by George Baxt
“You mean Kay Brown has such exquisite story sense.” Kay Brown headed Selznick’s story department and had found and acquired Gone With the Wind.
“I wish he was a detective,” said Carole.
“Who?” asked Gable. “Selznick?”
“He’d be a marvelous detective,” said Carole, warming up to the idea. “I’ll bet he’d track down this gang in no time.”
“What gang?” asked Gable.
“The gang of kidnappers,” said Carole.
“How do you know it’s a gang?”
“Don’t kidnappers work in gangs?”
“It took one man to kidnap the Lindbergh baby.”
“Clark, stop aggravating me!” She said to the athletes, “Why don’t you boys go to the kitchen? Agnes will turn out the sandwiches faster. Clark, you want a sandwich?”
“Not right now.”
“I don’t have an appetite either. Thinking of poor Lydia. The girls up at the house are so upset.” She watched the bodyguards as they went to the kitchen. “Especially Mala Anook, the Eskimo.”
“Eskimo!” snorted Gable. “If she’s an Eskimo, then I’m a Lithuanian.”
“You’re a Lithuanian, because she’s really an Eskimo. She has a picture of herself harpooning a narwhal. That’s a kind of walrus or something. I’ll bet she’s in the kitchen up at the house chewing on a piece of blubber and fighting back her tears. She adores Lydia. She was teaching her the art of blubber chewing.”
“That’s an art? The very thought of gnawing away at a hunk of whale fat nauseates me.”
“On the subject of nauseate, how’s Miss Crawford behaving on the set?”
“Now don’t be cruel to Joan.”
“She’s determined to steal you away from me.”
“No she’s not!”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No, damn it!”
“So how do you know?” On her face was a sly smile.
“Listen, baby. I love you and only you. I gave up a hell of a lot for the privilege of putting a wedding ring on your finger.”
She sat up and said with mock haughtiness, “I’m worth every nickel. Oh put that damn gun down and pay attention to me!”
“I heard you!” he insisted. “You’re worth every nickel.”
She smiled, crossed to him, and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to call David and tell him I just adore the script.” She went to a desk, sat and dialed. After a few moments, she spoke sweetly into the mouthpiece. “Hello?” She said grandly (the way Janet Gaynor in A Star Is Born announced proudly into a radio microphone that she was Mrs. Norman Maine, Maine being the once famous star dead by a drowning suicide), “This is Mrs. Clark Gable.”
Gable asked, “Are you sure you don’t have to give which number wife you are?”
She ignored him. Into the phone she said, “David? How are you, darling?” Gable wondered briefly if they had ever had an affair. “David, I absolutely adore the script. What do you mean, which script? Made for Each Other. You still want me to do it, don’t you?” At his end, he assured her he most certainly did, Lombard being box-office insurance. Hazel Dickson paused in the application of fresh makeup to her face to try and figure out who he was talking to. Selznick assuaged her curiosity by mouthing Lombard’s name, while Carole was telling Selznick to phone his brother Myron, her agent, and set a deal. Hazel shouted, “Remind her I’m doing an interview with the two of them at Chasen’s in a couple of hours.” Selznick did so and Carole asked him to assure Hazel she hadn’t forgotten. She said to Gable, her hand over the mouthpiece, “Hazel Dickson at Chasen’s in a couple of hours.”
“For crying out loud, didn’t we just give her an interview?”
Carole said, “You can never give Hazel enough interviews.” She returned to Selznick. “David, I’m really frantic. It’s Lydia Austin. Isn’t there any word on her?” Selznick had nothing new to tell her. “This is awful! She’s supposed to start shooting Darkness in Hollywood for Oscar Levitt next week and we all know Oscar. He works on such tight budgets that he can’t afford a delay and he’ll replace her. He mustn’t replace her! She’s my most talented girl!” She sounded like a madam determined to set up one of her girls with a choosy client. Selznick knew Carole was a mother hen furiously determined to protect one of her chicks and admired her for her loyalty and tenacity. From his own experience he knew there was a lot of tenacity in Hollywood but very little loyalty.
“David? Do you hear that crackling noise?”
“What crackling noise?”
“That’s the sound of my heart about to break.” Gable shot her a look and thought her display of intermingled pathos and sorrow was admirable, considering she’d had no rehearsal.
“Now, Carole,” chided Selznick, “I’m sure Herb Villon is giving Lydia’s return every possible consideration.”
“Lydia who?” asked a suspicious Hazel Dickson.
“Austin,” said Selznick and then reminded her of the kidnapped actress.
Hazel muttered under her breath, “Probably dead somewhere at the bottom of a quarry.” After over a decade in the business of gossip, Hazel had had her fill of ingénues who get into trouble.
Carole listened as Selznick told her, “Herb’s a crackerjack. He’ll bring back Lydia safe and sound.” To Carole Herb Villon now sounded like a prototype of the big-game hunter Frank “Bring ’Em Back Alive” Buck. Carole had a momentary vision of Lydia Austin tied to a bamboo pole while native bearers transported her to the safety of a studio set.
The bodyguards were back in the living room, having wolfed down the sandwiches in record time. Clark referred to them as human vacuum cleaners.
Carole was finished talking to Selznick for the time being. Matters of the director and who would design her clothes could wait until Myron Selznick squeezed every last dollar out of his brother for Carole’s services. She looked forlorn and Roy Harvey, the athlete with the shaggy blond hair, asked sympathetically, “Mrs. Gable, is there something we could do?”
“Not much unless you’re bloodhounds. But thanks anyway.” She stood at a sideboard on which she had long ago placed framed photographs of her four protégées. She had her hands crossed across her chest and Clark presumed when she spoke there’d be a sob in her voice. She spoke, but blissfully a sob was absent. She commanded the athletes, “Look at my darlings.” They looked. Both young men were interested in laying all four of the girls but tactfully kept silent. She held up a portrait. “This is Lydia. She’s the girl who’s missing. Isn’t she gorgeous?” Sammy Rowan was about to say he certainly wouldn’t kick her out of his bed but bit his lower lip instead. “And here’s Nana Lewis. She has a smaller role in the movie, but if Lydia isn’t found in time to start shooting, Oscàr Levitt says he’ll give Nana the part.”
Gable spoke up. “If Nana knew this, maybe she arranged for Lydia to be kidnapped.”
Carole raged, “Clark, you don’t mean that!” Clark, not Pappy. She was really angry.
Gable persisted. “Makes sense, doesn’t it, boys?”
Carole glowered at the young men, who wisely elected to voice no opinion. They didn’t care who played the lead in the Levitt movie.
Carole took a moment to simmer down and picked up the next photograph. “This girl is Nell Corday. Look at those smoldering looks. She claims she’s descended from Charlotte Corday.” The boys didn’t dare ask who Charlotte Corday was. Carole rescued them. “Charlotte Corday. She assassinated Marat.” The boys were stumped again. “Marat was a politician at the time of the French Revolution,” said Carole in response to the blank looks on their faces. “But I’m wondering about that because Nell doesn’t speak any French. And here’s Mala Anouk. Believe it or not, she’s an Eskimo. We don’t get many Eskimos in Hollywood, do we, Pappy?”
“No, there’s no great demand for them. And an igloo wouldn’t last long in this climate.” Carole clasped her hands together dramatically, and crossed and stood in front of Gable. “They’ve got to find Lydia, they’ve jus
t got to. So talented, so sweet, so…”
“Don’t say ‘so innocent,’ honey, Lydia’s been around.”
Lombard’s hands were on her hips. “How do you know?”
Gable got to his feet and chucked his wife under the chin. “Honey, there are very few virgins in Hollywood.”
“Yeah! Not since you got here!” Gable flashed a wink at the athletes. They were so young. So naive. Built like brick ovens, but would they be of much use if an attempt was made to kidnap Carole?
He hoped he would never have to find out.
* * *
Carole snapped her fingers. “I know I’m right!”
“Now what?” asked Gable.
Carole ignored him. “I know I’m right.” She was at the phone dialing.
Clark asked with suspicion, “Now who you calling?”
“Oscar Levitt.”
“What do you want with Oscar?” Oscar Levitt was one of Clark’s hunting companions. Carole waved him to be quiet. Into the phone she said, “I’d like to speak to Mr. Levitt.” She said grandly, “This is Mrs. Clark Gable.”
“I know,” said the receptionist in Levitt’s office.
“You always know,” said Carole. “You’re so clever.” Carole waited, and then Oscar Levitt said, “Hello sweetie.”
“Oscar,” Carole spoke his name with a tear in her voice, “is there any news?”
“About what?”
“Lydia!”
“Not a word. Not a damned word.”
Her voice deepened. “Oscar, I want the truth.”
“You sound angry. Why are you angry?”
“I’m not angry. I’m merely speaking through clenched teeth.” She took a breath. “Oscar, level with me. We’re old friends. I want you to level with me.”
“About what?”
“About Lydia’s kidnapping. Is it a publicity stunt? Did you arrange it?”
“Christ, no!”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, Oscar? We’ve been friends for years!”
“Two years,” Gable said to the athletes. “I introduced them.”
The boys slyly exchanged looks. Who the hell was Oscar Levitt?
“I’m not lying!” He was staring at a framed photograph of Lydia Austin on his desk. It was in color and Lydia’s best feature, her flaming red hair, reminded Oscar Levitt of a forest fire blazing out of control. Her lips were also a flaming red and were an invitation to a night in paradise. She wore a low-cut blouse which displayed the sort of cleavage that drove men either to drink or to take the pledge.
“Oh God!” he heard Carole wail, “maybe she’s dead!”
Oscar swallowed. “God forbid,” he said softly.
“Sure God forbid,” said Carole sullenly, “you’re just worried about the starting date of the picture.”
Gable glanced at his wristwatch. It was time to leave for their date with Hazel Dickson. He waved his hand at Carole while pointing to the wristwatch. “We’ll be late for Hazel’s interview.”
Carole was listening to Oscar Levitt telling her he had spoken to Jim Mallory that morning. Jim was Herb Villon’s partner with a unique penchant for envisioning himself in erotic situations with just about all of the cinema’s leading ladies.
“Did you learn anything?” asked Carole impatiently.
Oscar said, “Nothing new. There’s been no ransom note.”
“Nothing? Not even one of those cockamamie demands with words cut out of newspapers? God,” she said to the ceiling, “if kidnappers are smart enough to kidnap you’d think they could write a ransom note. Oscar, if anything turns up let me know right away.” She hung up.
Oscar stared at Lydia’s photo on his desk. Poor kid, he thought, poor kid.
Carole paced the room, reminding the young athletes of a panther on the prowl. Gable reminded his wife they were due at Chasen’s in about an hour, but his wife was busy lighting a cigarette. “Oscar sounded shattered. His voice broke twice.” She exhaled smoke and shrieked, “What the hell are the police doing?” Gable was placing the rifle in the gun cabinet with tender loving care. “Why aren’t they out with bloodhounds yapping and baying? They should be beating the underbrush, sloshing through swamps—”
Gable cut into her monologue. “We don’t have any swamps.”
“No swamps?”
“No swamps, no alligators, nothing.”
She spoke with her hands on her hips. “Florida’s got it all over us. They’ve got swamps, alligators, and juicier oranges.” Then, “Shouldn’t we be headed for Chasen’s?” She had glanced at her wristwatch. “Damn it, if we’re late she’ll start drinking doubles and she’ll be pissed out of her skull by the time we get there.” She clapped her hands as she hastily ascended the staircase. “Boys! Front and center! On to Chasen’s!” She was taking the steps two at a time. “Clark! Come on! We’ll be late!” Gable sat in a chair. At the head of the stairs, Carole turned and shouted, “This is no time to sit! You’ve got to change!”
“Into what?”
Carole snapped, “Your best ball gown.”
“Don’t be snippy. And don’t you take an hour deciding on what to wear. What you’ve got on is perfectly fine. Casual chic.”
“Oh really?” she squeaked. “Boys! How do I look to you?”
Good enough to eat, Roy wanted to tell her but instead said, “You look real great, ma’am.” Sammy agreed with him.
Carole said sweetly, “You boys have such exquisite taste. Such lovely manners, I just might adopt you both.”
Roy crossed his fingers in hope. Sammy’s grin was crooked and boyish. Clark’s look was his usual one of dimpled exasperation. Carole was in the bedroom selecting a handbag and then a jacket. Both were incredibly expensive. She looked in a mirror and approved of what she saw. She knew Gable did too and that was all that mattered. She hurried downstairs where he was getting into the leather hunting jacket that he selected from the hall closet where he stored a variety of jackets. Gable watched Carole as she poked her head into the kitchen. “We’re off to be interviewed. We should be back in three or four hours.” Then she warned the staff, which consisted of Agnes, the cook-housekeeper, a middle-aged woman who adored the Gables, her husband Albert who tripled as handyman, chauffeur, and butler when they needed any buttling which was rarely, and Ada, maid of all work who mostly saw to Carole’s needs, “Beware of strangers. All the things in the gun closet are loaded. There’s more ammunition in the drawers. And Albert, don’t forget to feed the horses. You know they tend to get peckish. Bye!”
Sammy held the front door open for them as Clark and Carole, followed by Roy, hurried out of the house to one of the family’s several cars. Clark led the way to a black Cadillac, which Carole insisted was for gangsters and not for movie stars, but it was Clark’s favorite vehicle. He didn’t look favorably on Carole slipping behind the wheel but knew better than to argue with her. She was a marvelous driver and the only time she’d been in a serious accident was back in 1926 and she wasn’t driving at the time. Her left cheek was cruelly disfigured. Just when Carole’s film career was beginning, she thought it was over. But a young plastic surgeon came to her rescue, and within a few months after the delicate surgery, all that remained was a slight scar, which careful lighting disguised. Carole studied up on lighting and was soon an expert, sharing her knowledge with the cameramen assigned to her films. Now she felt like singing, but the thought of the danger Lydia Austin was in discouraged her. She pulled out of the driveway and caught a glimpse of Roy and Sammy through the rearview mirror. So young, so fresh, so innocent, and so adorable.
She remembered her mother telling her, “You were born mature. You weren’t young like the other girls in your crowd. I remember when Monte Blue interviewed you for the part of his little sister in A Perfect Crime. He said, ‘So this is the scrappy little kid Allan Dwan discovered. She’s not scrappy, she’s a perfect little lady.’”
Allan Dwan was a respected director, who while visiting friends noticed the twelve-year-old in the next y
ard badgering all the kids, and thinking, There’s the kid I need for Monte’s picture. Eventually, Monte Blue agreed with Dwan and Jane Alice Peters became Carol Lombard, the e added later, presumably on the advice of a fortune teller. But that wasn’t how it happened. Carol with an e mistakenly appeared on a movie poster and the actress liked her name spelled that way and decided not to change it.
Carole heard Clark say, “Honey, you’re strangling the steering wheel.”
“Hmm? What about the steering wheel? It’s a perfectly lovely steering wheel.” She said over her shoulder, “Boys! Don’t you think this is a lovely steering wheel?”
Roy looked at Sammy who said, “Oh yes, ma’am!”
Carole smiled while stealing a look at the man she loved seated next to her. He was staring straight ahead now, probably seated in a duck blind preparing to knock off a slew of them. She reminded herself of the horoscope she had Carroll Righter prepare on Clark before marrying him. Righter was known as the Astrologer to the Stars, a jovial poof who was making a fortune preparing charts for anyone in Hollywood who could afford him.
Righter told her as they sat in the drawing room of his elegant Beverly Hills home, “Clark is an Aquarian with a moody Cancer moon. Saturn created some friction with his highly sensitive moon, perhaps the cause of trouble for Gable with both his mother and the women in his life.”
Mother. Most of the women in his life, it seemed to Carole, were mother substitutes. His first wife, Josephine Dillon, was easily ten years older than him. She taught him all he ever learned about acting. Then he dumped her for the formidable Ria, who was fifteen years older. But she had money and class and connections and did Clark ever deny being an opportunist? Most of his significant affairs when he began in the theater were with older, influential women. Carole was humming “Melancholy Baby” as these women paraded before her eyes, every one of them a superb actress. Jane Cowl, Marjorie Rambeau, and Alice Brady topped the list. Clark wondered why she was chuckling to herself but knew better than to ask. She was chuckling because after Clark’s star rose at MGM, Louis B. Mayer signed Rambeau and Brady to contracts and promptly assigned them roles in Gable’s pictures. And Pappy apparently didn’t bat an eyelash and besides, he was now having it off with Miss Crawford, who demanded—and got—a lot of attention, even from her husband of the moment, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.
