[Celebrity Murder Case 10] - The Humphrey Bogart Muder Case Page 5

  FOUR

  A FINANCIER NAMED HERBERT SONNENBERG conceived the idea of the Brown Derby restaurant, on Vine Street just off Hollywood Boulevard. It was a restaurant built and shaped like a Brown Derby. In no time at all, it was one of Hollywood’s favorite playrooms, the food of secondary importance and rightly so. Sonnenberg had been silent screen queen Gloria Swanson’s second husband and thanks to her had instant access to all Hollywood. The walls were decorated with caricatures of Hollywood celebrities, an inspiration borrowed from the famed Sardi’s restaurant in New York whose walls were adorned with caricatures of leading Broadway lights. The restaurant consisted mainly of booths so situated that they afforded a certain amount of unwanted privacy to their occupants. Actors ate in public not merely to satisfy their appetites but to be seen and recognized and adored. Upon entering the place one had to make one’s way through a sea of gaping tourists and an army of autograph hounds who through some strange and mystical grapevine seemed to know which celebrities were in temporary residence. The bar was a magnet for Hollywood’s drinkers and they were legion. If there was a stray husband or lover or boyfriend on the loose, a call to the Derby usually found him and sent him on his way.

  On this particular night that the Bogarts were dining with Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman, the place was hopping, an autograph seeker’s dream or nightmare, depending on how they were treated by the celebrated. Everyone remembered with relish when silent star Norma Talmadge, a very wealthy woman who had failed to make it in talkies, shouted at an autograph seeker, “Get the hell away from me! I don’t need you anymore!” Hollywood’s frequent cruelty was also remembered, especially the time when silent-screen comic Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, having won a justly deserved acquittal after three trials for murder, nevertheless sat alone in a booth, chagrined at being unacknowledged, ostracized forever.

  Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman were the first to arrive and ordered scotch highballs. They both drank too much and swore too much and were presumably the models for Nick and Nora Charles in Hammett’s brilliant novel, The Thin Man, immortalized on the screen by William Powell and Myrna Loy. Hammett was tall and urbane and cadaverously thin and it was his portrait that graced the jacket of the book when it was published in 1932. Lillian Hellman was urbane, too, and a very gifted playwright. She was also very mean and very rude and did not suffer fools gladly. She was incredibly homely. She had a nose that only Jimmy Durante and W. C. Fields could appreciate. Hellman’s very good friend, Dorothy Parker, usually explained it was her intellect that had captured the much pursued (by women) Hammett. There had been a husband in her life, a playwright named Arthur Kober who’d written a Broadway success several years earlier, Having Wonderful Time, and contributed humorous pieces frequently to The New Yorker. It was said that Hammett had his undying gratitude after Miss Hellman bounced Kober for the novelist.

  “I hate this town,” said Hellman.

  “You just said that,” said Hammett nibbling a peanut.

  “I can’t say it often enough.”

  “Don’t knock it too loudly,” cautioned Hammett, “or they might stop paying you all that money you demand and get.”

  “I’m worth every nickel.” She looked at her wristwatch. “What the hell’s keeping the Bogarts?”

  “The Brothers Warner. Bogie told me they pay him one hundred and fourteen thousand dollars a year.”

  “Peanuts. Bette Davis gets over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Hammett winked. “He knows that. It's eating away at him like a cancer.”

  Hellman sat up. “Here comes Mayo. Christ, that getup. You’d think she’s planning to be entertained by Queen Mary.”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your mouth. You know she packs a hefty wallop. Hello Mayo, darling. Where’s Bogie?”

  “Hello dear. Hello Lily. Waiter, a very dry gin martini with a lemon twist.” She moved into the booth next to Hellman, leaving room for Bogart.

  “Where’s Bogie?” asked Hellman.

  “Huston was holding a rehearsal of Falcon. Shouldn’t you have been there, Dash?”

  “What for? I only wrote the book. You know that means less than nothing in this town.”

  “Come off it, Dash,” said Hellman, “they did a great job on The Thin Man.”

  “What about those awful sequels?”

  “Oh, come on,” said Mayo, “I thought After the Thin Man was just plain darling.”

  “That’s just what it was,” said Hammett glumly, “just plain darling.”

  Mayo asked Hellman, “What are you working on now?”

  “More money.”

  “Lily never gets paid enough money,” said Hammett. “Ever since Sam Goldwyn filmed her Children's Hour, she’s been one of his favorite scripters. And he pays her plenty.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” asked Mayo as the waiter served her martini.

  “Goldwyn.”

  Bogart had arrived and was greeting friends at the bar. He waved at the booth indicating he’d be joining them momentarily. For the first time in a long time, Mayo couldn’t wait to tell him something.

  She raised her glass to propose a toast. “To absent friends.”

  “Which ones?” asked Hellman.

  “Don’t be surly, Lily,” cautioned Hammett. “The night is young.”

  “We’re not and I'm hungry.” She said to Mayo, “Do you think your husband will ever tear himself away from the bar?”

  “He just did. Here he comes.”

  Bogart arrived at the table and demanded of Mayo, “Where’s my drink?” He sat next to her and shook hands with Hammett and Hellman.

  “I wasn’t sure what you might have wanted. I’m not a mind reader.”

  Bogart signaled a waiter and ordered a gin martini. Hellman added, “And menus and bread and butter. How I miss Sardi’s. The service is impeccable.”

  Bogie wondered why Mayo was dressed like a bridesmaid, but said nothing. “How’d you make out with the countess?”

  “It was very very interesting. She’s a rather large woman who favors rather large jewelry and worth plenty.”

  “They could be paste,” said Hellman.

  “They could be, but they aren’t. I know the real thing when I see it. I once had a boyfriend who worked at Tiffany’s. He taught me plenty until they sent him up the river for stealing some diamond rings. Anyway, the contessa has a playmate. One hell of a good looker named Marcelo Amati. And there’s a pretty secretary, Violetta Cenci. And almost from the minute I got there, the countess began carrying on about the cornucopia.”

  Bogart interrupted. “Dash?” Hammett turned to him. “You ever hear a story about a lost cornucopia, a horn of plenty stuffed with a fortune in jewels? I thought maybe you did because it’s so much like The Maltese Falcon.”

  “The Falcon is an absolute fabrication, so help me God. What about this cornucopia?”

  “It belonged to the countess’s father, Baron di Marcopolo, a descendant of the original Marco Polo.”

  “Oh, go away,” said Hellman as the waiter arrived with a tray that held Bogart’s martini, a basket of bread, and a dish of butter. A second waiter accompanied him and distributed the menus. Hellman began reading hers immediately. Hammett said to her, “You’re being rude, Lily,”

  “No, I’m not,” she contradicted, “I’m being hungry. I’ve had no lunch.”

  “Bogie is telling us a story.”

  “Well, you listen and I’ll read.”

  Bogart had always wondered what had attracted Hammett to Hellman. She was homely and disagreeable. A brilliant mind but so what? The story was bruited about that he edited her plays for her yet had never written one of his own. Bogart expressed no opinion of his own about the woman. He liked Hammett and wanted to continue their friendship. He knew Mayo wasn’t crazy about her but then, Mayo was crazy about very few people of either sex. Hellman looked up from the menu.

  “It’s gotten awful quiet around here,” she said.

  “We’re
waiting for you to join us,” said Hammett in a tone of voice that could easily be taken as a threat. She flashed him a look and Bogart waited to see if she would challenge Hammett. She put the menu down and lit a cigarette. There would be no challenge.

  Bogart continued. “Mayo spent some time with the countess this afternoon.”

  “With Hazel Dickson, who’s sitting in a booth over there with Herb Villon and trying to attract our attention,” said Mayo.

  Hellman said, “Miss Dickson’s hands are rather frantic. Why doesn't she throw bread?”

  Bogart and Mayo waved back at Hazel who was telling Villon, “Maybe we can have a nightcap with them later.” Villon didn’t like Lillian Hellman. He wished hers was the dismembered body that he and Jim Mallory were trying to piece together.

  Hammett asked, “What about the countess?”

  “Tell us, Slugger. Let’s hear it all.”

  It wasn’t often that Mayo Methot was given the opportunity to glow in a spotlight and she took every advantage of the chance. She had their undivided attention, even Hellman’s. She left nothing out, even the hint of suspicion that her father might have helped the baron along the trail to his final reward in order to appropriate the cornucopia for himself.

  “You ever notice one around the house, Slugger?” asked Bogart.

  “I was long gone and in New York. As a matter of fact, I was long gone and right here in Hollywood.” She then launched into the George Spelvin incident which delighted Bogart and the others. All agreed there was the probability that la Contessa’s George Spelvin was Jack Methot leading her astray.

  “Why bother leading her astray at all?” asked Hellman with her usual probing mind.

  “Simple,’’ said Hammett. “She knew the thing existed and so where had it disappeared to? Thanks to Spelvin it’s disappeared into thin air and we know how thin thin air can be. There never was a letter, there was only the baron entrusting the thing into the care of his good and trusted friend Captain Methot who may not have been very good and probably shouldn’t have been trusted with anything. I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings, Mayo.”

  “Not at all. I liked my father. I had no reason to dislike him. He was rarely in residence. I think my mother suspected he was a bit of a scoundrel, though she always spoke well of him. Mother was and still is a newspaperwoman and the profession meant more to her than he or I did.”

  Hammett smiled and said, “The victim of another miserable childhood.”

  “Who said I had a miserable childhood?” as Bogart signalled for a fresh round of drinks.

  Bogart told them Gladys George had known the baron, who was famed as a bedroom swordsman, in London a couple of decades earlier.

  “That’s heartening,” said Hellman. “So where is all this getting us?”

  “Into a very interesting puzzle involving a cornucopia,” said Hammett. He added as an afterthought, “Say Bogie, this isn’t a press agent's nightmare to spark interest in the Falcon?”

  “No way. Scout’s honor.”

  “Scouts have no honor,” growled Hellman. “It’s all a myth perpetuated by den mothers. When I was a kid, a Boy Scout tried to rape me.”

  “Did you help?” asked Hammett.

  “Now that’s not funny,” raged Hellman, “and I’m going to order my dinner. Waiter!” she shouted, attracting the attention of everybody on her side of the room except a waiter.

  Hammett said to Bogart, “Too bad we don’t have a bullhorn.” He caught a waiter’s eye. The waiter hurried to the table with pad and pencil at the ready and took their orders. They all wanted steak, fries, and salad, and the waiter, a recent arrival from war-tom Paris, felt they were barbarians. Had no one in Hollywood a sophisticated palate?

  The fresh round of drinks was served as Hammett stroked his chin and asked, “Do you think the cornucopia exists?”

  Bogart shrugged. “God knows, antique shops are up to their belly buttons in them. I’ve seen some at the Old Curiosity Shop.”

  Hellman squinted at him. “The Old Curiosity Shop? You mean as in Charles Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop?”

  Bogart laughed. “It’s out in Venice. Slugger and I check it out every so often. Especially when she gets this yen to get to the pier for a ride on the carousel.”

  Hellman stared at Mayo and said, “He’s kidding, right?”

  “Not at all,” said Mayo, chewing on her martini’s lemon peel, “I adore carousels. It’s a late in life fetish. I never saw one as a child.”

  “Amazing,” murmured Hellman and sipped her drink. Hammett’s words prodded Bogart. “Well, Bogie, do you think the cornucopia’s a phantom? Like the baron’s letter?”

  “I’m a sucker for stories like this. I really am. Yes, I do believe there’s a cornucopia because of la Contessa.”

  “Meaning?” asked Hammett.

  “That broad hasn’t traveled halfway around the world in pursuit of some ephemera.”

  Hellman said, “She traveled halfway around the world to seek refuge.”

  Bogart countered, “She could have settled into Switzerland. It's neutral and just across the border from Italy.”

  “It is also a very dull country,” said Hellman. “All it’s got is cheese, chocolate, and cuckoo clocks. And consider the boyfriend. I’m sure he’s one of those gigolo types that gets bored easily.”

  Mayo said with a wicked glance at Bogart, “He's an outrageous flirt.”

  Bogart grinned. “Oh yeah? How’d you make out?”

  Mayo said coldly, “I wasn’t looking to make out.”

  Bogart shook his head from side to side. “Can you beat this broad?”

  “I hear you do,” said Hellman sweetly followed by “Ow!” as Hammett kicked her under the table.

  Bogart rode past her ill-natured statement while Mayo stared across the room at Hazel Dickson and Herb Villon who were absorbed in conversation the way she and Bogart rarely were. Bogart said, “I give her every opportunity to cheat on me but she remains ever faithful.”

  Hellman was about to say, “Maybe she gets no offers” but thought better of it, reminding herself she was damned lucky there was Dashiell Hammett in her life.

  Hammett steered the conversation back to the cornucopia. “I think it exists. And I think the countess might have been behind the raid at Mrs. Methot’s apartment.”

  “That’s what I thought after I left her suite,” said Mayo.

  “Over a dry gin martini in the bar downstairs,” said Bogart, grinning again.

  “Well, actually, beloved, I did order one but Hazel Dickson drank it. She joined me in the bar and I decided I needed a clear head when I tried on shoes at Magnin’s.” The grin disappeared from Bogart’s face. Mayo said to Hellman, “I never seem to have enough shoes. Are you as crazy about shoes as I am?”

  “I am crazy about money and Clark Gable in no particular order,” replied Hellman.

  “Gable has false teeth,” said Mayo.

  “So did George Washington,” said Hellman.

  “Ladies, please,” said Hammett, “our salads have arrived and the trip from the kitchen seems to have exhausted them.”

  “Well, I’m putting mine out of its misery,” said Hellman as she doomed a piece of tomato to her yawning mouth.

  Hammett got back on track. “If the countess and her gang were in Portland this morning, they made good time getting here.”

  “They had plenty of time,” explained Mayo. “My mother was lured out of the apartment for a seven-thirty breakfast with a man who claimed to be Salvador Dali.”

  “For crying out loud! What the hell would Salvador Dali be doing in Portland, Oregon?” asked Hellman.

  Mayo replied haughtily. “Pablo Picasso was once in Portland and my mother interviewed him. He was there for an exhibition of his work at the art museum. And it so happens a Dali exhibit opened this week so Mother had every reason to believe it was the actual artist. Anyway, it wasn’t, probably Marcelo Amati imitating him.”

  “Makes sense,” said Boga
rt, “good thinking, Slugger. Am I the only one who thinks this salad dressing is rancid?”

  “Mine's fine,” said Hellman.

  “Yours is all gone,” said Hammett.

  “Well, I’m hungry, for crying out loud!”

  Mayo resumed her timetable. “There’s the Portland express to L.A. with just a brief stop in Frisco. It gets in at one-thirty. It’s the one I take after I visit my mother. They’re at the hotel within half an hour to forty-five minutes depending on downtown traffic and then Hazel contacts them, having been tipped by one of her many spies that they’re in residence, and then I’m brought in to meet them because if Mother hasn’t got that nonexistent letter then it stands to reason the daughter might have.”

  “Sure,” said Bogart, “there's that carton with his papers in the basement.” He said to Hammett, “We’ve been through them. Nothing.” He pushed his salad aside, and lit a cigarette.

  Hammett asked, “What about this Old Curiosity Shop?”

  “It’s run by this eccentric and his daughter.”

  “He's not eccentric, he’s nuts,” said Mayo, passing sentence with alacrity.

  “I like old Edgar, he’s got a great sense of humor. It’s his daughter Nell I wouldn’t turn my back on. Edgar and Nell Dickens.”

  “Oh come on!” said Hellman. “Dickens! Old Curiosity Shop! Little Nell!”

  “She’s not so little.” He winked at Hammett. “She’s how do we say in the old country, very zoftig.”

  “Which old country is that?” asked Hellman.

  Bogart ignored the statement. “There’s also a clerk named Sidney Heep.”

  “Ha!” said Hammett as a busboy cleared the salad plates and a waiter served the steak and french fries.

  “The steaks look great,” said Mayo.

  “I think mine just moved,” said Hellman.

  “Lily,” asked Hammett, “why don’t you ever enjoy yourself?”

  “Who says I’m not enjoying myself,” fork and knife poised for a fatal attack.

  “Lily,” said Bogart, “if it moved, kill it.”

  “Sidney Heep!” exclaimed Hammett as he trimmed his steak of its fat. “Except in David Copperfield it’s Uriah Heep. The shop is a setup, right?”