The Clark Gable and Carole Lombard Murder Case

by George Baxt

  “Bette Brent.” Even Davis roared with laughter, realizing at last that Groucho was kidding her.

  Said Bette, “It would more likely have been George Davis!”

  Kay gave the warning. “Evwybody shut up. Here comes Hazel Dickson.”

  Bette chirruped, “Hello, Hazel. Have you come alone? Where’s your dick?”

  “What?” screeched Carole.

  “Oh my God! I meant where’s your detective. I’m so sorry, Hazel!”

  Hazel hoped she was smiling affably. “He should be here soon. He couldn’t pick me up.”

  “I couldn’t pick you up either,” said Groucho, “and you’re not as heavy as Margaret Dumont.”

  Hazel continued, “He was in conference with someone from the FBI.”

  “FBI. That’s what Selznick’s always asking his new Swedish star. FBI? ‘Feeling Better, Ingrid?’”

  Kay said, “Well, it’s about time the feds got involved in these kidnappings. It’s all so tewwible. Those missing Japanese. If my gardener disappears I’ll have a conniption.”

  “Have two,” suggested Groucho, “in case they’re on the small side. But seriously, Hazel—has the FBI been brought in to find Lydia?”

  “Who’s Lydia?” asked Bette Davis.

  Carole explained about Lydia Austin. “It’s been in all the papers.”

  “I only skim the papers,” said Bette, “if I bother reading them at all.”

  “She’s been in Louella’s column twice since she disappeared.”

  “Maybe that’s where she disappeared to,” suggested Kay Francis. “Louella’s column.” She said it with humor, not intending bitterness. Now that her star was slowly fading, Louella no longer sought items from the actress. Francis seemed to be taking it in her stride.

  “I’d better look for my escort,” said Bette. “There are a lot of spider webs around here he might get entrapped in. See you later.” She left them and was promptly swallowed up in the crowd.

  Kay asked Hazel, “Who’s this Arthur Farnsworth it’s rumored Bette might be marrying?”

  “He manages a hotel in New England. Bette met him on vacation a couple of months ago.”

  “Is it serious?” asked Kay.

  Carole said, “The hell with Arthur whatever. Hazel, did Herb send for the FBI.?”

  “So help me Hannah, I haven’t the vaguest idea. This guy just materialized from out of nowhere. Herb didn’t say much because I think he couldn’t say much. In fact, he often doesn’t say much. And you can ask him yourself. Here he comes now accompanied by a perfect stranger who I assume is with the FBI.”

  Six

  “He looks like a department store floor walker,” said Carole.

  “He can walk my floor anytime he likes,” said Kay.

  “He’s wearing a wedding band,” said Miriam, toying with the pearls hanging around her neck.

  “That could be camouflage,” said Carole. “Maybe he was warned about the predatory ladies of Hollywood.”

  “He has nothing to worry about here,” said Miriam. “I didn’t invite Norma Shearer and Joan Crawford.” She now wore her gracious hostess and movie star smile as Herb Villon returned her greeting and introduced Carl Arden to everyone. Arden didn’t hear Miriam Hopkins say “He should be played by Errol Flynn.”

  “Not at all,” disputed Kay Francis. “The FBI don’t carry concealed swords.” She extended her hand and said to Carl Arden. “How nice to meet you, Mr. Arden. Have you come to our wescue?”

  “If it’s kidnappers you’re referring to, I’m happy to tell you it’s a false alarm. The men who vanished from Los Angeles did so of their own volition.” He didn’t elucidate and trusted neither would Herb. “You can send your bodyguards on their way.”

  Roy and Sammy looked stricken. A tear trickled down Carole’s cheek. “Oh Roy! Oh Sammy! I’ll miss you terribly.”

  Clark went into his hail-fellows-well-met routine. “There’s no reason to miss them. They can come visit us anytime. They’re like family.” He smiled at the boys, flashing his trademark dimples and his set of very expensive dentures. “Phone first.”

  Carole said, “Where’re you going?” The boys had turned to leave. “You stay and enjoy the party. Have a good time!”

  Miriam had her arms intertwined with one each of Sammy’s and Roy’s. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you boys go!”

  Kay said sotto voce to Carole, “I’ll give you odds before the evening’s out she’ll have them both chained in the basement.”

  “Hee hee hee.”

  Groucho boomed, “How can you all forget Lydia Austin? The poor sweet innocent girl has been missing for days!” He asked Herb, “Haven’t you any new leads? Any new supporting players? And speaking of nobody in particular, here comes Oscar Levitt lumbering over the horizon. Hey Oscar, come meet Carl Arden. Any relation to Eve Arden, Carl?” Arden didn’t get a chance to speak. “She was in my movie, A Day At the Circus. You’re not as good-looking as she is.” He turned to Hazel. “And neither are you.”

  Hazel ignored him. She was too busy badgering Herb to join her on one side away from the others and give her the scoop on Carl Arden. Herb knew better than to do battle with Hazel when she wanted information. “We’ll be right back,” said Herb, hoping he knew what he was talking about. The day had been a long one of questions with few answers and he was in no mood for more. As Hazel walked him away down the beach, he looked around for any sign of Jim Mallory and Nana Lewis and briefly had a sinking feeling that they might have detoured to a motel for a let’s-get-acquainted quickie. Hazel had her pad and pen at the ready and shot question after question at Villon beginning with, “Is this Arden guy for real?”

  With practiced eye and years of FBI training, Carl Arden sized up Oscar Levitt swiftly. He was especially interested in him when told his was the film in which Lydia Austin had been promised the lead. Carole said with a wicked grin, “All that’s missing to make this circle complete is Mike Lynton.” She explained to Arden who Mike Lynton was but Arden was ahead of her—he already knew.

  “Of course you know,” said Carole. “There are so few surprises for the FBI.”

  Carl Arden favored Carole with a smile. She thought he ought to be modeling toothpaste ads. Carroll Righter, Hollywood’s favorite astrologer, came swooping down on them like a bird of prey. At his side was a tiny wisp of a woman sporting garish orange hair. She wore a gossamer dress that reached her ankles, and the bracelets on her wrists jangled ominously. Her mouth was an orange slash and her eyelids were a vivid shade of purple. Her cheeks were magenta, carefully applied. In her left hand she carried a cigarette holder that was decorated with chips of jewelry. The holder held a Turkish cigarette which from the odor of the smoke Carole thought had been rolled in camel dung.

  Righter asked the group, “Are you exclusive or can anyone join in?”

  Carole was wondering if he was the little lady’s friend or keeper. Carroll introduced her as Lola Kramm. “The Lola Kramm,” he emphasized. “The famous British psychic.”

  Groucho asked, “Who needs a sidekick?”

  “He said psychic, Groucho, and stop being such a pain in the butt.” Lola Kramm froze in position.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Carole asked Righter.

  “Hush! She’s getting a vibration.”

  Lola Kramm was breathing heavily. “We are in luck,” whispered Righter. “She’s getting a vision. A message. I’ve seen this before. I think she’s trying very hard to concentrate.”

  “Death,” said Lola Kramm. Her voice was ghostly and Carole’s flesh began to crawl with goose bumps. Herb and Hazel had rejoined them and Carl Arden explained what was going on. Hazel began scribbling in her pad. Lola’s eyes began circling the group like a klieg light at a movie premiere. “Death is not among this group, but it’s nearby.”

  “I think she’s right,” Clark said to Carole. “I see Ria at the buffet.”

  “Don’t look for trouble,” said Carole. “Be charming. Your divorce is in the past. H
as she seen us yet?”

  “No, she’s too busy piling her plate. Uh-oh. The woman with her sees us.” Carole squinted in Ria’s direction.

  Ria was very subtly moving her head in their direction. “She sees us,” said Carole.

  “Death,” repeated Lola Kramm.

  Groucho whispered to Carl Arden, “Her needle’s stuck.”

  “This is her usual routine,” said Arden.

  “You’ve met her before?” asked Groucho.

  “Psychics are a way of life for us. Some of them are good. Most of them are phonies.”

  “What about this one?” asked Groucho.

  “Actually, Lola’s pretty good. She pinpointed the Lindbergh baby. Wait. She’s onto something.”

  Lola Kramm’s eyes flew open as Jim Mallory and Nana Lewis arrived on the scene.

  Nana spoke as though she was struggling to stifle a yawn. “So she’s back in town.”

  “You know her?” asked Jim.

  “We’ve never been officially introduced but I’ve seen her do her parlor tricks. She’s staring at you, Jim.”

  “No, she’s staring at you.”

  “Maybe she likes my outfit. I’m not crazy about hers.” Lola Kramm moved slowly toward Nana. When Lola reached her, she stopped and stared up in Nana’s face. She put Carole in mind of Daphne Pollard, the tiny comedienne with whom she had worked at the Sennett studio, but there was nothing amusing about Lola Kramm. Carole clutched Gable’s arm.

  “Need another drink?” he asked.

  “No, but I think she does.”

  Lola said to Nana, “Death has touched you.” Nana betrayed nothing. Carole heard a gasp and without looking attributed it to Miriam Hopkins, who was given to frequent gasping. Kay patted Miriam’s hand. Miss Francis was an old hand at this sort of thing. She had met several Hollywood witches, real ones, not actresses. She’d also met a warlock, a male witch. He was a dear old soul in West Hollywood who adored hexing enemies for you. There was also the writer Sally Benson whose penchant was stealing gloves and placing them in a drawer, where they presumably worked their black magic. Some years in the future she’d be famous for stealing Ingrid Bergman’s gloves and consigning it to her drawer. Ingrid then met Roberto Rossellini, had an affair and a baby, and was on a blacklist for several years.

  Groucho was thinking, Nana is Lydia’s housemate. And Lola Kramm says death has touched her. Groucho edged his way to Herb Villon. “She said death has touched Nana. Lydia lives with Nana.”

  “Quiet, Groucho,” said Herb as one of Lola’s hands moved to her forehead and rubbed it.

  Carroll Righter asked Lola, “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that quite enough?” She said to Nana, “We’ve met before, but we’ve never been introduced.”

  Nana replied, “Hallowe’en two years ago. At Bela Lugosi’s.”

  “I was there,” said Lola, “but I don’t recall you.”

  Oscar Levitt was standing behind Nana. Large as he was, he now seemed smaller compared to Nana. Lola addressed Oscar. “We’ve met before too.”

  Oscar said, “I don’t think so.”

  “Possibly it was on an astral plane.”

  Groucho went to Lola Kramm. He pointed at Nana and said, “This young woman shares a house with three others. One of them’s my girlfriend, Lydia Austin. She’s missing.”

  “I know,” said the psychic.

  “You got any leads?”

  Lola smiled. “Mr. Marx, I can’t tell you anything without feeling an article of the young woman’s clothing.”

  “Can’t you feel one of mine? We’ve necked a lot.”

  Jim Mallory was asking Herb, “What the hell’s going on?”

  Herb explained, “The lady’s a psychic, a friend of Carroll Righter’s. She’s apparently had a long run on the Hollywood party circuit.” Then he introduced Jim to Carl Arden. Lola Kramm moved away from Nana and Groucho and looked at Carole and Gable without speaking.

  “Pappy, she’s giving me the willies. I don’t like the way she’s looking at me.”

  “Party tricks,” scoffed Gable. “Come on, sweetheart. We need a drink. I’m getting bored holding an empty glass.” He took her hand and led her away. Carole could feel the psychic’s eyes boring into the back of her head. In a sudden rage, Carole turned and shouted, “Keep out of my head!”

  Lola said, “I’m sorry. I meant you no harm.”

  Hazel now stood in front of Lola. “Why do I get the feeling you’re holding something back?”

  Lola asked, “Are you also a psychic?”

  Hazel said, “No. I’m a gossip saleswoman.”

  “Tell me. Do you know that man?” She indicated Oscar Levitt.

  “His name is Oscar Levitt. He produces films.”

  “Oh.”

  Hazel said, “What have you got on him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re getting vibrations on Oscar.”

  “I get vibrations on everyone,” said the psychic, “but it takes time to sort them out. Excuse me. Carroll is gesturing he wants me.” As Lola Kramm drifted in the direction of Carroll Righter, Herb, Jim, and Nana joined Hazel.

  “She’s quite a spook,” said Herb.

  “Don’t sneer, Herb. She’s pretty good,” said Hazel. “She’s been written up in several magazines who take this psychic stuff very seriously. Aldous Huxley swears by her. He’s a pretty damned good writer. His opinions are highly respected. When I interviewed him a couple of months ago while he was writing the screenplay of Pride and Prejudice, he told me Lola saw this ectoplasm over his head and it materialized for a few seconds into Jane Austen, who wrote the book.”

  “Oh come on,” scoffed Herb. “That’s a lot of superstitious bullshit.”

  Hazel said nothing. She was staring at Oscar Levitt, who was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. It was warm but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Something was bothering Oscar and she intended to find out what it was. But her eye had caught the figure of Ria Gable, and Ria was standing facing Carole and Clark. It looked very civil.

  Ria was saying, “You both look so handsome, but I’m not jealous.”

  “You’ve no reason to be,” said Carole with a fake smile. “The divorce was so many months ago.”

  “I bear no grudge, my dear. I meant what I said. You both look so handsome.”

  “We’re on our way to get a drink. Do you want one?”

  “A waiter’s bringing me one, if he can find me in this crowd. Don’t let me hold you up.”

  Said Carole, the memory of the enormous settlement Ria received burning in her memory, “You already have.”

  Clark pulled her away and when he felt they were safely out of Ria’s earshot, he burst out laughing. “Okay, baby, score one for you. That was beautiful!”

  “Hee hee hee hee. She left herself wide open for that one. You’re not mad at me?”

  He kissed her cheek. “I’m mad about you.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Carole.

  “What?”

  “Loretta Young.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Heading straight for us. Haven’t you seen her since Call of the Wild?”

  “No, damn it, I haven’t. And I don’t want to see her now.”

  Too late. “Carole! Clark!” trilled Hollywood’s leading Catholic. “How nice to see you!”

  Oh boy, thought Carole, Hazel Dickson’s spying on us. If she makes an item out of this, I’ll crack her skull. It was an open secret in Hollywood that when co-starring in the movie version of Jack London’s The Call of the Wild, Young and Gable had a torrid affair while on location, which resulted in a daughter, Judy. When you saw Judy there was no mistaking the Gable ears.

  Carole admired Loretta’s beach pajamas. “They’re so you,” said Carole. “I bet they cost a bundle.”

  “I like to pamper myself every now and then. Clark, I see Ria’s here.”

  Clark said nothing. Carole said vivaciously, “Why, it’s just like old home week.”

&
nbsp; There was a beatific expression on Loretta Young’s face. Saint Loretta, thought Clark. He and Spencer Tracy had traded notes on her one drunken night at a saloon near the Metro lot. They had finished a tough day’s shoot on San Francisco with Jeanette MacDonald, who both agreed should have become a nun. Spencer and Loretta had an affair back in 1933 when they were filming A Man’s Castle and Spencer’s drinking was truly getting out of hand.

  Carole was also admiring the expression on Loretta’s face. She was either seeing the second coming or planning a trip to Rome to scold the pope. “Share it with us, Loretta,” said Carole with a rare sweetness of tone.

  “Share what?”

  “Whatever’s brought that expression on your face.”

  “And what kind of expression do you see?” asked Loretta, prepared to do battle should Carole take aim and strike Loretta with one of her famous barbed remarks.

  “It’s as though you’ve had a vision of the holy mother.”

  “Oh, I get those all the time.”

  “All the time? Don’t they sort of crowd into each other?”

  “You can scoff all you like,” said Loretta, in a voice of steel.

  “I’m not scoffing. I admire you. I’m not terribly religious. I’m terribly superstitious, aren’t I, Pappy?”

  Said Gable affably, “I think Carole was born to be a witch. She can read palms.”

  “And the bumps on your head. Do you have bumps, Loretta? I’ll read them. I don’t charge. I’ve read Pappy’s bumps.” She smiled. “They’re obscene.”

  Clark grabbed Carole’s arm. “There’s Edna Mae Oliver. I haven’t seen her in months.”

  “You’re not missing a thing. I ran into her at Max Factor’s salon on Monday. She was having a facial. With Edna Mae the before and after is the same thing. Let’s go talk to the old dodo. She looks like she’s having a terrible time. See you later, Loretta!”

  She hightailed it after Clark, who impatiently headed toward the elderly character actress with the horse face. He was afraid Carole would unsubtly bring up the subject of his and Loretta’s bastard daughter. Carole caught up with Clark and held on to his arm. “You didn’t say goodbye to Loretta. It suddenly occurs to me how she gets those beatific expressions out of mothballs and plasters them to her face. It’s those immaculate conceptions she’s had.”