by George Baxt
“No!” cried Myrna.
Hazel and Villon sat quietly. Hazel had poured herself a fresh brandy and Villon was savoring his drink.
Powell continued, “He loved women in his own immature way. Actually, it wasn’t love as we like to think we experience love, it was adulation. In Bern’s eyes, women belonged on a pedestal. Barbara Lamarr. Jean Harlow. They were goddesses. You worship at the shrine of a goddess, but you don’t have sex with her.”
Myrna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you insinuating he was a homosexual?”
“He wasn’t anything,” said Powell. “He was that sort of tiresome creature known as a studio executive. He needed the company of beautiful women to create and sustain the myth that he was a boudoir Lothario. He was no such thing. But he was courtly and a gentleman and very knowledgeable. He had a fine mind and liked to share his knowledge with these women, and they, in turn, welcomed his kind of attention. It was uncomplicated. Paul was a witty man. Baby told me it was a relief to meet someone like him. He made no demands. He just wanted the added celebrity of being her husband. Audrey Manners had been one of his girls. He set her up in business. Carewe was nuts about Audrey and is still nuts about Claire, or so I assume.”
“Nuts enough to tell her she was dying?” Myrna was enchanting when she looked incredulous.
“I assume she’s genuinely dying. He wouldn’t lie to her, would he?”
Myrna said wisely. “I think he’s lied to her and if she survives, I suggest she get a few more reliable opinions. And as for still being in love with her, why come here to kill her and search for the little black book?”
Villon said, “Maybe he came here to kill Fern Arnold.” He had their undivided attention. “You saw them together last night at Griselda’s Cave. I think they were having an affair and Claire wasn’t wise to it. I think Carewe was romancing Fern to get to the little black book and use it to get the mob off his back. Remember, his solid reputation and his solid practice were also at stake. I think at Griselda’s Fern was finally wise to the fact that she was being used. She didn’t like that. She liked getting laid, but she didn’t like being used. And also there was the likelihood she was first in line to get this whole kit and kaboodle from Claire.” He waved an arm to encompass the room. “Carewe also knew Claire was dictating her memoirs to Amelia Hubbard because Fern told him so.”
“Do you know this for sure?” asked Powell.
“You got a better supposition?”
“I’d like to pin this on Louis B. Mayer. Any chance?” asked Powell.
Villon laughed. “Not a hope in hell.”
Myrna asked, “Why did Amelia phone Carewe?”
“Probably because he’d made her an offer for the pages and she said she’d think it over and let him know. She was letting him know. I think she turned him down, much as she needed the money, because she still had some decency left and decided not to double-cross Claire. She probably said as much to Carewe who, by now, was desperate. First he kills Fern, then he gets Amelia, and he was probably planning to come back here and finish off Claire. He didn’t count on me deciding to come and see Claire with Jim and that one,” pointing at Hazel, ‘‘in tow.”
Hazel’s eyes were narrowed into slits as Myrna said, “I’m so glad Amelia Hubbard decided to remain faithful to Claire. There are so few women in this life” — she shot a quick look at Hazel, who was too busy staring daggers at Villon — “who are true blue and can be trusted. Herb, if Amelia has no family. I’d like to pay for her funeral.”
Powell said, “Minnie, you’re an angel. I’ll split the cost with you.”
“Now, you’re sure about that?” asked Myrna. “It means buying a plot in a cemetery and a headstone and something very nice for her to be buried in. Maybe I’ll talk to Adrian at Metro about designing a lovely dress for her.” She was feeling very good about herself and wondered if there was any chance of Louis B. Mayer seeing his way clear to letting her play Joan of Arc with perhaps Mickey Rooney as the Dauphin.
Villon said to Hazel, “It’ll do you no good to keep giving me that dirty look. You shouldn’t be very proud of your behavior, gassing with that alcoholic windbag Parsons while Claire lay dying.”
Hazel said forthrightly, “That gassing is how I earn my living. You think I enjoy behaving like a cobra in heat? I don’t know any other way to make a fast buck or buck a slow fast and I’d never make it as a prostitute.”
Myrna reserved comment. She was woman enough to know that dirty look or no dirty look. Hazel Dickson was very much in love with Herb Villon and she didn’t doubt for one minute that he was equally in love with her.
Villon said, “I’m tired and I’m hungry. Who’s for Griselda’s? I need a steak and french fries.”
“My treat,” said Powell magnanimously. “Minnie?” She was off in a world of her own. “Minnie? Where are you?”
“At Amelia’s funeral. I’m going to get Jeanette and Nelson to sing the ‘Indian Love Call’ and perhaps Jimmy Durante to tell a few jokes because funerals are much too somber. Did I hear someone suggest Griselda’s? Oh good. I’m famished.”
Hazel was standing with Villon and fixing his tie, which had gone askew. “I think you ought to take time tomorrow to go out to Venice and visit little Elmer and Aunt Maidie.”
Villon said, “Now you’re reading my mind.”
“Oh good,” said Hazel, “because it’s in Amelia's stenographic pad.”
Villon was bemused. “What is?”
“Claire identifies Elmer’s father.” Powell and Loy were now in Hazel’s thrall. Hazel pinched Villon’s cheek. She said sweetly, “Hello, Daddy.”
Myrna said to Villon, “Congratulations, Herb. Bill, do you think it’s much too late to throw Herb a baby shower?”
