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

by George Baxt

  After the first day, the rushes improved considerably, and Peter Lorre was giving the kind of performance that made his fellow actors feel he was definitely a contender for an Academy Award nomination. They spoke of Garbo’s work with awe, albeit reminding themselves that the Academy had never honored the actress and probably never would. Hollywood disapproved of mavericks. Mavericks made the Academy voter uneasy and uncomfortable.

  Mercedes de Acosta was succeeding in making Greta Garbo uneasy and uncomfortable. Garbo managed successfully to camouflage her true feelings, asking her friend “So you think … how did you put it … I might be on the spot?”

  “Now look Greta, it’s quite obvious these Wolheims, or whatever the hell their names were, were answerable to higher authorities. And these authorities arc undoubtedly fearsome and ruthless and dangerous. They’ll stop at nothing to save themselves and they don’t give a damn who they kill to protect themselves. Greta,” she pronounced the name like a rumble of thunder, “I’m a Cuban and I have survived the overthrowing of power. My family fled Cuba because my father’s life was in danger.” Greta was thinking, Mercedes should have pursued an acting career. A little on the hammy-side but she sure knows how to sell a point to the audience. “Greta,” said Mercedes, with more thunder, even more fearsome, “we are none of us invincible. If you identified one member of that bogus family then they fear you can identify the rest of them.”

  “But I only know where Kriegman is. I don’t know where the sons and the daughter are.”

  “Would you recognize them if you saw them?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Then you are positively dangerous to them. If Kriegman is working at Guiss’s castle, how do you know the others aren’t there too? You said yourself that the first time you went there for dinner there was a horde of extras and walk-ons working as guards, spear holders, maids, a large kitchen staff. Those four could have melted quite easily into that crowd.”

  “Yes,” Garbo agreed, “anything is possible in Hollywood.”

  Lottie came out on the patio and announced Villon and Arnold. The sun was taking its own sweet time setting on the horizon and the moon was already struggling for position. Mercedes politely declined Lottie’s offer of hot chocolate, although there was a chill in the air, and instead asked for a bourbon neat. Greta greeted her visitors and introduced them to Mercedes. As Lottie prepared and served drinks to the four of them, Garbo repeated Mercedes’s apprehensions and suspicions.

  Arnold said, “I can assure you they won’t make an attempt on Miss Garbo’s life. And as for the whereabouts of the so-called sons and daughter, we already suspect they’re doing service in Guiss’s place, but their only importance would be if one of them were a witness to the murder and that’s highly improbable. Herb and I think Mrs. Wolheim was brought back to the house because the killer was getting impatient. She was taking too long to die. He felt the poison should have taken effect by then because she had gobbled such huge quantities of it. We think he took her to the house to finish her off.”

  Garbo suppressed a shudder. He was so cold and matter-of-fact in detailing this theory of the snuffing out of another human being’s life. Whatever this Mrs. Wolheim had been, she had been a person and a person who died a horrible death and so, in Garbo’s estimation, was worthy of some pity.

  “So some days some guys get lucky,” said Villon, taking over the narration from Arnold. “Once he got her in the house, probably complaining about her burning feet and her bouts of nausea, she suddenly collapsed, her eyeballs rolled up into her head, her skin turned grey and clammy …

  “Mr. Villon, please,” pleaded Garbo.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get so graphic.” How he ached to hear her call him Herb. How he pined to call her Greta. How he wondered it would be like to caress and kiss her toe. He didn’t care how big her feet were, these were the feet of Greta Garbo and if it was up to Herb Villon, they’d be declared a national treasure.

  He heard Arnold say, “So he carried her to the master bedroom, laid her out and left her there.”

  “Where is her luggage?” Garbo had their attention. She smiled. “If she was supposed to be leaving the country, she would have to have luggage. Certainly a handbag. A passport?”

  Arnold said, “You don’t need a passport to board a submarine.” To Garbo’s inquisitive look he explained, “It’s the usual transportation for getting their people in and out of North America. So Herb, where’s the lady’s luggage?”

  “Either checked at Union Station or at a bus terminal. My guess is Union Station. Anyway, I’m ahead of you. I’ve got a couple of boys working on it.”

  Arnold fished an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “And now Miss Garbo, would you please examine these?”

  She took the envelope and found the pictures of Kriegman. “He’s very photogenic, isn’t he? In person he seemed so nondescript, but here he is, very imposing and very impressive. Obviously when these photos were taken he was in a state of agitation. But yes, this is Kriegman alias Mr. Wolheim. I’m sure even Kriegman is a false name.” She stared at Mercedes. “Why are you so upset, Mercedes?”

  “You’re getting yourself in deeper and deeper! Is there no stopping you?”

  “But Mercedes, I am not just Greta Garbo the actress. I am also Greta Garbo the soldier. I am serving my country. If Louella and Hedda knew, they’d stop writing those terrible lies about my lack of patriotism, but we don’t dare tell them, do we gentlemen?”

  “Certainly not those two,” said Villon, and he thought of his Hazel Dickson soldiering for her country and wondering what she would have made of all this: him, Herb, sitting on a patio with Greta Garbo. It was as momentous to him as taking aim at Lincoln must have been to John Wilkes Booth.

  “You’re a damned fool,” said Mercedes. “I need another bourbon.” Lottie was called for and pressed into service. She had drawn the blackout curtains and they now sat in darkness, none of them inclined to move indoors.

  Garbo told them the filming was finally accelerating, with von Stroheim giving it the pacing Guiss so desperately desired. Lorre’s performance was now a vast improvement and she was feeling very good about her own. Then she asked the inevitable. “When do you plan to arrest Kriegman?”

  “Why?” asked Villon.

  “Because he’s a spy!”

  “We’ve got no proof.”

  “But I have identified him as Wolheim. And I’m sure so will Salka and Mr. Saloman.”

  “That’s just identifying him as the man who passed himself off as a mysterious man named Wolheim. We don’t know positively they were spies. We’re very suspicious …”

  ‘To say the least,” interjected Arnold.

  “But we haven’t a shred of proof. Anyway, Miss Garbo …”

  “Oh please. I’m Greta. We are working together. And you are Herb. And you are Arnold. After all, aren’t we comrades in arms on the battlefield?”

  Villon was aglow. Herb. Greta Garbo had pronounced his name aloud. Herb. It had a different sound, a different meaning. If his mother knew that her beloved Herbert had heard his name spoken by the glorious Greta Garbo, she would rise from her grave and materialize above them miming benedictions.

  Arnold wondered why that stupid look on Herb Villon’s face. He looked like Stan Laurel silently crowing about a major victory against Oliver Hardy.

  Mercedes was speaking. “I don’t see how you can minimize the threat of these people. They love to kill. I know, I was in Hamburg when that maniac was on the loose murdering at random, and he’s still on the loose. Didn’t any of you read about him? He was a poisoner. Oh my God, he wiped out a dinner party in a restaurant by tampering with their spetzel.” Herb thought, I wouldn’t want my spetzel tampered with.

  “Mercedes, are you suggesting this Hamburg poisoner has come all the way from Germany to poison sad Mrs. Wolheim?”

  “Don’t scoff, Greta. In this day and age anything is possible! Look at the success of Abbott and Costello!”r />
  Garbo smiled. “They amuse me. ‘Who’s on first?’ Ha ha ha ha ha.”

  “There’s a fresh outbreak of killings in Dusseldorf,” Arnold told them.

  “How do you know this?” asked Garbo. How would he know what’s going on inside Nazi Germany?

  Arnold cleared his throat. “I happen to have access to certain information.”

  “Because you are a G-man?”

  “You got it.”

  “Can I be a G-woman?”

  “You have to be a graduate lawyer to join us.”

  Mercedes was doubly unhappy. A G-man, for crying out loud. Herb was thinking Arnold should bite his tongue. Was it his fascination with the star that made him make the slip in front of the de Acosta woman, probably overheard by Lottie Lynton, or was it deliberate?

  Garbo was asking Mercedes, “Where can I study law, Mercedes?” Mercedes could no longer contain herself. She exploded. “You’re talking like a god damned fool! You don’t need to study law, you need a psychiatrist!”

  Garbo said calmly, and with a trace of a smile, “I would only drive a psychiatrist insane. I visited one once a long time ago. He asked for my autograph.” She explained to the others, “I never give autographs.” She said to Arnold, “Wasn’t the fact that you’re a government agent supposed to be privileged information?”

  Arnold said. “My superiors decided it was time to let the word out and make some people doubly uncomfortable.”

  “I wish you had let me in on that,” said Villon.

  “I was going to, but it was Greta who beat me to it by giving the game away.”

  “Oh my God,” she gasped, “so I did! Forgive me, please forgive me.”

  Is this genuine or is this an act? Villon wondered. He heard Arnold assuaging Garbo and caught the look of confusion on de Acosta’s face.

  Garbo slapped her knee. “Aha!” She was pointing a finger at Arnold. “You want your true identity to become known to Guiss and his people. You led me into the slip of my tongue! By saying you have ways of knowing what’s going on inside Germany. You knew my curiosity would get you to … she screwed up her face searching for the correct expression, “… to … to … I have it … blow your cover.” She looked at them triumphantly. “So this is what it is to have your cover blown! It must be an exciting experience. But wait!” She was on her feet and pacing, circling them like a lioness about to pounce on her prey. “This is why the Wolheims were removed from the house, for fear that they might blow their cover. Then they actually were considered dangerous! They were afraid for their safety, my God, for their lives.” She spun on Arnold. “Don’t they execute spies in wartime? Oh poor Mrs. Wolheim. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to go home and be a hausfrau again. She didn’t want to be caught and executed. And I’m sure she didn’t want to be poisoned. Arnold? Do you think she knew she was being slowly murdered? The burning feet, the nausea. Do you think she recognized she was being cruelly put to death? Oh the poor woman. I wonder if she is survived by children.”

  “Consider this, Greta,” said Arnold. “Consider that in the course of her assignments, Mrs. Wolheim might have caused a number of deaths herself. She might have passed on information that sank ships and caused the destruction of ammunition factories or landing fields, she might have caused the deaths of thousands of soldiers and sailors.”

  “Oh what a terrible woman! Let’s go inside. It’s so dark out here I can’t tell who is who. Lottie! Turn off the lights in the living room. We’re coming in!”

  “Are you going out?” Lieb asked Martin Gruber, who was carrying the tote bag that contained Arnold’s camera.

  “Yes, I have a dinner date. Mr. Guiss doesn’t need me tonight.”

  “What a good-looking carryall. Did you buy it here in L.A.?”

  “Yes. I found it in a shop on Beverly Boulevard.”

  Lieb reached for the bag. “It has an interesting pattern. May I take a closer look?” Gruber relinquished the bag. Lieb held it up, making a meal of presumably admiring the pattern. “Oh how clumsy I am.” He had dropped the tote. The camera spilled out. “Oh my, I hope I haven’t damaged the camera.” He made a swipe at it and grabbed it before Gruber could retrieve it. Lieb examined the camera closely. “Very interesting. What make is this?”

  “I think it’s South American,” said Gruber. “It’s not mine. It belongs to a friend. I borrowed it to shoot some photos on the set.” Lieb screwed his monocle into his eye. “It takes pictures indoors?”

  “Only when there is sufficient light, and the sets are brilliantly lit.”

  “How interesting. I should like to see some of these photos.”

  “They’re being developed now. When they’re ready, I’ll show them to you.” Damn, thought Gruber, damn this man. Now I have to hold on to the camera and do some shooting on the set. “I must go now, Herr Lieb…”

  “Mr. Lieb. Don’t make that slip again. Why are you so nervous? Why are you perspiring?”

  “I’m going to be late. I don’t like being late.”

  “I’m sorry if I detained you. Don’t keep your lady waiting.”

  Gruber found a slight laugh. “Did I say I was meeting a lady?”

  “Oh, I assumed you were meeting Lisa Schmidt. You seem so chummy at the studio.”

  “That’s because we’re working together. We have no other interest in each other, I can assure you.”

  “Why do you have to assure me?” asked Lieb coldly. “Your private life is your own business. I just happened to make a comment, that’s all.” He smiled, a thin, icy smile. “She’s very beautiful. I wouldn’t blame you if you were trying to make out with her. I wouldn’t mind a taste of honey myself. Goodnight, Gruber.” He dismissed Gruber abruptly and left the downstairs hall where they had run into each other.

  Gruber hurried out of the house and found his car. Once behind the wheel, the tote bag placed at his side, he gripped the wheel tightly and waited for the panic to subside. Then he had the feeling he was being watched. He relaxed his grip on the wheel and turned on the ignition. From the comer of an eye he could have sworn someone at a window had pulled back a curtain slightly and was watching him. He pulled out into the road that led to the iron gates, perspiration dripping down his face. Perhaps it was nothing, he hoped, perhaps I’m getting paranoid. Perhaps Werner Lieb is smarter than we think he is. Perhaps he guessed the camera was a very special camera. I must go to the studio tonight with Lisa and photograph the set. God damn the man! Mr. Lieb. Not Herr Lieb. He suddenly felt giddy. Oh well, what the hell. Herr today, gone tomorrow.

  Lisa Schmidt wasn’t happy about Gruber’s encounter with Lieb and she knew Arnold and Villon wouldn’t be either. She was even less happy about returning to the studio with Gruber and having to sign in with the guard on duty at the gate. Oh well, she’d concoct some excuse for their having to return after the others had gone. Fortunately, night shooting wasn’t scheduled until the following week. It was now seven o’clock. Von Stroheim had called it a day shortly before six. He wanted to spend a few hours with his editors. He was probably closeted in an editing room with them now, preparing the next morning’s rushes. After the first unpleasantness with Guiss, he now made a point of editing the rushes down to a reasonable length and carefully excising his excesses. He didn’t want to lose this movie. He needed the quarter of a million he’d been guaranteed. He was heavily in debt. He needed to make money and start saving. The war wouldn’t last forever. If this was his ultimate directing job, then he’d have to go back to playing Nazi villains. And when the war was over, such parts would be redundant.

  This was the first time von Stroheim had taken her into his confidence. She sympathized with him. She wanted him to come up with a winner. But there was something she knew that von Stroheim didn’t know and she was not about to share this ugly confidence with him. Arnold Lake’s superiors suspected the film would never be completed.

  SIXTEEN

  Promptly at eight P.M., Guiss entered the dining room. There was no one seate
d at the table. The majordomo who oversaw the dining room greeted him with a warm smile and pulled back his chair at the head of the table, expecting Guiss to sit and be served.

  But Guiss was perplexed and annoyed. “Where are the others?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’m sure they’re on their way.”

  “Where is Kriegman?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I have been in the kitchen the past three hours. I’ve seen no one but the staff there.”

  Abruptly, Guiss turned and left the dining room. The majordomo said something nasty and pushed the chair back into place. He looked at the serving table groaning under the weight of trivets and chafing dishes and serving plates covered to keep the heat in, an overabundance of food that could feed the starving people of Europe and leave some over for a nosh tomorrow. He had a feeling no one would arrive to eat this sumptuous dinner.

  Guiss had buttonholed Risa Barron’s maid, Agathe, who had impersonated the Wolheim daughter. Her hands fluttered like the wings of a frightened butterfly expecting to be pinned and exhibited under glass. “She didn’t tell me where she was going. She put on her diamond and ruby bracelets and her amethyst necklace and, dragging her sable on the floor behind her, she left her suite saying she needed to be by herself tonight.”

  “And Henkel? And Lieb? Do you know where they are?”

  “If they’re not here, sir, then they’re gone, sir.”

  “And Kriegman? What has become of Kriegman?”

  Fear had dampened the palms of her hands and she was trying to dry them by rubbing them on her apron. “I haven’t seen him in several hours, sir. He … he’s been acting and talking very strangely, sir. He … he’s frightened. Ever since Hannah was found murdered, he’s been frightened. Oh sir,” she blurted out as tears sprang to her eyes, “I’m frightened too. If Hannah was killed then they want to kill all of us.”