The Clark Gable and Carole Lombard Murder Case

by George Baxt

  Jim Mallory was awestruck. “You’re kidding us.”

  Groucho went dramatic. “No I’m not. I’m not in a kidding mood. There’s a zaftig beauty missing and the older I get, the harder it is for me to snare for myself a zaftig beauty. Lydia loved to parade around in her beautiful jewels. Sometimes she wore a dress. She’s always trying to get me to give her jewelry. I bought her boxes of Crackerjack. There’s usually a prize at the bottom.” He raised himself to his full height and raged, “Ungrateful wench!” He paused and then said, “Did I ever tell you the one about the plumber and his ungrateful wrench? It wouldn’t screw. Oh no no! Forgive me! That was beneath me!” He was solemn again. “I bought Lydia dinner. When we went to a movie I bought her popcorn. She’s crazy about popcorn. I wish she was as crazy about me as she is about popcorn. I suggested she wear strings of popcorn but she wouldn’t hear of it, they’d stain her dress. Oh, how I wish she was standing before me, stains and all.”

  Herb Villon had tuned out on Groucho from the moment he mentioned Mike Lynton. Take his gambling house in Santa Monica. It was never raided despite its being illegal. But the word had come from above, and words from above had to be taken seriously and obeyed, so Mike Lynton’s casino was never raided. Herb and just about everybody else in the know assumed the chief of police was on the take. Los Angeles was notorious for its crooked police force. Only stupid L.A. cops didn’t own a house and a car. The only person in L.A. who collected better than the cops was its queen gossip columnist, Louella Parsons. Lydia Austin had collected from Mike Lynton, or so she claimed. Did she have anything serious on him or was he genuinely generous? And if so, how could she cast aside Lynton’s generosity for Groucho Marx?

  Herb heard Groucho saying, “Maybe I’ve got Mike Lynton all wrong. I’ll bet there are lots of people who would like to get Mike Lynton all wrong. Why would he kidnap Lydia? He’s got lots of girlfriends.” His voice brightened. “Maybe he can spare me one! I’ll pay her cab fare if she doesn’t have a car. Maybe she’s thinking I’ll buy her a car. Ha! Fat chance she’s got of getting a car out of me. The scheming gold digger. I want no part of her! Keep her, Mike, she’s yours!”

  Herb Villon was staring at a page in his notebook. On it he had listed the missing abductees. The Japanese outnumbered the others two to one. Only one name among them was familiar to him. A businessman named Takameshuga. Ito Takameshuga, an investor. He had an interest in the Futamara in down L.A. on the fringe of Chinatown. It was beautifully constructed, offered superb cuisine, had a splendid staff, and served a very select clientele. The staff was polite and discreet, which made it a perfect venue for forbidden trysts. Herb had been there himself on several occasions when he hungered to vary his Hazel diet of sex and gossip. He had seen Gable there prior to his marriage to Lombard with a well-known MGM featured player. He’d recognized the face but couldn’t attach a name to it. It didn’t matter. He liked Gable. He would never betray him to Hazel, who was always badgering him for some of the dirt he was often privy to.

  Herb read the names for the umpty-umpth time. He was looking for a possible connection. Maybe they all knew each other or were associates in one of the many so-called secret organizations Orientals created. The Chinese had mostly tongs, but they were family affairs. The Japanese had the Yakuza, but they were a lethal group of killers. Maybe the Yakuza was behind the disappearances. Herb leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling where two flies, oblivious of his prying eyes, enjoyed some indiscreet fornication. Herb transferred his curiosity to his limited circle of Japanese acquaintances. There was Takameshuga, but he was, so to speak, out of town. There was the movie star Sessue Hayakawa, but when Herb last heard, he was filming in France, talkies having put paid to his once thriving Hollywood career. There was a pretty actress, Toshia Mori, but she had disappeared from the Hollywood scene several years ago.

  While Groucho’s stream of consciousness inundated the room, much to his own egoistic satisfaction, he was unaware that Herb and Jim had tuned him out. Jim had sensed Herb might be on to something and quietly joined him at the desk. Herb said to him, “Somewhere there’s a link between these jokers. And there could possibly be a link to the three Caucasians, Nathan Taft, Elmer Rabb, Oscar Nolan. What do we know about them?”

  “Not too much,” admitted Jim. “They’re war veterans for one, and all three were highly decorated. I contacted Washington like you told me to but the FBI wasn’t much help.” He added sardonically, “They’re still straightening out their files. The guy I spoke to offered me some stuff on John Dillinger and Baby Face Nelson, and I explained with great patience that those two weren’t missing, they were just dead.”

  “God damn it, so where does Lydia Austin fit in?”

  “In my boudoir!” exclaimed Groucho, “which she sprays with ‘Essence of Eve’ every time she pays me a visit. ‘Essence of Eve.’ I can smell it now. Or is that a hamburger and onions wafting from across the hall? I’ll be right back.” He scurried out of Herb’s office and Herb and Jim exhaled a collective sigh of relief. Herb said, “I love the guy but he’s best in small doses.”

  Jim said after deep thought, “Why does Lydia Austin have to fit in at all?”

  Herb stared at him. “That’s a good thought. You might be right.” He scribbled a note to himself. Groucho came rushing back into the room. “There’s no hamburger and onions in the office across the hall. Only a crap game.” He began stalking back and forth. “They wouldn’t let me play. Just like the gang on my block when I was a kid on the Lower East Side of New York. They wouldn’t let me play with them. What a blow to my psyche. I still bear the scar. Want to look at my scar?” He was pulling out his shirttail.

  “For crying out loud, Groucho!” yelled Herb.

  “Oh come on,” urged Groucho coyly, “just a little peek. Please? Pretty please?”

  Herb folded his hands on the desk and rested his head on them. Jim asked, “Can I get you something, Herb?”

  Herb moaned, “Out of here.”

  * * *

  In the front seat of the black Cadillac, Clark sat next to Carole. In the back seat, Hazel sat between Roy and Sammy and thrilled at the touch of their muscular thighs. She wondered if athletes were ever traded or sold to civilians. Carole was saying to Clark, “Seven Japanese missing, three local whites, and Lydia. Clark, Lydia doesn’t belong there.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “I’m positive I’m right. It’s just a coincidence she’s disappeared at the same time the others did. As a matter of fact, I think her kidnapper took advantage of the other disappearances to make it look as though she was part of the chain.”

  Said Clark, “We’ll ask Herb when we get to the precinct. How’s your landing gear?”

  “Oh shut up. I’m driving very carefully. I know you’re a nervous Nelly when I’m behind the wheel.” Over her shoulder she asked Hazel, “Do I turn off left or right?”

  “You turn right, but we’ve got a way to go.” She was looking through the rearview mirror. “I wish we didn’t.”

  Clark didn’t like the darkness in her voice, “Why?”

  “I think we’re being tailed.” Roy and Sammy turned their heads with difficulty to look out the back window. Carole and Clark studied the rearview mirror.

  “It’s a delivery van,” said Carole. “Slightly beat up.”

  Hazel said grimly, “That’s the kind they use in gangster pictures.” Then she said, “What do we do if they pull up alongside us?”

  “Scream,” said Carole. She patted Clark’s knee. “I’m not making a pass, I just want your attention.”

  Clark grunted.

  Carole said, “I prefer we use the eye blink system. One if you understand what I’m saying, and two if you’re frightened shitless.”

  “I understand what you’re saying and we Gables know no fear. What’s on your mind?”

  She spoke with confidence. “I know you’ve got your gun.”

  “No you don’t.”

  Her voic
e went up a few octaves. “You don’t have your gun? Then what do you have?” she raged, “a peashooter?”

  Clark asked the boys in the back seat, “You guys got guns?”

  “Not me,” said Sammy, “I’m afraid of them.”

  “Oh swell,” said Carole. “A bodyguard without a gun! Roy! Don’t you have a gun?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t have a license.” He reassured her, “I’ve got my fists. I’m an intercollegiate boxing champion.”

  Carole said blandly, “I just had my nails done. I can do a mean job of scratching.”

  Hazel told them, “The van’s passing us.”

  They saw two old ladies in the front seat. The one who was driving bore down on her horn to get Carole to give them room to pass.

  “Daredevils,” Carole muttered.

  Hazel said, “I think they’re adorable. One looks like my mother shortly after she died.”

  “Which one?” asked Carole.

  “The one driving, of course.”

  “Oh look!” squealed Carole. “They recognize us.” She shouted out the window. “Yes, it’s us! Mr. and Mrs. Gable! Clark and Carole! This is your lucky day!”

  One old lady asked the other, “Why’s the stupid bitch yelling at us?”

  “Pay them no mind, Daphne. Just pass. If you have to, knock off a fender.”

  “Whatever you say, Tootsie.” She bore down on the gas and left the Cadillac in a cloud of dust.

  Said Carole, “I guess they didn’t want autographs.”

  Hazel yelled, “Turn right at the Orange Julius stand. Did you hear me?”

  “They heard you in Pasadena. Damn damn damn! I can’t get Lydia out of my mind. Maybe Herb’ll have some news. Maybe she escaped her captors and was found wandering on a lonely road, dazed, babbling … oh God … probably raped!”

  Said Hazel, “Some girls have all the luck.”

  Three

  In Villon’s office, Groucho was voicing his own wacky version of Lydia’s escape. “I can see her now making her dash for freedom in her anklestrap shoes, dodging a hail of bullets.” He was looking into an imaginary distance, his right hand raised dramatically. “There she goes, zigzagging her way to safety like a football player running for a touchdown. Or like Chico when he’s being pursued by a horde of creditors. But good old Lydia. She’s always fast on her feet. I should know,” he added with the famous Groucho leer, “I’ve chased her often enough.”

  At the front desk, Hazel breezed past the sergeant in charge with a cheerful “How are you, Hymie?” while Carole told Sammy and Roy to sit on a bench or read the Wanted posters pinned to the bulletin board. Clark grabbed Carole’s hand and pulled her in the direction Hazel had taken, leading them to Villon’s office. Carole said to Clark, “Hazel acts as though she owns the place! Shouldn’t we have been announced? This place looks familiar,” she said as she pattered behind Clark, shaking her hand free. “I think this is the place where I was fingerprinted and mugged after I socked a cop outside of the Mocambo. That was years ago. I was such a crazy kid.”

  Gable believed her. He sometimes thought she was such a crazy adult, like the time she gave an all-white-clothes party and arrived in an ambulance on a stretcher and made the front page of just about every newspaper in the United States. But he loved her dearly. She had gone out of her way to adapt to his style of living. She learned to hunt and shoot and to favor her wardrobe with jeans and dungarees. She gave steak and potato dinners for his pals while managing to turn a blind eye to his indiscretions. She taught herself to accept the fact that Gable’s eyes were bigger than his stomach where women were concerned. She was long used to the fact that though a good performer in the sack, he was not terribly well endowed. As she put it to her mother, “There’s less to Pappy than meets the eye.”

  Hazel entered Villon’s office. At the sight of her, the detective groaned inwardly but then cheered up on seeing the Gables. They were two of his favorite actors. They greeted each other warmly and Jim Mallory’s face went red when Carole kissed his cheek and said, “I’m sure we know each other. Do we?” Mallory admitted they hadn’t met before and Carole said with a laugh, “Well, now we know each other!” Groucho had scurried across the room and held Hazel in a passionate embrace. “My favorite yenta!” He showered her with kisses while Hazel screeched. “Don’t resist me! Don’t even try! I’m one in a million. I’ll call my broker and maybe find out I’ve got two million. With any luck he’ll give me a clean bill of wealth.” Hazel pulled free while Groucho said to Villon, “When are you going to make her an honest woman? You’ve had a longer engagement than Hearst and Marion Davies. Marry the harlot or I’ll sell her into slavery. She ought to bring a pretty penny.” He eyed Hazel dubiously. “On the other hand she might bring a homely penny.”

  “Groucho!” remonstrated Hazel.

  “She’s got to bring something, if only a bag of tollhouse cookies she baked with her own gin-stained hands.” His gaze dropped to her hands. “Ah yes. She does have hands. That’s a good manicure, Hazel.” He rounded on Jim Mallory. “Why are these people here? Are they under suspicion? Are they under the weather?” Swiftly he grabbed Carole. “Come with me to the Casbah. They’re having a spring sale. Every kind of shmatte your heart desires.”

  “Let go!” cried Carole as she pushed him away. She yelled at Clark, “I’m being manhandled and you stand there with that silly smirk on your face.”

  Groucho said, “It’s his face. He can have anything he wants on it, including some egg. I wish it was my face. And if it was, I probably wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “How are you, Groucho?” asked Gable, knowing Marx’s off-the-wall sense of humor camouflaged a very sensitive and very loving soul.

  “It’s about time you asked,” Groucho said. “You have the audacity to steal the gorgeous Lombard from under my phony eyeglasses and you dare to inquire as to my health?” He said to Hazel with a new variation of a leer, “It’s my health and you keep your hands off it.” He said to Gable, “I have a warm spot for Carole. In fact, I have two warm spots for Carole but I’ll never tell you where they are.” He said sotto voce to Carole, “Would you care to come to my hacienda in Brentwood for a private viewing of my warm spots?”

  Carole stood with her arms folded while Gable and Hazel sat in the chairs Jim Mallory offered them. “Knock it off, Groucho. There’s fun and there’s fun and much as I adore you you sometimes go too far. I know you’re upset about Lydia and for crying out loud so am I. She could be lying dead somewhere. Oh God, I hope not.” Villon was at her side with an arm around her shoulder. “It’s been over a week now, Herb.”

  “Carole, we’re doing our damnedest to break this case. It’s a hell of a puzzler. Sit down? You want some coffee?”

  “Black, no cream or sugar.”

  Jim Mallory crossed to a hot plate on which there rested a pot of hot coffee and poured a cup for Carole. Hazel said, “The same for me. Clark?” He shook his head no.

  Carole rummaged in her handbag and found a cigarette. Groucho bent over and held a lighter to it. “Thanks, darling,” she said. She exhaled, the smoke pouring from her nostrils making her look like an evil dragon on an Oriental tapestry.

  Villon asked Carole, “How well do you know Mike Lynton?”

  “Knew,” corrected Carole, “past tense.” Then she asked, “You got him on your list of suspects?”

  “He’s a likely candidate. As good as anybody else. And Lydia Austin was his girl for a while.” Groucho had poured himself a cup of coffee. He pulled up a chair to Jim Mallory’s desk and sat and sipped.

  “Kidnapping’s not Mike’s style,” said Carole. “He may be a gangster, but he’s got class. Of course when he felt it was necessary he was not beyond ordering somebody’s legs broken.” Hazel grimaced.

  Clark spoke. “Mike has hunted with Oscar Levitt, the other boys and myself a few times. We’ve had long talks around the campfire. I know he was sweet on Carole briefly.”

  “Back in the Ice Ag
e,” said Carole. “He caught me on the rebound from Bill Powell when we were divorcing. He was good company. He’s not your everyday run-of-the-mill mobster. He comes from a good family in Baltimore. I know because he spoke of them with affection, and he frequently spoke of them. And it’s rare for someone in the mob to discuss his relations.” She stared at the glowing tip of her cigarette and told Villon, “I called Mike when Lydia was reported missing. It was natural to think he might know something. But he was still recovering from losing her to this nudnik over here.” She indicated Groucho.

  Groucho said, “I called him too. So help me Hannah. That’s how desperate I was. He was very nice. He understood how I felt. But he had nothing to tell me.”

  Herb said, “Jim and I were there when you called. We were in Mike’s office in the casino. It was late last Friday, and there was little action.”

  * * *

  Mike Lynton had spoken into an intercom. “Hold all my calls. That means everybody.” Then he gave his attention to the two detectives sitting across from him. “You guys like a drink?” Both refused. “Mind if I have one?” He went to the bar and poured himself a Drambuie. He held the glass up to the light from a window and was satisfied with the texture of the liqueur. “It’s a Drambuie. Superior stock. You sure you won’t join me?” But he had no takers. He sat behind his desk and said, “A superior drink considering its lowly origins. It originated in a fire in an Edinburgh distillery. There were iron vats of scotch all over the place and the distillers, being Scotch, despaired at the prospect of a big financial loss. So when the fire was finally out, there they were with iron vats of burnt scotch. Some guy decided to taste it. Not bad, he thought, and got his partners to try some. They all agreed there was something tasty about it. So they decided to try bottling it as a liqueur. It was a sensation. They called it Drambuie’ because, like today, anything French-sounding commands respect and a good price. I have yet to dine in Paris without suffering a severe case of indigestion. Their meats and fish are so inferior, which is why they created fancy sauces to camouflage the bad qualities.” He smiled. “But I still like to visit Paris.” He said sadly, “Of course, it’ll be a long time before I’ll be able to return to Europe. This war is going to be a very long war. But that’s not why you’re here.”