by George Baxt
“That’s too bad,” said Mallory. “Claire’s always been good to me.”
So that’s where he got his jollies, thought Villon. Well, he’s young and vigorous and he’s got to let off steam somehow. As attractive as he was, Villon never knew him to have a steady girlfriend.
Mallory continued with a shy smile on his face. “She knows a cop gets paid bubkes so she always gave me a discount.”
Villon asked, “Did she throw in some cookies and a glass of milk?” Mallory’s cheeks flushed.
Hazel said to Villon, “Lay off. A discount is a discount.”
Villon had had his fill of appetizers and lit a cigarette. “I suspect there’s something not too kosher about this move. You realize Claire’s putting herself on the spot. Just about every actor in this town has a short fuse. Somebody might be planning to take a shot at her. Hazel, have you discussed this with Fern Arnold?”
“Haven’t had the chance. But I don’t have to. Fern is true blue where Claire is concerned. They’ve been pals for years. Fern would lay down her life for Claire.”
Villon flashed her a look. “Cut the melodramatics.”
“It’s not melodramatics. It’s an honest fact, as plain as the cleft in your chin. I’ve known Fern a long time. She’s pretty good about feeding me stuff.”
“And she fed you this dynamite about Claire.” They watched a waiter clear away the dirty dishes and another waiter serve the main courses. Hazel bent forward and inhaled extravagantly.
“Don’t fall into the moo goo gai pan,” cautioned Villon, who frequently had to rescue Hazel from asphyxiation when she’d had one Stinger too many. Jimmy Woo hovered nearby and Hazel said, “Jimmy, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“For crying out loud, you haven’t eaten any of it yet,” said Villon.
Jimmy Woo said, “She doesn’t have to. All she has to do is smell it. A true epicure.”
Hazel looked at him with gratitude while Villon stubbed out his cigarette and Mallory loaded a plate with lobster in oyster sauce. Jimmy Woo went to greet some fresh arrivals.
Herb said to Hazel, “Take it from your boyfriend, Herb Villon, whose own sense of smell makes him an epicure of another sort, this little black book smells to me like an invitation to blackmail.”
Mallory said, “I don’t think blackmail is very inviting.”
Villon said to him, “Don’t eat with your mouth open. It makes you look like a cement mixer.”
Hazel asked, “You mean by going public about the book she’s really announcing she’s open to all bidders?”
“You’re catching on. The way she’s done it is very safe.”
“What do you mean ‘safe’?”
“This way is very subtle and I admire her for it. No threats, no oral or written demands, she’s clean. If somebody is dumb enough to try to lower the boom on her without something in writing that he can show us, we have to say to him ‘When you unzipped your trousers she wasn’t holding a gun to your head.’” He finally began to fill his plate. “This is going to be very very interesting.”
“It’s already interesting,” said Hazel. “Oh, how I wish I was a fly on the walls of some executive offices.”
Jim Mallory was about to speak but remembered first to swallow his mouthful of food. “I know you. Herb. We’ve worked together a long time. You think Claire Young is marked for murder.”
“You’re good, Jim. You’re close. Claire Young and murder are skipping rope together.” He paused to sample his food. “I think Claire Young has marked herself for murder.”
“Oh go on!” said Hazel. “You mean she’s inviting somebody to do her in?”
“It’s a possibility. Look at it my way. All of a sudden from out of nowhere a cathouse madam announces her little black book might be up for grabs. We can attach a lot of meaning to that. Number one, she needs money, so boys, somebody better fork something over, preferably a lot of somebodies. Number two, she’s genuinely going out of business and wants to feather her sparse nest with some much needed eggs. Number three, there’s an unknown factor behind her need for money.”
“What unknown factor?”
“Like maybe she’s seriously ill. It’s a conjecture, but a possibility. She doesn’t think she’s going to make it. She wants to leave somebody comfortably fixed.”
“Like who for instance?” asked Hazel, nursing a thought that what Villon was theorizing could be shaped into another profitable exclusive for Louella Parsons.
“Maybe she’s got some guy she’s been supporting. Fern ever mention any guy?”
“I never tried to look into the possibility of some guy in Claire’s life. Anyway, all the madams I’m acquainted with have deplorable taste in men. They usually have a toothpick sticking out of their mouths, suck their teeth, and inhale when their noses are running. If Claire has a guy, I’d like to think he has some class. Claire’s a pretty classy lady.”
“She’s a damned classy lady,” seconded Mallory.
Villon said to Hazel, “How many times have I told you discounts can breed loyalty?”
Hazel asked, “You want a discount?”
“For what?” asked Villon.
“For nothing,” said Hazel. “I’m eating the rest of the lobster. Aren’t you guys interested in the pork fried rice?”
“I never found fried rice interesting,” said Villon. “I find Claire Young very interesting.”
Hazel asked, “You trying to tell me in all these years you’ve never tested the waters at Claire’s?”
“If you’re expecting me to tell you anything about my private life, such as it is with you for a girlfriend, you’re going to have a long wait. Jim?”
“Yes?”
“How’d you come to hit it off with Claire Young?”
“Just plain lucky,” said Jim with a smile of self-satisfaction. “What are you going to do now that Claire’s about to become yesterday’s news?”
“I’ll tell you after I consult my ouija board.” He switched his attention to the fried rice. Hazel was suddenly absorbed in two middle-aged men within earshot at the next table. One was bald, the other had the kind of high-pitched voice favored by birds and dogs. The bald one was admonishing his friend. “You should show Jimmy Woo more respect. He’s royalty. He’s been a prince for over thirty-five years.”
“So what?” piped his friend. “I’ve been a queen for over forty.” Hazel said to her friends, “Don’t you just love Hollywood? Hey, Villon!” She snapped her fingers. “Come back to us.”
“Hmmm? Oh, sorry. I was thinking of Jim’s remark about Claire Young being a damned classy lady. In my experience with classy ladies, they’re never anything but classy. Even classy madams.” He thought for a moment. He asked Hazel, “Didn’t Claire begin as an actress?”
“At Metro. She got nipped in the bud by a jealous wife of a big-shot producer who was hotly smitten with our Claire, or so the story goes. The wife went to the very top, to the very moral Louis B. Mayer, very moral as in ha ha ha, and the outraged Mr. Mayer rid not only the studio but the profession of Claire Young. Except that wasn’t her name then and don’t ask me what it was because I’ve never bothered to find out. I did try to find out who at Metro convinced Claire she’d be a good madam and financed her, but Claire stayed clammed up.”
Herb Villon asked, “Couldn’t Fern tell you?”
“Not old true blue. Actually I did ask her and she swore she didn’t know and besides, she implied he’s long gone from Hollywood.”
“He probably is,” said Villon. “Or else Claire would have gone to him for the money she seems to need.”
“Herb, that makes absolutely good sense,” praised Hazel.
Villon had a fresh thought. “I wonder if Louis B. is in the book.”
“Him? Don’t be ridiculous. He’s too smart for that and besides, he’s got a vast harem established in his own territory. He doesn’t have to go looking for an outside nosh. Howard Strickling keeps him provided with more than enough bed mates. Louis B. doesn’
t try to make it with his stars either, though it’s said he got Grace Moore in return for a two-picture contract back in 1930, both disasters. There was one star he truly loathed and destroyed — Mac Murray, back in the silent days. And he’s not particularly nuts about Harlow, but she’s too big at the box office for him to turn nasty. He’s lending her to Zanuck for In Old Chicago in return for Tyrone Power in Marie Antoinette.”
Villon raised his eyebrows. “He’s going to play Marie Antoinette?”
“Oh, for crying out loud. Herb. Norma Shearer’s Marie.”
Jim Mallory spoke. “Do you suppose Claire has it in for Louis B. Mayer?”
“Oh, I’m sure she does,” said Hazel.
Villon interrupted. “You go back a long way with Fern Arnold, don’t you?”
“Over ten years.”
“You knew Claire then too?”
“Need I remind you that was not her name back then? And if I knew her by any other name, I absolutely don’t remember.” She slammed her hand on the table. “Hey, wait a minute!”
The waiter clearing the table froze.
Hazel said to the waiter, “Not you, dear.” He resumed clearing. “Herb, I may be on to something. Fern did mention a friend who was involved with somebody who worked in a hospital. Hmmm. Now let me think. Something like a lab technician or an anesthetist. Is there such a thing?”
“There is indeed such a thing. You think Claire might have been this friend?”
“It’s a possibility, isn’t it?”
“Worry your brain a little harder. There’s got to be a big reason for Claire to need big dollars.”
“By the way, what are you giving me for Christmas?”
“I’ve given it no thought. Damn it!”
A startled Hazel yelped. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”
“Me too!” said the squeaky voice at the adjoining table. “Sorry,” said Herb while Mallory signaled a waiter for a fresh pot of tea.
Hazel asked, “Damn it what?”
Herb said quietly. “I think Claire is looking to get herself killed and for the same reason she had Fern get to you with the scoop on the little black book.” He paused and looked from Hazel to Mallory and back to Hazel again. “I think it’s a very strong possibility she’s been told her days are numbered.”
“Isn’t that what you said before?”
“No. I said I think she’s looking to get herself killed. And I think the reason why is that she has a terminal disease.”
Mallory wore a pained expression. “Gee. Herb, that’s awful.”
Hazel said, “But it’s possible. God, if so, what an item!”
FIVE
Griselda’s Cage was a charming bistro on Hollywood Boulevard adopted by New York’s writing and acting refugees. It shared equal time with the bar of the Garden of Allah Hotel on Sunset Boulevard where most of New York’s displaced hung their hats. Griselda was a failed New York playwright who had migrated to Hollywood when the talkies began and succeeded in becoming a failed Hollywood screenwriter. She was a delightful woman who sadly lacked a gift for writing. But she was an excellent cook and at the urging of her husband they managed to cobble together enough money to open the restaurant. It was an instant success and they never looked back.
William Powell and Myrna Loy sat with Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman in a booth over which hung an imitation Tiffany lamp. The illumination did a lot for Myrna but very little for the homely Miss Hellman, who would have preferred to make do without any illumination whatsoever. People who knew both the gifted and successful writers could never understand Hammett’s attraction to Lillian, he being tall, slender, and handsome. He was looked upon as a man of the world, though Hellman was hard put to figure out which world, the old world or the new world. It took a lot of patience and hard work to get to know Hellman, if one was at all interested in knowing her. She was as tough as brass, sarcastic, and rude, but despite these shortcomings enjoyed a wide circle of friends, all of whom never wanted to know what she really thought of them. Hammett had provided Powell and Loy with The Thin Man, a film that was shot in only sixteen days under Woody Van Dyke’s hasty but brilliant direction, with a script by the Albert Hacketts, whose dialogue was far wittier than that in the book. Hellman insisted that Nora Charles was fashioned after her and this was possible if one exercised a wide stretch of the imagination.
Each had a very dry gin martini with a twist of lemon in front of them, and the Tiffany illumination made the martinis sparkle like diamonds. Myrna commented, “They’re so lustrously pretty, it’s almost a shame to drink them. Of course on the other hand, there’s more where these came from.” She lifted her glass. “I’d like to propose a toast. Here’s to Claire Young, a woman who I doubt has much of a future but she sure has one hell of a past.” The others raised their glasses and drank. “All nght. Bill. You had an audience with the pooh-bah himself.” meaning Mr. Mayer. “Did he weep, did he faint, or did he offer you chicken soup?”
“Well actually, Mrs. Homblow, he assured me that regardless of the outcome of this sordid scenario, my morals clause would never be exercised and that after you and I complete Double Wedding, he wants me to co-star with Joan Crawford in a remake of The Last of…”
“…the Mohicans, “ said Hellman swiftly, feeling rather pleased with herself but not for too long.
“…of Mrs. Cheyney,” said Powell, punctuating it with a very disdainful sniff.
“Oh, I’m so glad it’s that dated old warhorse. I can’t imagine you as Hawkeye or Uncas,” said Hellman.
“Thank you, Lillian. You made that sound like an epitaph,” said Powell, downing the remains of his drink and signaling for another round, which caused Myrna to mouth him a kiss. Powell acknowledged her gratifying gesture with a smile and more information.
“We discussed Claire, of course, and he went to great lengths to assure me he never knew the woman. After which I went to great lengths to remind him that she was once under contract to the studio under another name. I think my great lengths outpointed his great lengths because he became, for Louis B. Mayer, unusually flustered.”
“He didn’t attempt to swoon?” asked Myrna mercilessly.
“Well, for a second there I did think his eyes were about to roll up into his head, but I think the last time he pulled that fainting stunt on me I doused him with a very handy pitcher of water. Actually, what he did I found rather admirable.”
Hellman folded her arms and said, “Louis B. Mayer never did anything admirable in his life.”
Powell said sternly, “Now see here, Lily. This is my story and if I say he did something admirable, then that’s what he did.”
“Okay,” she retorted, “but I don’t have to buy it.”
“You most certainly don’t,” Hammett said, “because he wasn’t offering it for sale. It was a simple statement of fact.”
“Thank you, Dash,” said Powell. “Now may I continue?” The fresh round of drinks arrived and the waiter distributed them rapidly and without spilling a drop. He collected the empty glasses while Powell continued his dissertation. “Mayer called in Ida Koverman and went into one of his dramatic specialties.” He said to Hellman, “He has a vast repertoire of those things.” Powell now gave a splendid impersonation of the Metro mogul. “‘Ida …no …no, don’t sit, you won’t be long enough for that…Bill says Claire Young was once under contract to us.’ And Ida in her usual jocular manner, if you can stand her usual jocular manner, asks, ‘What was?’ At this point, Mayer’s eyes narrow into ominous slits and he spits every word, ‘Do a check on that.’ Ida makes what for her is a swift departure.” He explained to Hammett and Hellman, “Miss Koverman tends to lumber a bit.”
Myrna interrupted him. “Hey, wait a minute! Didn’t Ida ask what her name was when she was under contract?”
Said Powell, “Consider one of your precious cheeks delicately pinched.” Myrna looked pleased while Hellman said under her breath, “Oh brother,” and zeroed in on her martini. “While Ida wa
s gone, all of I think a record-breaking three minutes, Mayer assured me no one could ever replace me as Nick Charles.”
“Hear, hear,” said Hammett.
“And me too, hear,” added Myrna. “Lily, don’t you agree?”
“Well, there’s always Mickey Rooney.”
“Why yes,” said Powell, “there always is, isn’t there. May I continue? Thank you. Mayer says we’ll weather the scandal if there’s a scandal to weather and besides, can you be sure this little black book really exists? I told him the only thing I’m sure of is death and taxes and he asked me not to be morbid. At which point Koverman comes slogging back into the room with a piece of paper. It seems that ten years ago or so there was a sweet young thing named Audrey Manners, Ida reading the name on the slip of paper. She was with Metro some six months or so and there was cause to exercise her morals clause. Why? Ida had no idea.” Powell added, while indicating Myrna, “Minnie and I know.”
“Well?” Hellman sounded very impatient. Powell told them about the producer and the wife who blew the whistle while Myrna studied the menu and was delighted to see pot roast and potato pancakes. “Anyway, I then asked Ida, aren’t there any photographs of Audrey Manners in the files? And she said, ‘I didn’t bother looking. The files get cleaned out every few years.’“
“Baloney,” said Myrna. “I was in those files looking for some photos of myself taken the first time the studio signed me back in ’25.”
“My God,” said Hellman, “you’ve been around that long?”
“Longer,” said Myrna airily. “In my early teens I danced in the stage prologues at Grauman’s Chinese.”
“Child labor,” said Powell.
“You’re damn right,” said Myrna. “I was a child and those prologues were a lot of labor. You take my word for it, those files are intact. I even found a shot of me in Ben-Hur.”
The information seemed to impress Hammett. “You were in Ben-Hur?”
“I was an extra in the chariot race sequence.”
“I’m impressed,’’ said Hammett. “Who were you rooting for?”
