[Celebrity Murder Case 11] - The William Power and Myrna Loy Murder Case

by George Baxt

  “No thanks.”

  “Very wise. They’re positively nauseating. Ah, here we are.” He read the label on the drawer: ‘M.G.M. The Twenties. Ingenues.’“ He asked Hazel, “Am I right in assuming she was an ingenue?” Hazel assured him he was. He pulled out the drawer and began riffling the photos. While flashing another unappetizing smile, he said, “Well, aren’t you the lucky one. You must be an Aries.” Hazel didn’t confirm or deny, she was too anxious for a look at the photo he’d found. He pulled it out. “Voila! Audrey Manners. My, she was sweet.”

  The tableau of Hazel confronting Villon and Mallory in the parking lot needed regrouping. It was as though the three were frozen in position with Mallory wishing he was invisible. He and Villon realized that Hazel had dropped by accidentally on purpose. From the moment she found the Audrey Manners photograph in Villon’s desk drawer, Villon realized she was being eaten up by a deadly combination of curiosity and jealousy.

  “That was a fine piece of detective work. Hazel. I’d be jealous except as you know, I never envy anyone. And you didn’t drop by here to see if I had any items for you.”

  “You said you’d never met Claire Young.”

  “I knew Audrey Manners.”

  “They’re the same person!”

  “It’s one of those rare moments when you’re not on my wave length. I knew Audrey Manners before she became Claire Young. I only know Audrey Manners. I repeat, I’ve never met Claire Young. I’m on my way to meet Claire Young now, assuming she’ll be home by the time I get there.” His tone softened. “Come on. Hazel. The past is dead. Let it rest in peace. If you’ve got the time before you have to meet Powell, tag along with us. It’s on the way to the Metro studios. Or at least the golden retriever here” — he indicated Mallory with his head — “says it is.” He sighed and said, “Hazel, you’re pouting. The pout doesn’t go with your new hairdo.” He started for the unmarked car followed by Mallory, who flashed Hazel a wink. Hazel got back into her car, muttering under her breath.

  “I’ll kill that son of a bitch one of these days, so help me I’ll kill him.” She switched on the ignition and continued muttering. “‘I only know Audrey Manners … I’ve never met Claire Young.’ Who does he think he’s kidding? Audrey Manners is Claire Young and Claire Young was Audrey Manners. If you knew her under one name then you still know her even if she’s changed it.” She beeped angrily at a boy on a bicycle who was pedaling at a reckless speed. Villon thought she was beeping for his attention and beeped back by way of reassuring her. In his rear-view mirror he saw the menace on the bicycle. He slowed down so the boy could come abreast of him and then flashed his badge. The boy got the message and swerved sharply to the left into a side street. Through the rearview mirror he saw Hazel bending over the wheel of her car as though she was competing in the Indy 500.

  Villon said to Mallory, “Hazel’s muttering. She’s still mad at me.”

  “You’ve been talking to yourself.”

  “It’s the only time I get smart answers.”

  “You want to talk about Audrey Manners?”

  Villon ignored the question for the moment. “Damn Hazel! We've been together seven, eight years now and she still can’t read me. Those photos she found in my desk drawer! She knows I know she snoops through my things when she’s alone in the apartment. If I left those photos so accessible, she should know they mean nothing to me, they’re unimportant.”

  Mallory stared ahead through the windshield and repeated his earlier question. “You want to talk about Audrey Manners?”

  Villon growled, “Your needle’s stuck.”

  “You’re always pumping me about my girlfriends.”

  “You like me to pump you about your girlfriends.”

  “It isn’t a matter of like or dislike. I consider you my best friend, Herb, and it pleases me you’re interested in what’s going on in my life, which usually isn’t very much. Make a sharp right here.” Villon followed instructions. The sudden turn caught Hazel unawares and she almost shot past the street Villon had turned into.

  “Hazel’s cursing,” said Villon with a grin as he looked in his rear-view mirror.

  Mallory was more interested in friendship than he was in Hazel. “It was pretty obvious you didn’t like Reba.”

  “Reba? I don’t remember any Reba.”

  “The salesgirl at Bullock’s.”

  Villon searched his memory for Reba but she remained elusive. “I don’t remember any Reba.”

  “Heliotrope.”

  “Oh my God. That one. That sickening scent she wore. Heliotrope. You finally get rid of her?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “That long ago? My, how time flies. So, best friend, who’re you mixed up with now?”

  “I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh.”

  “I promise.”

  “She’s a waitress. I’ve taken her dancing a couple of times. She doesn’t mind dancing even though she’s on her feet nine hours a day.”

  “Since when did you learn how to dance?”

  “I haven’t, but it doesn’t seem to bother Regan.”

  “Who’s Regan?”

  “My waitress.”

  “Her name is Regan?”

  ‘‘She works at Metro. In the executive dining room. She knows all the stars intimately and calls them by their first names.”

  “Even Garbo?”

  “Garbo eats in her dressing room. She brings her lunch from home in a brown bag. She’s very thrifty.”

  Villon said, “I don’t believe she calls them by their first names.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “She probably calls them ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie’ or ‘dearie’ and aren’t we there yet?”

  “About another half mile.”

  Hazel was now muttering about Villon’s poky driving. He was averaging thirty-five miles an hour and she was considering passing him and zooming on to Claire Young’s. She knew the way. She’d been there before. Audrey Manners. Hazel was no longer tempted to pass the detectives. Audrey Manners had taken up residence again in her mind. They were practically old buddies. Hazel had been seriously entertaining Audrey ever since she found the still in Villon’s desk drawer. She would have passed it off as unimportant because if it was lying around where Hazel could easily find it then it meant very little to him, if anything. But this was different. She had tracked Audrey to Claire like a bloodhound on the scent of an escaped convict. Even Herb had complimented her fine detective work. Neither one of them mentioned Jimmy Fidler wondering in his column today if Claire Young remembered an actress named Audrey Manners. She hadn’t spilled the beans to Fidler, she had just asked him as a favor to use the query. She knew Fidler would soon ask her what it was all about, because she had a premonition something even bigger then the hidden black book was in the offing and Hazel’s premonitions were notorious for their infallibility. She wondered who at Metro had been laying Audrey. Mayer? Always a possibility and rarely a dark horse. Who had bankrolled Audrey when she decided to change her name to Claire Young, throw caution to the winds, and go into high-class prostitution with the eagerness and verve of those who change their religions? If Louis B. Mayer found out his identity he’d have either finished him off for good in the business or demanded a season’s pass. No, it wasn’t safe to let any information fall into Mayer’s hands that could serve as a threat to one’s career. Ahead through the windshield she saw Herb Villon pulling into Claire Young’s driveway. There was one car parked there and Hazel recognized it as Fern Arnold’s. Claire had not yet come home.

  Villon said to Mallory, “Modest little place by Hollywood standards.’’

  “Claire doesn’t go in for ostentation. She’s always kept a low profile. I don’t think she’s home yet.”

  “Whose car is this?” asked Villon as he switched off the ignition.

  “It’s Fern Arnold’s.” Mallory got out of the car and waved at Hazel as she pulled in behind them.

  Hazel said, aft
er she got out of her car and slammed the door shut with such ferocity that both men winced, “Herb Villon, you are a menace. You are the worst driver ever. You’re like a little old lady behind the wheel.”

  “Hazel, for shame,” said Villon. “You’re still mad at me. 1 thought in the time it took to drive here you’d be reassessing my assets and realize you have been badly misjudging me.” He chucked her under the chin. “Think of Christmas and smile.” Jim was at the front door, pressing the doorbell. “Ah!” said Villon, “chimes. How melodic and soothing.” No one came to the door.

  Mallory pushed the doorbell again. Hazel gently moved him to one side and tried the doorknob. The door opened.

  “Hazel,” said Villon, “this is breaking and entering.”

  “Even when I’m with two of the city’s finest?” She pushed the door open and indicated for Mallory and Villon to lead the way. Mallory led them into the smartly albeit simply furnished downstairs hall.

  Mallory shouted, “Hello? Anybody home?” There was no response. He looked at Villon and Hazel and shrugged. He indicated a room to the left. “That’s where Claire holds court. Combination living room and library.”

  “Which way’s the kitchen?” asked Hazel. “I’m famished.”

  “Don’t you dare raid her refrigerator,” admonished Villon. “I’ve often been warned that’s a woman’s most private territory.” He took her hand and they followed Mallory into a room that Villon knew he could always be comfortable in. Yes, this was a room whose furnishings and decor had been overseen by Audrey Manners. It instantly brought back the memory of Audrey’s charming cottage in Culver City, a short distance from M.G.M. Books, books, and more books. The Bible he saw was probably the very same one on which she had made him place his hand and promise to love her forever. The prints were in impeccable taste. It was a room a woman had furnished to please a man. And an awful lot of men must have been pleased in this room. He stared at Jim Mallory, who seemed transfixed. He was staring past a group of chairs to a fireplace in which no fire burned. Villon felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He let Hazel’s hand drop and advanced to Mallory’s side.

  Hazel didn’t mind the dropping of her hand because she had noticed something the men had not yet seen. The desk had been ransacked, its contents spilled onto the floor. A row of bookshelves they wouldn’t have seen when they entered the room were in disorder. Someone had been looking for something which she hoped he hadn’t found. Prints and paintings hung awry on the walls. Somebody was looking for a wall safe.

  Hazel turned to Villon and Mallory. They were kneeling. “Somebody’s been ransacking the joint,” she announced.

  “They’ve done worse than that,” said Villon. “They’ve cracked open Fern Arnold’s skull.”

  ELEVEN

  Hazel regretted crossing the room to where Fern lay dead. It was an ugly sight. Fern’s eyes were open, staring, seemingly, at the murder weapon, a bloodstained poker. Villon went into action immediately after closing the corpse’s eyes. He ordered Mallory to phone for the coroner, the morgue’s hearse, and a team of detectives to assist. Mallory hurried out to use the phone in their car, as Hazel had already commandeered the phone in the room. She gave the scoop to the Los Angeles Times despite the fact it was not the Hearst publication in which Louella’s column appeared. Hazel’s delivery was terse and quick. Though not a Times employee, she frequently serviced them as a free-lance and the editor she dealt with trusted her, knowing she was reliable. He turned her over to a rewrite man, one Hazel knew quite well and frequently shot pool with, and gave him the facts like a veteran. She rattled off quickly the six rules of journalism a reporter abided by: Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How. After which she phoned Louella, followed by Jimmy Fidler and Sidney Skolsky.

  Outside in the unmarked police car, Mallory was a model of his own brand of efficiency. The officer he was talking to was a movie buff and therefore given to exclaiming “Wow!” and “Yeah!” and “Boy!” as he had seen in numerous films, long ago realizing that movie fiction was far more interesting and exciting than police reality.

  Driving home from Amelia’s Claire Young was trying to bring order to the various characters dancing about in her brain. There was Amelia reassuring her the typewritten pages were safely hidden; there was her lawyer, Ronald Derwitt, assuring her her will was in perfect order and that Fern Arnold was an excellent choice for executor; there was Mitchell Carewe offering her sleeping pills while professing undying love; and there was her crippled son in a wheelchair enumerating the desirability of a future in the desert. She slowed down as she reached her house and recognized Fern’s car but not the other two parked behind it. Instinct told her there was something wrong in her house. She pulled up in front of Fern’s car and recognized Jim Mallory in the front seat of the police car talking heatedly into the precinct intercom. She hurried from her car to Jim, who had signed off and gone to meet her.

  “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  Jim never hedged when there was bad news to be delivered. “Fern’s dead.”

  Claire could feel the blood draining from her cheeks. Jim thought she was going to faint and grabbed hold of her. Claire whispered, “How?”

  “She’s been murdered. In the library. There’s been some ransacking there and she must have walked in on it.”

  With an anguished cry, Claire pulled away from him and ran into the house. Mallory followed. She hurried into the library as Hazel was wrapping up a conversation with an Associated Press editor. Hazel said, “Don’t look! Don’t look!” but Claire was not to be forestalled. Villon’s back was to Claire, but when he heard her cry out, he turned. She was transfixed by the body. Hazel was at her side with an arm around her waist making what were probably soothing noises but sounded like an attempt to give life to a stalled engine.

  Villon stared at Claire. Mallory stared at Villon staring at Claire.

  Surprisingly enough. Hazel continued to be preoccupied with attempting to calm Claire. She was also thinking of William Powell awaiting her presence in his suite at the Metro studios. She moved her head to find Villon and found him immediately and felt an invisible stab in her heart from the way he was looking at Claire. He was looking at Claire but he was seeing Audrey Manners. Mallory was wondering if he would ever look at a woman with the tenderness with which Villon was looking at Claire. And then Claire turned away from the body and her eyes locked with Villon’s. She recognized him immediately. Heavier, older, but still handsome in his own rough way. Herb Villon was not easily forgotten. Villon could see she was having a problem and took charge of the situation, while hoping Hazel would exercise some discretion.

  Villon said, “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Young. It looks to me as though she died instantly. She apparently caught the killer in the act of ransacking the room and in a panic he picked up a poker from the fireplace and struck her.” Claire said nothing, she just stared at him. and Mallory in his mind was hearing Jeannette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy bearing down on ‘The Indian Love Call.’ Hazel had backed away from Claire and was lighting a cigarette. “From the state of those bookshelves behind you and your desk he knew what he was looking for.” Claire’s eyes never left Villon. She knew that what the murderer was looking for he would never find. “I suspect he parked his car further down the road and came to the house on foot.” He said to Mallory, “He was methodical enough to wipe the hilt of the poker.” He said to Hazel, “I suppose photographers and reporters will be descending on us in hordes.”

  Hazel said sweetly, “It goes with the territory.” She said to Claire, “How’s for some brandy?” Claire said nothing and Villon told Hazel the brandy was an excellent idea. He wanted one for himself but didn’t ask for it. He needed a clear head, he needed to be unimpaired in his thinking. Hazel went to the bar while Villon said to Claire, “Why don’t you sit down over there?” He indicated the chair she had sat in the previous evening, conversing with Fern.

  Claire’s eyes were misting. She opened her hand
bag, found a handkerchief, and put it to use as she walked to the chair and sat. Hazel brought the brandy and placed it on the end table next to where Claire was sitting. They heard sirens in the distance and Villon was relieved at the sound. Claire sipped the brandy. Hazel was at the phone dialing Metro and William Powell. Mallory knew he should be doing something productive but couldn’t think of what. Villon said to him, “Come on, Jim. Get a move on. Look around the room. Maybe the bastard dropped a clue.”

  Fat chance, thought Mallory but nodded to Villon and slowly paced the room. He then wondered if Fern Arnold might be lying on something but had no intention of moving her body to find out. She was not a pretty sight though fortunately there was not much blood splattered. It had been a swift blow. A very neat job.

  Villon asked Claire, “Is there someone you’d like us to call for you?”

  Claire said huskily, “She’s lying on the floor.”

  And now they heard the violin. Freda Groba preceded Lazio Biro and Lucy Rockefeller into the room. They had hurried home from the precinct to change their clothes and hightail it to Claire’s to propose a deal with her to take over the business. On seeing Villon and Mallory, Freda said, “What are you doing here? Who are you pinching?”

  “Fern’s dead!” cried Claire as she left the chair and went to Freda. “She’s been murdered!”

  Freda emitted a howl that chilled Mallory’s spine. She and Fern had taken an instant liking to each other. Lucy Rockefeller saw the body and put her hands over her mouth. She hurried to a bathroom she knew was just off the kitchen.

  Lazio stopped playing the violin and crossed himself. Freda and Claire embraced each other while Hazel said into the phone, “Bill, it’s' Hazel. Something awful’s happened.” She told him about Fern’s murder.

  “Why, that poor dear thing,” said Powell as Myrna entered from his kitchenette with a jug of dry martinis.

  “What poor dear thing?” asked Myrna. Powell told her about Fern’s murder.

  Myrna was aghast or about as aghast as Myrna ever got. “You mean the woman we saw last night at Griselda’s Cage?” Powell nodded yes. “How awful! She was so young, so attractive.” She poured two martinis. She took one to Powell and then returned to retrieve her own.