by George Baxt
“That could be one interpretation,” said Powell. “It also could have been a very innocent, matter-of-fact tete-a-tete.”
“It’s not much of a tete-a-tete when they order drinks and don’t order dinner and she flounces out leaving him alone at the table.” She said to Herb, “That’s exactly what happened. I’m positive the friends who were with us can corroborate that.”
“I believe you, Myrna,” said Herb. “But I can’t see Claire hitting Fern over the head with the poker. Myrna, for me it doesn’t play.”
“Me either, Minnie. It needs a rewrite.”
“I’m sorry I started this thing. I’m beginning to feel like a fool.”
“You’re not a fool, Minnie.” Powell said, “You’re a very smart cookie who might have gone off on the wrong tangent. Everyone’s entitled to that.”
“But you haven’t let me finish!” Myrna’s cheeks were flushed with annoyance. “I know, I know. I sound a little carried away and overwrought having been caught up in this investigation. Herb, I’m only trying to be of help. Is my theory so completely illogical to you?”
“The hell of it is,” said Herb, “it’s a possibility. Claire’s under heavy pressure what with her illness, the little black book, money worries. If Fern found the book Claire could see herself being betrayed. She might even go berserk and attack her with the poker. But I was here when Claire came home; her reaction to Fern lying battered in a pool of blood was genuine horror and heartbreak. And I suspect Claire was never that good an actress. What 1 saw was genuine.” Then he gave a Gallic shrug. “But who knows?” He caught Claire’s eye and gestured her to join them. He said to Myrna, “Let me handle this.”
“Of course,” said Myrna. “You’re in charge.”
Claire joined them. “What is it. Herb?”
“Claire, where were you all morning until you came home?”
Claire cottoned immediately. “You don’t think I might have killed Fern?”
“Claire, you know it’s my job to cover all trails.”
“Sure, Herb, sure. I was at Amelia Hubbard’s. She’s a free-lance secretary. I was giving dictation. She usually comes here but her car was on the fritz. So I went to her. I was with her from around ten in the morning until I left to come back here. I’ll give you Amelia’s number. You can phone and ask her.”
“Thanks, Claire. I believe you. Myrna?”
“Of course I do. I’m sorry, Claire. I must be suffering from a bad case of The Thin Man. I’ve gotten carried away and I hereby resign.” She said to Powell, “So there.”
“So there what?”
“So there I resign, that’s what.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you resign, Minnie? Since when are you a quitter? I’m ashamed of you, Minnie, ashamed that you’d turn in your badge when the department needs you the most. You want her to resign. Herb?”
“Hell no, the way she thinks she just might come up with the murderer after all.”
Myrna said, “Claire, forgive me. But I have a habit of coming up with some very strange theories.”
Claire found a smile. “Maybe one of them will turn out to be not all that strange.”
Myrna was delighted. “Why Claire, that’s terribly kind of you. Now look, dear, let me help you. I’ve got some time on my hands. I’m talking about funeral arrangements for Fern. Notifying her family.”
‘‘How nice of you,” said Claire, “but Freda and Lucy are looking after everything. They’re quite competent.”
“Oh, Freda’s very competent,” said Powell.
“I’m sure you speak from experience,” said Myrna.
Claire excused herself and went to the kitchen to see how the ladies were doing with the sandwiches and coffee.
Myrna said to the men, “I suppose you think I made a complete fool of myself.”
“Not at all,” said Herb. “Quite honestly, I’ve been wondering what Fern was up to seeing Mitchell Carewe last night. You see, Claire and Mitchell were once quite an item. Years ago when she was at Metro and he was interning.’’
Powell asked, “Do Claire and Fern go that far back?”
“Of course they do,” said Myrna.
“You’re so sure?” asked Powell.
“I could swear I heard someone say they met at Metro.” She thought for a moment. “I was at Metro then. My first time around at Metro. The hell with it. Herb, what about Mitchell Carewe? What do you know about him?”
“His medical reputation is impeccable.”
“Oh,” said Myrna dejectedly.
“Now what?” asked Powell.
“I was hoping he was a quack.”
Villon told her, “He has a very imposing list of movie star clientele.”
Myrna said, “That doesn’t make him good. It only makes him successful.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Powell.
Jim Mallory joined them and asked Villon, “Any point in the forensics boys dusting the rest of the house?”
“A waste of time. This is the only room where it’s necessary. Are you telling me they’re finished in here?”
“Hell no. They just weren’t looking forward to doing more than this room. Arc you going to let me in on what was going on with Claire Young?”
Herb told him, “Myrna saw her as a possible suspect.”
“Why not?” said Mallory jovially, “the more the merrier.”
“She's got an alibi,” said Myrna. “Amelia something.”
“Amelia Hubbard,” said Herb. He told Mallory, “She’s a freelance secretary. Claire was giving dictation.”
Myrna was deep in thought. “Now what do you suppose Claire was dictating?”
Powell said with a broad grin, “What does every madam in captivity dictate sooner or later? Her memoirs.”
Myrna brightened, “Oh Bill, do you think?”
“I do not merely think, I hope. I hope she is. I can’t wait to read them.”
Villon shook his head and said somewhat glumly, “Memoirs on top of a little black book. Excuse me.” He went in search of Claire. He found her in the kitchen where she was helping Freda and Lucy with the sandwiches. Lazio had set his violin aside to concentrate on a dill pickle. Villon spoke to Claire and she followed him out of the kitchen into the front hall where they could have some privacy. “Have you been dictating your memoirs?”
“Smart deduction.”
“Not mine. Bill Powell deserves the credit. Now listen, Claire, I hate to think that what you’re working on is a soupçon of blackmail.”
“Has anyone complained to the police that I’m blackmailing them?”
“Not that I’ve heard so far.”
“And you won’t hear.” Her chin was lifted and defiant. “What I have received are contributions from various gentleman to help cover the costs of my illness. And I might add, they were unsolicited. And don’t ask me for names because you won't get them.”
“Well, little Audrey — “
“The name is Claire.”
“Okay, the name is Claire. But let me let you in on a fresh theory of mine. You want so badly to be murdered, then you missed your golden opportunity today. You should have stayed home, because I have an idea Fern was the wrong victim. The killer mistook her for you.”
‘‘Baloney. If it’s anyone who knows us, he’d know Fern, we’re no more alike than Laurel and Hardy.”
‘‘And not nearly as funny.”
‘‘Nice try. Herb. And don’t push the blackmail bit. I’ve got a very shrewd lawyer. And as for the existence of my little black book, it’s right there in the library. Right under everybody’s nose. And you’ll never find it. Not you, not anyone. Anything else.”
“Maybe once upon a time, but not today.”
FOURTEEN
Louis B. Mayer lay flat on his back on the floor of his office with his eyes shut and his mouth open. In his left hand he tightly clutched the French-style telephone he’d been holding when he heard the news that s
ent him into a faint. Ida Koverman stood over him, hands on hips, looking down at her prostrate employer. Howard Strickling, Mayer’s favorite henchman, was at the bar pouring a tumbler of Southern Comfort, Mayer’s favorite drink. Ida said over her shoulder to Strickling, “Did you see that pirouette when he leapt out of the chair? Pure Nijinski. I wonder what it was that sent him flying and then into his swoon?”
Mayer’s eyes fluttered open. Ida looked down at him while thinking, The fraud. He had no more fainted than she had. His mouth closed slowly and then his tongue flicked out, obscenely moistening his lips. And then he croaked, “Seltzer.”
Ida turned to Strickling. “Hold the Southern Comfort. He wants seltzer.”
Strickling downed the Southern Comfort and grabbed a seltzer bottle and a tall glass. Ida wondered if the sound of the syphon was music to Mayer’s ears. She heard him say, “Where am I?”
‘‘Where you always are when you faint. Do you want me to help you up or would my assistance make you question your manhood?”
“Ida, you’ve got a real rotten mouth.” With an effort, he sat up. He grabbed hold of the desk top and pulled himself to his feet. Strickling was at his side with the glass of seltzer. Mayer sat behind his desk, placed the telephone where it belonged, then grasped the glass of seltzer and gulped it down greedily. He slammed the empty glass on the desk, burped lavishly while both Koverman and Strickling shut their eyes and then bellowed, “I have been betrayed!”
“Again?” asked Koverman. She lifted the empty glass and asked Mayer, “You want more?”
“I want the heads of William Powell and Myrna Loy on a salver!” His arms were raised, his fists were clenched, the veins stood out on his neck, and Ida began to worry the old fraud might be giving himself a genuine fit of apoplexy.
Strickling too was concerned. “What have they done, boss?”
“Done? Done? They have betrayed me. Oh, what an awful day I’m having. What a terrible day.” He stared at the ceiling. “God!” he commanded, “How have I offended thee?”
The “thee” sent Ida’s eyebrows up an inch. She said in one of her occasional motherly tones, “I’m sure you’re overreacting. I can’t think of anything you’ve done today that might offend Him, and from what I hear tell at my local convent, He doesn’t offend easily.” She said to Strickling, “After all, He doesn’t dare let the milk of human kindness curdle too often.”
Strickling couldn’t care less about the ways of His Supreme Highness; Powell and Loy were two of his favorite people. They had class. They were urbane. They were witty in their own unique way and most important of all, they were big box office with a legion of fans across the world. “What have Bill and Myrna done that can’t be undone?”
“You bet your pupik it can’t be undone, because what they’ve done is on film!”
Oh my God, thought Ida, they’ve finally had sex together and somebody’s caught it on film. There were two things Ida thoroughly disapproved of, Louis B. Mayer and sex. Mayer, because although he had placed her in a position of power as his assistant with a very handsome salary, she loathed his exploitation of young women and the way he could blithely bring a career crashing down around an actor’s ears. It was no secret that he loathed, among others, Wallace Beery and Jean Harlow, but they were at the top of the heap and not easily dispossessed. He’d had his opportunity to wreck Harlow’s career when her second husband, Paul Bern, was found dead in their home under suspicious circumstances. But it was at a time when Harlow had turned the tide of her career into the big time. So that was one of several reasons why he disapproved of Harlow. As for sex, Ida hadn’t been offered any since the age of thirteen when she played You Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine with her perverted cousin Mervyn, who later made a fortune during Prohibition as a bootlegger.
She heard Strickling asking, “What can’t be undone? What’s on film?”
Mayer made fists and slammed his desk with them. “They’re with the hoor!”
“Which hoor?” asked Strickling, but in his heart knowing the answer he was about to hear.
“Which hoor? Which hoor he asks me? Claire Young the hoor! Whoever that killer is, he murdered the wrong one!”
Ida said, “What he’s telling us is that two of his stars are apparently giving aid and comfort to the enemy.”
“They’ve been photographed by every goddamn newsreel in this rotten town! The newspapers have nailed them! The media is growing fat from the Thin Man and his co-star.” He leapt out of his chair and started pacing the room. “I’ll punish them! Oh God, how I’ll punish them! I’ll lend them to Republic Pictures.” Then he thought and stormed, “Worse! I’ll lend them to Monogram!” Republic and Monogram were two of the most successful third-rate producers of cheap quickies.
Ida reminded him, “The last time you punished a star, you loaned Clark Gable to Columbia Pictures for It Happened One Night and he won an Academy Award and now Columbia is almost as powerful as we are.”
Mayer couldn’t stand being reminded. He spat a word at Ida: “Fishwife!” Then he turned on Strickling. “Howard! Don’t just stand there! Do something!”
Strickling was a fast thinker. He had to be to keep in Mayer’s constant good graces. “I can kill the newsreels. If the other studios won’t cooperate, we refuse to lend them any of our names.”
“Yes! Yes!” Mayer was rubbing his hands together and practically salivating. “We’ll begin with Zanuck! He wants the hoor Harlow for In Old Kentucky — “
Ida corrected him. “In Old Chicago.”
“They changed the title?” He didn’t wait for an answer but plunged on. “More! More! Give me more trouble we can make!” Ida was waving her hands at Mayer to calm him down. “Now just a minute. Slow down. Put on the brakes and let’s consider the situation calmly. May I remind both of you that Myrna and Bill know Claire Young, and I don’t mean her reputation, but I mean socially.”
Strickling said, “God knows Powell knows her socially.”
“You should talk,” snapped Ida. Strickling caught his breath. She said to Mayer, “You forget Claire spent a lot of time with Myrna preparing her for the call girl in Penthouse.”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” said Mayer. “But there was no murder then! Now it’s murder and it’s a scandal what with that lousy littlc black book of Claire’s. Sayyy!” He was nursing a thought and Ida and Strickling waited until he voiced it. “Let’s make the Claire whoor an offer for the film rights to her little black book!”
Ida rolled her eyes, clasped her hands together, and said, “And for my next number, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to sing ‘Toot Toot Tootsie, Goodbye.’“
Mayer raged, “Ida! You are trying my patience.”
Ida retorted, “Fair enough. Now try mine.”
Mayer cried, “Enough! Enough of your insolence!”
Strickling interrupted. “Listen to me! Herb Villon’s in charge of the case. Bill Powell’s known him a long time.”
Mayer said in a small voice that nevertheless commanded their attention. “Our Herb Villon? The Paul Bern Herb Villon?”
“A very smart gentleman,” said Strickling. “I’ve cultivated his acquaintance over the years. I see that he and his girlfriend are invited to all our premieres.”
“Who’s his girlfriend?” asked Mayer.
“Why your old buddy Hazel Dickson.”
“That yenta is his girlfriend? That’s the best he can do?”
“Come on now,” said Ida, “Hazel’s been a friend of the studio for a long time now. She’s never let us down, and when we’ve asked her to help kill a story, she was always on target with her bow and arrow.”
Strickling said, “Let me have a talk with Herb. Get him to tell the press he invited Bill and Myrna as observers to help them prepare for the next Thin Man.”
With furrowed brows Mayer asked, “What’s the next Thin Man?”
“The Thin Man’s Hernia,” suggested Ida.
Mayer glared at her and was thinking. Maybe for Christm
as I’ll buy her a lover, it might soften her outlook on life and on the other hand the shock might give her a myocardial infarction. He said to Strickling, “Maybe you should go to Claire Young’s house and get those two damn fools out of there.”
Strickling said, “You could always phone and threaten them.”
“Those two? Who could threaten those two? It’s as bad as trying to threaten Garbo.”
Strickling said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to show up there.”
Mayer bristled. “Why not? Don’t you have a house account?” Ida chuckled. “Touché, boss, touché.”
Mayer stared at the ceiling again, then said, “Okay, Howard. Talk to Herb Villon.” He directed his eyes from the ceiling to Strickling. “You sure he won’t let us down?”
“He didn’t let us down when we turned up with Paul Bern’s suicide note.”
“Yes. You’re right. We took too long finding that suicide note.”
“Some suicide note,” said Ida. “It certainly wasn’t a Pulitzer prize winner.”
Mayer wondered if he could draw a suspended sentence for slamming her on the jaw.
At Claire Young’s house, everyone had assuaged their hunger with sandwiches, beer, and coffee. Lazio was at the french windows offering a soulful rendition of ‘When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain.’ Freda was watching Myrna, who sat in a chair deep in thought. She hadn’t eaten. She was still upset by her Claire Young theory. But somehow, she couldn’t shake her intuition that Claire might know more than she was telling. The secret little black book, and now her dictating her memoirs. But there were other secrets she suspected Claire was harboring. Powell came and sat at her feet.
“Where are you, Minnie? I have a feeling you’re off in another dimension, one totally alien to Beverly Hills.”
Myrna shifted in her seat and smiled at him. “We’re practically like The Corsican Brothers, aren’t we. The separated Siamese twins who continue to share each other’s emotions and each other’s pains. I’m not off in another dimension. My train of thought is still on the same track, but a bit more sophisticated.”
