.
“A few years ago I interviewed Pablo Picasso and this man who said he was Dali said he’d be pleased to be interviewed by me. Well, he’s such a notorious publicity hound that I was delighted to make a date to meet him.” She mentioned one of Portland’s better restaurants. “It was to be an early lunch. I waited almost an hour. He didn’t show up. I realize now, of course, I was duped.” She made a small, futile gesture. “He did have an accent.” She sat. “What the hell could he have been after? I own a few good antique pieces but they're at a shop being cleaned. They’re not very valuable so I discount them. This is so frustrating! So maddening!” She arose. “I apologize, gentlemen. I realize there’s nothing you can do. It’s all so baffling.” She added, “And I’m frightened.”
“Miss Wood,” said Marley, “whoever it was won’t be returning. I’d suggest you change the lock on your door except this professional is an exceptional professional. His skeleton key could probably get him into Fort Knox. You should speak to the management about the security in this building.”
“I shall.” The face was hard again. “I most certainly shall.”
A few minutes later after the detectives had gone, Evelyn Wood poured herself some scotch whiskey, lit a cigarette and sat on the sofa. She plagued herself with questions. What was he or they after? It couldn’t be anything of Mayo’s because all her possessions were in the house in Beverly Hills. She thought of something else. She thought of Jack Methot, her late husband. He had plied the seas of the Orient, a fit setting for all manner of intrigues. But after his death, she had disposed of everything. His clothes went to the Salvation Army. Mayo collected his papers in a large carton and they were now stored in the basement of the Beverly Hills house. There had been some discussion three years earlier, when Mayo entered into her unholy alliance with Bogart, of the possibility of Evelyn relocating to Los Angeles, but Evelyn preferred to remain a big fish in a little pond.
Mayo Methot, the third Mrs. Humphrey Bogart. Bogie, Spencer Tracy dubbed him that when both made their feature-length film debuts back in 1930 in John Ford's prison comedy, Up the River. Tracy did well after it. Bogie didn’t. He floundered around in small parts, mostly as gangsters until the opportunity to portray Duke Mantee on Broadway in The Petrified Forest, a thinly disguised character inspired by 1934’s public enemy number one, John Dillinger. Leslie Howard starred in the play and when Jack Warner asked him to re-create the role on film refused to do so unless Bogart was signed for Mantee. Bogart stole the film from its co-stars, Howard and the volatile Bette Davis. Bogie didn’t look back after that though he often wanted to. Warner’s kept him in supporting roles with an occasional lead in a B low-budget film. Bogart with his complaints for better treatment joined Miss Davis and Jimmy Cagney as major thorns in Jack Warner’s side. Bogart soon graduated to accepting other stars' rejects. When Paul Muni and George Raft refused High Sierra, Bogart inherited it. It was a surprise success. Only a few days ago Mayo had told Evelyn that Bogie was rehearsing another George Raft reject, The Maltese Falcon. Bogie. Heavy drinker. Wife beater, though Mayo assured her mother she gave as good as she got. This had to be true. Bogie called her Slugger, a tribute to her left uppercut.
Evelyn was back pouring herself another drink. To hell with Bogie. Who was the Dali impersonator? What did he want? Why hadn’t he thought of phoning and saying something to the effect that he thought she might have something belonging to him and might he drop by to discuss it? She snorted. That would be damned stupid of him. Whatever he was after, she did not know she had it. It had to be something connected to Jack Methot. Jack Methot. Why ever had she married him? That’s unfair. He was handsome and dashing and romantic. A sea captain. A girl didn’t get many opportunities to land one of those back in 1902. Bogie. Why did Mayo marry Bogie? His first marriage to actress Helen Menken had lasted less than a year. Then another actress, Mary Phillips. How many years did that one last? Not many. And now Mayo. Christ, shouldn’t he have built up an immunity to actresses by now?
And who the hell was this smoothie who passed himself off as Salvador Dali?
His name was Marcelo Amati. He was Italian. In international circles he was a notorious playboy supported on various occasions by wealthy women and wealthier women attached to royal houses. He was, when it suited him, which was fairly frequently, a cheat and a swindler. He blackmailed and was twice suspected of murdering or attempting to murder lovers, but not his. He claimed to be descended from the Amati violin family but that was because he had difficulty spelling Stradivarius. He was, of course, breathtakingly handsome with a slim and muscular body. He spoke many languages and lied in all of them. He now sat in the drawing room of a train making its way from Portland, Oregon, south to Los Angeles, California. He was not alone. His companions were two women.
La Contessa di Marcopolo was a large woman who carried a great deal of weight. She had remarkably beautiful skin and her last encounter with plastic surgery at a clinic in Switzerland had successfully eliminated her latest cache of facial wrinkles, so that one would never guess her age was closer to sixty than to forty. The outbreak of war had forced her to flee Italy after being warned her estates were to be confiscated and she faced imprisonment having been suspected of secreting some Jewish blood in her veins. She had no idea what brand of blood Marcelo had in his veins; she knew only that it was hot when passionate and cold when homicidal. But Marcelo was quite affably agreeable about fleeing with her and her secretary, Violetta Cenci, who was the other woman in the compartment. La Contessa had rescued her jewelry, and it was several of these valuable pieces that had paid for their flight to freedom. How long the money would last was a matter of conjecture. La Contessa stayed in the best hotels and in the best accommodations befitting a contessa. She traveled first-class and ate first-class. She amused Marcelo and browbeat Violetta who saw herself as Cinderella though minus either housekeeping assignments or a prince toting a glass slipper. Violetta, although well into her thirties, looked much younger and knew in her heart that as the train drew closer to Los Angeles so would her ambition to be a movie star ripen and blossom. She would marry a rich producer, lord it over many servants in a mansion in Bel Air, and give lavish and much-talked about dinner parties to which she would never invite la Contessa. She loathed the fat one, but disguised it brilliantly. Violetta lowered the copy of Screen Romances she had bought at the railroad station in Portland. La Contessa, after a long silence, was speaking, and when la Contessa spoke, she demanded undivided attention, or else.
“Portland was a great disappointment.” Little did she know there were others who shared the sentiment.
“My darling, I thoroughly ransacked the place. Why must I repeat myself? I left no drawer unturned. I even ransacked her refrigerator.” He added with a smile, “I helped myself to a cold chicken leg. Quite tasty.”
“You’re laughing at me,” said la Contessa.
“I never laugh at you, Contessa.” Only on occasion when I’m soaking in a hot tub and think of you huffing and puffing in bed and making those obscene noises that are supposed to be synonymous with passion.
“Are you mocking me?” She was jamming a cigarette into another one of her hockables, a cigarette holder studded with ruby and emerald chips.
He imitated her voice mercilessly. “‘You’re laughing at me. You’re mocking me.’ I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not paranoid.”
“Violetta!”
Violetta looked up. “Yes, Contessa?”
“My cigarette!” Violetta reached down the seat for her handbag from which she produced a cigarette lighter and a flame. La Contessa inhaled, followed by the usual fit of coughing, while Marcelo stared out the window and Violetta returned to her fantasies. The coughing abated; la Contessa was exhausted.
“How many times do I have to beg you to give up smoking?”
She ignored the question. She always did. “If the mother didn’t have the letter, then the daughter
has to have it.”
“Perhaps there was no letter,” suggested Marcelo.
“My father wrote me from Hong Kong that he would entrust a letter with Captain Methot to be delivered to me. He had a premonition he was dying, I’m sure of that. Premonitions are the family curse. One day I’ll have a premonition and then I’ll be gone.”
“Without having sent a letter.”
“You’re mocking me again!”
“Cara mia, what has happened to you? You’ve become so grim and somber. You used to laugh and be gay, you bubbled like vintage champagne. But since you’ve become obsessed with the letter …”
She leaned forward. “The letter will lead us to the cornucopia, my father’s cornucopia. His precious horn of plenty. He always told me about it. I grew up on the legend. Marco Polo’s cornucopia! A valued gift from the emperor of China. Handed down for six centuries. How often it was stolen and recovered.”
Marcelo stifled a yawn. How often had he heard the story. She even repeated it in her sleep. The Baron di Marcopolo’s cornucopia. Stuffed to the brim with precious jewels worth millions of dollars. Millions that could keep them in a bountiful existence in Hollywood where the film population were suckers for royalty and foreign accents. How often she reminded him that silent stars Gloria Swanson, Pola Negri, and Mae Murray had purchased royalty as husbands. Constance Bennett bought herself a marquis. They were all penniless but titled. Royal titles! Worth a fortune. Horns of plenty. He realized the countess had ceased her droning.
Her head drooped. She was dozing. Marcelo nudged Violetta with a foot. He indicated the cigarette in the old lady’s hand. Violetta removed it to an ashtray and then blew Marcelo a kiss. Violetta settled back on the comfortable seat and stared out the window. She believed la Contessa. There was a cornucopia stuffed with jewels. There was a letter entrusted by the Baron di Marcopolo to Jack Methot, the sea captain. It was romantic and intriguing. She gazed at Marcelo as he looked out the window, admiring again his magnificent profile. He should have been an actor. A swashbuckler, a brilliant swordsman. Zorro. D’Artagnan. Captain Blood. Marcelo yawned, closed his eyes, and settled back for a nap. Violetta’s thoughts turned to Mayo Methot. Mrs. Humphrey Bogart. How she longed to meet the movie star. How she longed to meet all movie stars. How wonderful it must be to be Mrs. Humphrey Bogart.
