[Celebrity Murder Case 10] - The Humphrey Bogart Muder Case

by George Baxt

  “And I bought this cornucopia for Marco Polo? Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”

  “You did. Ned Aswan says you did.”

  “If he says I did, then I did.” He buzzed his secretary. She entered immediately, a handsome middle-aged woman named Sarah with a pleasant smile and a no-nonsense look that bespoke efficiency.

  “Sarah. You know what’s a cornucopia?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do we have one?”

  “We had one.”

  “What happened to it?”

  She sounded as though he should remember what happened to it. “It was sold at the auction!”

  “Aha! The auction. So the auctioneer would have a record as to who bought it.” He told Bogart and Villon, “Last year I set up an auction to get rid of a lot of junk that accumulates. Made a nice profit. That’s because at a Sam Goldwyn auction people bid more than at an ordinary auction. You remember the auctioneer?”

  “How could I forget. It was my cousin Herman Zabin.” Goldwyn said to Bogart and Villon, “See. We keep everything in the family. If it isn’t her family, it’s my family. Sarah, phone your cousin and tell him to look up the cornucopia and to who did he sell it.” She nodded and left. “While we’re waiting, let’s discuss a movie. Bogie.”

  “You got a movie you want me to do, you discuss it with Jack Warner. He’s very particular when it comes to lending actors.”

  “From Jack Warner I wouldn’t borrow a cup of sugar.”

  “He probably wouldn't lend it. It’s rationed.”

  Sam Goldwyn was back on the track with murder. “Joshua Trent murdered. What won’t they think of next?” He asked Villon, “You got any clues?”

  “I haven’t got much besides my suspicions.”

  “I can tell from looking at you that your suspicions are good suspicions. Just like my Frances. She’s very good with suspicions.” He rambled on about his wife and his son and Bogart and Villon refused refills. Sarah returned at last with a paper in her hand.

  “Sorry it took so long. Herman had to dig in his files. Here. I’ve written down the buyer’s name, address, and phone number.”

  Villon took the paper and read aloud, “Mrs. Angelica Harper.”

  “Oh boy,” said Goldwyn.

  “That sounds like you know her,” said Bogart.

  “By the way,” said Sarah, “there’s a Mr. Mallory waiting for you.”

  Villon asked, “Why didn’t you show him in?”

  “Well actually,” said Sarah, “I was going to announce him but he said he'd just as soon wait.”

  Villon went to the door and opened it and said to Jim Mallory, “You suddenly shy or something?”

  “Well through the door I heard Mr. Goldwyn going on about his wife and son and I didn't want to interrupt.”

  “Okay, we’re about to leave.”

  Bogart asked Goldwyn, “Who’s Mrs. Angelica Harper?”

  “You never heard of her? Well, she’s an artist. Not just an artist, but a highly eccentric one. In fact, she’s crazy. It would be just like her to bid for a cornucopia. Maybe she doesn't have it anymore. You better call her. Here, use the phone.” Villon dialed and by the fifth ring Mrs. Harper answered. Villon introduced himself and explained about the cornucopia she’d bought at auction.

  “The cornucopia! Of course! You’re a detective? Wonderful! You can help me. Do you have my address? Come right over!” She slammed her phone down.

  Villon said to Goldwyn, “She sounds a little off center.”

  “Not just a little, believe me. My Frances bought one of her paintings. She wanted to come stay with us for a few days until the painting adjusted to its new home.”

  “I see,” said Villon. “One of those. Well Bogie,” he looked at the address on the paper, “she’s not too far from here. Down the road a piece on Fairfax Avenue. Thanks for your help, Mr. Goldwyn, good to see you again.”

  “Anytime. Now that you know the way, don’t be a stranger. Tell me Bogie, maybe you can break your contract with Jack Warner?”

  ELEVEN

  THE HOLLYWOOD GRAPEVINE CRACKLED WITH the electricity of hot news. Joshua Trent's murder was definitely hot news. Even as Sam Goldwyn entertained Bogart and Villon, Trent’s murder was a special flash on local radio stations. The former screen queen Marion Davies heard it at her palatial beach house in Santa Monica while sharing martinis with Mary Astor. Both women had known Joshua Trent. It seemed that every woman connected with films was acquainted with Joshua Trent. They were sitting on a veranda that overlooked the beach, though the house itself was surrounded by a ten-foot high protective wall atop which were layers of barbed wire that could cause instant electrocution if touched. Armed guards patrolled the premises with trained police dogs. It seemed to Mary Astor there was a small army of these guards. She was tempted to ask Davies how she lived this way, wasn’t it uncomfortable, wasn’t it scary and then she looked at Davies leaning over in her chair to catch every word coming from the console radio. The woman's face was a blank, a heavily made-up blank.

  “A knife in his heart,” said Davies, “just like Bogie’s housekeeper. Mary, I think there are maniacs on the loose.”

  “What’s so special about that in this town?” Astor sipped her martini reminding herself to restrict her intake to two glasses as the martinis served in the Davies household were notoriously potent and there was a dinner engagement in Holmby Hills that night awaiting her attendance.

  Davies said, “I think I’ll ask Bill to hire more guards. Double what we’ve got.”

  “Seems to me you’ve got a good-size private army as it is.”

  “Them? Them on the beach? They’re on the lookout for Jap invaders in case there are any on the way. Bill says there’s going to be trouble with Japan.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  Bill was the powerful newspaper tycoon, William Randolph Hearst. Marion Davies had been his mistress for close to twenty-five years, he having plucked her from the chorus of a Ziegfeld Follies, determined to possess her physically and to make her a major star of motion pictures. Both of his ambitions where she was concerned cost Hearst millions of dollars. Surprisingly enough, Davies turned out to have a delicious sense of humor which worked well for her in several films, and for over two decades. She even succeeded in talkies despite a pronounced stutter which she learned to control and finally retired in 1938 after a succession of flops. On her retirement, she had millions of dollars, owned real estate on both coasts, including an office building on the southeast comer of Park Avenue and East 57th Street. Her jewelry collection, of course, was impressive and blinding.

  The newscaster signed off and Davies turned off the radio. “Mary?”

  “Yes, Marion?”

  “You’re a pretty smart kid, right?”

  Mary Astor smiled. “Sometimes too smart.”

  “There’s no such thing as too smart,” said Davies, stirring the pitcher of martinis on the table next to her and then refilling her glass. “You know a lot about everything. What’s a cornucopia?”

  Astor told her.

  “A horn of plenty? What the hell’s a horn of plenty?” Astor gestured with her hand. “All this. You live in the midst of a horn of plenty. Of course all your wealth is a metaphor.”

  “What’s a metaphor?”

  “An example. A horn of plenty and great wealth are often synonymous.”

  “What’s synonymous?”

  “Let’s go back to cornucopia.”

  “This horn of plenty.” Davies was getting warmed up to the subject. “Is it anything like a ram’s horn?”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen a ram’s horn.”

  “Oh sure you have. It’s what the Jews blow on Yom Kippur eve. That’s their highest holy day. I had a Jewish lover who taught me all this stuff. The Jews call the ram’s horn a shofar. You know when my lover said he had to go to shul that night… shul, you know is a synagogue … because they were going to blow the shofar. I misheard what he
said and thought they were going to blow the chauffeur which near convulsed me ..

  “Marion?”

  “What.”

  “That’s an old one.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still good. I pulled it on Bill before you got here and he went heh heh heh. For Bill, that’s a belly laugh. He called me from the castle. He’s up there for a couple of days. He says we had a cornucopia someplace. If it’s up at the castle, they’ll never find it. So much damn junk up there. Y’know, there’s crates of stuff Bill’s brought from abroad that have never been opened?”

  “I know. You showed me the last time I was there.”

  “Oh I did?”

  “You did.” She could tell the martinis were having an effect. Lunch had been promised but there was not a sign of it.

  “Well if it’s not up at the castle, it must be here someplace. And say !…” She sat up and looked like an obscenely evil child, “if it’s the same one that has them ransacking and murdering, I’ve got a hidden fortune.” She contemplated what she had just said. “And I need a hidden fortune like I need a third tit. And I don’t relish the thought of being ransacked or murdered.”

  “You've got nothing to worry about what with your guards and their dogs.”

  “Honeybunch, believe me, there are ways of getting in and out of this place without being caught. I know. I’ve done it. Often.”

  “What about the high wall and barbed wire?”

  “Mary, do you know how often this dump’s been broken into? Bill keeps it out of the papers when it happens to discourage any copycats. But they keep on coming. This joint’s a real challenge. A good crook, and by good I mean a crackerjack, a whiz, a topnotch professional can get into and out of any place if he sets his mind to it. When I was in the Follies I met a lot of shady characters and from them I learned plenty.”

  “I can pick a lock,” continued Davies.

  “You can’t.”

  “Sure can. With a bobby pin. Bill gave up locking me in my room because I was as good an escape artist as Harry Houdini.” She suddenly went all dreamy. “God Harry was a great lay.” A butler materialized. “What do you want?”

  “Luncheon is served.”

  She said to Mary, “It’s always luncheon. It’s never lunch. And it’s never ever ‘Soup’s on’ anymore.” She said to the butler, “Okay, okay, Jeeves. We're coming.” She struggled off the chaise longue on which she’d been reclining.

  “His name isn't really Jeeves, is it?”

  “How the hell should I know? Never saw him before this morning. Boy, war sure is hell. Can’t hold on to the help anymore. They’re going off to factories and shipyards where they get paid a fortune.” She took Mary Astor’s arm. “Let me help you, dear, you’re a little unsteady.”

  “Which way do we go?” asked Astor.

  “Straight ahead and turn left at the Rembrandt. Christ, I hope it isn’t chicken a la king again.” She brightened. “Maybe it’s a big fruit salad. All laid out in a cornucopia. Hmm. I wonder if we have that effing thing. So you’re signed to Warner now. Son of a bitch ruined my career. That last stinker, Ever Since Eve.” She shook her head. “I hear they’re still fumigating the theaters.”

  “Do you miss making movies?”

  “Nah! I only made them because Bill wanted me to. There’s only one thing I miss about making movies.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Screwing my leading men. Ha ha ha ha ha!”

  Fairfax Avenue was one of the cosier streets in West Hollywood. It was predominantly Jewish and also famous for Hollywood High School which produced a good share of movie personalities. Bogart and Mayo in their happier days came here at least once a week on a Friday, a few hours before the start of the Jewish Sabbath to shop for such goodies as smoked salmon, smoked whitefish or carp or sturgeon, challah bread, onion rolls, pickled herring in sour cream or au naturel, chicken noodle soup, matzo balls (Mayo, on her first time here with Bogart asking in all innocence, “What kind of balls are matzo balls?”), stuffed derma, gefilte fish, brisket of beef. Bogart’s mouth was watering.

  “Say Herb, how’s it if I pull into Canter’s parking lot?”

  “I’m all for it, but first let’s attend to Angelica Harper. She sounded a little frantic on the phone,” Bogart had driven a block past Fairfax Avenue’s commercial area. Villon was looking ahead through the windshield. “There’s a very strange-looking house ahead on the left on a very large lot.’’

  “Where?”

  “You blind? The gray thing with the turrets. Looks like an imitation castle.”

  Bogart laughed. “Oh sure. I’ve passed it dozens of times. Do you suppose that’s Mrs. Harper’s?”

  “Pull over. There’s a mailbox with an address printed on it.”

  Bogart pulled over. The address on the mailbox confirmed this was the residence of Angelica Harper. There was a short road behind a locked gate that led to what seemed to be a moat over which there lay a drawbridge. “There’s a speaker in the gate,” said Bogart. “I’m going to park here. It looks safe.”

  They left the car and went to the speaker. There was a button that Villon pressed. No response. He pressed again. Bogart was staring up at a turret and said, “ ‘Rapunzel, Rapun- zel, let your hair down.’ “

  They heard what they supposed was Mrs. Harper’s voice. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Harper. I’m detective Villon!”

  “But mais oui! Le gendarme! Au secours!” They heard a buzzing noise and the gate clicked open. “Entrez! Entrez! Bienvenue or whatever the hell you’re supposed to say.” Bogart and Villon looked at each other. Bogart said, “This is not real.”

  “This is Hollywood,” said Villon. “For Hollywood, this is real.” They passed through the gate and walked to the drawbridge. Bogart looked in the moat. “Real water.” He grimaced. “And lots of dead things.”

  Villon said, “The drawbridge is a fake.” At the end of the drawbridge was a wooden door. Villon tried the knob and pushed it open. They walked into what was probably a reception room, though it held very little furniture. There was a long wooden table that Villon tested by shaking it. It was quite sturdy. Around the table were about a dozen wooden chairs that Bogart thought were probably fifteenth century in design. There were tapestries on the walls depicting medieval knights jousting and hunters stalking deer and wild boar and to Bogart’s delight, the fairy tale heroine Rapunzel with her mile of blonde hair floating down from a window at the top of a turret where she was imprisoned.

  “I know,” said Villon. “It’s a movie set.” There was a circular wooden staircase that led up a long flight to a balcony that seemed to lead to a hall and other rooms. On the opposite wall just past the balcony was a double door. From behind the double door came the unlikely sounds of a harp being plucked. Bogart recognized the melody, “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls.”

  “Most inappropriate,” said Bogart, “there’s not a slab of marble in sight.”

  “I think we’re supposed to go through the double doors,” said Villon.

  “I hope we’re not interrupting a recital,” said Bogart. Villon pushed open the double doors. They entered a studio that was two stories high and aglow in sunshine pouring through the glass roof overhead. There was indeed a harp and playing it was a very thin little lady of an indeterminate age with a beatific expression on her face. Several feet beyond her was a platform with an easel and canvas and daubing at the canvas wearing a smock and a beret with a devil-may-care attitude was undoubtedly their hostess, Angelica Harper, holding a palette in her left hand and a brush in her right. She was probably sixtyish, but, as Bogart noticed, she had very shapely legs. Bogart was known to be a sucker for a shapely leg. Her smile was beguiling, enticing. “Mes amis! Vous avez arrivez! Which means, My friends, you have arrived at last!” She laughed. “I’m terribly pretentious! In time you’ll get used to it.” She said to the harpist, “That was just fine, Letitia. Absolutely splendid.” She said to the men, “Letitia is practicing to be an angel.”
Having divested herself of her painting appurtenances, Mrs. Harper slowly walked down the six steps that led from the platform, while Letitia curtsied and then scampered out a door that in a flash Bogart saw led to a kitchen.

  Villon introduced himself and Bogart.

  “Of course I recognize Mr. Bogart,” said Mrs. Harper. He took the hand she extended and shook it. She seemed disappointed. Hand kissing was an art that had eluded Bogart. Likewise Villon who shook hers lightly. She indicated a sofa and some easy chairs in another corner of the room where apparently she occasionally held court. “I can offer you port or chablis.” Both men refused. “It’s just as well. The glasses are a bit dirty.” She looked at four glasses on a nearby table that held the bottles of port and chablis. “In fact, they're filthy. I must have a word with Letitia. In fact, I shall have several words with Letitia. She keeps house for me in addition to providing mood music that I require when I’m working. I’d say she was a treasure but she isn’t. She’s been with me for years, ever since my husband died.” She was seated in an easy chair that resembled a throne. “My husband built my castle. He designed it.”

  “He was an architect?”

  “He was an idiot,” she said with a charming smile. “But he was rich rich rich!” Her arms were outflung and there was a lascivious look of ecstasy on her face. “Archibald Harper was a rogue, but never a peasant slave. He based this castle on the one Douglas Fairbanks had designed for his Robin Hood. Doug was a good friend, he visited often. These are all my creations.” One of her hands was making lavish circles in the air drawing their attention to the walls which were crowded with framed canvases of varying sizes and dimensions. Angelica Harper’s works covered a broad canvas of their own. There were still lives and portraits of celebrities from the historical past. There was one of a nurse who Bogart assumed was probably Florence Nightingale though he found the leer on her face somewhat confusing. There was a pretty good one of Rasputin, the mad monk with a soulful expression that seemed somewhat out of place.

  Villon seemed mesmerized by a huge canvas of nymphs and satyrs cavorting in a forest glen with the god Pan tootling his pipes and it was all refreshingly pornographic. All the while they studied her work the artist rewarded them with a monologue about herself and her art.