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

by George Baxt

“That’s right,” said Risa with a wicked grin, “it’s like the first night of a honeymoon. All clumsy fumbling.”

  Guiss lit a cigarette. “We’ll see what we’ve got when we view the rushes tomorrow. Maybe Greta won’t sound good, but she’ll certainly look good. Her color tests were remarkable.” He smiled at the recollection. “How I would love to make love to her.”

  For the first time since she’d met Guiss, Risa felt sorry for him. Deep in his thoughts of the elusive Garbo, Guiss looked like a sad and vulnerable schoolboy.

  On their way to Arnold’s bungalow to continue their discussion of Guiss and company, Arnold and Villon paused in the Garden of Allah’s busy bar for a drink. It was crowded with celebrities and Herb Villon was a sucker for important names. Dorothy Parker was sitting at a table with her husband, Alan Campbell, and the comedian Charles Butterworth. They heard Butterworth asking Mrs. Parker, “Have you read Steinbeck’s new book?”

  “Some of it.”

  “What’s it like?”

  She replied, “I’ve found more substance in tea leaves.”

  From another table writer-director Preston Sturges was having drinks with actor-humorist Robert Benchlev. Benchley was discussing an actor Sturges was considering for his upcoming movie. “I think he’s rather mediocre,” Benchley said.

  Sturges replied with a thick tongue, “He’s not talented enough to be mediocre.”

  At the bar, actress Miriam Hopkins was trying not to look bored with her companion, actor Vince Barnett, who said to her from out of the blue, “Y’know Miriam, I think I lived in another life.”

  She said brightly, “Where you swung by your tail?”

  Arnold nudged Villon. “Let’s go to my bungalow. I’ve had it in here.”

  In his bungalow, Arnold removed his jacket and poured drinks for them. Villon settled into an easy chair and lit a cigarette. Arnold said, “You know what I think. Herb? I think the lady was done in by one of her own bunch.”

  “I think you may be right.”

  “I have to be right. As far as we know, she was just part of her phony family. She probably didn’t know anybody else in L.A.”

  “What bugs me,” said Villon, “is where was she holed up from the time she left the beach house December eighth until her murder? That’s two months at least.”

  “They probably had her stashed in one of their safe houses. They’ve got at least three that we know of in the area.” Arnold thought for a moment. “Somebody must have thought she was a threat or else she was of no further use to them and it was simpler to kill her than send her back to Germany. They have a route back through Canada, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard. Our friendly neighbors to the north realize how hospitable they’re being to the Nazis?”

  “They know, trust me, they know.”

  “Okay, now what about Guiss and his playmates?”

  “We know,” said Arnold, “that Guiss is Viennese and that he served as a lancer in the Viennese army. In that period he showed an amazing talent for diplomacy and won the friendship and admiration of some very powerful people. Now that’s about twenty years ago. It’s reasonable to suppose he was a war hero but I doubt we’ll ever get the opportunity to see and admire his decorations. Then there’s a five-year lapse and when he re-emerges, he is a very very wealthy man enveloped in a cloak of mystery.”

  “No wife? No children?”

  “No nothing. Lots of rumors of mistresses. Risa Barron has been filling that bill for the last couple of years. He’s showered her with a fortune in jewelry.”

  “What about Barron? Have you ever met her?”

  “I’ve only seen photographs, newsreels: She’s an ugly broad who’s learned how to look good. Her features are all wrong but put them all together the way she does and you have what the pulp writers call a fascinating adventuress. She’s played footsie with a lot of bad boys. Hitler and his gang, Mussolini and his pasta patrol. It’s rumored she served time in a harem and came away with the title to an oil well. She was really nuts about Guiss but I hear there’s the suspicion that it might be cooling. He’s after Garbo.”

  “I’ll bet he doesn’t get her,” said Villon.

  “Then there’s Werner Lieb. Everything about him is phony. His name, his monocle, his position as co-producer of the movie. What he is is Guiss’s aide-de-camp. Guiss picked him up in South America about ten years ago where he was on the lam from Germany on a swindling deal. He took money from old ladies.”

  “So do department stores.”

  “There was also a charge of pederasty. Guiss cleaned his slate for him. He recognized in Lieb the kind of toady who wouldn’t go bad on him. Guiss is very fond of him and Lieb is smart enough to know he’ll never do better then he’s doing now.”

  “And Henkel? What’s his story?”

  “He used to be an accountant. He tried writing short stories but never sold any, at least not to our knowledge. We don’t think he’s German. How’s your drink?”

  “It’s fine. Tell me more. I’m fascinated.”

  “We doubt Henkel’s his real name. The boys have studied his photographs and suspect he’s a Slav, or a Pole, or even a Latvian. There’s a candid shot of him grinning at some bathing beauty pageant and God Almighty' those teeth of his look like they’ve been bombarded with buckshot”

  “And then there’s our boy Gruber. Mustn't forget to get that camera to him.”

  “There's also our girl Greta.”

  Villon sat up. “You’re certainly not suspecting her of killing Mrs. Wolheim.”

  “Oh no way. But she spent time Germany. She knew a lot of people there who today are active Nazis.”

  “So what? Pola Negris back in town trying to make a comeback, remember her?"

  “Silent pictures?"

  “Right,” said Villon. “But do you know where she was before the war broke out m Europe? She was in Germany starring in pictures for our boy Goebbels. Does anybody put her in a hot seat and grill her?”

  “They’ve got a complete dosser on her. She's harmless. She worked in Germany because it was the only offer she had on the burner and she was running out of jewels to hock —”

  “You can’t tell me Garbo might be a sympathizer. She was pretty damned smart tonight. ‘Check our who's paying for the utilities! Why didn’t we think of that?”

  Arnold shrugged. He was tired. He wished Lisa Schmack would check in. He would need her to get the camera to Gruber. He wished he didn’t feel so uneasy about her safety. There wasn’t fascist fanatic he knew about who didn’t operate with a short fuse. Today it’s “Don’t kill her” and tomorrow it could be “What. she's still alive.” These people frightened him. They weren't human the way he’d been taught about humanity in Sunday school. They weren't real. He said it aloud and startled Villon. “Guiss isn't real.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I just had a hunch. There's something about Guiss that makes me suspect he's a fake."

  “You mean he isn't really rich.”

  “I mean, maybe it's not his money."

  Villon was helping himself to another drink. “I know what you’re getting at and it’s an interesting premise. He was planned and created a mystery man. To act as a go-between. The mobs used to do that back in the twenties. Did you know they created George Raft and paid to make him a star just to get a foot inside Hollywood? Did you know that?”

  “He’s still a star, isn’t he?”

  “Go figure that one out. No talent and his name is still above the title.”

  “Figuratively, so’s Guiss’s. But what’s his talent? Why has he been told to pour five million dollars into a turkey about Joan of Arc? Why is it costing five million? Lisa Schmidt says the sets aren’t inexpensive, but they’re not lavish. Outside of Garbo’s million, the other members of the cast are working for their usual fees, nothing out of the ordinary there. She thinks maybe two or two and a half million would more than cover the cost of the production. So who’s pocketing
the difference?”

  The phone rang. It was Lisa Schmidt. Arnold told her about the camera ploy and she assured him it would be no problem getting it to Gruber. She told him about Guiss ordering a thorough investigation into her background. Then they moved on to discuss the murder.

  “Have you figured out how the body got into the house?” Lisa asked. “Was she still alive when she was in the house? Did she inconveniently die there and the killer decided he might just as well leave her there?”

  “Good thought.”

  They discussed the utilities. Lisa said, “It’s Guiss’s property. Gruber told me that a long time ago. That’s why the utilities are still connected. Why else did they have the meeting there? Why else were the Wolheims in residence for so long? I’ll bet you a week’s salary they had a shortwave sending and receiving set and were a relay station. Damn it, Arnold, it’s in one of my reports that Guiss owns the house.”

  “I can’t remember everything I read,” Arnold snapped. “I get so many damned reports from J. Edgar I sometimes wonder when he finds time to hate so many people.”

  “I think it’s a good chance one of her own people killed her. Maybe Guiss ordered it. If Kriegman really is Wolheim, maybe for one reason or another the lady was threatening to blow the whistle on the boys. Oh Christ I’m tired. I can't think. Let me know when you have the camera, we’ll make arrangements to meet.”

  “What kind of a biography have you and Gruber cooked up for yourself?” asked Arnold.

  “It’s a beaut. Maybe we can sell the movie rights.”

  “Maybe. Get some sleep. Sorry I snapped at you. I’m a little punchy.”

  “We’re all a little punchy. See you tomorrow.”

  “And Lisa, bolt your door and windows.”

  “I’m way ahead of you. I already have. It’s very stuffy in here. Good night.”

  Villon poured another drink for himself and Arnold said, “You better go easy on that stuff. You’ll have a bitch of a hangover in the morning.”

  “I never have hangovers. And I don’t have an easy time falling asleep. The booze helps. I’ve got to work on this Guiss theory of yours. What did Lisa have to say?”

  Arnold told him about Lisa’s questioning if the woman was dead on arrival or conveniently expired there.

  Villon said, “You’re forgetting something. The poison was administered over a period of time. Somebody knew her favorite foods and laced them with the poison. I’ll give you odds on that.”

  “Maybe peanut butter and apple jelly?”

  Villon looked at his wristwatch. He knew the men in forensics would probably still be at it. It was only a little past ten. There were times when they conducted their experiments throughout the night, especially when they were facing an overload. He phoned his precinct and got through to one of the men in forensics. He advised him to test for thallium nitrate in the peanut butter and the apple jelly.

  Jack Kelly of forensics told Villon, “That’s just what we found. She must have eaten the stuff over a period of weeks, two, maybe less if she gorged on the stuff.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” After he hung up, Villon said, “If she left the stuff behind in the refrigerator and doted on it that much, she had to get herself a fresh supply when she moved to the safe house.”

  “It was probably bought for her,” said Arnold, “as a farewell gift.”

  Villon sighed. “Arnold, it’s getting too late for irony. I’m going home. Could you point me to the door?”

  Garbo sat in the darkness of her living room, puffing a cigarette, staring out at the ocean, watching the waves rise and crest against the shore, while harboring thoughts that until now had been strangers to her. Poison and murder and corpses in a neighboring house. Lottie Lynton and the joy she took in being a husband killer. Villon had identified himself as a detective, but what about the other man? His name, his name … she prodded her memory. Oh yes. Arnold Lake. Did he say he was a detective? No, he didn’t. Then who is he? Still, he didn’t have to say he was a detective, he was with the other one. They were quite chummy. They enjoyed each other. They worked well together.

  Peter Lorre flashed into her mind. They hadn’t worked well together today. Yes it was the first day and that old chestnut about the first day of a film being the most difficult always holds true and her nerves were genuine, but Peter’s nervousness, she was convinced, was due to something else.

  Fear.

  Fear? But of what is he afraid? Could it be Lisa Schmidt? Could it be possible he really saw her on the beach that night? Right in his own home asking for help? Perhaps she never thought that someday she would confront him again. Peter was so positive at the studio that she was the woman in question, he was almost frantic about it. And then today, the very next day, he says he was mistaken. Yesterday’s angry puppy is today’s darling pussycat. And it’s wrong.

  She stubbed the cigarette out and went to the bar for a vodka on the rocks. With the glass in her hand, she opened the back door and went out to the patio. From where she stood, she could sec the house of mystery. Bathed in the eerie glow cast by the full moon, it looked sinister and threatening. Mrs. Wolheim.

  Mr. Wolheim. Kriegman. Now in the new guise of Guiss’s butler. Does Guiss suspect that Kriegman is an enemy agent?

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, “I am so dense. I am so stupid. Of course he knows!”

  She hurried back into the house, shut the door, drew the curtains to protect the blackout, and phoned Salka Viertel. Salka listened closely and absorbed the information and suspicions her friend was pouring out. Finally she said, “Listen to me, Greta. Whatever you suspect, you keep to yourself. It could be dangerous.”

  “When have I ever been afraid of danger? Didn’t I co-star with John Barrymore?”

  “Please Greta. If these people are what you think they are, and they suspect you know, your life could be in danger. God in heaven, it’s already been in the papers we identified Mrs. Wolheim. So it stands to reason we’d also be able to identify Mr. Wolheim. And if it really is Kriegman, and he is now working for Guiss … oh my God Greta. We might at this very moment be marked women!”

  “Stop being so melodramatic, Salka. You’ve written too many scripts. Who would dare kill Garbo?”

  “Albert Guiss.”

  “You really think so? But how enchanting. This makes him a bit more interesting.”

  Salka said with irritation, “Stop talking like a fool. Maybe we should phone those detectives who came to the house. Maybe you should tell them what you suspect.”

  “Don’t you think they are smart enough to have figured that out by themselves? They seemed quite intelligent. Oh Salka. How wonderful!”

  “What’s wonderful?”

  ‘To be in danger! I don’t think I have ever been in danger before. Oh Salka, it’s a whole new emotion for me and I have been so desperately looking for something fresh in my barren life! I’m in danger! How marvelous! I’m tempted to phone Ixniella and Hedda but no, I will not. This emotion is mine, all mine, and I shall keep it to myself like the greedy, selfish little brat I am. I shall have another vodka and think about this. Go to sleep my darling. Go to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Gently, she replaced the phone on the receiver.

  * * *

  Go to sleep? Is she mad? Salka threw a pillow across the room and knew she was in for a restless night.

  Garbo poured the vodka she had promised herself and then went back out on the patio. Did she think she had fooled Salka? Had she overplayed? Did Salka truly believe that Greta was not afraid of danger? The night air caused her to tremble. The night air? Or was it fear? God, you fool. Go back inside. Get off the patio. You’re an easy target out here in the moonlight. She hurried back into the house. She latched the door securely. She hurried to her bedroom and came to a decision to share her suspicions with Villon and Arnold.

  FOURTEEN

  They were delighted she had phoned early that morning and asked them to come to the studio. Villon and Arnold sat with Garbo in her dr
essing room drinking hot chocolate catered by Lottie Lynton. Garbo wondered if they’d forgotten it was hot chocolate that had brought the curtain down on Mr. Lynton’s life. Lottie also served a plate of Toll-House cookies she had baked early that morning. The men had nothing but admiration for the actress. Her deductions were intelligent and carefully-thought out. Hers was a shrewd brain camouflaged by immortal beauty. They admired her and told her so.

  Garbo clapped her hands with joy, a little girl winning the approval of her teachers. “And what is that interesting-looking camera you have there Mr. Lake?”

  “Um, it’s something I picked up in South America when I was down there a couple of months ago.”

  “It looks terribly sophisticated. I only have a little Brownie. Still, it takes very nice pictures. May I examine the camera?” Arnold handed it to her and she looked through the viewfinder and laughed. “You both look so serious. Is there film in it? I’d like to take your picture.” Lake asked her not to and she pouted. “I take a very good picture, you can trust me. I have been taught by masters. Cecil Beaton, Louise Dahl Wolfe, Robert Capa who has gone off to photograph the war in Europe. But still, if you don’t want your picture taken …” Her voice trailed off in childish disappointment as William Haines joined them. She introduced him to her visitors and then said to Haines, “You are out of sorts. What is wrong?”

  “As Dr. Jekyil once said, I’m not myself today. Von Stroheim is in a bitch of a mood. He watched the pushes this morning with the wiener schnitzel gang and they were in an uproar.” Haines grinned. “I knew he’d eff this movie up the way he effs up everything else. He shot thousands of feet yesterday and there’s maybe a minute or so that’s usable. You should have heard Guiss chewing him out. I almost felt sorry for Von but by God he gave as good as he got. He told Guiss where to put the rushes if he was that dissatisfied.”

  He treated them to a wicked impersonation of the director, strutting back and forth while slicing the air with an imaginary riding crop. “Who are you amateurs to tell me what looks good and what looks bad? You know nothing about judging rushes. Only the experienced eyes of the director and his editors know what can be used and what should be discarded. And sometimes even we miss a good shot and have to go back and run the rushes again and again until we have enough snippets that will piece together superbly. You have hired von Stroheim?” Haines puffed out his chest and stuck out his chin. “Then you must totally trust von Stroheim! I am not a hack like von Sternberg, who is finished in this business!” Garbo winced. She and Haines knew if it wasn’t for this lucky throw of the dice, von Stroheim would be probably sitting in his agent’s office listening to reason about returning to the front of the camera to portray any number of villainous Nazi roles now being offered him. Surely the man must recognize the industry was astonished that anyone would ever trust him with directing a movie again.