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  THE

  NOEL COWARD

  MURDER

  CASE

  BY

  GEORGE BAXT

  ST MARTIN’S PRESS

  NEW YORK

  THE NOEL COWARD MURDER CASE

  Copyright © 1992 by George Baxt.

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever

  without written permission except in the ease of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or review.

  For information, address St. Martin's Press.

  175 Fifth

  Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10OL0.

  Design by Judy Christensen

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Baxt. George.

  The Noel Coward murder case / George Baxt.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-08272-X

  1. Coward. Noel. 1899-1973—Fiction. I. Title PS3S52. A8478N63 1992 813'.54—dc20

  First Edition: November 1992

  This book is for

  American Express,

  Optima.

  MasterCard,

  Visa, and

  Discover,

  without whom

  it could not

  have been

  written.

  ONE

  DETECTIVE Inspector Abraham Wang of the Shanghai police studied the corpse found floating amidst the flotsam and detritus of the Huangpu River. He asked his assistant, an ambitious young man named Matt Lee, “Now what’s a black woman doing floating in a Chinese river?”

  “What’s a black woman doing in Shanghai?” countered Matt Lee. The coroner, a chubby little man who sucked his teeth and made ugly little noises, told them, “She was dead before she hit the river. Garroted.” He indicated the nasty bruises on her neck. “There’s flesh under her fingernails. She put up a good fight.”

  “That wins her my admiration,” said Wang. He stared at the bloated face. “Very heavy with the makeup, very theatrical. That French Music Hall show at the Opera House …”

  “No black actresses. I saw the show last week.”

  “Check them out anyway. She might have worked behind the scenes. Also the clubs along the river. Her dress is very tight, very provocative. Maybe she’s a nightclub artist of a sort.”

  “Maybe she was a whore.”

  There was an ankle bracelet on her right leg. Wang examined it. “Maxine Howard.” Then he said, “Garroted. Imagine. Not just ordinary strangled, garroted. Very old hat. Dacoits garroted their victims.” Dacoits had terrorized China for years, hired killers who came silently in the night to kill undetected.

  Matt Lee grinned and said, “Doctor Fu Manchu.”

  “What about him?”

  “He used dacoits. I’ve read all the books about him. Crazy wild, that writer Sax Rohmer.”

  “Appendix scar,” said the coroner. He examined her left arm. “She’s been vaccinated and had innoculation shots. They do a lot of that in America.” He examined her teeth. “Gold fillings. Positively an American.”

  Matt Lee followed Wang back to his office. As they walked, Wang said over his shoulder to the younger man, “We’ll send a cable to my friend Jacob Singer of the New York City police. He’s a very- good friend. I met him when I studied at Columbia University. Ten years ago. Maxine Howard. Five yen will get you one she’s another of those so-called missing persons being shipped out here to work against their will in whorehouses.”

  His office was small and cramped. On one wall were portraits of his Chinese heros. Sun Yat-sen, Chiang Kai-shek, and Anna May Wong. He indicated a chair for Matt Lee, who took a pad and pen out of his jacket pocket. Wang dictated slowly.

  In New York, the following day, detective Jacob Singer read Wang’s cable and took action immediately. He contacted Missing Persons and gave them Maxine Howard's name. They were back to him in less than fifteen minutes. He took notes and then read them aloud to his associate, Abel Graham. “Maxine Howard, age twenty-eight, five foot seven … a big one that one …weight one thirty …singer and dancer …Negro …”

  As he cleaned his nails with his gold toothpick, Abel Graham asked, “Now what’s a schwartzer doing floating in a river in Shanghai?”

  “That's what Wang wants to know. She was reported missing four months ago by her sister, Electra Howard.”

  “Electra?” ‘

  “Yeah, sure, what's wrong with it? Like that O’Neill play. Mourning Becomes Electra.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “That’s because you got no intellect. I’ve got a phone number here for Electra.” He dialed. The phone rang eight times before Singer hung up. “Out to lunch.”

  “You got an address?”

  “I got an address and a phone number and an address for her agent.”

  “She would be show business. Right up your alley. Send her a telegram.”

  “Good thinking.” said Singer in a rasping monotone, “I’d never have thought of that myself.” He wondered again as he wondered several times a day why a dullard like Abel Graham opted for a career in police work. But then, he doubted if Graham had the skill to be a dogcatcher.

  The voice was pitched high. It was thin and reedy, and yet it was melodic. Noel Coward knew how to sell a song, especially the ones he wrote.

  Yesterday was gray, the day before was blue,

  I am in the pink, darling how are you?

  The sun poured into the large, beautifully appointed living room as Noel entertained his audience of one. Millicent Headman, a handsome woman in her early sixties.

  Monday was ecru, Tuesday I thought puce,

  Wednesday was a flood. Of lovely orange juice …

  Noel was doing a superb job with his latest composition. Millicent Headman's face was wreathed in an angelic smile. Thought Noel, she must have been a knockout thirty years ago in 1905 when she'd been in the musical theater with the likes of Lillian Russell and Mae West. She looked pretty damned good now, white hair carefully coiffed, a simple string of pearls to enhance her simple navy blue suit.

  Life can be a rainbow,

  When you let the pain go …

  He adored listening to himself sing, and he adored Millicent Headman for obviously loving the way he sang. In that moment he had made his decision. He would rent this lovely furnished apartment. The monthly cost was reasonable, it was centrally located in New York City on West Fifty-eighth Street between Sixth and Seventh avenues, and it faced south. The sunshine was divine.

  Thursday might be black,

  Friday might be white.

  Put them all together, dear,

  what a colorful sight …

  And it was not too far from the Fifty-ninth Street bridge, which led to Astoria. Queens, and Paramount’s East Coast studios where he would soon be filming his first starring vehicle. The Scoundrel. Despite the title, it was not autobiographical. It was written by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur, co-authors of two Broadway hits. The Front Page and Twentieth Century. They were also producing and directing the film. They were wicked charlatans.

  Gray—blue—pink—puce—ecru—

  White and black …

  My darling how are you?

  His hands were raised in the air and there was an almost flirtatious smile on his lips. Mrs. Headman clapped her hands together and said in her whipped cream voice, “How utterly marvelous, Mr. Coward. I'm so flattered to be your audience of one.”

  “As well you should be, dear woman. You're the first person to hear it. I dashed it off this morning between the grapefruit a
nd the eggs. You can tell by the stains on the lead sheet.”

  “Oh Mr. Coward. Mr. Coward!”

  “You must call me Noel and I shall call you Millicent. as I have decided to be your tenant.”

  “How delicious!”

  “Really?” He moved away from the piano and was jamming a cigarette into his holder. “I had no idea decisions might be edible. What a magnificent table lighter. It must be Tiffany’s.”

  “It is.” He detected the sudden sadness. “It was my husband’s favorite. I gave it to him on our twentieth anniversary.” She found a small smile. “I think you two would have liked each other very much. Linus was a great anglophile. He doted on the British theater.

  Noel was genuinely pleased. “Did he really? How nice.”

  “He loved you … Noel rewarded her with a charming smile. “Beatrice Lillie, Miss Gertrude Lawrence of course …”

  “Of course … or else.”

  “… and Marie Tempest …

  “Dear Marie.” He blew a smoke ring past the room’s splendid chandelier.

  “… and Gerald du Maurier …” Noel wondered where the switch was located that could turn her off…and Ivor Novello …” Noel winced but she didn’t see it. She paused for breath and he leapt swiftly into the breach. “When would it be convenient for me to move in?”

  “Why, as soon as you like. I’ve moved into my smaller apartment down the hall. Actually, it was kept as servants’ quarters.”

  “Oh my dear … He hoped he sounded suitably forlorn.

  She held up her hand. “Oh no no no! It’s quite pleasant and quite comfortable and more than enough for me. My daughter has her own place on Central Park West. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? Diana Headman. Lately she’s been singing in supper clubs.”

  “Oh of course! They call her ‘high society’s sultry singer of sensuous songs.’ Quite a mouthful, I suppose she is too.”

  “If I must say so myself, Diana is a very beautiful woman.”

  “And well she should be with you as her mother.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Not too often. Is she singing in town anywhere?”

  “Not at the moment. She’s opening some time in the near future at a new club on West Fifty-seventh Street, somewhere near Tenth Avenue, on the fringe of the Hell’s Kitchen area.”

  “How brave and daring of the owners. It’s not by any chance the one that’s called The Cascades?”

  “Yes it is. Then you’ve heard of it.”

  “Heard of it? My dear woman, I am plagued by it. The three wretched owners are besieging me with all sorts of head-spinning offers to be their first headliner. I have even- reason to believe in an earlier life they were gangsters. Now they’re merely hoodlums. Yet they’re quite a musical threesome. Vivaldi, Beethoven, and Bizet. At least that’s what they call themselves. I’m sure it was something else in an earlier incarnation. Come to think of it,I have a friend in the police department, a detective named Jacob Singer. I must ask him about them. I’m sure there are thick dossiers detailing rum running, gun running, and instant unsolvable assassinations.”

  “Noel, you have such a delightfully vivid imagination.”

  “Of course I do, my dear. Without it I’d starve to death.” He was at the window staring out. “What a lovely view. I adore your skyline. It never ceases to thrill me when I’m aboard ship entering New York harbor, and of course that divine statue of Constance Bennett. Let me write you a check to cement the deal.” He sat at a beautiful antique desk said to have belonged to Nathaniel Hawthorne, produced a checkbook from his inside jacket pocket, and wrote in his clear, concise hand. “First month’s rent and a month's security, right?”

  “Yes, that would be fine. I don’t have much of a head for business.

  “Oh come come,” as he wrote carefully, meticulously, “the wife of Linus Headman not have much of a head … no pun intended …for business?”

  “None at all. I’m afraid Linus didn’t have much of one either. Poor dear. He struggled so hard all those years to build Headman Pharmaceuticals …

  “…Marvelous aspirins …”

  “… but the market crash six years ago sent him plummeting. He had to sell out and for very little. It’s what killed him.”

  “How very sad. Here is your check. All quite correct?”

  “Oh quite correct.”

  “Um … if a bit more would come in handy?”

  “Oh my dear Noel, how very kind of you, but no, no thank you. I manage quite well, I assure you. I own both these flats, and there are royalties I receive from the business. If I ever need assistance. I’m sure Diana would help me.”

  “Ah, then she’s wealthy in her own right?”

  “Oh yes. She divorced well.”

  “Good for Diana. How many times?”

  “Three.”

  “Three!”

  “They were brief marriages, at least the first two were. Diana, you see, has a short attention span. Her third marriage is where most of the money came from. He was a rancher.”

  “Ah! Way out west! Montana?”

  “Africa. Rhodes.”

  “A scholar?”

  “No. Nor a gentleman.”

  “But oh well, there’s all that lolly to comfort her.”

  “Lolly?”

  “Lolly, yes. Money. British vernacular. Possibly derived from lollipop, as it frequently requires someone to be a sucker.” Her laugh tinkled and Noel found it pleasing.

  As she put the check into her handbag she said, “Well, so far 1935 has been a pleasant year for me.”

  “I’m glad it was pleasant for someone.” He was bristling. “I’m sure you’re aware I’ve had two disasters in a row on Broadway.”

  “Oh I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry isn’t enough, Millicent. First there was Conversation Piece. I thought it was absolutely charming. It starred the enchanting French stars Yvonne Printemps and Pierre Fresnay. I suppose it didn’t help that nobody could understand a word they said and God knows Noel Coward’s words must be clearly enunciated. One critic wrote a paraphrase of the logo on Rice Krispies boxes …and I still adore them …Rice Krispies, dear, not the critics. He wrote”—Noel enunciated each word tinged with venom—”Snap! Crackle! Hop!”

  “How rude!”

  “Are you always given to understatement? Then came Point Valaine. It was cleverly sordid. I thought Lynn and Alfred would make it work. The Lunts, you know. They rarely have a box-office disaster. But with me they made an exception. One beastly critic wrote, ‘All Lunts and no play make Noel a dull boy.’ I wonder if critics have a sex life. Ah well. Some day I shall look back and laugh. The hell with the lot. I will not countenance anyone, let alone a lowly critic, upsetting the perfect symmetry of my life. That’s why I stayed on to do the movie. The money, my dear Millicent. the money. Come to think of it. The Cascades is offering me tons of money. I’m sure it would be a snap for me, filming by day and performing by night … He was briefly lost in thought.

  “Oh do consider it seriously,” urged Millicent. “It would be such a thrill for Diana to share the bill with you.”

  “Share? With me? Oh well, I suppose that’s one way to put it. Now then. I’m off to my hotel to put myself together and I’ll move in later this afternoon.”

  “Here are the keys. These are two sets. I can arrange to share my housekeeper if you like.”

  “Oh that won’t be necessary, thank you. I have a companion who travels with me as sort of chief cook and bottle washer. He’s Jeffrey Amherst. Perhaps you’ve heard the song …?” He sang reedily, “Oh Lord Jeffrey Amherst …”

  “Oh of course,” said Millicent.

  “Of course. Well, my Jeffrey is a descendant of that Jeffrey. He’s terribly charming. I’m sure you’ll find him most engaging, especially since he’s unengaged. A bientȏt, dear Millicent, you are such a charmer.” He took her hand and kissed it. His was a heady performance.

  After he left, Millicent phoned her daughter. Diana was
entertaining Nicholas Benson, her close friend and occasional lover. Nicholas was the scion of another wealthy family ruined by the market crash but had managed to make a profitable career for himself as a crime writer. Diana picked up the phone, said “Hello?” followed by, “Oh hello Mother.” Then, “Noel Coward?” Her voice had risen an octave. Nicholas was interested. “Nick you’ll never believe this. Noel Coward’s rented Mother’s place.”

  “How nice for Mother.”

  “Well now I can get to know him better, and convince him to open at The Cascades with me. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Noel Coward singing in a nightclub? I can’t quite envision it.”

  “I can.” She nailed both words to his ears. He listened to Diana babbling away and then turned his thoughts in another direction. Vivaldi, Beethoven, and Bizet. Hardly Wynken. Blynken, and Nod. The Cascades was the most talked about event on the Great White Way. and those three men had every intention of making the opening a spectacular one. Located in an old warehouse the size of half a city block, it had been redesigned and reconstructed with revolving stages that disappeared into the basement and then rose again at the touch of a switch. The centerpiece was to be a genuine waterfall, a cascade that roared from ceiling to floor, another modem mechanical marvel. There was to be a staff of fifty in the kitchen and double that in the main room. No expense was spared to make The Cascades what the newspapers already labeled the ninth wonder of the world. A day didn't pass that the world's leading gossip columnist, Walter Winchell, didn’t have an item or a rumor or a press agent’s puffin his column. He had mentioned it four consecutive Sundays on his 9:00 p.m. fifteen minutes on the NBC radio network. The Cascades’ rivals were foaming at the mouth with anger and envy.

  “Nick!” The sharpness of her tone startled him.

  “What? What is it?”

  “You’re miles away!”

  “Oh, sorry. Finished talking to your mother?”

  “Obviously. What's preoccupying you so much of late?”

  “Vivaldi, Beethoven, and Bizet.”

  “Don’t concern yourself too much with them.”

  “Why not? They’re the talk of the town. I think there’s a good story in them. Anyhow, I suspect there is. I’ve got a hunch.”