[Celebrity Murder Case 05] - The Greta Garbo Murder Case Page 2

  “Mayer wanted me to be Andy Hardy or Doctor Kildare.”

  “How dare he!” Salka’s indignation smouldered, waiting to erupt. She loathed Louis B. Mayer.

  Garbo smiled. “Not really. He just wanted me to make very inexpensive films.” She folded her arms across her chest and contemplated the beautiful sky. “So after all these years, I am no longer an MGM star.”

  Salka’s eyes widened. “He canceled your contract?”

  “By mutual consent. Divorce is always the best when it is useless to continue a dying marriage.”

  “Ha! Every studio in town will be after you now!”

  Garbo’s housekeeper, Lottie Lynton, stepped onto the patio and asked, “Shall I do tea. Miss Garbo?”

  “Oh yes,” said Garbo enthusiastically, “let’s have tea! You would love tea, wouldn’t you, Salka?”

  The writer said dryly, “Why, I’d kill for some.”

  Garbo said to the housekeeper, “With some biscuits, chocolate-covered ones. And maybe some of those funny little finger sandwiches you make with cucumbers and radishes. Would that be too much trouble on such a beautiful day?”

  “No trouble at all, ma’am.” She retreated, not happy at having overheard Garbo was no longer with Metro. She knew her employer was rich but she also knew she suffered from wanderlust. But still, with a war on, where was there for her to go except possibly Yosemite National Park and she couldn’t quite imagine Garbo hiking trails and frightening the animals.

  “I have never played a nun. Mayer wanted me to do The White Sister years ago but I said no, Lillian Gish had already done it beautifully as a silent. So Helen Hayes played the nun.”

  Salka recognized the preamble to what would be some startling revelation.

  “Perhaps I should become a nun.”

  “In what order?”

  Garbo ignored the mockery staining her friend’s voice. “In no particular order.”

  “You could never be a nun.” Salka blew a smoke ring and then left her wicker chair to join Garbo on the wicker couch. She took her friend’s hand and held it gently. “Now look, darling, you’re still much too young to continue sequestering yourself.”

  “I feel that God needs me.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but God has been very tiresome lately. Though even He must know that somebody needs you. Get out into the world.”

  "The world is at war. Ah! I could be a nurse! You remember how I nursed people in The Painted Veil ”

  “Tbat stinker.”

  “But Salka, it was one of your babies! You helped write it.”

  “It’s one of my babies that should have been stillborn. Now stop being so fey and start being practical.”

  “I am practical, which is why I am so lonely.”

  “You brought that on yourself. Now’s the time to come out of your shell and join the war effort.”

  “I could be a very good soldier. I’m a very good shot. Shall I enlist?”

  “Greta, I wish you’d hang a FOR RENT sign on cloud nine and come down to earth.”

  Garbo was on her feet and pacing restlessly. “It’s no good, Salka. I can’t do bond tours the way Carole Lombard and Dorothy Lamour do because crowds terrify me. I can’t visit hospitals and cheer up the wounded and the dying because the wounded and the dying make me ill. I wouldn’t know what to say to them. I can’t dance with the boys at the Hollywood Canteen because I’m not a good dancer.”

  “You’re a marvelous dancer.”

  "Clark didn’t think so.”

  “That cluck. What does he know?”

  “Do you think it would be difficult to get to Switzerland?”

  “What the hell do you want with Switzerland?”

  “It’s neutral. I’d be safe there.”

  “You’re safe here, for crying out loud.”

  “No I’m not. Last night there was a prowler.”

  “Really?”

  “It was a woman. She was under my patio, behind the rose bush.”

  “I sec. You were over at Marion’s, drinking again.”

  “It was only sherry. A presumptuous amonrillado. Why do rich people buy cheap wines?”

  “Why do rich people drink them?” Her sly thrust didn’t escape the actress. “Did you report your prowler?"

  “Of course not. The police would have invaded my privacy.”

  “If there was a prowler, you could have been robbed or even killed.”

  “There most certainly was a prowler.” They recognized Peter Lorre’s distinct voice immediately. Both smiled. They adored him. Just about everyone in the industry liked the pixieish actor with his wicked sense of humor. He came up from the beach and chose a perch on the wooden railing that protected the patio. “It was a woman. A very pretty woman.” He told them about his encounter the previous night.

  “And she disappeared into thin air?” Garbo’s hand was at her throat, a moment borrowed from one of her silent films, A Woman of Affairs.

  “Poof!” said Lorre. “Mr. Saloman reported her.”

  “Saloman? The old man next door?” Saloman’s house was situated between Garbo’s and the Marion Davies beach house. His was becomingly modest, as became a retired insurance man.

  “He happened to be opening a window to let some air in when he saw her under your patio. It seems she’d been hiding behind your rose bush.”

  “You see, Salka!” Her eyes sparkled victoriously. “I was not hallucinating!”

  “I didn’t say you were hallucinating.”

  “You didn’t have to say it, but you implied it. Thank you, Peter, thank you. I might have been incarcerated in a lunatic asylum.”

  “I hope that never happens,” said Lorre, “you’d drive them crazy.”

  “What’s in that envelope you’re carrying?”

  “A script.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a good script?”

  “It’s a very good script.”

  Lottie Lynton arrived with the tea wagon and three cups and saucers, having heard Lorre’s entrance. “Shall I pour. Miss Garbo?”

  “No, thank you, Lottie. We’ll look after ourselves.” The housekeeper withdrew and Salka Viertel took command of the tea service. She wrinkled her nose at the plate of dainty sandwiches, preferring heartier repasts just as any good Pole would. “So, little Peter, what is the script about?”

  "The Maid of Lorraine.”

  “Joan? Joan of Arc?”

  "The kid herself.”

  Garbo said, “But who would care to see Joan of Arc portrayed on the screen today? I mean hers was such a teeny tiny war compared to today’s Armageddon.”

  Salka interjected, “She’s one of the great symbols of freedom. I happen to think she was a rustic nincompoop who pulled off one of the greatest con acts in history. Even so, more power to her. After all, they nominated her for sainthood and she won the poll by a landslide.”

  Garbo now stood tall and majestic, her hands crossed on her bosom. “I shall be a saint.”

  Lorre smiled as he lit a cigarette. “You’d be a most imposing saint.”

  “I really mean it, Peter. I too can be a martyr.”

  “I brought this script for you to read.”

  “Lemon, Peter?” asked Salka.

  “It is not. The script is very good.”

  “I meant in your tea, dear. lemon or milk?”

  He chose milk, wondering why the rich never offer cream. “Why do you want me to read the script? Ah, yes! There’s a good part in it for you and you want my opinion. I am so flattered.”

  “Listen, Greta, cut the Peter Pan act and let me talk some sense into your head.”

  “Bravo, Peter, have one of these odious little sandwiches.” Peter dismissed Salka with an abrupt wave of his hand. “Greta, you would be magnificent as Joan of Arc.”

  “I’m too old.”

  “Crap. You can play anything you want.”

  “I can’t play Ginger Rogers.”


  She was offered no argument. Lorre said, “Ginger couldn’t play Joan of Arc.”

  Salka snorted and said, “Try telling her that.”

  “Still, I’m too old. Joan was a frisky young colt. A very foolish and self-willed creature who succeeded because she dealt with people who were dumber then she was. I mean, take the Dauphin of France…”

  “I have,” said Lorre after sipping his tea and finding it tepid and distasteful. “I’m playing the part.”

  “Really? But you’re much too old.”

  Lorre said to Salka, “She’s a broken record, this afternoon. Too old, too old, too old. Sarah Bernhardt triumphed as Hamlet when she was sixty and wore a wooden leg!”

  “Still, she was much too old.” She selected a chocolate-covered biscuit. “I suppose with a good cameraman, say, William Daniels, I could …” The rest of the sentence drifted out to sea, caught in the surf, on its way west. Salka winked at Lorre. They knew Garbo was hooked.

  Greta curled up on the wicker couch nibbling at the chocolate biscuit like a well-brought-up mouse. “Which studio is producing?”

  “It’s an independent.”

  “Oh please, Peter, I have read all about these independents proliferating out here. They always run out of money.”

  “This one could never run out of money. The producer and backer is Albert Guiss.”

  Salka whisded. Garbo’s mouth formed a moue. Then she said, “What did Life magazine call him? The international figure of mystery.”

  “His money’s no mystery,” said Lorre. “The film’s budget is five million dollars.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Garbo. “You could make five lavish productions with that kind of money. Why Gone With the Wind cost about a third of that to produce!”

  Said Salka, “Without even reading the script I can tell you one million would be more than enough to put Joan on film. Possibly more if they really want Greta. She doesn’t work for lunch money.”

  “They’re offering Greta one million dollars,” said Lorre.

  It was Garbo’s turn to whistle. “That’s obscene.”

  Lorre shrugged. “It’s the kind of obscenity’ I wouldn’t mind indulging in.”

  “Albert Guiss.” Coming from Garbo, the name sounded Wagnerian. “Have you met him?”

  “Oh, yes. He has a fabulous connection for getting me cocaine.”

  “Oh, Peter,” Garbo groaned, “someday this addiction will kill you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a pleasant habit. Everybody in the industry knows I use it.”

  “It will be your downfall.”

  He laughed. “Bela Lugosi uses more than I do, and he never stops working.”

  Salka advised him, “Bela’s an even bigger fool then you arc. Look at what he’s sunk to doing. Poverty Row horror films for a fraction of the salary he could be earning.”

  “I’ve got big news for you. Just this week Universal Pictures put Bela back under contract at his original money. Thanks to the war, horror thrillers are back. Dracula, Frankenstein, The Wolf Man. They tried to get me but Jack Warner wouldn’t sell them my contract, bless his dreadful hide.”

  “But he’s letting you do this one for Guiss,” said Salka.

  “Nobody says no to Albert Guiss.”

  “Is there a director signed?” asked Garbo.

  Lorre set his cup and saucer down and waved away Salka’s offer of a refill. “An old friend of yours.”

  “Oh yes? Who?”

  “Erich.”

  She thought for a moment, and then her eyes widened, like Pandora opening the box. “Von Stroheim?”

  “You’re joking.” Salka was genuinely astounded.

  “It’s his chance for a big comeback.”

  Greta stroked her chin, deep in thought, and then said, “No wonder it has a five-million-dollar budget. Erich will spend every penny of it”

  “He will make a brilliant film.”

  Garbo nodded. “Yes. That is possible. Erich can be very brilliant. Even his failures are larded with his special genius. He will act in it too?”

  “No. He’s strictly behind the camera, that was a firm stipulation by Guiss.”

  “Good for Guiss. Score one for him. What’s the shooting schedule?”

  “Three months.”

  “There are many battle scenes?”

  “A great many.”

  “Three months, then, will not be long enough for von Stroheim. He’ll need six months. And you know what a stickler he is for realism!” She was back to pacing the length and breadth of the patio. “He will demand real corpses! Ha ha ha!” Salka laughed too, but Garbo wasn’t kidding. She knew the reputation of the arrogant and profligate von Stroheim. “There will be real blood spilled. No tomato soup for von Stroheim unless it’s piping hot for his dinner. Ha ha ha!” Then she paused and her hand flew to her throat. “And my God! When Joan burns at the stake … !”

  “Stop that, Greta,” cried Salka, upset. “He wouldn’t dare burn you at the stake. He’ll need you for retakes.”

  “There’s a wonderful bunch lined up for the Inquisitors.” Lorre had regained their attention.

  “Boris Karloff’s playing the chief inquisitor.”

  “Oh good, good, that is very good.” Salka nodded her approval as Garbo continued to speak. “The industry has never given him a chance to show what a truly fine actor he really is. Who else?”

  “Jean Hersholt.”

  “Also good. We were together in Susan Lenox. He’s good to work with. He isn’t selfish. He gives.”

  “Victor Jory.”

  “Another one misused by the industry. It’s all very impressive. Still …”

  Lorre said gravely, “Greta, sit on your doubts.”

  She continued pacing in silence. Then she placed her hands on the wooden rail and gazed out at the Pacific Ocean. Her face illuminated nothing but its breathtaking beauty. She saw dolphins cavorting, but her eyes reflected nothing. It was a replica of her final moment in Queen Christina when she stood at the ship’s railing after the death of her lover, feeling nothing, hearing nothing, saying nothing, her mind and her face a blank. Finally she spoke. “I will read the script.”

  “Read it several times,” implored Lorre.

  “I will read it and I will think about it. You don’t realize, Peter, but in my seventeen years in films, I only worked for one studio, for Louis B. and Metro.” Her eyes misted. “It was my home. They looked after me. They catered to my every whim. I was a daughter there such as I never was to my own father and mother. But now I have been banished. I’m an orphan. I must choose my next set of parents with great care and discrimination.” She looked away from the sea to Peter Lorre. “I don’t know if I want Albert Guiss for a father. I really don’t need a mother”. She smiled warmly at Viertel. “Salka is a good mother. My good mother.” She crossed to the older woman and placed her hands on her shoulders. Then abruptly she withdrew her hands and resumed pacing. “They talk about refugees and displaced persons. They whisper about concentration camps. Look at me! I’m a refugee! I’m displaced!” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “And this is my concentration camp!”

  Lorre commented wryly, “At least you’ve got hot and cold running water.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “Don’t mock yourself. Enough of these self-indulgent dramatics and read the script.”

  “I’ll read it tonight after my lonely dinner.”

  “I’ll join you for dinner if you like,” the actor offered.

  “I prefer to be lonely. Are you going, Salka?”

  “I’ve got to get back to the script I’m working on.” She crossed to Garbo and kissed her lightly on the check. “Phone me when you’ve finished reading the script. Come on, Peter.”

  When they were out of Garbo’s earshot, Lorre asked Salka, “What do you think? Do you think she’ll do it?”

  “Joan’s a challenge for her. And you know Greta.”

  “Does anyone know Greta?”


  “A few of us do. She dotes on challenges. And don’t believe that crap about being orphaned by Metro. She loathes the place. She’s delighted to be free. She dreaded the thought of doing another film for them. Now then, what about this woman last night?”

  “Well, it was the strangest thing.” He warmed up to the subject. “She was quite beautiful, and I have a suspicion she was European. Her English was unaccented, but it had that lovely lilt foreigners have when they learned their English in England. You know, like me.”

  “By you that’s a lovely lilt?”

  “Don’t be unkind.”

  “How old was this woman?”

  “Her early twenties at the most. But she was genuinely frightened. Marion Davies thinks she has something to do with that ugly mansion adjoining Marion’s estate.”

  “Who lives there?” asked Salka.

  “That’s it. Apparently nobody. At least no one’s been seen entering or leaving it since the Wolheims moved out so hastily last November.”

  “Oh yes. The Wolheims. A strange family. If they were a family.”

  “You knew them?”

  “Only by sight. Greta and I saw them a few times when we walked on the beach. Father, mother, three sons and a daughter. At least that’s what we assumed they were, father, mother, sons and a daughter. Yet none of them resembled each other.”

  “Perhaps the children were adopted.”

  “Peter, you think of everything.” They arrived at her car in Garbo’s driveway. ‘Tell me, dear. How did you get to Albert Guiss?”

  “Albert Guiss got to me.”

  “Really, how so?”

  “He sent a man named Werner Lieb to see me; he and a woman named Risa Barron are to be the actual producers of the film. Guiss will act as executive producer. Lieb is quite a charmer. I think he’s German originally but he said he was educated in Italy and England. His is another of those weird accents I can’t place. Me, you know I’m from Germany. You, I know you’re from Poland. But this fresh breed of refugees pouring into the country, they’re such hybrids. I mean even Guiss is hard to place. But that deep baritone of his. When he speaks, the room trembles. I think even his whisper could shatter glass.”