[Celebrity Murder Case 05] - The Greta Garbo Murder Case

by George Baxt

  “But Mr. Goldwyn …”

  “Don’t ‘but’ me. My decision is final and irreverent!”

  “But Mr. Goldwyn,” said Sophie in a voice that pleaded with her boss to be reasonable, “the exhibitors are begging for women’s pictures. They’re up to their projectors in war films. They want romantic films desperately. Pictures the women will go to see!” Goldwyn thought for a moment and then his face brightened. “All right! So we’ll call it The Sisters Karamazov! And what’s more. I’ll offer the part of Grushenka to Greta! How’s that?”

  “Mr. Goldwyn, how can there be a Grushenka if you change them to sisters? She’s the woman they fight over.”

  He thought for a moment. “Then Greta can be one of the sisters. I’ll change Grushcnka to Goldfarb and offer it to John Wayne. There’s that rotten von Stroheim. A terrible man, a very terrible man. Hello Erich! Why haven’t you come to visit me and say ‘hello’?”

  Von Stroheim had been about to chew out an electrician. “Well, Sam. Nice of you to drop by.”

  “Tell me Erich, do you know The Brothers Karamazov?"

  “Not intimately.” He collared the electrician, who was trying to sneak away.

  “Come by and see me. I may have for you an interesting preposition. Where's Greta? I don’t see Greta. Look at all the people, Sophie. This is really going to be a gigantic epic. Look at all the actors and actresses! It looks like a Who's What of everybody who isn’t working. Look Sophie, there’s Eddie Quillan, and Mary Gordon. Over there, look. Cliff Edwards, by golly. What’s Ukelele Ike doing in a movie about Joan of Arc?”

  “Maybe they found out she liked ukeleles,” said Sophie.

  “You think so?” He stared about in amazement. “And this set. It must have cost a pretty penis. You know, Sophie, I think I should get to know this Albert Guiss. What do you think?”

  “That’s him over there with his entourage.” Guiss was standing in the middle of the set accompanied by Risa, Werner and Gustav Henkel. Sophie led Goldwyn to the group.

  Goldwyn confronted Guiss. “Mr. Guiss, I assume. Let me introduce myself. I am Samuel Goldwyn. I own this studio.”

  Guiss and Goldwyn shook hands, and then Guiss introduced the others.

  Goldwyn continued, “Good luck. A lot of good luck. I smell you’re going to have a big hit on your hand.”

  “Thank you very much, Sam.”

  “Of course you won’t see much until the war is over and you can display it in Europe. In Europe Garbo is a big name, a very big name. But until then, you’ll have to march time.” Goldwyn was warming up. “I want this to be a big hit for you so it’ll be like spitting in the face of that rotten Hitler. Joan will conquer the way the Allies will conquer. They’ll push Hitler’s nose into horse menus and then I have already suggested they put him in a cage and take him on a world tour for everyone to see. They should charge of course a nominated sum and they’ll clean up a fortune. Maybe I can get in on it.” He hadn’t noticed he had lost his audience.

  Sophie remarked as they strayed away, “A very strange bunch.”

  “Not very polite either,” huffed Goldwyn. “Come, let’s give a hello to Greta.”

  Garbo was pleasantly astonished as she entered her caravan dressing room followed by Lottie Lynton and Mercedes de Acosta. “Look at all the flowers! It is like a greenhouse in here! Look Mercedes, there is no room for us! And champagne!” There were at least half a dozen buckets of champagne and bottles of whisky, vodka, and brandy. “And look! Chilled caviar just the way I love it with chopped onions and chopped eggs and sour cream. Lottie, my dear, please fix me one.”

  Mercedes said, “Look over here, Greta. From Louis B. Mayer, a plate of chopped liver. He probably made it himself.”

  Garbo struggled out of an oversized sweater. “We must send the flowers to hospitals. But the food we keep for ourselves,” she said as she rubbed her hands together and grinned lasciviously. She took the caviar-drenched biscuit from Lottie and bit into it greedily, while Mercedes found her a paper napkin to wipe the dribble from her chin.

  “Greta Garbo!” said Goldwyn sternly as he and Sophie entered. “Why aren’t you making Joan of Arc for me instead of for these foreigners?”

  Garbo liked the man; she had always enjoyed him and his beautiful wife, Frances. She swallowed her mouthful and said, “You didn’t ask me. And besides, you already did Joan years ago as a silent. Why would you want to do it again?”

  His hands were spread out palms up, “So I can hear her talk! I don’t mind chewing my fat twice. Didn’t I make The Dark Angel and Stella Dallas twice? Who sent all these flowers?”

  Out of the side of her mouth Sophie warned him, “You sent the white carnations.”

  Like the crack of a whip, his tongue worked. “Look at my white carnations, aren’t they municipal?”

  Garbo giggled. “Very municipal, Sam. They’re also lovely. But I am so perplexed by all these flowers! Is this for starting a new movie or for a funeral?”

  Lisa Schmidt had entered unobtrusively. Mercedes was the first to spot her and admire her beauty. She didn’t know her but she assumed she was on the production staff. She very much liked Lisa’s beauty. Mercedes wanted to know her better. She heard Garbo babbling about flowers and food and what a trial the first day of shooting can be and would Lottie pour her some hot chocolate and, as she held up the hanger holding her costume, asking Goldwyn and Sophie if they didn’t approve, which Sam didn’t but held his tongue, and then she commanded Mercedes’ attention and Mercedes cooed that it was an absolutely brilliantly designed piece of work and it might just start a new fashion in women’s clothes.

  That sobered Garbo. “I never thought about that. It’s possible, isn’t it? Remember how popular I made the pillbox hat and I never saw a nickel of it. Mercedes, remind me to have a talk with Adrian.” Now Goldwyn took the spotlight with his offer for her to do The Sisters Karamazov and he would forever puzzle why this brought on a fit of hysterical laughter. Sophie Gang came to his rescue reminding him they were late for a writers’ conference with Aldous Huxley and Christopher Isherwood. Goldwyn explained to Garbo, assuming she might never have heard of the two British writers, ‘They’re not only good writers, they’re allies. I want them for a picture I’m planning about Bulldog Drummond, you know, the safecracker.” (He actually pronounced it “Bullfinch Drumming.”) “It’s for my new comedy star, Danny Kaye.”

  “Mr. Goldwyn, we’re late,” insisted Sophie.

  “So what? I’m Sam Goldwyn, aren’t I? Did I know one day I’d be Sam Goldwyn? I have a right to be late. Goodbye, Greta. Good luck. I’ll bet Mayer sent the chopped liver. And if I’m right, hire a food taster. Stop pulling my sleeve, Sophie!”

  When they were out the door, Garbo slumped into a chair. “Yes, the first day is always the hardest. And the last day is always the saddest. But we are a long way from the last day. So Lisa Schmidt, why do you stand there like a lonely mouse?”

  Lisa came forward. “I wouldn’t dare compete with Sam Goldwyn for your attention.”

  “Where did you disappear to last night? I tried to find you.”

  “I was tired and very upset by Lorre. I went home.”

  “Yes, Peter was very naughty teasing you the way he did. Peter is not celebrated for his handling of women.” She crossed to the dressing table and sat there. She saw Mercedes ogling at Lisa. “Oh where are my manners?” She introduced the women to each other while Lottie unpacked several cases of knickknacks which Garbo brought to make the dressing room homier and cozier. There were canned goods and an assortment of cheeses, cold cuts and biscuits to be stored in the kitchenette closets and refrigerator. Garbo was asking Lisa, “Was that you on the beach that night?”

  Lisa smiled. “It certainly was not.”

  Mercedes wondered, “What do you suppose this woman was spying on?”

  “Not ‘what,’ but ‘who.” Garbo thought for a minute. “Whom?” She dismissed it with a wave of her hand that just missed swatting a fly. Mercedes repe
ated her question.

  Garbo said, ‘That house has been uninhabited for a long time. I wonder who owns it?”

  Lisa wanted to blurt out, “Guiss!” but said, “Wouldn’t the real-estate people in the neighborhood know?”

  “Possibly,” said Garbo. She told Lisa, “A very strange family lived in the place for a while—the Wolheims. It’s really such an ugly mess, the sort of architecture they favored thirty years ago. Strange house, strange family.” She was cleaning her face with cold cream. “Salka and I saw them a few times. A father, a mother, three sons and a daughter. But they bore no resemblance to each other.”

  “Maybe the children were adopted,” suggested Mercedes.

  “Salka thought that a possibility too. Funny,” she said, wiping the facial cream away with tiny pads of cotton, “they materialized from out of nowhere and then disappeared just as mysteriously. You know, come to think of it, it was early last December when I realized the house was no longer occupied. I remember asking my neighbor, Mr. Saloman, if he knew when the strange family had left and he said they went away December eighth. The day after Pearl Harbor was attacked.”

  Lisa, who had helped herself to some of Lottie’s coffee, said in a strange voice, “Maybe they were German spies.” Lottie flashed her a look, startled.

  “Do you think it possible?” asked Garbo, eyebrows arched.

  “In this town, anything’s possible. Do you recall what these people looked like?” Mercedes was applying a match to a cigarette.

  “Not really. The youngsters were very ordinary looking. The mother, the mother come to think of it … she laughed with a faraway look in her eyes, … come to think of it she looked as though she would be perfect as a burgermeister’s wife. You know, the wife of a small-town mayor in Germany. I saw lots of them when Mauritz and I used to motor about on weekends when I wasn’t needed in front of the camera. And as for the father, I only once got a real look at him.” She repositioned herself so she no longer had to address their reflections in the mirror.

  Mercedes asked. ‘Tall, short? Thin, fat? Bald maybe?”

  “You know something funny. Now I know who Kriegman reminds me of.”

  Mercedes asked, “Who’s Kriegman?”

  “He’s Albert’s butler. That night at dinner, when I first saw Kriegman, I had a sense of deja vu. Yes, he reminded me of Wolheim. Isn’t that funny?”

  ELEVEN

  “Kriegman.”

  Arnold Lake was in Herb Villon’s office. “Who's Kriegman?” asked Villon.

  “Guiss’s butler. That was Lisa I was talking to.”

  “So I gather. No repercussions from last night?”

  “Not from Lorre. He hasn’t shown up on the set yet. He doesn’t film until the afternoon. Lisa saw Gruber this morning. He felt the same way about Lisa’s position as I do. They won’t make a move against her until they think it’s absolutely necessary. He’s sure they don’t want the cops or us feds swarming all over the place.”

  “What about Kriegman?” Villon persisted.

  Arnold told him what Lisa had heard from Garbo about the possibly bogus family Wolheim. “I think we ought to have a look at that house.”

  “Easy enough to get a search warrant”

  “Why don’t we just go down there and pry open a window?”

  “Shame on you, Arnold. That’s breaking and entering. That’s against the law. It’s a felony.”

  Hands on hips Arnold asked, “You’ve never done it before?”

  “Sure I have. But this house is on Santa Monica Beach. Right there with the big moving-picture stars. Very classy. The Santa Monica boys aren’t crazy about us common L.A. cops. We have to move carefully and legitimately. I’ll arrange the warrant. There’s a pretty good seafood joint out there. We can lunch.”

  On the Goldwyn lot, in the office prepared for Albert Guiss, Guiss was seated at his desk dictating a memorandum to Martin Gruber. “And in addition,” he said very precisely, clipping each word like a stock coupon, “I think it will be detrimental to the film to overpublicize it so early in production. What’s the word for that, Martin?”

  “Hype.”

  “Hype.” He was amused. “Hype. I like it. Where was I? Oh yes.” He leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. It was a warm day and the windows had been opened wide. He could hear the activity outside and, as someone never before associated with a motion picture, felt that wonderful charge so exclusive to the initial excitement of producing a film. Soon he would be bored to tears with the endless waiting for scenes to be shot, the daily chore of sitting through the rushes, especially von Stroheim’s rushes, which would be thousands of feet of film more than other directors would need to shoot. He continued with his dictation. ‘True, the return of Garbo and von Stroheim is big news, but we can assume in time the excitement will die down and be replaced by other items of fresh interest, so that we can do a concentrated campaign after the picture is completed and edited to everyone’s satisfaction and ready to be released, of course, with great hoopla… Hoopla is right?” Martin nodded. “With great hoopla and fanfare and hopefully to huge profits.”

  “Shall I read this back to you?” asked Gruber.

  “Not necessary. You’re always very competent.”

  “Thank you.” Guiss wasn’t always given to compliments. Praise didn’t come easily from his lips.

  “Lisa Schmidt.”

  “Nice girl,” said Gruber, without taking his eyes from his notebook.

  “I’m not asking for a recommendation, Gruber. I want you to find out who she is.”

  Gruber was an excellent actor and had once trained with the immortal Max Reinhardt. But Reinhardt found his backside too fat and his voice too thin. “I can get her employment application from personnel.”

  “I want you to dig deeper than that, Gruber.”

  “I see. May I ask, is there something suspicious about her?”

  “If there weren’t, would I be asking you to find out more about her than a ridiculous job application can tell us? Most of those are lies anyway.”

  And most of what I find out for you, Herr Guiss, will be lies anyway, but oh what the hell, they will be delightful lies.

  Guiss continued, now at the window and looking out, all the while jamming a cigarette into the favored pearl holder. “Get to know her. Take her to lunch. Perhaps she’s uninvolvcd. Play up to her. That shouldn’t be difficult with someone as beautiful as she is. Look. There she is now.” Gruber joined him at the window. Lisa was facing Peter Lorre.

  Lorre said to her with wide-eyed innocence, the look he employed in films after committing a particularly gruesome murder, “You must forgive me. Miss Schmidt. How could I have embarrassed you the way I did last night? I am so ashamed of myself. I was so upset when I got home I kicked my wife in the shins.”

  “No matter, Mr. Lorre. It was a bit startling, the idea of me on a beach in a blackout in the dead of night. I’m like the old maid who looks under the bed before she gets into it at night.”

  “Oh really?”

  She was beginning to understand why there were women who found him attractive. He was rumored to be having an affair with a German refugee actress, Kaaren Verne, and she was an exquisite beauty.

  “Perhaps one night soon you’ll let me come and help you look under the bed?”

  She laughed a very husky laugh with difficulty.

  “Perhaps one night you’ll look under your bed and there I’ll be waiting to be trapped. Anyway, Greta was very upset with me and she was right. There was a hunter’s moon that night and there was a lot of mist and perhaps I had indulged just a soupçon too much of happy powder. Now we are friends, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Why don’t we go to the Mocambo tonight? Xavier Cugat’s orchestra is playing and I do a dangerous rhumba.”

  “I’m sorry. But we’re working late tonight.”

  “Oh yes. Of course. I forgot. Oh dear. Greta will be furious. We’re supposed to be rehearsing. I’ll
see you later.” He scurried off like Alice’s White Rabbit, very late for a very important date.

  Something made Lisa look up to the second floor of the executive building. She saw Guiss and Gruber at the window, looking down at her. Guiss didn’t notice Gruber’s wink. Lisa hurried away.

  In Garbo’s dressing room, Lottie Lynton asked, “Shall I prepare lunch. Miss Garbo?”

  “Let’s wait until Mr. Lorre gets here, if he’ll ever get here,” she added with irritation. “Mercedes, you’re so sweet to keep me company but if you have better things to do …”

  Mercedes was too intrigued with intrigue. “Are you thinking Kriegman was really Wolheim?”

  “Oh? Are we back to that again? Good. I like puzzles.” She put a finger to her cheek. “Was Wolheim also Kriegman? I don’t know. I didn’t say he was, did I? I think I said Kriegman reminded me somewhat of Wolheim. Lots of people remind me of lots of people. There were times when I thought Goldwyn and Mayer were interchangeable, but then I’d remind myself how much they despise each other, so they can’t be the same person.”

  “I wonder who rented to the Wolheims? That party ought to know something about them. They had to have references.”

  “That’s an interesting thought.” She clapped her hands. “Oh Mercedes? Do you think we should play detective?”

  “It’s an idea,” said the small woman, puffing on a cigarette.

  “It could also be dangerous,” commented Lottie from the kitchenette.

  Garbo reminded Mercedes, “Lottie knows a great deal about detectives. She doesn’t like them.”

  There was a knock at the door and Peter Lorre didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. “Something smells good,” said Lorre.

  “Yes it does,” said Garbo with a frown. “Lottie! I thought I said to wait on lunch until Mr. Lorre gets here.”

  “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  Garbo shrugged. “Never argue with a treasure.” To Lorre she said, “Why are you always late?”

  He settled into a chair. “This time I ran into Lisa Schmidt. Don’t give me such a look! I was very sweet to her and I apologized for last night and I invited her to go dancing tonight but she declined.”