by George Baxt
“But I’ll miss the evening edition!” pleaded Hazel.
“Hazel dear,” said Myrna, “there’s always tomorrow, to repeat a maudlin cliché that I’m ashamed to have spoken.”
Powell said, “Are we deliberately ignoring Amelia Hubbard?”
“I’m not,” said Myrna. “I knew we’d get back to her in due time. It’s now due time, am I right?”
“It is,” said Villon. “Dr. Carewe, was Amelia Hubbard, by any chance, a patient of yours?”
Carewe said smoothly, “A long time ago I treated her for something, I forget what. But she wasn’t a steady patient. I knew her through …er …Claire.”
“Stands to reason,” said Villon, reserving bringing up Audrey Manners, which he didn’t think was called for at the moment. “Was she feeling ill today?”
Carewe shrugged. “How would I know?”
Villon showed him the page he had torn from Amelia’s appointment book. “Do you recognize this?”
“Why yes. It’s Claire’s name. Penciled in for a ten a.m. appointment.”
“I mean the phone number written at the bottom of the page. It’s your office. I know because I dialed it and your receptionist identified it as such.”
He looked at Claire then back to Villon. “Yes, she did call. I suppose there’s nothing wrong in telling you why. She was concerned with the condition of Claire’s health. I explained that that was privileged information and to be disclosed only at Claire’s discretion.”
“I’m right in supposing she phoned after Claire left Amelia’s apartment?”
“I don’t know the exact time. But it was sometime after the noon hour.”
Villon said, “I don’t think it was so much the condition of Claire’s health that interested her.” Carewe said nothing. Villon as he talked, was making his way slowly to the desk. Myrna was fascinated by the way he moved. It was almost sexily sinuous. Myrna was reminded of a reptile circling its prey as she had seen in a nature film not too long ago. “I think Amelia had money on her mind, much the way Claire, I think, still does.”
Claire said swiftly, “I promised Amelia a lot once I got my hands on money. She wouldn’t have blackmailed …”
Villon was pleased with himself. The answers were coming easier then he thought they would. “Claire, we all have our Achilles’ heel.”
Myrna said to Bill, “We sure do. I wonder what Hornblow is up to today.”
Villon was saying, “Amelia certainly had a very prominent one. Her near poverty-stricken existence. That apartment she lived in. It was the neatness that kept it from being exposed as a hovel. The cheap bottle of wine.”
“Manischewitz,” contributed Hazel, “hardly vintage Dom Perignon.”
“And the clothes in her closet. I examined the closet after my associate” — he indicated Jim Mallory — “found some important papers missing from the top shelf. I know they’re important because when we were leaving for Hubbard’s apartment, Claire chased after me to plead with me to find them and hold on to them before anyone else could see them. Unfortunately, Amelia’s killer got to them first, thanks to Amelia.”
“What do you mean?” asked Myrna.
“Amelia had gotten them off the shelf before her murderer arrived, to have them ready for him to read and see if Amelia was wrong in assessing their value. If they were valuable to Claire, they certainly had to be valuable to Amelia. And Amelia, poor desperate thing, needed something of value other than what she might have assumed were empty promises.”
Myrna said to Powell, “He’s almost as good as you are in your movies.”
“Oh no he’s not. He’s left out a very important sentence: ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve asked you all here.’“
Myrna smiled and sipped her martini.
Villon was opening the doctor’s medical bag. Carewe seemed mesmerized. Villon widened the mouth of the bag, which was designed to give easily. He lit the desk lamp. The room had grown darker. It was almost twilight. Carewe had found his voice. “What are you doing there?”
Villon said, “I’m looking for evidence. That’s my job. And look.” He held up typewritten pages.
Claire cried out, “Herb! Please!”
“Claire darling,” said Villon softly, although his voice made Hazel cringe, “I’ve got to nail me a killer. A very cruel, very brutal killer. A man who came to this house thinking he’d find you alone, Claire, and force the whereabouts of the little black book from you. Not because of what it contained about him, but because he needed it to swap for his gambling debts. Mobsters are terribly greedy, Claire. They’re greedier than ex-wives. They saw the possibility of making a killing, no pun intended, with the little black book. Blackmail on a level higher than either Amelia or Claire could attain. There are more pages in the bag, these few I’m holding are but the tip of the iceberg.” He placed them on the desk. He looked into the bag and saw the trophy he actually was hoping to find. He extracted a handkerchief from his rear pants pocket, reached into the doctor’s bag, and brought forth an instrument with a sharp point that was covered with blood. He wrapped the handkerchief around the hilt to protect the fingerprints he was positive forensics would find there. “And here, I believe, is the tool that brought an end to Amelia Hubbard’s life.”
Myrna gasped. “Why, for crying out loud, I know what that is!”
Powell said, “Minnie, you never cease to amaze me. What the hell is it and how the hell do you know what it is? You know nothing about surgical tools.”
“I most certainly do,” said Myrna, eyes ablaze. “Two years or so back when Clark and I co-starred in Men in White. He was a physician and had to leam medical terminology and how to identify certain instruments and you know how hungry I get when there’s a chance at gaining some knowledge, so I studied with Clark. He was grateful for my company because he’s so dumb and knew I’d help him with the tough parts. Herb, that thing you’re holding is called a xyster.”
Powell asked, “As in ‘How’s your xyster’?”
“No, you facetious fool, as in did Amelia Hubbard know what hit her?”
“I don’t think she did,” said Herb Villon, who now held the sheet of paper he’d found in Amelia’s typewriter. “After the murderer made his departure, she was able to type his name on this sheet of paper. Look, Dr. Carewe, here’s your name and — don’t be a goddamn fool. Doc, and put that automatic on the desk.” Claire said, “Mitchell, you heard him. Don’t be a fool.” Carewe stared steadily at Villon, unaware that Zachary Forrest, who was out of Carewe’s line of sight during Villon’s demonstration, was slowly moving in on him with his revolver drawn.
Villon said to Carewe, “You’re a bit reckless. Doctor. I had no proof you murdered Amelia and Fern Arnold. Oh, I could assume she phoned you with every intention of blackmailing you but what I had is circumstantial. Even with your name typed on the paper by Amelia, it could have been typed long before you murdered her. After all, you were on her mind. Your phone number was on a page of her appointment hook.”
Zachary Forrest pressed his gun into the small of Dr. Carewe’s back. Carewe stiffened and slowly raised his hands. Forrest snatched the automatic away from Carewe.
Myrna said, “This is all terribly exciting, but Bill, haven’t you guessed what Dr. Carewe was really after, what Amelia told him Claire had dictated to her?”
“Of course I’ve guessed. Miss Smarty Pants.” He wished his mustache was twirlable because he had an urge to twirl it. “Dr. Carewe, I think what had you so frightened was Claire’s revelation that back in 1932 you murdered Paul Bern.”
Villon shouted, “Hazel! Stay away from that phone!”
NINETEEN
Hazel was in a rage. Her hand was just a few inches from the phone, a few inches from dialing Louella Parsons, a few inches from earning a few hundred dollars for a scoop that would land Louella’s column on the front page. Paul Bern’s murderer unmasked at last! It didn’t occur to her that not that many people would remember Paul Bern’s murder. In L
os Angeles, yes, in the rest of the country, the rest of the world, no. Myrna stared at Powell. He was looking at Paul Bern’s murderer. He was facing the prospect of an old scandal involving his beloved paramour, Jean Harlow, making headlines again. What would it do to her? What would the effect be on Louis B. Mayer and Howard Strickling?
All hell broke loose.
Freda shrieked as Dr. Carewe spun around and wrestled Zachary Forrest for his revolver. His powerful right connected with Forrest’s chin and sent him reeling backward. Mallory pulled his revolver and shouted at Carewe, who had retrieved his automatic from the desk top.
Villon shouted at Mallory, “Don’t kill the bastard! Just wing him!”
Carewe was crazed. His world had come crashing down around his ears. He fired several wild shots. Myrna and Powell ducked behind the bar, each holding a martini and not spilling a drop. Freda and Lucy had taken shelter behind the couch, while Villon, revolver drawn, shoved Lazio to one side. Lazio shouted an epithet in Hungarian. Forrest got back to his feet and together with Mallory, wrestled Carewe to the floor. Mallory brought his gun handle down on the doctor’s wrist. The automatic fell onto the floor while the doctor cried out in pain.
Powell and Myrna slowly emerged from behind the bar. “Ah!” said Powell, watching Mallory handcuff Carewe, “the good doctor’s been subdued.”
“You mean bad doctor,” said Myrna while Carewe continued to moan in pain. “Oh good. He’s hurt.”
Powell said, “‘Physician, heal thyself,’“ but Carewe didn’t hear him.
The commotion gave Hazel the opportunity to phone Louclla Parsons. Louella excitedly had Dorothy her assistant, phone the city desk to stop the presses. As Louella herself frequently said, “Tell them I’ve got a scee-oop!”
Mallory and Forrest pulled Carewe to his feet. His eyes met Myrna’s. She said to him, “Little man, you've had a busy day.”
Villon was looking around the room for Claire. Had she run out? Freda and Lucy were surfacing from behind the couch. “Where’s Claire?” he shouted.
“Here!” cried Lazio. “Here!”
Claire lay on her back in front of the fireplace, the very spot where Villon and the others had found the body of Fern Arnold earlier in the day. Villon knelt at Claire’s side, calling her name.
“Dear God!” said Myrna, “she can’t be dead. The little boy needs her.”
Villon shouted to Mallory, “Get an ambulance!” The room had filled with detectives alerted by the gunfire and one hurried out to his car to call for an ambulance over his radio.
Hazel was telling Louella that Claire Young had been shot, perhaps fatally.
“How marvelous!” yelped Louella, “another scee-oop!”
Villon cradled Claire in his arms. He had felt for her pulse. She was still alive but bleeding profusely from a stomach wound. Carewe shouted, “For Christ’s sake let me help her!”
Villon said to Mallory and Forrest. “Bring him here. One of you bring his kit.”
Myrna said to Powell, “Claire needs help, but I wouldn’t trust Carewe. Would you — Bill? What’s wrong? He hasn’t shot you too!”
“No, no, Minnie, I’m perfectly fine,” he said.
“Like hell you are. You’re pale as a ghost.”
“That’s what ghosts do to me.”
“What ghosts?” Myrna was slightly bewildered.
“Actually, public ghost number one. Paul Bern.”
The detective who had radioed for an ambulance returned to say it was on its way. He also said the press was getting out of hand. What were the gun shots? Who’s been hurt? Who’s dead? Villon waved him away. Carewe had been freed and was kneeling at Claire’s side, Mallory and Forrest standing over him with guns drawn.
Hazel, at the phone, one hand covering the mouthpiece, yelled to Villon, “She still alive?” Villon shot her a filthy look. Hazel realized Claire was being treated by Carewe. Her eyes widened with delight. She spoke into the phone, “Louella! How’s this for cockeyed human interest! The cops are letting Carewe treat Claire Young. She got hit by one of his wild shots!” She was mad with unrestrained joy. “Is this a story or is this a story! It’s absolutely exclusive! I don’t think even that gang of vultures outside know what’s been going on!” She yelled to the detective who had radioed for the ambulance, “Do those vultures outside know what’s going on?” He reassured her they didn’t, but it couldn’t be held from them too much longer — in the distance could be heard the siren of the approaching ambulance. Its sound could send the press into a feeding frenzy. Hazel told Louella the story was exclusively hers.
Myrna had been doing her best to assuage Powell. Jean Harlow was one of the press’s favorite actresses. She was always cooperative, rarely refused an interview, posed tirelessly for their cameras, and in their words was a “good Joe.” Myrna was sure they’d treat her kindly. Powell hoped she was right. The Hollywood press, especially the international members, were a vicious lot. Powell was sure they ate their young and now tried to eat each other.
Carewe had cut away a portion of Claire’s dress to expose her wound. He had staunched the bleeding and dressed the wound as best he could while advising Villon she needed to be in a hospital as soon as possible.
Hazel was on her toes for a better look at the wounded madam. She said to Louella, “Looks like she’s still out of it. She doesn’t look too good to me.’’ The ambulance had arrived and the attendants had hurried in with a stretcher. One attendant said in shock, “Oh my God! It’s Claire!”
Freda cried out in recognition, “My sweetheart! It’s me! Your Freda!”
The attendant blushed and said in a dull voice, “Hullo, Freda,” and then helped strap Claire to the stretcher. Mallory had placed the cuffs back on Carewe’s wrists.
Hazel yelled to Myrna. “Has she become conscious yet?”
“No, dear,” said Myrna. “We haven’t heard her say, ‘Where am I?’” She now disapproved of Hazel and at the earliest opportunity planned to tell her so. The callous bitch. Myrna’s arm was around Powell’s shoulders and he patted her hand in gratitude. His Irish mother had told him a long time ago there was nothing as comforting as the warmth of a solid friendship, and Myrna was indeed a solid friend. The solid friend now voiced the need for a fresh martini. Powell’s hands flew to work. Where mixing a drink was concerned, he was like a mailman: “Neither snow nor sleet, etc. etc. etc.” As he deftly concocted the brew, he said to Myrna, who was watching Claire being carried out with an honor guard of detectives surrounding her to protect her from the press, “I suppose this will sound rather cruel …”
“Go right ahead, Bill,” said Myrna. “I’ve been a witness to a lot of cruelty today. Especially woman’s inhumanity to woman.”
“I was thinking of Claire and her desperate need for money. Well, if she dies, there’ll be no double indemnity clause to worry Aunt Maidie.”
Freda was saying to Lucy, “We must go with Claire. We can’t let her be by herself now. Lazio! We’re going to the hospital. Bring your fiddle.”
“Of course I bring my fiddle! I shall serenade Claire back to consciousness with a medley of Irving Berlin.” He hurried after Freda and Lucy, planning to begin with ‘Russian Lullaby’ and ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band.’
Mallory and Zachary Forrest were hustling Carewe out of the room to a squad car and thence to the precinct, where he would be booked for the murders of Fern Arnold and Amelia Hubbard. Then later, if Claire didn’t pull through, for the added murder of Claire Young. And since there was no statute of limitation for murder, he also would have to answer for the murder of Paul Bern.
Hazel was finally off the phone and at the bar toasting herself for beating the competition. Myrna watched as Hazel’s face flushed with excitement and self-approval, and said to Powell, “I disapprove of her thoroughly, but I have to admit, she’s one hell of a news hen. But she’d better not expect a Christmas card from me.” They heard the sound of the ambulance siren as it sped away, followed by the revving of auto engi
nes and the skidding of wheels as the press pursued the ambulance.
Hazel downed her drink and responded to the angry look on Villon’s face. “Don’t stay too mad too long or I won’t let you in on a big secret in Amelia’s steno pad.”
Villon said angrily, “There are others who can read shorthand.”
“That’s right. But I wouldn’t be too quick to get it into the hands of just anyone.”
Myrna interrupted, still concerned with Claire Young and her son. “Herb, now what happens to the notebook, the steno pad, the papers Dr. Carewe stole?”
“They eventually get turned over to Claire’s lawyer. If she doesn’t pull through, I assume the kid and the aunt are her legal heirs. Claire’s lawyer is smart, and surprisingly enough, very honest. I know Derwitt. I’ve used him myself in the past.”
Myrna couldn’t resist. “Recommended by Audrey Manners?” Villon took her remark good-naturedly. “Audrey was one hell of a gal. Claire Young is another story. Stop drinking so much, Hazel, it’s too early to get tanked.”
“It’s never too early to get tanked,” said Powell as he refreshed his and Myrna’s drinks. “Herb, can I interest you?”
Sinking into a chair, Herb said, “As a matter of fact, yes, screw regulations.”
Hazel said, “It’s after sundown,” as she went about the room turning on lamps, “you’re off duty.”
“I’m not off duty until I check with the precinct.”
Powell said, as he poured drinks and then distributed them, “Am I wrong in deducing that it was Carewe as an angry young intern who killed Bern? Odd to kill a man for refusing you a loan.”
“He killed him because he was jealous of his relationship with Audrey.”
Myrna’s eyebrows were raised. “Are you saying Bern’s marriage to Baby was a marriage of convenience? He didn’t love her?” Powell spoke up. “Minnie, Paul Bern was a very odd character.” Myrna said, “I’ve got a feeling that’s an understatement.” Powell said, “Baby told me as much about him as she could ever fathom. They never had sex.”
