by George Baxt
Behind her, Tom Toth said, “Jesus Christ.”
“No,” Garbo corrected him calmly, “this is Kriegman, who has also been Mr. Wolheim. I hope the phone is still working. We have to phone for help.
SEVENTEEN
By God they found another stiff in that joint!” Marion Davies shouted from her balcony. “Greta found it, for crying out loud. Greta of all people! Silent Sam who wants to be alone. Don’t that take the cake!” She took a swig from her glass of borscht, which held a healthy jigger of tequila. Hearst came charging onto the balcony.
Hearst tweeted, “She’s not talking to any reporters. She’s barricaded in her house with those two harpies of hers, Viertel and de Acosta. Go over there, Marion. See if she’ll talk to you. She trusts you.”
“Oh God. That means I have to get dressed. I can’t tramp over there in these pajamas.” She shouted for her maid. “Get me that blue pailleted special out of the closet, my pink picture hat with the yellow ribbons and my pink slippers with the sapphire buckles. No you can’t have this glass, I’m not finished with it!”
Hearst now sounded like a piccolo. He asked sternly, “What’s in that glass?”
“Borscht!” she veiled. “The Reds are our allies now, right? They drink Borscht. Now I drink borscht. It’s all for the Allied cause.” She took a healthy swig, smacked her lips, and blessed Hearst for buying all her lies. Now that’s true love.
Kriegman’s murder cornered the airwaves. It was broadcast across the country and around the world by shock wave. The Santa Monica Poison Case had taken on significant importance now that there was a second victim. There were those who considered that, wherever Kriegman’s soul had landed, he should be flattered his body was discovered by the great Garbo. Kriegman caused no tug of war between Villon and the Santa Monica police force. It was tacitly agreed to leave the case in the very capable hands of Villon and Arnold I.ake. Actually, Santa Monica’s force was a small one, and they couldn’t successfully tackle a murder case.
The scene of the crime was of necessity, because of the late hour, basking in the glow of an arc light, breaching the blackout policy. The authorities doubted there would be any Japanese planes in the area. They were capable of making it to Hawaii, but getting to the California coast was considered an impossibility. Villon’s team were all over the place. The coroner was grumbling something about why can’t bodies be discovered at a reasonable hour. He also told Villon and Arnold he wouldn’t be a bit surprised if this was another case of thallium nitrate poisoning.
This murder gave Villon and Arnold a fix on the killer’s modus operandi. Villon said, “It has to have worked this way. Mr. X, that’s our killer …”
“Why not Madam X too as a possibility?”
Villon agreed, “Definitely a possibility. But for clarity's sake, since clarity begins at home,” Arnold grimaced, “let’s stay with Mr. X. So he is known and trusted by both victims. He offers them safety until they can disappear out of L.A. and into the hinterlands, the boon- docks, South America, wherever they think they’ll be safe. Safe not from us, but from their own people. Mr. X, of course, is a fake. His assurances are lies. He has orders to murder the defectors. He knows poisons. He sends Mrs. Wolheim … what did you say they told you her real name was?”
“Hannah Baum.”
“Let’s stick with Wolheim. It simplifies matters. Where was I?”
“He sends Mrs. Wolheim …"
“Yes Right. He sends her to that big undercover operation in the sky gradually; there’s no rush at first. But when she begins to become a big pain and an even more dangerous threat, he gets her packing, deposits her luggage at Union Station where we found it and brings her here, presumably to hide until it’s time to catch the train. Probably frightens her into thinking the town is crawling with Nazi operatives on the hunt for her. She dies. He leaves her here. Why not? It’s as good a place as any and there are no traces left behind that might incriminate him.”
“He was obviously in a big rush with Kriegman.” Arnold watched the coroner’s assistants trying to pry the fork out of Kriegman’s hand.
“Obviously. The spokesman at the castle … which one was it?”
“Gustav Henkel, the scriptwiter.”
“Sure he is. Anyway, he says Kriegman was last seen by one of the maids around three in the afternoon. There’s clothes and a suitcase missing from his room, so he must have decided to take it on the lam on the spur of the moment."
Arnold screws up his face, heavy in thought. “How about this? Try this scenario. When Martin Gruber took those candids of him in the garden, he was in a state of agitation. Kriegman. Worried. Frightened. Mrs. Wolheim's death triggered the fear he might be the next target.”
Villon spread his hands and said. “And he was right, right?"
“The killer recognized the danger signal. He worked on Kriegman and won his trust. The same routine as with the lady victim. But he had to work fast. He convinced Kriegman he could provide him with a safe exit, bur he had to hide out here until it was time to go. Then when they’re here, he’s conveniently brought along the corned beef hash, offers to fix some for Kriegman, who undoubtedly hasn’t had his dinner, and the killer puts enough poison in the food to kill a football team.”
“You know that for sure?”
“It has to be. It had to work fast.”
The coroner was telling his men as he stood with one hand on Kriegman’s shoulder, “Okay, boys. Wrap him and file him.”
Villon asked the coroner what he thought killed Kriegman. Could it be thallium nitrate again?
“Absolutely,” said the coroner. “A poisoner always stays with the same brand. I assume they feel comfortable with it, it’s like the company of an old friend. Oh yes, it was a very heavy dose. Look at his face, if you can stand it. I assume he was wolfing the food down, so before it took effect, he’d finished most of it. Then whammo, it got him and you can see the pain must have been ferocious. Look at the way his legs are splayed under the table. Boy what he must have suffered in his feet.” His men were having difficulty removing Kriegman from the breakfast nook. Rigor had set in remarkably fast. “Gently boys, let’s try not to bust any bones.” Villon led Arnold out of the kitchen. “What do you think, Arnold? Who's next?”
“Logically, the boys who impersonated the sons and the girl who impersonated the daughter.”
“I’m going to assign Greta some protection. Now that she discovered the body, somebody may think she knows more than she really does know, and set her up for a farewell tour. Anyway, there’s nothing else we can do around here. I’m sure the killer left no trace. The boys are taking the hash can back to the lab to test for prints, but I doubt they’ll find any. Let’s drive over to Greta’s. I’d walk, but I can’t stand sand in my shoes.”
Arriving at Garbo’s house, they faced a barrage of questions from a small army of reporters and photographers encamped outside. They gave them very little satisfaction, Villon promising them a big break later in the day. Inside the house they found Garbo with Salka and Mercedes. To their pleasant surprise, Marion Davies was there looking like a Christmas tree ablaze out of season. She was drinking from a glass of hot chocolate laced with slivovitz from a flask in her handbag. Greta introduced her to the men and then Greta suggested that Tom Toth, who was guarding the rear of her house with several of his men, escort Davies back to her house. What Garbo had to say to her friends was for their cars only. If Davies heard there was the danger she’d pass it on to Hearst.
‘The bum’s rush, eh?” said Davies, as Toth offered her his arm. She wasn’t too steady on her feet “It’s okay, Greta. I understand. Thanks for the interview. I did interview you, didn’t I? That’s what Willie sent me to do. Did I get any information? What year is this? Where am I?” She admonished Toth. “Not so fast, Buster, I’m not wasting any of this. Slivovitz is hard to come by these days. Them Poles ain’t exporting it anymore, under the circumstances.” She downed the remnants of her drink in one gulp and handed the emp
ty glass to Lottie. Then she took Toth’s arm and with her free hand waved at the others and said, “See you in church." Toth managed to guide her out to the patio. Lottie shut the door behind them and wondered when Miss Garbo would get any sleep.
“Lottie, you’d better go to bed. I won’t be needing you anymore tonight.”
“What about yourself? You’ve got an early call”
“I’ll be fine. Please go. There is much for us to discuss here.”
“Yes ma’am.” This was said peevishly. Lottie was very annoyed at being excluded. She wanted to offer to brew fresh hot chocolate, but since poison was the killer’s method, she decided it was wiser not to remind them she too had had a go at it once upon a time.
After Lottie left, Arnold told the ladies Kriegman had been killed in a similar manner as Mrs. Wolheim. Arnold told them Mrs. Wolheim’s real name was Hannah Baum. Villon retrieved the narrative and explained how he and Arnold thought the murders had been committed. They were convinced the murderer was in residence at the castle.
Greta accepted a light from Villon and paced about the room, puffing on her cigarette. She was troubled and she saw no reason to disguise her feelings. She recognized there was a possibility that she herself was in danger but sloughed the danger off with a shrug of her shoulders.
Garbo the fearless, thought Villon, wishing desperately to overpower her with passionate kisses. Then he thought of his beloved Hazel Dickson, somewhere in the war zone with her unit, and him left behind because of a punctured eardrum.
Arnold was wishing Villon would wipe that idiotic look off his face.
“I have spent a lot of time with Guiss,” said Garbo, now positioned in the center of the room under a grey cloud of cigarette smoke. “I have studied him very carefully and I positively feel there is something wrong with the picture he presents of himself.”
“The man is dangerous, Greta,” said Mercedes. “Stop playing detective. These men are perfectly capable of solving the murders. I’m sure.” Villon refrained from blowing her a kiss.
Garbo said, “My dear, there is more to this situation than the murder of two enemy agents. We must also consider, and most importantly, what further damage the survivors can do to our country. Isn’t it possible there are others who pose a threat and must be eliminated? Isn’t it possible their subversive activities will continue to spread unchecked like a frightening epidemic? And most importantly of all, certainly very important to me,” she said, now directly addressing Villon and Arnold, “What is the truth behind this production? Why are they doing it and for such an absurd sum of money? What’s really going on behind the scenes?”
Arnold spoke up. “Greta, as of a couple of hours ago, my office knows a great deal more. We know the real identities of the Wolheims.” He told them. “We know the purpose of the production. Certainly the entire five million isn’t being spent on the film.” Salka laughed. “Oh no? Wait till von Stroheim gets through with it.” Mercedes nodded agreement knowingly.
Said Arnold, “He’s begun to economize. My informants tell me he’s tightening his belt.”
“Yes,” agreed Garbo, “he’s shooting less unnecessary footage. I think he’s averaging three to four minutes of film a day. That’s very good for a production like this where there are battle scenes and panoramic episodes that require scores of extras. So Arnold, where is most of the money supposed to go?”
“To continue financing their various organizations in this country. It’s as simple and as obvious as that. They have to channel funds here to feed their espionage ring.”
“But how did they get these millions into the country this time?” It wasn’t a question from Garbo, it was a demand.
“The Germans get the money to Northern Ireland. The Irish have set up dummy corporations in America who receive the money and disburse it.”
“But that’s terrible!” said Salka.
“Look, Salka,” said Arnold. “Northern Ireland has been fighting in vain for their independence for almost three decades. They hate the British. They’ll go to any lengths to see them defeated. With Britain overthrown, independence is theirs.”
“What are these dummy corporations?” asked Mercedes.
“Sorry,” said Arnold, “that’s positively privileged information. But just wait until the war is over. The world, and especially Wall Street, will be in for a big shock when we start unmasking the villains.”
“So Arnold, here we sit in the eye of a hurricane.” Garbo was nibbling absentmindedly at a Hydrox cookie. She looked at her girlfriends and giggled.
“What’s so funny?” asked Mercedes.
“Here we are, the three witches of Shakespeare.” She intoned spookily, “ ‘Double double toil and trouble. Cauldron boil, cauldron bubble.’ I wanted to play the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz but poor Louis B. had a fit when I asked him. I would have done it for nothing.” She sighed a very heavy sigh. “How often am I plagued by minor defeats.” Then she tossed the cookie aside onto a table and said to Villon and Arnold, “Boys, let’s get back to Albert Guiss. Something about him preys on my mind. He’s larger than life. Much much much larger than life. The way he lives, his exaggerated eccentricities. The castle. The dozens in service there, most of them unnecessary. Like who nowadays hires a majordomo to oversee the kitchen? Utterly ridiculous. And those spear holders in their silly uniforms.” She laughed. “It’s all so dumb. But when the magazines ask to photograph the interiors, they are met with an iron curtain of silence. No publicity, thank you very much. This pompous and ridiculous display is for our own pleasure. Tell me if I’m wrong, chaps, but don’t you get the suspicion that Guiss is not his own master?”
“Smart lady,” said Arnold, expecting Garbo to preen with pride, but she was too anxious to get on with other matters bothering her.
“Don’t misread me. I’m sure that in many ways Albert Guiss is a very powerful man, but tell me, Arnold. Your people were so magnificent in uncovering the identities of the Wolheims and so many other facts of importance, why don’t they know the source of Guiss’s wealth? Or do they?”
“We don’t know for sure. We strongly suspect he’s a front for a powerful group of financiers.”
“Well then, who are these financiers?” Garbo looked at the women, anxious for them to share her curiosity'.
“We don’t know,” Arnold replied truthfully. “We can take potshots and guess, but we don’t know for sure.”
Garbo asked provocatively, almost flirting, “So what do you guess?”
Arnold played the game. “You’re a smart lady. What do you think we guess?”
“Ha ha ha. All right, I’ll tell you. I think Albert Guiss was created to be an investor in the overthrow of the free world. I think over the past decade or whatever it took, the members of the Axis made Albert Guiss into this overblown financial creature who could travel the world freely and without suspicion, making the necessary investments they needed to build the powerful war machine intended to destroy the Allies. Do I make sense?”
“Greta, have you had access to our files?” Arnold was impressed.
“You know I haven’t. I’m just having a wonderful time discovering sections of my brain I’ve never had any reason to use before. Salka, Mercedes, let me be an example to both of you. Worry less about scripts and refugees and concentrate more on activating your minds into fresh areas of discovery.”
“Smugness doesn’t become you,” said Salka. “It’s late, I think it’s time we all went home and let Greta get some sleep. Gentlemen, I’m sure you realize Greta herself might be in danger. Since she’s so quick to share her delightful deductions with everyone, it’s bound to occur to Guiss and his odious satellites that she might just deduce herself into a proper solution. Oh God, Greta, must you be so suicidal?”
“How can I help myself? I’m a Swede. We have the highest percentage of suicide in the whole world. Can you imagine that? It must be all those months of winter darkness. Goodnight, my darlings. Get home safely. No Arnold, you and
Herbert wait a few moments. I’m not finished with you.”
Villon thought of offering to spend the night, but what would happen if he ever was invited to share her bed, he wondered, and immediately supplied the answer. He’d be a nervous, fumbling wreck and she and her friends would have a big laugh over it.
Now the three were alone. “I had to get rid of them,” said Greta, “they fuss and fret over me as though I was something fragile. I’m not. I’m a pretty strong fellow. Feel my muscle, go ahead, feel it.” It was a very strong muscle. Villon wondered if she’d be interested in some Indian hand wrestling.
Feeling re-energizcd now that they had humored her, Garbo resumed a serious demeanor. “Now then, men, there is a murderer out there who is a threat to our friends. Lisa and Gruber are certainly in danger, aren’t they?” Arnold nodded. “Do you know something, I have this intuitive feeling Guiss is very angry’ about these murders. I am sure to him they were unnecessary.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Villon.
“Murder attracts the wrong kind of attention, doesn’t it? Like here Kriegman is murdered and Kriegman was Albert’s butler and I’m sure this brings the police and the press to his doorstep and it is certainly attention he does not want. Right, men?”
“Absolutely right,” said Arnold.
“So Guiss is not the murderer. It could be Werner Lieb, or Gustav Henkel, possibly Risa Barron…” She thought for a moment. ‘What do they say about poison? Poison is a woman’s weapon, yes?”
“Yes,” said Villon, “poison can be catnip to a woman. There’s been a lot of them dosing their victims.”
“And Risa Barron is so charming, I truly find her charming. I envy her that ability. I have to work so hard at it.”
Faker, thought Villon.
“Risa is the kind that could lull a person into a false sense of security. She could convince a frightened person that she will help them to safety', she has that way with her. Sad, under other circumstances, she and I might have become friends. I am always attracted to strong women, strong people. Salka and Mercedes are very strong. Take Salka, as an example. Her house is where all the brilliant minds in exile converge. Some day I will take you to one of her salons. There you’ll see Einstein and other great scientists. The world’s greatest authors. Thomas Mann, Lion Feuchtwangcr, Ferenc Molnar. The conversation is dazzling, overwhelming, and I, I the supposed great Garbo, I shrink into a corner and pray they will not notice me.”
