[Celebrity Murder Case 09] - The Bette Davis Murder Case Page 4

  The Savoy?

  Well, she had to have some form of wealth. The Savoy wasn’t exactly a boarding-house in Blackpool. She was at the gate, and in her most ingratiating way she called out to the group, “I say, Nydia, is that you?”

  “Of course, darling. How are you? I was going to drop by for a minute with my new American friend, Bette Davis.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Mallowan with unrestrained pleasure. “Now I recognize her. My dear, you were so impressive in Of Human Bondage. And how cleverly you mastered the cockney accent!”

  Nydia introduced them, and Bette liked the middle-aged woman at once. “I worked like a slave to get it right,” said Bette. “And how kind of you to applaud the effort.”

  “I always try to be kind, my dear. So, Virgil, you’re really off to Egypt!”

  “Saturday morning, my dear. Back to the Valley of the Kings.”

  “Lucky man. I ache so to do another dig with my Max. I’m planning a story set in Egypt.” She said to Bette: “Egypt is so fascinating. So mysterious and so filthy. Billions of flies, my dear, billions. And the poverty is horrifying. But the atmosphere! Inconceivable! The Sphinx. The Pyramids. And the Nile with its little boats and its crocodiles. Don’t let me go on. Virgil, be sure to see me before you go. And I assure you, dear man, I shall be a very good neighbor to Miss Davis, if she will let me.”

  Bette took the woman’s hand and gently squeezed it. “Mrs. Mallowan, I can use all the good neighbors that can be spared.”

  Mrs. Mallowan said, “You and Nydia must drop by later. There’ll be tea, unless you’re waterlogged. Otherwise some sherry. Or perhaps we’ll be devil-may-care with whisky.” She was moving away from the gate, smiling and satisfied. She felt she had carried that off very smoothly and decided to reward herself with a slice of Dundee cake.

  As Bette and the others walked back into the house, Bette said, “Isn’t she a charmer! This must be my lucky day. This house and a lovely neighbor; what a wonderful package.”

  Nydia said, “Now to the tiresome details of the rent.”

  Bette said with an edge to her voice, “Shouldn't that be between Virgil and myself?”

  “There’s little need for tiresome details,” interjected Virgil. He said to Bette, “Nellie Mamby is paid ten pounds a week.”

  “Much too much,” commented Anthea with an imperious sniff.

  Bette was doing some fast arithmetic and converted ten pounds to fifty dollars. Fifty dollars for a cook, housekeeper, and all-around factotum. She restrained herself from shouting, “But what a steal!” Instead she said, “I’m agreeable to that.”

  Virgil smiled. “Then there’s the telephone, the gas and electricity, and the rubbish collector. Now, as to the rent… Behind her back, Bette hid crossed fingers… I consider it my jolly good luck to have you looking after my house and my treasures for me.”

  “Bette,” said Nydia warmly, “your jaw has dropped.” Anthea’s had also dropped, but for a different reason.

  “I can't let you do that!” Bette was truly astonished.

  “My dear,” said Virgil, not realizing he sounded like Ronald Colman, “don’t be tiresome. It bothered me to think of Nellie alone in this old mausoleum.” Except for Anthea underfoot. and probably taking an inventory, thought Bette.

  “It is not a mausoleum,” chirruped Nydia. “It’s a lovely old thing, and I wish it were mine.”

  “It could have been,” said Virgil softly.

  “Now, now, darling,” Nydia cautioned. “It isn’t healthy to dwell on what might have been. Isn’t that so, Bette?”

  “You’re reading my mind. I’ve got some ‘might have been’ of my own to dwell on.” She hoped Ham would find his second-class cabin suitable.

  Anthea’s voice was next. “Virgil, you look done in. You should have your medicine and then a nap.”

  Virgil turned on her smartly. “How often have I told you you should have been the overseer of a plantation in Malaya?” He said to the other two women, “Anthea tends to get very bossy, very imperious. I find that most unbecoming in a woman.”

  Bette was thinking, He should thank God he’s not living with me.

  Nellie Mamby came bustling in. “It’s time for your medicine and your nap.”

  Bette caught Virgil’s eye and giggled. She said, “This will all soon be behind you.”

  “Quite right,” he agreed. “Now. Bette, to get out of your way and give Nellie the time to tidy up for your Saturday move, I shall spend Friday night at my club. Actually, I’m having dinner with my father and some friends, and it is convenient for me to stay there. My belongings are to be picked up Friday afternoon. I’m so looking forward to the voyage through the Med. Ah, the thought of peace!” Anthea flashed him a look that did not escape Bette’s notice. Virgil sounded annoyed as he addressed Nellie Mamby. “I’ll be upstairs in a few moments, Nellie. There’s no need to wait for me.”

  “I’ll see you Saturday morning, Mamby.” Bette hoped Mamby would be glad to see her.

  “I’m looking forward to that, Miss Bette,” wisely pronounced ‘Bet-tee.’ Bette left the room with a deliberately measured pace.

  Anthea spoke up. “If you like, Bette, I could be here Saturday morning and lend a hand.”

  Bette said swiftly, “There’s no need to trouble yourself. Nydia’s picking me up at the Savoy, and after we drop my stuff off we’re lunching with George Arliss.”

  This was all news to Nydia, who didn’t mind one bit. She was proud of Bette for letting everyone answer her questions without Bette cutting in and answering them herself. She was proud of Virgil and his generosity towards Bette. She had told him Bette was a bit strapped for cash and carefully husbanding her pennies, but she’d never dreamt he’d turn over the mansion practically rent free. Bette and Nydia exchanged warm goodbyes with Virgil and his sister, wishing Virgil all the luck and good health possible. Virgil led them to the front door, while Anthea stayed behind in the sitting room for a few moments of quiet, if troubled, contemplation.

  Virgil watched the two women as they briskly walked down the brick path to the sturdy wooden door, on their way to Mrs. Mallowan’s. He stood in his doorway, arms folded, eyes misting. He knew he would never see them again.

  From her reception-room window, Mrs. Mallowan could see Bette and Nydia coming through her wrought-iron gate. She remembered the scrupulous care with which Max had selected it at the ironmongers on nearby Abbey Road. Dear Max. She hoped he was talcing the prescribed salts for his chronic constipation. Again, as she did several times a day, she thanked her lucky stars for having met and been successfully wooed by Max Mallowan. A vast improvement on her first husband, Archibald Christie. Therefore, could some psychiatrist explain why she continued to sign her books ‘by Agatha Christie’?

  Agatha flung the door wide. “Ah, my dears! It is so good to welcome you! So, Bette, you move into the house Saturday morning.”

  “While heaving a huge sigh of relief,” said Bette as she removed her coat and sank into a chair.

  Agatha did everything but cluck like a mother hen as she asked, “What shall it be? Tea? Several spots of sherry? Scotch whisky?”

  Nydia was sitting on the overstuffed sofa. “Let it wait a few moments, Agatha, and sit down.” Agatha sat next to Nydia. “Something troubled you in the garden. What was it?”

  “Nothing escapes you, does it, Nydia?” She said to Bette. “You know of course, that my dear friend is one of the world’s really great mediums. She is very sensitive to people’s moods and very sympathetic.”

  “Thank God for that,” agreed Bette. “She was my sounding board for a good part of the voyage here.”

  Nydia said to Bette, “Something other than sister Anthea was bothering you too.” She explained to Agatha, “Twice Bette got sudden shivers. She explained one as someone walking over her grave.”

  “No one is walking over Bette’s grave,” said Agatha. To Bette: “You shall live a long, long life.”

  “Not alone, I hope. I never want to be alone.” Bette hoped God heard her and was taking notes.

  “I can’t help you there, as I shan’t be around to comfort you. I’m sure I’m at least two decades older than you.”

  “What about me, Agatha? About how much longevity do you think I could expect?” asked Nydia.

  “You? The rock of Gibraltar? I suspect they’ll have to hammer you into your grave.”

  “Then I shall see to it I leave instructions to be cremated. Well, Bette, what was giving you the shakes?”

  “I don’t really know if I can explain it. Of course, it might have been the house. It is cold and damp.”

  “All British homes are cold and damp. Virgil’s doesn’t have to be. He’s a bit stingy about using the fireplaces.”

  “It’s all that time he spends digging in a hot climate,” said Nydia. “He welcomes the lack of heating in his house.” She said to Bette, “You must buy yourself some lovely, warm sweaters. As a matter of fact there’s a sale on at Selfridge’s.” She added wickedly, “We could stop in after lunch with Mr. Arliss.”

  “Mr. Arliss? You mean George Arliss? You know him?”

  “He’s a dear friend,” Bette told Agatha, “and I haven’t looked him up yet. Not him and not a chum from my acting days in New York. Janie Clarkson. I'm really in no hurry to see her. She so resents my success.”

  “Bette.” Nydia nailed the name to her ear. “What was giving you the shakes?”

  “It was sort of a presentiment.”

  “Aha!” Agatha was on her feet and beginning to pace, hands clasped behind her back, look very official and lacking only a meerschaum pipe protruding from her mouth. “I had one too. In the garden before making my presence known to your group. What was your presentiment about, Bette?”

  “I swear to you, I really don’t know.” She paused. “Well, actually, I’m just not sure.”

  “Out with it,” prompted Nydia.

  “I guess it was Virgil. I had the feeling I would never see him again. And I want to see him again. He’s such a nice man. Nydia, how could you let him escape?”

  “I did it rather nonchalantly, much to sister Anthea’s relief. Well, Agatha, and what about your presentiment?”

  “I know I shall see Virgil again, because he doesn’t depart from the house until Friday and that’s two days away. But after Friday, I too doubt if I shall see him again. Don’t look so tragic, Nydia. You’re a clever woman. You’re not blind. Virgil does not stand alone. Death is his companion.” She searched their faces. “Don’t you understand? He is being murdered.”

  3

  “MURDERED?” BETTE WAS DUMBFOUNDED.

  “He’s probably being poisoned. Very slowly. Over a period of months. Tell me, Nydia, do you know if Virgil is addicted to arsenic?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Strychnine?”

  “Again I don’t know.”

  Bette sounded incredulous. “Can people be addicted to poisons? Aren’t they always fatal?”

  “My dear Bette,” said Agatha warmly, “let me add to your education. In small doses, arsenic and strychnine have very soothing, euphoric effects. Why, my dears, sweet old Queen Victoria was addicted to arsenic. And she lived almost forever. Very carefully administered by her physicians, probably, after taking their own doses. Doctors, my dears, tend to be addicted to something or another, it’s so easy for them to get their hands on the stuff. That’s why, Nydia, I was wondering if Virgil is addicted.”

  “Damn Virgil. He very well could be. He’s always so secretive.”

  Bette said to Agatha, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  Nydia answered for Agatha. “No, she doesn’t, and I want one too. I don’t see any ashtrays.”

  “You’ll see them soon enough,” said Agatha sweetly. She crossed to a cupboard while the ladies lit up.

  “Wouldn’t Virgil’s doctor know?” asked Bette.

  “He could, but he might not want to disclose the information. You see, if Virgil is addicted, it’s their secret. What’s his doctor’s name, Nydia?”

  “Solomon Hubbard. He looks after me too, when he can find me. He’s blind as a bat and totally inept.”

  Bette asked with amazement, “Then why do you go to him?”

  “So I’ll never hear any bad news. He’s not really as bad as all that. He keeps me supplied with sleeping draughts the way he probably keeps Virgil supplied with arsenic or strychnine. Don’t look at me like that, Agatha. You know they can’t be bought over the counter.”

  “I do know that. But you can buy weed killers and they are very, very poisonous. We’ve had a lot of people in the U.K. done in with weed killers. We're very big on poisoning, Bette. The Borgias may have been masters at it, but we British have refined poisoning to a fine art.” She added thoughtfully, “Both physically and vocally.” Nydia was at the phone and dialing. “My dear Nydia, this is terribly rude of you.”

  “I’m phoning Solomon Hubbard!”

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  “No, Agatha, I’m not feeling ill. I want to ask him if he's prescribing poisons for Virgil.”

  “And you expect him to tell you?”

  “He's an honest man. Of course he'll tell me.”

  Agatha was at Nydia’s side. She pulled the phone from her hand and plunked it back on the receiver. “My dear Nydia, I’m sure you know doctors cannot reveal what occurs between them and their patients.”

  “Of course,” agreed Bette. “It’s part of their hypocritical oath.”

  “Hippocratical,” corrected Agatha. “I sometimes get the words mixed up too.”

  Bette laughed and then just as quickly stopped laughing as she reminded herself of the gravity of Virgil’s tragic situation. “Oh, my God. Agatha! Nydia! Do you suppose Virgil wants to die?”

  Agatha spoke quietly, carefully measuring her words. “I very much doubt a man leaving on an extended archeological expedition is at the same time working on hastening his mortality. I’m sure in the back of his mind he knows he’s dying, and perhaps, like all Egypt, which he so adores, he believes there’s a new life awaiting him.”

  “If so,” said Bette with her native practicality, “perhaps he should be buried with a shovel.”

  The three shared a much-needed laugh. Agatha took matters into her own hands and poured Scotch whisky into three tumblers.

  Nydia asked, “Do you suppose Virgil is suffering from a fatal disease, something easily contracted in Egypt? He’s told me the place is filthy with diseases, most of them unpronounceable.’ ’

  “If he is, I’m sure he certainly would have shared that information with you,” Agatha reasoned.

  “Perhaps. You know, Virgil is a terribly considerate man. He might not want those of us near and dear to him to agonize.”

  “Also, he’s British,” Bette reminded them.

  “What’s that got to do with it?” asked Nydia.

  “Stiff upper lip and all that,” said Bette matter-of-factly. Agatha bristled. “There is so much misinformation about us spread around the world! And frankly, my dears, I think it's all Hollywood’s fault! The brave, the undefeatable, the unemotional British. The sun never sets and all that rot. I’ve seen my Max cry; and the good Lord knows I cry; and Nydia, you were an emotional wreck at your husband’s funeral, or else you deserve an Academy Award.”

  “Oh, I was very sincere then,” said Nydia as she sipped her whisky. Bette wondered if she dare ask for some ice, and then immediately thought better of it. Mrs. Mallowan did not strike her as the ice type. In fact, she was troubled by the paucity of refrigerators in the country. She had read this in an article about the United Kingdom cut out of Liberty magazine by her thoughtful mother in hopes of persuading her to do her lawsuit from someplace a bit more civilized. Bette reminded her mother the English had been civilized long before America. The English had cold larders in which they stored their food, and Bette now wished they’d import master chefs to teach them how to cook the food. And she also wished there was a law against mushy brussels sprouts.

  “Stiff upper lip indeed,” repeated Agatha. Then: “Well, if he’s not addicted, someone is poisoning Virgil.”

  “Dear God, not really!” cried Nydia. “But who?”

  “Hercule Poirot, with his magnificent little gray cells, would have his suspicions. Also, dear Miss Jane Marple would be over there right now snooping about for traces of the poisons in question.”

  Bette’s eyes were popping. “Well, whoever they are, why don’t you get in touch with them?”

  “Now really, Bette!” Nydia looked impish.

  “Now really what?” The recent cigarette had been replaced by a fresh one.

  “Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple are two of my creations. Um, you have heard that I write?”.