[Celebrity Murder Case 09] - The Bette Davis Murder Case

  THE

  BETTE DAVIS

  MURDER

  CASE

  BY

  GEORGE BAXT

  ST MARTIN’S PRESS

  NEW YORK

  THE BETTE DAVIS MURDER CASE.

  Copyright © 1994 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 case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N Y. 10010.

  Design by Basha Zaparka

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Baxt, George.

  The Bette Davis murder case / George Baxt.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 03l2-10939-3

  1. Christie, Agatha, 1890-1976—Fiction. 2. Davis, Bette, 1908-1989—Fiction. 3. Motion picture actors and actresses— England—London—Fiction. 4. Women authors, English -England—London—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.A8478B471994

  813'.54—dc2094-6590

  CIP

  First Edition: August 1994 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This Book Is for Two of My Favorite Ladies,

  Ann Bayer and Patricia Johnston

  1

  VIRGIL WYNN’S BROW WAS DOTTED WITH beads of perspiration. He clutched his stomach as he sank onto a chair. His personal physician was baffled. Virgil had undergone a series of tests and examinations, but there seemed to be no explanation for his recurring abdominal pains, the loss of appetite, and the fainting spells. He stared at the small statue of the Egyptian queen Nefertiti. It rested on a pedestal under a portrait of the cruel pharoah Amenhotep. On the opposite wall there hung a rendering of another pharoah, Ramses II. The library was heavily populated with Egyptian artifacts. There were representations in one form or another of the deities Isis and Ptah and a number of lesser lights of the Egyptian heavens who for one reason or another hadn’t made marks of greater importance as objects of worship. There was Nokus, presumed to be the god of basket weaving, and one of Virgil’s favorites. Petera, whom Virgil had been told by an old soothsayer was the god of pederasts; but Virgil distrusted the information, as the soothsayer surrounded himself with a coterie of young boys. Ancient royalty was well represented by Queen Ramatah, who was reputed to have been a contortionist; young King Tut, unearthed only fourteen years before, in 1922; the fascinating King Ptolemy; and the inevitable royal cliche, Cleopatra.

  The pain disappeared as rapidly as it had attacked, and Virgil mopped his brow with a handkerchief with which he also dried his sweaty palms. Why can’t the bloody doctors come up with a proper diagnosis? he wondered for the fifth time that afternoon. When he had found the tomb of Queen Ramatah and eagerly supervised its opening, one of his Egyptian aides had warned him of the curse he’d be unleashing.

  Virgil recalled the scene and how he had addressed young Rami Tup. “Curse? What curse? We British are impervious to curses. We don’t put stock in them. We’ve accumulated these ephemeral curses in India, Africa, Mesopotamia, the West Indies, the East Indies, Egypt, and Northern Ireland. Now, start the digging.”

  Soon he’d be off on another expedition to Egypt, in the Valley of the Kings, for over a century a magnet for archeologists around the world. If only his damned stomach could be brought under control. This accursed stomach. Maybe it’s true. My stomach is cursed. The Wynns had been celebrated for many centuries for their dicky stomachs, his father, Lord Roland Wynn, himself a celebrated archeologist, had told him.

  His father. Lord Roland Wynn. Knighted in 1920 for his discovery of Queen Baramar’s tomb. V irgil remembered how as a young man he had stood watching proudly as the kujg touched his father’s shoulders lightly with a sword, dubbing him a knight. He hadn't heard the queen say under her breath, “The very idea of knighting a grave robber.” Lord Roland’s celebrity was short-lived. In 1922 he was eclipsed by the discovery of Tutankhamon’s tomb by Howard Carter and Lord George Herbert Carnarvon. He remained in eclipse despite five years of feverishly digging around for any other ancient celebrity, only to be forced into near-obscurity by his own son Virgil.

  Once he got going on the archeological scene, Virgil proved to be a whiz at nosing out the sites of hidden tombs. He was compared to the pigs that uncover truffles. Unlike his father, Virgil became a very wealthy man, the envy of his two older siblings, Oscar, a self-styled composer, and Anthea, who wrote poetry, both surviving by Virgil’s generosity, as also did Lord Roland. Virgil took a deep breath. His housekeeper, Nellie Mamby, materialized, carrying a tea tray.

  “Oh, God, Mamby, have mercy. I couldn’t possibly drink or eat anything.”

  She asked with concern, “Have you had another attack, sir?”

  “Only a slight discomfort this time.”

  “The tea will do you good,” she insisted as she set the tray on his desk and promptly poured him a cup.

  He crossed to the desk and sat, watching the steam rising from the teacup. “Smells good.”

  “And it’s strong.” She was a small woman with a strong face dominated by a pair of gray eyes that pierced whatever object they brought into focus. They penetrated Virgil’s handsome face as the forty-year-old man sipped the tea.

  He grimaced. “Very strong, very hot.”

  “The way tea should be served,” she said firmly. “Are you in for dinner?”

  “Don’t fuss. If I eat anything, it’ll be some gruel or some consommé.”

  “I’ve got some lovely chops,” she said enticingly.

  “You eat them.” He knew she would, and without being coaxed. Nellie Mamby had the voracious appetite of those who had suffered deprivation in their youth. In Virgil Wynn’s kitchen, Nellie Mamby was an empress, the kitchen her private domain where few dared venture across the threshold, and even fewer desired to.

  Virgil now stood in front of a bust of King Ptolemy. “Look at the bugger. The defiance. The arrogance. The mystery. A genius. He was an astronomer, a geographer, a mathematician. He believed that the earth was the center of the universe and the heavenly bodies moved around it.” She’d heard the litany many times before, but like a good, well-trained servant, she patiently listened to it again. Virgil and his family never ceased to amaze and interest her. Father and son archeologists, snooping about in ancient tombs and disturbing the dead. She wondered if in some century in the future an archeologist might come across her burial place and mistakenly identify her as long-lost royalty. Anthea, the eldest, the poet, forever pleading with Virgil to pay her gambling debts. Oscar, the next in the pecking order, a composer who to her knowledge had never had anything performed either on the wireless or in a concert hall. Virgil was a good and a fair employer. He always smiled, always had a kind word, and seemingly enjoyed her mediocre cooking, possibly because he didn’t know any better. Archeological expeditions were rarely celebrated for their cuisine.

  Virgil droned on. “The Ptolemys were a Macedonian family, you know…” Nellie refrained from saying, ‘God, yes.’ “They formed the ruling dynasty of Egypt from about 323 to 44 B.C.”

  “Seems like a nice long run, sir.”

  “Ptolemy the First reigned from about 323 to 284 B.C. He’s the one I’m after this time.” Javert on the scent of Jean Valjean. “And, by golly, I shall find him!”

  Mamby wondered why some international missing-persons bureau hadn’t been established for the sole purpose of locating lost Egyptian tombs. Maybe it was something Scotland Yard could look into and
perhaps they could earn some profit. They were always complaining of lack of funds in these dreadful economic times.

  Virgil was back sitting behind the desk. “Take away the tea things, Mamby. I must get back to work.” He had barely touched his tea, just a few sips. But as she glided out of the room, he could feel the stomach pains returning and he slumped back in the chair, begging for mercy in a whisper and knowing none would be forthcoming.

  The Duchess of Bedford, a small but proud liner, dipped and rose as it slowly cut a swath across the Atlantic Ocean towards Liverpool. Below-decks, in a first-class cabin, Harmon Nelson lay on his bed recovering from a fever he thought he had contracted when the ship made its way through the Panama Canal from the Pacific side to the Atlantic side, having embarked from a port in Vancouver. He watched his wife lighting a cigarette, then inhaling deeply and then exhaling ferociously. “Ham” (his nickname), “my mind’s made up.” She was pacing short, jerking steps, arms flailing about in a mannerism familiar to movie audiences. “I want a divorce. Not this minute. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not next month. But sooner or later, a divorce. It’s no use kidding ourselves. We married much too young. Don’t you agree?”

  “Don’t I always agree?” She could hear the fever in his voice.

  “Oh, don’t be tedious, darling. I’m looking forward to a life in exile even less then you are. But the move had to be made. You shouldn't have insisted on coming along.”

  “At the time I thought it was a husband’s duty.”

  “Well, yes, of course, quite right. And my mother agreed with you, and since Ruthie agreed, I decided to let you come. But on this tedious voyage I’ve had too much time to think. London s going to be a long, tiresome, drawn-out affair. It may be months before I go to trial; at least that’s what Sir William wrote me. Ham, you’ll be miserable.”

  “I’m miserable now.”

  “You poor thing. I can hear how feverish you sound.” She thought for a moment. “Good grief, I hope it’s not something contagious, something fatal.”

  He said solemnly, “Marriage can often be contagious, and it can frequently be fatal.”

  She was mulling over what he had said. “Oh. I guess that s supposed to be funny.”

  “I’m never funny.”

  “I won’t dispute that.”

  “Let’s not have a fight.”

  “Absolutely not. We’ll soon be in England. W'e must be civilized about the split the way the British would be, or are supposed to be.” A hand flew to her forehead. “Oh, God! Why did I choose to run away to England? Why not France, where both the cuisine and the weather are better? I don’t know a soul in England.”

  “You know George Arliss.”

  “Poor old dear. Did I tell you it was he who got Jack Warner to sign me to a contract?”

  “Many times.”

  She ignored the remark. “Dear old George taught me so much about acting for the camera. He transformed me from a brown mouse into a blond glamour girl.” Her face hardened. “Glamour! Ha! Paul Muni gets fifty thousand per picture. I get a measly sixteen hundred a week, and I stole Bordertown right from under his nose! Eddie Robinson gets forty thousand a picture. That old frump Ruth Chatterton gets eight thousand a week, and her pictures lose money! But me! Me! The winner of an Academy Award, which none of them has ever won! What do I get? A lousy sixteen hundred a week!”

  Ham said slowly, “In the time of a great world depression, with Okies migrating from the Dust Bowl to California, with tent cities springing up in every city of the United States, with long lines forming at free soup kitchens, sixteen hundred a week sounds pretty good to me.”

  She rubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray as she exploded, “I knew it! I knew it all along! I suspected it from the way you always laugh at Jack Warner’s embarrassing jokes!”

  “I don't laugh at the jokes. I laugh at him.”

  “I knew it I knew it I knew it. You’re on his side. You want me to lose my case!”

  He kept calm. “Bette, this is 1936, not 1926, when every-

  thing was caviar and bootleg champagne. Come down to earth. Warner Brothers have been building your career very carefully.”

  “What!” She seemed to tower over the bed and its weary occupant as she clenched and unclenched her fists, a human volcano. “I had to fight and scream and threaten to get them to lend me to Radio Pictures for Of Human Bondage. I get nominated for an Oscar, but does Jack Warner care. Like hell he does. He tosses me into garbage like The Girl from Tenth Avenue and Dangerous.”

  “Well, you got your Oscar for that one!”

  “Consolation prize!”

  “Is there no satisfying you.”

  “God damn it, I can never get through to you! The only time you seem to be receptive is when you’re in front of your cheesy dance band waving your baton. You always look serene then!”

  “That’s because I’m listening to music, not to you.”

  “Why, you …” She was looking around for something to throw at him.

  “There’s a pillow on the easy chair,” he pointed out affably. She folded her arms and glared at him. “Harmon Oscar Nelson …”

  “… Junior …”

  “I hope this God-damned disease of yours is fatal.”

  “Sweetheart, how often have you slept with George Brent.”

  “Not often enough, you son of a bitch!” She grabbed a raincoat she had earlier slung across the back of a chair and made what she hoped was a very dramatic exit from the stateroom, slamming the door.

  She paused to brush away the tears of anger and remorse that were welling up. She struggled into the raincoat and headed for an upper deck. Once outside she fumbled in the coat pockets hoping for a pack of cigarettes, but she was out of luck. She realized she had been swallowed up in a thick fog.

  The ship’s foghorn mourned dolefully as she walked to the rail and leaned on it. Bette suppressed a shudder and returned to dwelling on the future.

  Bette Davis. Actress. Star under contract to the tyrants Warner. Actress. Damned good actress, despite all the odds against her. When six years earlier she’d been brought to Hollywood from Broadway, where she had drawn some attention to herself in Myron Flavin’s play Broken Dishes, Carl Laemmle, Jr., scion of the mogul who ruled Universal pictures and who had signed Bette, commented nastily, “She’s about as sexy as Slim Summerville.” Summerville was a very tall, lanky actor with a basset-like face. Universal got rid of her fast, and she was relegated to Poverty Row quickies until George Arliss read her for the role opposite him in The Man Who Played God. He saw something in her few others recognized. He realized she was no carbon-copy ingenue; she was an original. She had style, a crisp, clipped way of delivering dialogue. She was refreshing. He convinced Jack Warner to sign her, and in just a few weeks the brown mouse was a blond leading lady with a big future.

  Was she really? Was Ludovico Toeplitz really her future in England? The forty-five-year-old Italian producer had offered her fifty thousand dollars to star in I’ll Take the Low Road, about an American heiress hoping to snare a royal husband in Europe. Ham had asked, “What makes you think this is an improvement on the scripts Jack Warner has lined up for you?”

  The thought of his comment had her seething again. The pictures Jack had lined up for her. Mountain Justice and the role of an Ozark hillbilly accused of murder, or was it witchcraft? God’s Country and the Woman as a woman lumberjack or something like it.

  “Garbage! It’s all garbage!” she shrieked into the fog.

  “I can’t see a bloody thing!” said a very well modulated female voice coming from her left.

  “Oh,” said Bette, “you startled me.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. But when you shrieked, ‘Garbage! It’s bloody garbage!' I thought you could see some flotsam and jetsam, and I was terribly envious.” She was coming closer. “Out here I feel the lack of a walking stick, a tin cup, and a guide dog. There, now I can see you. Oh, of course, you’re the movie actress
. You were pointed out to me in the dining saloon. How’s your husband? I hear he’s been laid up since the Panama Canal.”

  “He’s still laid up and he’s a beast. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. He’s really quite nice if you like that sort of thing. You know who I am. I’m at a disadvantage.”

  She said smoothly, “I’m Nydia Tilson, and I’m wondering why I booked this bloody tub when I could have taken the train to New York and luxuriated on the Bremen or the Normandie.”

  “I can understand how you feel, but I don’t mind the Duchess of Bedford at all. I wanted a long sea voyage. It’s my first … vacation in too many years.” Nydia Tilson was lighting a cigarette. Bette sounded like Oliver Twist asking for seconds. “I don’t suppose you have another cigarette you can spare?”

  “Oh, dear, whatever has happened to my manners? That’s what two weeks in Hollywood do to one.” She held a lighter to Bette’s cigarette. She’d never seen anyone inhale and exhale so ferociously. The actress might have been descended from dragons.

  “I feel much better. Thank you so much.”

  “I say, now that we’ve begun a conversation, I very selfishly don’t want to end it too soon. It’s teatime. Can I interest you in a spot? They do a real, proper British tea.”

  “As opposed to a real improper British tea?”

  “I couldn’t get any kind in Hollywood.” Bette followed Nydia Tilson into the ship’s saloon, where several other passengers were already sipping tea and gorging on scones, cakes, and minute cucumber-and-butter sandwiches on black bread.

  In the light of the saloon, Bette sized up her new acquaintance. The first thing that struck her was her gorgeous skin.

  When Nydia removed the scarf around her head, Bette admired her beautifully coiffured hair. She wore a simple skirt and blouse, with a sweater hanging loosely from her shoulders. After ordering the tea and waiting for it to be served, they chitchatted about nothing of importance, finally getting onto the subject of London hotels.

  Bette told her, “I'll be staying at the Savoy.”