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

  “Were you able to contact Ince?”

  “No. It seems he was busy elsewhere. But one of her guests confided in me that your gossip columnist Louella Parsons was a witness to the killing and in return for her silence was made one of the most powerful women in the cinema.”

  “Poor old Lolly. Her husband’s an alcoholic, her daughter’s a lesbian, or so I’ve been told, and she herself is incontinent. Ruth Chatterton won’t have her at her house because she leaves stains on the sofa and it always has to be recovered. Ruth was a star at Warners. They dropped her last year. They said she was too old. She’s over forty.”

  “How nasty. Perhaps the Warners haven’t read Walter Pitkin’s Life Begins at Forty.”

  “Hollywood producers don’t read anything except the fine print in contracts.” She rubbed out a cigarette in a tray. “I guess I should get back to the cabin and try to behave like a wife, albeit an estranged one… Nydia?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I know it’s awfully short notice, but you really arc a friend, aren’t you?”

  “Short of taking a blood oath, you shall be convinced, Bette.”

  “You see, now that I’ve made two serious breaks in my life, with the studio and with my husband, I’m beginning to realise the enormity of these decisions. I’m a little frightened.”

  “There’s no need to be. Your aura will protect you.”

  “I wish I could be as sure of my aura as you are.”

  “Trust me.”

  And instinct told Bette Davis to trust Nydia Tilson.

  2

  BETTE SILENTLY ADMIRED HAM NELSON for trying to put a brave face on their situation. They were huddled together on a platform in Waterloo Station from which the train to Southampton was scheduled to depart. There wasn’t much time left and Bette was babbling small talk that got smaller and smaller as time ticked by. His luggage was already on board and he wished he was. This parting was too painful and he still suffered from a slight fever.

  “God, what awful memories this place brings back to me.” Her hand, holding a cigarette, was making circles and they were dizzying.

  “You’ve never been here before.” He nervously rolled and unrolled a copy of the Taller.

  “Oh, yes I have. One of the first movies I made at Universal. Waterloo Bridge.” She puffed the cigarette. “Mae Clarke did the lead. It should have been me. It did nothing for Mae. It took Jimmy Cagney pushing half a grapefruit into her face in Public Enemy to give her any recognition.” She dropped the cigarette and crushed it with her shoe. “I’m babbling away like a madwoman. Why don’t you tell me to shut up?”

  He ignored the welcome suggestion like the gentleman he was. “I’m glad you’ve met Nydia Tilson. At least you have one friend here you can be sure of.”

  “Yes. She’s marvelous.” She looked at her wristwatch. “I'm meeting her in half an hour. She’s taking me to meet Virgil Wynn. I hope he approves of me. I must say, thanks to Nydia I’m getting quite an impressive education in archeology. You know, sort of learning the artifacts of life.” She laughed nervously. “Bad joke. Anyway, it should he the artifacts of death. The Egyptians believe in reincarnation. Do you think we lived in another life?”

  “I hope not. It’s tough enough living in this one.” The train whistle blew. The conductor blew his whistle. Passengers hurried to board the train and get into their compartments. Ham’s was second-class, Bette being practical again. The engine was gathering a head of steam, and past Ham. Bette could see the engineer hanging over the side of his cab, impatient for the boarding to be completed. Ham put his arms around Bette and hugged her tightly. “Don’t let them frighten you.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’re a scrapper, honey. You’re Ruthie’s daughter. Live up to the family tradition.”

  “I will.”

  Ham stepped back. She hoped he wasn’t going to go all teary on her. He was terribly sentimental. “See you soon.”

  “I’m not sure when. The court hearing isn’t until October fourteenth.”

  “Trust Sir William.” Sir William Jowitt was Bette’s very expensive lawyer.

  “At his fees, I have to. If all goes well with Virgil Wynn, I’ll cable you the address and phone number.”

  He kissed her cheek and then hurried to board the train. “Ham!” she shouted. He stood in the doorway hoping she was about to ask him not to leave. “Call my mother the minute you get back and take her to dinner!” The train was moving, and Bette tried to keep up with it as it slowly gained speed. “Tell her all about the curses! She’ll love it! And about Nydia, except she might get jealous. She’s so possessive!” The train was beginning to outdistance her. She stood still, waving her hand. The train and her husband were growing smaller and smaller. Bette lit a cigarette. Even she found it difficult to watch her past disappearing into the future. Slowly and contemplatively she left the platform. She was meeting Nydia Tilson at Virgil Wynn’s mansion. Her pace quickened as she crossed the main hall of the cavernous Waterloo Station searching for the taxi rank. Her troubled thoughts were clashing against each other. Jack Warner. Sir William Jowitt. Ham Nelson. Nydia Tilson. Virgil Wynn. Alone in London. There was a line of arriving passengers waiting for the taxis to pull in. Bette decided to try her luck farther down the street, and it was a wise move. She gave the driver the address and then settled back as the taxi headed for Waterloo Bridge and the general direction of St. John’s Wood.

  Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of a brick wall that spanned the width of Blenheim Terrace. In front, to her left, was a solid wooden door that led to the Wynn mansion, and to her right was a wrought-iron gate that led to his neighbor’s less imposing home. Bette tried the left latch. The door creaked open inward. A long path of bricks very artfully cemented together led to the front door. Bette stood still for a moment and partook of the atmosphere and her surroundings. Awfully large mansion, she thought, maybe too big for her to be knocking around in. If she knew enough people, she could hold a ball, but fat chance of that happening. On either side of the front door there were tall French windows, heavily draped. The drapes were closed but Bette saw one open a smidgen. She was being examined and it made her nervous. She resisted the urge to light up, considering that making an entrance with a cigarette dangling from her mouth was more in Jean Harlow’s line. The grounds were beautifully landscaped. Nydia had told her that in the back there were lovely gardens populated with flora and Egyptian artifacts in equal proportions. She wondered if Virgil ever considered a dig in his own gardens. He might turn up something interesting, other than a dog’s bone.

  Yes. She had been watched. The door was opening slowly, propelled by an unseen hand, like the opening of a movie thriller, and she half-expected to hear a blood-curdling scream. Instead she saw a tall, good-looking woman with patrician, albeit sharp, features. Her bearing was majestic, as though she might be royalty. Her mouth was parted in a toothy grin. If this is the housekeeper, thought Bette, I’ll be damned if she expects to outclass me. Bette smiled and asked, “Is this Nellie Mamby?”

  “No, my dear.” She advanced a few steps with hand outstretched. Bette shook her hand. “Mamby’s in the kitchen preparing tea. I’m Anthea Wynn, Virgil's sister. He sent me to greet you. Nydia’s arrived and they are chatting in the living room. I live nearby, so I’m always underfoot.” Bette’s heart sank. “But once Virgil leaves, I shall resume writing my blank verse, which too often results in blank spaces.” She favored Bette with something Bette assumed was meant to be a chuckle. Bette followed Anthea into the impressive hall. “Virgil’s not been well, but now that Nydia’s back, he’s improving. Nydia, you will undoubtedly learn, is all for improvements.” She pointed to a chair that boasted fine carvings. “Why don’t you leave your things on this chair? It dates back to only about 15 B.C.”

  “Oh. A Johnny-come-lately.”

  She heard Nydia’s melodic voice. “You’re here, my dear, you’re here at last. Come meet Virgil; he’s all arip with anticipation.” Anthea stood to one side in the doorway of the living room, indicating that Bette should precede her. This, thought Bette, is a weird one. Nydia crossed the magnificent room with hands outstretched.

  “Oh, dear, dear, dear. You do look a bit peaked. Was Waterloo Station all that traumatic?”

  “No, the station was impressive. It was my husband’s departure that was traumatic. So this is Virgil Wynn! I’ve heard so much about you!”

  “And I assure you, it's all true.” He kissed her hand.

  Bette was startled as Nydia favored her with a sly wink. Bette was thinking, This man looks awful. Sunken cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, sickly, sallow skin. She wondered if he could make it to the bathroom, let alone Egypt. She said cheerfully, “I must say, what I’ve seen so far of your home is most impressive.”

  “Well, it’s just the years of accumulation,” he said modestly.

  “Accumulation! You call all this accumulation?” She was making a sweeping gesture and missed by a hair knocking over a table lamp. “These are the treasures of Xanadu!” She thought for a moment. “Is Xanadu correct?”

  “Of course Xanadu’s correct,” said Nydia. “Kublai Khan and all that. Ah! Here’s Mamby with the tea!”

  Mamby was pushing the tea cart in front of her. The small woman reminded Bette of the character actress Una O’Connor, who was a much-sought-after shrieker for horror films. Virgil introduced them and they exchanged the proper amenities. Bette felt assured they would like each other. Mamby settled the cart in front of Nydia, who exclaimed, “Oh, dear! Am I to be Mother? Anthea, wouldn't you prefer to do the honors?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. I want to get to know Bette better. My dear, do I make you nervous staring at you?”

  “I’m an actress, Miss Wynn.
It is Miss Wynn, isn't it?”

  “I’d prefer you called me Anthea and that I should call you Bette.”

  “‘Bett—eeee,’ not ‘Bet.’ Nydia pronounces it ‘Bet’ too. It’s ‘Bett … eee.’”

  “Oh, dear,” said Anthea. “I shall never get used to that. ‘Bett-eeee’ is spelled with a ‘y.’ When it’s not, we say ‘Bet.’ as in Balzac’s Cousine Bene.”

  “What about Irene Dunne?” countered Bette. “Do you pronounce her name ‘Eye-reen-eee Dun-neeee’?” She thought she saw daggers in Anthea’s eyes as Nydia poured and Mamby served, offering milk or lemon.

  “Oh, Bette, stop being a tease,” admonished Nydia, as she cast a sly glance at Virgil. How awful he looks. He’s so much thinner since before I went to California. He’s cadaverish. He will die in Egypt, it he ever gets there, and he’s got to get there because I can see Bette has her heart set on this house.

  “Anthea, you asked if I mind being stared at. Well, you do it so subtly, I don't mind at all. Actually, as an actress, constantly in the spotlight, I expect to be stared at. Oh, damn it, that sounded so pretentious! Well, let me tell you the truth. It’s when the public stops staring that I'll start worrying. Virgil, you’ve had such a fantastic career. I knew so little about you until I met Nydia on the boat. She’s quite proud of you.”

  “Are you really, Nydia?”

  Nydia took center stage. “Of course I am. You know I am. I’m always bragging that I know you. And now I brag that I know Bette Davis. My cup runneth over. Is everyone served?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Nellie Mamby as she moved among the others with plates of biscuits and finger-sized sandwiches of ham paste and thinly sliced cucumber.

  Bette suddenly shivered and almost spilled her tea.

  Concerned, Nydia asked, “Bette, what’s wrong?”

  “I really don’t know,” she replied as she placed the cup and saucer carefully on the table at her elbow. “I guess somebody’s walked over my grave.” She was aware of the sudden silence. “I must explain. That’s an old American expression.”

  “Most frequently spoken. I should think.” offered Virgil, “by old Americans.”

  Anthea had moved to a window, and as she sipped her tea she looked out. “Curiosity has gotten the better of her again.” She was referring to Virgil’s neighbor, who was in her garden pruning some bushes between bites of an apple, which she placed on a small wooden stool when resuming pruning.

  Virgil explained to Bette, “She’s referring to my neighbor. Mrs. Mallowan. She writes books. Her husband, Max Mallowan, is also an archeologist.”

  “How coincidental!” exclaimed Bette.

  “Not really. Max and my father are good friends, and so he has become a friend of mine. I recommended their house to them and I was quite pleased when they elected to move in. They’re charming company. Max is away on a dig in Mesopotamia.”

  Bette asked with curiosity, “Don’t you ever do your exploring closer to home?”

  “I am a confirmed Egyptologist. Like my father, who is rather retired, I’m afraid, albeit reluctantly.”

  “If he’s still raring to go,” said Bette, “why don’t you invite him along on this trip?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have, but Sir Roland, my father, is not interested in the Ptolemys. And they have me hypnotized from the far and mysterious recesses of their graves.” Mamby excused herself rather than suffer another of Virgil’s dissertations on the Ptolemy kings. Bette was genuinely interested in hearing about them. Virgil spoke slowly and carefully. He was in his element. As he droned on, Anthea passed among them freshening their tea, while Nydia dwelled on Virgil’s frightening disability. She wanted to throw her arms around him and reassure him his health would soon return, that there are no such things as Egyptian curses, and ask whether he had really extended an invitation to Sir Roland to accompany him on this trip. “My dear Bette,” she heard Virgil saying, “I think I have you transfixed.”

  “This is all so fascinating. This is all so new to me. Oh, how I wish I could go with you!”

  “Then who’d there be to occupy my house? Come! It’s time you saw the rest of it. I won’t trouble you with the basement.”

  “Oh, I adore basements. Especially when they have bargains.” To his perplexed expression, she quickly explained American department stores and bargain basements.

  “What a lovely custom,” said Anthea. “I wish we had those here. I love to buy things on the cheap.”

  Nydia tried to get Virgil to let her and Anthea conduct the tour while he remained behind and conserved his strength, but Virgil was having none of it. He was fascinated by the Hollywood movie star, with her startlingly oversized eyes and her unusual mouth, which turned down at the corners; her short, sharp, quick gestures; the way she tamed a lighted cigarette. There was nothing like her in either England or Egypt, and probably, for that matter, anywhere else on earth.

  They slowly traveled from floor to floor and from room to room. There were three floors and at least a total of twenty rooms. Bette chose a bedroom on the first floor and was surprised to hear it had once been Anthea’s. Bette complimented her on her exquisite taste and was rewarded with another toothy grin. In the course of the tour, Bette learned that Virgil’s father and brother, Oscar, had also lived in the house but did not question why the father and the two siblings now occupied their own residences. Bette could see that Virgil had once been quite an attractive man. His manners were impeccable; his voice was beautifully modulated and when he spoke of Baramar and her pornography, Bette began to feel a familiar stirring that made her wonder if she hadn’t been too rash in sending her husband packing. The kitchen, she was warned by Nydia, was Mamby’s private enclave and guarded with an unbecoming possessivencss. Betty filed a mental note that Mamby would have to recognize that Bette Davis was a Down Easter and a hell of a good cook, especially with shellfish. Her clam chowder was usually spoken of in hushed tones, or else.

  Now it was time to explore the grounds. Again, as in the front of the estate, the landscaping was superlative. Bette clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, I shall be strolling here every day when I’m not busy fighting in the courts. But how do these flowers and shrubberies thrive in this dismal climate?” No one took offense at her comment about the climate.

  Virgil explained, “London is near the Gulf Stream, as of course is much of this region, and so the flora flourishes all year round. The United Kingdom is mostly verdant. In fact, you might try to find the time to travel south to Cornwall and take the boat to the Scilly Islands. That’s where the flora is truly exquisite. It has the lushness of the tropics. My dear, you’re trembling again. Is it too chilly for you?”

  “No, not at all. Really …” What she wouldn't tell him was that she was experiencing a presentiment. She might have said, rather darkly, something like “Heavy, heavy hangs over my head.” Was it the forthcoming court action? She didn’t think it was that at all. Was it something about Nydia? No, Nydia was too preoccupied with worrying about Virgil's health. Was it Anthea? There was something brooding and foreboding about Anthea. Something unhealthy about her devotion to her brother. The insinuation that it was Anthea who presided at teatime and probably at dinner parties and receptions. And Anthea was still staring at her. Not so obviously now, but staring nevertheless. She hoped she wasn’t a mind reader. Why were Anthea and the others no longer in residence? Why was Bette suddenly so interested? Because of her feeling of unease out here in the open. Anthea had wished for a bargain basement. It suddenly occurred to Bette that Anthea and the others were dependent on Virgil for their economic survival. She hoped that under that smooth and suave facade Virgil wasn’t mean and brutish. She'd seen too much of that in Hollywood, where just about everyone was being suffocated by the financial dependence of relatives. Including Bette Davis.

  An immense privet hedge separated the grounds of the two estates, and on her side of the hedge Mrs. Mallowan was straining to hear what was being said on the other side. She recognized the voices of Virgil and Anthea and, of course, Nydia, who was a good personal friend, but the fourth voice remained enigmatic. She caught snatches of clues that indicated the young woman was an actress of sorts, in fact, a movie actress of sorts, and what’s more, a Hollywood movie actress of sorts. The voice was too mature to be that darling little Shirley Temple. It was too American to be either Garbo or Dietrich, two stars to whom Mrs. Mallowan was deeply devoted. It wasn't a sophisticated voice like that of Constance Bennett, who, she had read, was filming in London. There was a gate at the end of the privet hedge, and she wondered about making her way to it and somewhat subtly inviting herself to join the group. Of course, she wouldn’t deign to explain that while listening to them she had had one of her frequent presentiments, which were usually pretty precise and accurate. She heard the actress being delighted at the prospect of moving into the Wynn house the coming Saturday. So the actress was to be her new neighbor. She sounded all right, and Agatha Mallowan liked actresses. She was crazy about the monologist Ruth Draper, who had inspired Lord Edgware Dies. Of course, in private she didn't consider Ruth Draper a real actress. She was a monologist, and monologists are on stage talking to themselves while permitting the audience to eavesdrop. She heard Nydia say she would help ‘Bet’ move from the Savoy on Saturday morning.