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

by George Baxt

  “If we find something in common,” said Garbo. She led him back to the castle.

  She was frightened. She had learned too much. Guiss will tell his unholy threesome what they discussed and someone in that group won’t buy her desire to return to Germany. But still, she reminded herself. I’m a soldier on a mission and I knew when I accepted it that it would be terribly dangerous. I am no longer frightened. I am proud of myself. Very proud of myself. And Villon and Arnold Lake will be proud of me too. And perhaps if Arnold can’t make me a G-woman, he’ll make me a Junior G-man. I eat the breakfast cereal that sponsors them and I listen to that radio show religiously, along with “Portia Faces life” and “Just Plain Bill.”

  Risa Barron couldn’t stop laughing. She had this hilarious vision of Garbo and Eva Braun exchanging dress patterns.

  “Control yourself, Risa,” said Guiss sternly.

  “I can’t help it. Eva Braun is such an idiot!” The laughter continued.

  Werner Lieb said, “Well, now Miss Greta Garbo might know just a bit too much about us.”

  Guiss slammed his fist down on the desk. “She’s completely trustworthy! I’m sure of that! Last night we became lovers.”

  Risa paled and jammed a cigarette into the holder. She said coldly, “Congratulations.” She wasn’t provoked by jealousy. She wasn’t given to the common, ordinary emotions of her sisters. To women like Risa Barron, men were a commodity, especially very rich men. There had been others before Guiss and there would be others succeeding him. She’d done very well by him, her treasury of jewels, the investments he made for her. She was extremely well off, and was determined to survive the war and whatever consequences of Germany’s defeat. She had arranged a safe exit to South America months before the conflict became a reality. She had something else on her mind and she voiced it “So now there are three to occupy our attention. Lisa Schmidt, Martin Gruber and Miss Greta Garbo.”

  “Risa, I’m warning you.” The threat in Guiss’s voice was unmistakable.

  There was a trace of a smile on the woman’s face. “Love can be so destructive.” Then she raised her voice, “It has paralyzed your brain! You, the great genius created by even greater geniuses, you’ve become a lovesick schoolboy. It’s a cliché but it’s true.”

  “There must be no more murders.” Guiss had their undivided attention. “It was foolish to murder Hannah and Kriegman. Absolutely foolish. The police and the federals wouldn’t be on our trail now if they had continued to live.” No one refuted his statement. “Did you hear me, Werner?”

  “I’ve heard an awful lot,” said Lieb, while Gustav Henkel stifled one of his nervous yawns.

  “And I will hear nothing further about Greta Garbo. We’ve seen von Stroheim’s assemblage. This film is their masterpiece, and in a way,” he added with pride, “it is my masterpiece too!” He stood up and proclaimed proudly, “Around the world, millions will read,” he said, waving his arm like an orchestra conductor, “Albert Guiss presents Greta Garbo in Erich von Stroheim’s Joan the Magnificent. If I must say so myself, it sounds most impressive.” He sat down, a faraway look in his eyes. It did not bother him that his associates were displeased and angry. He was not aware he was seated on a powder keg. He was wrapped in his selfish thoughts of future glory, of a future to be shared with Greta Garbo, and it did not occur to him that these dreams were the components of his Achilles’ heel.

  Garbo had a rendezvous with Villon and Arnold at Salka Viertel’s house. It was agreed that they would not meet at the studio ever again, unless there was an official reason for a police visit. The beach house would remain out of bounds until the press would abandon their pursuit of the star.

  “So now Salka, you are part of the war. Your home is our safe house! Don’t you feel proud that you are contributing something?” Salka sniffed and went to the study and her enemy, the typewriter. She hated working but she needed money to survive. She had to support a variety of friends who were down on their luck. She worked hard so they would never be down on her luck. She sat at the typewriter, let herself dwell on Garbo for just a few more seconds, and then erased the word “danger” from her mind and tried to compose some dialogue for Joan Crawford.

  Garbo told Villon and Arnold everything. She had a powerful memory and she acted out brilliantly the scene in the garden with Albert Guiss. She heavily underlined “Fatherland” and “We will win the war” and insisted it was now quite evident to her that he was a creation of the Axis allies. She didn’t tell them she had slept with Guiss. Something like that called for discretion and she was the master of discreet.

  Arnold said, “It’s not as though we weren’t pretty positive they were German operatives, but at least now we’ve got it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “What? Garbo? A horse’s mouth?” she said with mock indignity. “Salka thinks I’m the other end of the horse! Ha ha ha! So I have done well, yes?”

  “Absolutely brilliant,” said Arnold.

  “So now I can become a Junior G-man?” She had come to the rendezvous with Lottie, directly from the studio, and Lottie had immediately commandeered the kitchen to prepare snacks and her inevitable hot chocolate. While she laid these out on the coffee table in the living room where they were conferring, Arnold marveled at Garbo’s contradictions.

  She was a great star, a strong woman seemingly in command of herself and her destiny, whatever that might be, and yet there was this charming and amusing childish side of her. Calling them “chaps” and “men” and wanting to be a “G-woman” or even a “Junior G-man”. Or was she kidding the pants off them? She wasn’t a particularly witty woman, but she had a marvelous sense of humor. Her friends adored her and she seemed to adore them in return. Still, there was something about her he found sad and touching. Her desire to be alone. Her fierce determination to remain her own person. Did she have relatives? he wondered. And if so, would they be there for her should she ever need them?

  Villon was saying, “Interesting they selected Goldwvn’s studio to do the production. I mean Sam Goldwyn, how Jewish can you get? I don’t suppose you’ve heard Guiss refer to him as ‘that yid’ or something equally unpleasant?”

  “No, not Guiss, he’s quite gentlemanly about his dislikes and distastes. But you remind me. It was someone else who referred to Jews as yids.’ I ignored it then, but now … it makes me wonder. Hot chocolate, anyone?”

  NINETEEN

  The bottle of milk was on the floor in the hallway next to the door to Lisa Schmidt’s apartment. The milk was delivered early and Lisa enjoyed her varieties of dry cereal and milk for breakfast. Occasionally there wasn’t enough time and she’d wait until she got to the studio to eat. This morning there was plenty of time. She brought the bottle of milk to her small dining table and poured it over the krispies. She noticed the bottle cap was slightly awry; it had been like that several other times. She must leave the milkman a note and tell him to stop being so careless. He was a replacement, she learned from a neighbor. The war had claimed his predecessor.

  As she ate slowly, she dwelled on many things. The Guiss gang, as she privately referred to them, the picture, and von Stroheim’s interest in Alysia Hoffman. Then there was Hoffman herself, a dethroned movie queen desperately in search of a new kingdom. Martin Gruber and the chances he took with the camera, hell, the chances they were all taking, and there was that burning sensation in her feet again. It came and it went, all week long, always in the morning when she ate breakfast at home. Burning sensation in the feet … oh my God.

  She phoned Villon. She was positive she was being poisoned, she told him. Her breakfast milk. No, she wasn’t panicking, but she was frightened. She didn’t know how much poison was in her system. She wasn’t sure how much milk she had drunk, but she got a quart a day. She had a sweet tooth so she made custards and chocolate puddings and she ate much too much of them. “Hurry, Herb, hurry. I feel faint. I’m nauseous. My feet are on fire. Herb …”

  Villon recognized the sounds. The phone dropping,
Lisa slumping to the floor. There was no time to call Arnold. He summoned one of his detectives and drove like a demon to what he prayed would be Lisa’s rescue. They used a skeleton key to enter her apartment and found her prone on the floor. Villon picked her up in his arms and directed his detective to bring the milk bottle with them. They rushed Lisa to a hospital emergency room, where Villon identified himself and told the examining doctor he suspected Lisa had been poisoned with thallium nitrate. The doctor whistled, slightly off key, and had Lisa prepared for a stomach pumping. Her breathing had become unnatural and he feared for her life.

  Villon sent the detective back to the precinct with the milk bottle, cursing the fool for not having held it with a handkerchief. He phoned the Garden of Allah but Arnold had left. Villon left messages for Arnold at his precinct and with Garbo in case Arnold phoned her.

  Garbo paled when she heard of Lisa’s condition.

  “There’s Gruber to worry about,” said Villon. “You must get to him and caution him. And Greta, there’s yourself.”

  “Well yes, but I only eat and drink what Lottie prepares for me. And I don’t believe she is considering poisoning me. Are you, Lottie?”

  Lottie smiled and continued with the tunafish salad she was preparing.

  “I will alert Gruber,” said Greta, and hung up. On the studio phone, she asked the operator to page Gruber, and then rescinded the request immediately. If they hear I am paging Gruber, they will suspect I’m up to something. The killer will guess that the poison has taken its effect on Lisa Schmidt. The killer. The poisoner. This madman, or is it a madwoman? There was a knock at the door and Lottie opened it. There stood Martin Gruber carrying a florist’s box. Garbo didn’t thank God, she thanked Guiss. “Come in, Martin. Lottie, shut the door. Put those foolish flowers aside.” She told him about the attempt on Lisa’s life. The bottles of milk.

  “What are Lisa’s chances?” Martin asked. He had fallen in love with her and only now that her life hung by a thread would he admit it to himself.

  Garbo said, “Who would know where she lived?”

  “Just about everyone connected with the production. There’s always a list of personnel issued to everyone with addresses and phone numbers.”

  “And of course they would have access to it. Those monsters who are Guiss’s associates. Martin, we are in terrible danger. You must be very careful.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I will look after myself. I don’t think they’re on to me.”

  “Don’t be so sure. They made much of a drama about the camera. Don’t underestimate them. I have gotten to know them very well this past week. There isn’t one of them who isn’t capable of murder.”

  “I don’t think it’s Guiss. I have memorandums he has dictated about his displeasure at Hannah Baum and Kriegman’s murders.”

  “I wonder if it’s been noticed Lisa hasn’t shown up for work. I have it! I will phone the lot and disguise my voice and say I am Lisa’s girlfriend and she’s been rushed to the hospital. A good idea, yes?” She was smart enough not to use the studio phone. She was connected to the set and gave an assistant the news. After which her face glowed and she said, “I’m a very good operative, aren’t I? After all, I was an espionage agent in Mysterious Lady, and I was a pretty good Mata Hari, even if they had to hire June Knight to dance for me. Ha ha, how Marlene will be jealous when she hears about this!”

  From FBI headquarters in downtown Los Angeles where he had been summoned for what proved to be a momentous meeting, Arnold Lake searched for Herb Villon by phone. He was directed to the hospital, where Herb told him Lisa Schmidt was putting up a tough struggle for survival. Villon had ordered additional protection for Garbo and assigned two detectives to go to the studio and bring in Martin Gruber for his own safety.

  “I hope she pulls through. I’m crazy about her,” Arnold said. Lisa might have been heartened by her burgeoning list of admirers. “Herb, I’m at headquarters. I’ve been there since early this morning. We got word the Germans are planning to call home a number of their agents, so we’ve got to move in on them and fast. We’re closing the books today on Guiss and his bunch.”

  “This means shutting down the movie! What a blow that’ll be to Greta and von Stroheim.”

  “Sorry, buddy. That’s the toss of the dice.”

  “When does the operation begin?”

  “It’s underway at the castle right now.”

  Several weeks earlier, Agathe, who had posed as the Wolheim daughter and was now one of Risa Barron’s maids, had found the courage to sneak out of the castle and turn herself in to Herb Villon. Herb and Arnold in turn convinced her she was more important to them at large in the castle than in custody.

  “But I will be poisoned!” Agathe had protested tearfully.

  Herb lied, “You could be executed as an enemy agent.”

  “Oh my God, wherever I turn lies death.”

  “You have nothing to fear in the castle. They won’t kill anyone there. They don’t want to give us an excuse to enter it. Be smart, Agathe, be as smart as they, say you’ve been in the dossier we have on you… ”

  “Dossier.” She repeated the word in a ghostly tone.

  Arnold said smartly, “We’re very big with dossiers. Go back to the castle. Watch what goes on carefully. Report to our boys who are inside.”

  “Boys? Inside?”

  “Do you agree to go back?” persisted Villon.

  Agathe said gravely, “How do they say it in England, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ Okay. In espionage school they said I was the girl with the greatest potential. Well, I wasn’t. I was no good as Fraulein Wolheim. Now I have an opportunity to redeem myself. You shall benefit from my training, ha. Ironic, isn’t that so? Now, who are these boys inside?”

  She was surprised and then delighted to be told that various gardeners, kitchen help, members of the swimming pool crew and the gardener who operated the lawn mower were all federal operatives who had carefully infiltrated Guiss’s employ to prepare for his downfall.

  “The man who runs the lawn mower? That’s funny.”

  “What’s so funny?” asked Herb.

  “I have slept with him.” She shrugged. “He’s better with the lawn mower.”

  Villon phoned Garbo and told her Arnold’s news. She exhaled, as though she’d been struck a blow in the stomach. Then just as quickly she said, “It’s better this way. But Herbert, how will you know who is the poisoner? Will you ever find out who is Guiss’s superior here in Los Angeles?” She thought for a moment and then said, “You know, I think I know who that might be. I shall confront this person.”

  That alarmed Villon. “Greta! Don’t do anything foolish! You’re no match for these people!”

  “No match indeed! Haven’t I outsmarted them! Haven’t I outwitted them! I most certainly am their match!”

  She didn’t hear the door open. Lottie was clattering pots and pans in the kitchenette. He came in carrying an opened bottle of champagne. Then Greta saw his reflection in the dressing-room mirror, the bottle of champagne, and thought quickly and wisely. “Why how nice of you, Mr. Henkel. Champagne! And my favorite brand!”

  “Don’t drink it!” shouted Villon.

  “Goodbye, Herb,” she said sweetly. “Lottie, Gustav Henkel brings me champagne. Gustav, it’s so early in the morning for champagne. Wouldn’t you prefer some of Lottie’s exquisite hot chocolate?”

  Henkel had been in his office when he heard Villon’s two detectives arrive to take Martin Gruber into “custody.” He knew then that time was running out and swiftly. He’d taken care of Lisa Schmidt, Martin Gruber would elude him, but there was Garbo, and she belonged to him. Her murder would give him immortality. He had a bottle of champagne laced with poison prepared for himself and the others. The authorities would never take him alive, he’d promised himself that a long time ago. He would be the savior of the others too. Lieb was a megalomaniac, and desperately in need of Henkel’s help.

  Guiss has been good to h
im. He’d spirited him out of Hamburg when the police were beginning to close in on him. Oh how he enjoyed killing people! It was wonderful to know they were dying in awful agony, with feet on fire and innards bursting with nausea and he was the master of their fates. Now it would soon be finished, but there was still much to accomplish. He went to Guiss’s office with the bottle of champagne which contained more than enough thallium nitrate. He was killing Lisa Schmidt with small doses to prolong her agony; he had never liked her after she had unsubtly given him the name of a good local dentist.

  Only Guiss was in the office. He was in a terrible state over Gruber’s “arrest.” Henkel sympathized. Guiss was busy emptying the files and desk drawers of what might be incriminating evidence. “Champagne? You choose now to drink champagne?”

  “Why not?” said Henkel airily. “I’ve been saving this bottle for just such an occasion!” He brought two glasses from the bar, took them to the desk and filled them. “Come, Albert, this may be our last chance to drink together.”

  “I shouldn’t drink with you at all. You murder Hannah Baum and Kriegman, and before Gruber was taken into custody, he told me Lisa Schmidt is in serious condition in the hospital. Oh Gustav, you have so much to account for. Where the hell is Werner? Where the hell is Risa? The fools.”

  “Come Albert, drink up.” Henkel lifted his glass in a toast. “To absent friends!”

  Guiss downed his in one gulp. Henkel refilled it. “It’s very good stuff, Gustav. Did you bring it all the way from Hamburg?"

  “No, it’s from our cellar in the castle. Drink up.”

  Guiss said as he prepared to down the second glass with its lethal contents, “You know, I should have told you this a long time ago. But really, Gustav, you’ve got to do something about your teeth.” He downed the glass and felt dizzy. He sank into his chair. “Gustav. Something’s wrong with me. Do something. Call someone. I feel terrible. My feet are burning. This awful nausea … Oh Gustav! You rotten son of a bitch!”