by George Baxt
‘‘If you’re so hot to tie her up, why haven’t you put it to her?”
“I have. Many times. Only this morning I told her how much I still love her.”
“You love the little black book.” He said nothing. “You want me to say a good word for you, is that it?”
“She listens to you.”
“Sometimes. You know, I never knew why Claire turned to you when she first got sick.”
He said adamantly, “Because I’m one of the best there is and as Claire told me herself, three doctors she consulted recommended me.”
“I can’t fight that. That’s what she told me.” After a moment she said, “Funny. Claire isn’t one to hold grudges, unless you’re Louis B. Mayer. Mitchell, no matter what I say, Claire isn’t going to marry you. I was hoping you phoned me because maybe there was a possible option open to Claire. You know, like maybe one of those clinics in Switzerland I’m always reading about in Liberty magazine. Where they perform miracles, giving back youth to the aged, giving back health to the terminally ill, making death keep its distance.” Suddenly her face was wreathed in a warm smile. “Why hello, Mr. Powell, fancy meeting you here.”
“There’s nothing fancy about me or this place. How are you, Fern ?”
“I’m surviving.” She introduced the men and moved over to make room for the actor to sit.
“I can only stay a minute. I’m with friends. Or at least they say they’re friends.” He told them who he was with. He said to Carewe, “Are you by any chance wealthy?” Fern suppressed a whoop. It didn’t escape Powell, who said to the doctor, “I didn’t mean to get personal on so brief an acquaintance, in fact, embarrassingly brief, but you see, and I’m sure you’ll find this most flattering, Minnie — that’s Myrna Loy — finds you terribly attractive and if by some strange means that leads to anything, I want to make sure you're well heeled enough to support her in the style to which she intends to remain accustomed. Of course Myrna is quite well off in her own right, as of this week, but she has a husband who has been a drain on her financial resources despite the fact he pulls down large sums of money as a producer. But he has this peculiar trait of preferring to spend her money rather than his own. They’ve only been married about six months now but for four years before the marriage they did live in what the gentlemen in the pulpits refer to as ‘mortal sin’ as opposed, I suppose, to ‘immortal sin,’ if there is such a condition.” He swiftly abandoned Carewe. who bored him, and asked Fern, “And how is Claire?”
“Bearing up.”
“Bearing up to what? We’re the ones who should be bearing up. Now that she’s unofficially announced that she’s out of business, and shame on her without even holding a clearance sale. She is out of business, isn’t she?”
“Why, you looking for some action?”
“Good grief. no. I’ve had a day heavy with action. I'm sure Claire is aware that the little acorn she fed Hazel Dickson has sprouted into one gigantic oak of a mess.” He said to Carewe, “I'm sure you’ve heard of Claire Young’s little black book. The world’s heard of it by now. I’m sure. I’m sure it’s wiped the Dalai Lama off the front page of Tibet’s Lhasa Gazette, if such a periodical exists. But of course you’ve heard, you’re Claire’s doctor.”
Carewe said. “You know an awful lot, Mr. Powell.”
“I travel in excellent circles. But unfortunately I feel as though I’m going around in circles. Tell me, Fern, you have easy access to Claire's confidence, is this sudden ploy of hers a cue for those of us who have partaken of her services — that is, the services she has offered — to offer some sort of financial remuneration to keep her trap shut? That is, those of us who assume we’re mentioned in this book. Am I in the book?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never read it.”
“Does it exist?”
“It exists.’’
“You know, Fern, there are a great many men in Hollywood, some of them terribly influential, who think Claire is indulging in a very subtle and, I might add, very dangerous form of blackmail.” Fern shrugged.
Powell asked, “Do I interpret your not too eloquent shrug as meaning ‘yes’ blackmail or ‘no’ blackmail?”
Fern said, “A shrug is a shrug.”
“Add another ‘is a shrug’ and we might try attributing it to Gertrude Stein.” Powell said to the doctor, “Have you any word for Miss Loy?”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “‘Speak for yourself, John.’”
“I’m already spoken for. A lovely little lady named Jean Harlow.” He returned to Fern. “As I said a few seconds ago. I’m sure Claire is aware she’s playing a very dangerous game. I like Claire. Try to make her aware she could be sitting on a powder keg.”
“Mr. Powell, you’re not threatening her, are you?”
“Of course I’m not threatening her. I am Chicken Little bringing to her attention that the sky is falling.” A waiter finally arrived with drinks. Powell said to the waiter, “What kept you?” He said to Fern, “Goodbye, Fern. Don’t look so troubled. As my doctor said of a troublesome kidney stone, ‘This too shall pass.’ Goodbye, Doctor, though I think you’re shameful for having thrown over Myrna Loy without even meeting her.” He departed jauntily while Carewe and Fern quickly made use of their drinks.
At the other side of the room, Myrna said to Hellman and Hammett, “I wish I had studied lip reading. When I was an extra here way back when, I got very friendly with Lon Chaney.”
“Oh, what a wonderful mime he was,” said Hammett.
“Absolutely,” agreed Myrna. “He offered to teach me lip reading and the sign language, because both his parents were deaf and dumb.”
“You’re kidding,” said Hellman.
“No, it’s the truth. But I thought it was his way of making a pass at me and back then I was Virginia the Virgin who didn’t trust men because my mother told me not to and of course Mother knew best.”
“Like hell she did,” said Hammett.
“Like hell she still doesn’t. Della May Johnson Williams, that’s mother’s dull identification, still doesn’t trust men, or anybody else for that matter, although she likes Hornblow. I’ll bet she’s over at the house in Hidden Valley right now with Arthur.”
“What’s the house in Hidden Valley?” asked Hellman.
“It’s a house I spent a fortune building for Arthur and me.”
Hellman leaned forward and growled, “And I suppose it’s in his name?”
“Oh no, it’s in both our names.” Hellman winced.
Hammett said in a voice coated with astonishment, “You walked out leaving him to live in the house?”
“Well, he had nowhere to go. He doesn’t belong to any club or anything like that. So he booked me into the Chateau Marmont. It’s quite cozy and quite reasonable, and talking about cozy and reasonable, here comes our friend Bill.”
Powell sat and told Myrna, “You don’t in the least bit interest him.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Myrna.
“The doctor. Carewe, I believe is his name. I asked him if he might consider marrying you and the brute was noncommittal. He did say, ‘Speak for yourself, John.’”
“But your name is Bill,” said Myrna. “The man is terribly confused. I’ve lost all interest in him. I couldn’t be interested in a man given to confusions. Well, did you learn anything?”
“Maybe, but I couldn’t figure out what.” He recapped his conversation with Fern and Carewe fairly accurately.
“Dear me, Bill,” said Myrna. “I must admit it does sound as though you were making a threat to Claire. Now if she’s murdered, will that Fern person finger you as the most likely suspect?”
“That wouldn’t be very sporting of her,” said Bill.
“Mr. Powell,” said Hellman, “there’s nothing very sporting about murder. You do agree, don’t you, Dash?” Hammett didn’t dare disagree.
Powell said suavely, “Has coffee been ordered?”
“Yes it has, and right on cue, here comes Gr
iselda with a waiter in town. I hope he’s not Greek.”
“What makes you think he might be Greek?” asked Powell.
“I didn’t say he might be, I said I hoped he isn’t.” They stared at her. “Well, you know, ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’“
“He’s bearing coffee and what looks like four snifters of brandy.”
“They happen to be gifts. From Griselda.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of Griselda.” She arrived with the waiter. “How very kind you are, Griselda. I assume this is your best brandy.”
“Bill!” Myrna was shocked.
Griselda was laughing. “It’s cognac from our private stock.”
“Ah! Dash and Lillian …are you suitably impressed?” Hammett raised his snifter to Griselda and Lillian voiced her thanks. The room was packed and the buzz of voices had assumed the volume of bomber engines in full flight. Griselda sat next to Powell, who managed to make a bit of room for her, a spare chair being unavailable. She said, “Well?”
Powell asked innocently. “Well, what?”
Griselda gestured with her head. “Those two over there.”
“Fern and the doctor?” asked Powell.
“I saw you move in on them.”
“I didn’t move in, I just visited. Griselda, you look so serene and peaceful.”
“That’s because I have no time bombs to worry about. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but from the look of it you had both of them worried.”
“Oh, good for you, Bill,” said Myrna smartly. “What was worrying them?”
“I think what worries Fern is that this whole little black book plot could backfire. It certainly smells of blackmail.”
“To high heaven,” said Myrna.
He told Griselda that Fern had taken much of what he said as a threat against Claire’s life.
Griselda said, “I’m sure there’s a small army amassed by now interested in seeing Claire done away with.”
“Well,” said Powell, “there’s one damn good reason they better not do away with our Claire, not just yet anyway.”
“I don’t think they should do away with her at all,” insisted Myrna. “I’m against capital punishment. Aren’t you, Lillian?”
Hellman replied, “I’m against punishment but I’m all for any form of capital, which should squelch the rumor that I’m a fellow traveler.”
“My dear people,” Powell said, “let’s stop being cute and adorable and take a sober look at the situation, though with all the booze we’ve consumed there might be a difficulty. The one damn reason to keep Claire alive is this: to make sure the book doesn’t fall into the wrong and very dangerous hands.”
SEVEN
“That’s Nick Charles talking,” said Myrna with an imperious sniff.
“I beg to differ,” countered Powell. “Those were my very own pearls of wisdom. If that book gets into the wrong hands, there will be a lot of careers sinking below the horizon.”
“This is turning out to be a terrible Christmas,” said Myrna.
“Dash and I are having a perfectly lovely time,” said Hellman. “We are, aren’t we, Dash?”
“I loathe Christmas. But if you say so, Lily, we’re having a perfectly lovely time. And if you want to know why I loathe Christmas, I shall tell all of you with great gusto, especially if there’s more cognac in reserve.” Griselda signaled a waiter to bring a bottle of cognac. “Christmas is the season of hypocrisy. I suppose it once was a time when mankind generally wanted peace on earth with good will toward all men. Very Charles Dickens and that tiresome child Tiny Tim — if he was standing next to me all hale and healthy, I’d take great pleasure in breaking both his legs.”
“Spoken like a true curmudgeon,” said Powell. “Griselda, are you appalled?”
“Not at all. I thrive on cynics. They’re among my best customers. Mrs. Parker, Mr. Benchley, the Mankiewicz brothers, and the rest of the lot. I happen to like Christmas. I’m very sentimental. I also like Shirley Temple. Here’s more brandy.” The waiter refilled their snifters.
‘‘Now these are not on the house,” insisted Myrna. “We mustn’t make pigs of ourselves and take advantage of a hostess who is brave enough to admit she likes Shirley Temple.”
“What have you got against the kid?” asked Hammett, already on his way into his cups.
A startled Myrna said, “I’ve got nothing against her. She’s charming and very gifted and I never speak ill of a fellow thespian. And I stand by my statement. This isn’t a very nice Christmas what with the sword of Damocles hanging overhead and threatening the careers of so many nice people.”
Added Hellman, “Whose only crime was getting horny every so often and going in search of artificial respiration. This town is absolutely unbelievable. It seduces and then it destroys what it has seduced.”
“Don’t be too unkind to this town,” said Myrna. “It’s the only town I’ve got.”
“There, there, Minnie, don’t go getting maudlin on us,” said Powell consolingly. “Soon Christmas will have passed and we’ll be facing paying income tax.”
“Gee, but you’re a fun bunch,” said Hellman.
“And I haven’t sent my Christmas cards,” moaned Myrna. “Arthur is such a louse. I hope he drowns in a vat of imported French wine.”
“If you miss him so much,” said Powell, “why don’t you phone him and tell him to come home?”
“He is home. I’m the one who isn’t! He should be on his knees pleading with me to come back.”
“I don’t see Arthur as the pleading type, especially on his knees.”
“They’re very knobby knees,” said Myrna.
Griselda interrupted. “He’s alone.”
“I don’t give a damn if he is,” said an angry Myrna.
“I’m referring to Doctor Carewe,” said Griselda. “Fern’s abandoned him. He looks very unhappy.”
“Serves him right for turning me down. I seem to get turned down more often than a blanket.” Myrna was staring across the room. “He’s paying the check.”
“They didn’t eat,” added Griselda.
“They each had a drink,” said Powell.
“My God!” cried Hellman, “you sound like undercover agents!”
Said Powell, “I wish I had a recording of their conversation.” He took a sip of cognac and then added, “Does anyone feel as uneasy as I do at this very moment?”
“I understand. Bill,” said Myrna. “There’s an awful lot to feel uneasy about.”
“Brrrr,” said Griselda. “I’m suddenly cold all over.”
“Somebody must have walked over your grave,” suggested Myrna.
“Well, if they did,” said Griselda, “they chose the wrong grave. I don’t own a little black book.”
Claire Young sat alone in her living room in an easy chair, on her lap an unopened Bible. One hand covered the Bible as though she was swearing an oath. The other hand held a glass filled with bourbon and soda. On the end table at her side, a cigarette smoldered in a tray. Claire’s hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon. She wore pajamas and a negligee but sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. A sound at the front door brought her suddenly alert. She heard a key turning in the lock. She hurried to a bookshelf and replaced the Bible. Fern Arnold came into the room.
“Oh God, Fern, how you frightened me. I had visions of someone using a skeleton key.”
“Who’d be dumb enough to use a skeleton key when a house is ablaze with light? I thought you had company. Lots of company. I tried to phone but I kept getting a busy signal.” Her eye caught the phone. The receiver was off the hook. “You put the phone off the hook. Lots of crank calls?”
“Lots of reporters. A couple of Johns wanting to make sure I was out of business. I get a new unlisted number tomorrow. I’ll have cards printed and mail them to our gentlemen callers.”
Fern sat opposite Claire on the sofa, lighting a cigarette. “Gentlemen callers! That’s a rich one.”
Said Claire prag
matically, “They’ll have to know where to get in touch.”
“They could always come by and scratch at the door. How’s for a drink?”
Claire held up her bourbon and soda. “I’ve already got one.”
“It looks very watery.” She took the glass from Claire as she headed for the bar.
“Where’ve you been? I tried to call you.”
“Where are the smelling salts?”
Claire stared at her. “Don’t you feel well?”
“I feel fine. It’s you I’m considering.” She was mixing two bourbon and sodas, the cigarette dangling from the edge of her mouth.
“Do I look as though I’m about to faint?” There was now an edge to Claire’s voice.
“Don’t get tetchy with me. I know it’s no fun to be under fire. Well, hon, you should have thought it over more carefully before going public.”
Claire folded her arms and said with a self-confident smile, “In the past three hours there have been five messengers bringing me envelopes.”
Fern’s eyes widened. “And does your cup runneth over as it says somewhere in the good book?”
“It’s not yet an inundation, but it’s a promising start.”
“And it’s nontaxable. Whee!” She carried the drinks back to Claire and retained what was a stronger one for herself. As she returned to the sofa, she asked, “You think it’s safe to stay in the house?”
“No I don’t. But I have to sit it out until I can make a move.”
“Move where? Your doctors are here.”
“Singular doctor as of now. Mitch Carewe.”
“That’s who I was with tonight.”
Claire looked like a startled rabbit.
“That’s why I’ve been thinking of smelling salts. I didn’t want to see him but he was so damned persistent, 1 figured why the hell not. I met him at Griselda’s Cage. We had a drink with a brief interruption by Bill Powell.”
“One of the few nice ones in this town. Was he with Harlow?”
Fern told her about Powell’s companions and then about Carewe’s ardent insistence on his love for Claire. Claire commented succinctly, “Hogwash. He’s after what a hell of a lot of other people would like to get their hands on, my little black book.”
