Authors: Mary Miley
“Lottie’s not coming in today,” he began. “Her nerves are shot. The police have settled on her as their prime suspect for Heilmann’s murder. They visited her last night, asking questions. Mary and I weren’t there, but I imagine her responses were less than helpful, considering her state.”
I took a deep breath, my mind racing. “Did they arrest her?”
He shook his head. “I am amazed that they didn’t. They merely told her to stay in town.”
“Then they are suspicious but have no real proof. What evidence do they have? Did they say?”
“According to Lottie, who is admittedly not the most reliable source, she was entertaining at her own house when the police arrived. Evidently they heard from a number of people that Lottie had been drunk Saturday night, and that she threw a temper tantrum and threatened to kill Heilmann. Some of the last to leave reported that he threw her bodily out the door when she refused to go home.”
“That’s not much evidence,” said Frank.
“They found a cigarette case on Heilmann’s night table. Solid gold, engraved with something blatant like ‘All my love forever, Lottie,’ and their initials entwined. Someone tipped off the police about their affair and said that Bruno had cut it off. And someone else told them Bruno had been sleeping with Lorna McCall, too.”
Drat that cigarette case! If only I hadn’t missed it. I threw Douglas an apologetic glance. I hoped he wasn’t too put out at my failure.
“Other women have been cast off,” I said in Lottie’s defense.
“Very true. I can mention several without even thinking. Faye Gordon was one, and now she’s in the hospital. Lorna McCall, and now she’s dead. Looks like someone is removing the competition. And Lottie owns a gun.”
“She didn’t do it,” I said. “For one thing, she was too drunk Saturday night to hit someone with one shot from across the room. For another, we all saw Lottie’s new gun. She couldn’t have hit anyone with that, and besides, she bought it after Bruno’s death, and she can prove that.”
“Her husband, Allan, has a room full of guns.”
“I remember her saying something about that at your house on Monday night. Nonetheless, she isn’t a good enough shot, whatever the gun. And have they thought about Esther? Lottie isn’t big enough or strong enough to bludgeon a tough woman like Esther to death.” I didn’t want to mention my hired killer theory, not in front of Frank.
“I’m afraid there may be other evidence they haven’t yet revealed.”
He was thinking about the results of the tests done on the coffee taken from the studio. If those turned up traces of bichloride of mercury, fingers would point to both Jack Pickford, whose history with that substance had created an international incident, and Lottie Pickford, courtesy of her ties to her brother. A case could be made that she had both motive and ability.
“But surely she has an alibi for Tuesday morning.” I had spent most of Tuesday morning at La Grande Depot, but Lottie must have been working at the studio.
Frank’s grim expression said it all. “She didn’t come in until noon. Said she was too sick.” He took out a cigarette case and offered them around. I declined. He and Douglas lit theirs and smoked a moment while they reflected on the dilemma in silence. “Is Lottie forbidden to leave her house?” asked Frank at last, probably thinking ahead to rearranging his filming schedule.
“They told her not to leave town, so she could come in. But believe me, Frank, she’s in no condition to work. After the police left, she called Mary, hysterical, and then went back to bed.”
More like back to the bottle.
“Never mind,” said Frank gamely. “We can work around her for a while without much effort. We’ll not need you on the set until tomorrow, Doug, for the dance scene with Juliette. Jessie, you can start calling the cantina extras to come in at noon and notify Costume and Makeup that they’re on the way. Then report to my office and help Geraldine with some paperwork until everyone assembles.”
“By the way,” I said, “have either of you gentlemen heard of Western Compass Studios or a director named Johnnie Salazar?”
“I haven’t,” said Douglas.
“I have,” said Frank. “At least, I’ve met Salazar once or twice. Why do you ask?”
“A friend of mine has landed a part at his studio, and I told her I’d ask around about his reputation.”
“I’m not familiar with his work,” said Frank, “and I don’t know the studio, but he hangs around with Jack Pickford’s crowd. Some people call him when they need liquor by the case.”
26
Each day saw the rhetoric soar to new heights. Thursday’s front page was inked with fresh allegations as reporters vied to write the most lurid stories, and editors crafted headlines so enticing that no literate person could pass a newsboy without buying a copy.
PERIL TO NATION SEEN IN HOLLYWOOD SCANDAL
screamed the big print atop a
Times
article that quoted Mayer, Zukor, and one of the Warner brothers on the damage these stories were doing to the industry. The reporter who penned
THROBBING CODED LOVE LETTER FOUND
babbled on about a mysterious love letter found in Heilmann’s desk, a letter written in secret code. I think he made the whole thing up … or maybe it was a letter written in German. Would Heilmann’s death be
THE MURDER THAT MURDERED THE MOVIES
? shouted Hearst’s paper.
FOUR DEATHS AND COUNTING
warned another. Panic-stricken stars were said to be fleeing Hollywood, although I saw little to indicate that it was so. Police were baffled. Would they find the Hollywood Killer before he struck again? The biggest excitement came with the announcement that the poison in the coffee was bichloride of mercury, the deadly potion that had ended the life of many an unhappy person, including Jack Pickford’s first wife.
There it was. Bichloride of mercury, out in the open.
And still, in all the hoopla, not a single reporter had linked Esther’s death to the others. Or maybe they all had and just didn’t care to write about it. She wasn’t a famous director or glamorous actress, after all. She was a nobody, a former vaudeville player who served glamorous Hollywood its champagne and caviar.
But I cared about Esther. A helluva lot more than I cared about Bruno Heilmann. He had been killed for something he did. She had been as innocent as a child. Nothing would bring her back, but I could at least identify her killer. She deserved that much.
I was sorting photographs with Geraldine in Frank’s office when a sharp rap turned both our heads. “Come in,” she called. A sunburned errand boy with ears like pitcher handles pushed open the door. “Mr. Richardson’s not here—” Geraldine began.
“Miss Beckett?” he addressed us both.
“That’s me,” I said.
“There’s a policeman wants to see you. At the front gate. Shall they let him in?”
“Tell him I’ll be right there.”
The boy nodded and ran off.
I found Carl Delaney inside the gatehouse chatting with the security guard. His smile faded as I came up. Not a good sign.
“Where can we talk?” he asked with cold politeness.
I indicated an empty bench in the shade where secretaries sometimes took their lunch, and we sat down. I clasped my hands together so as not to seem fidgety or nervous. But I was. Carl was more perceptive than most cops. Than most people, period. I wasn’t fooling Carl. Not much, anyway.
He didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Have you seen the newspapers?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know there was poison in the coffee.”
I nodded. “I also know Lottie Pickford is your prime suspect. She didn’t do it. I’m certain of it.”
Carl stared hard at the pavement while he listened. Finally he asked, “How about you tell me why you think so?”
“There are lots of reasons,” I said evasively.
“Just for the record, I don’t think she did it, either. But I’m not in charge of this investigation, and some of the boys think she looks mighty suspicious. Heilmann was breaking off their love affair, and he’d started sleeping with Lorna McCall. Lottie was jealous of her and angry with him. She was one of the last to leave the party that night, and she threatened to kill him in front of a lot of people.”
“And I was one of those people. Look, Carl, she may well look suspicious, but it’s circumstantial. She didn’t kill Heilmann. Or Esther Frankel.”
“Our new crime lab downtown tested the stomach contents of Mr. Corrigan and Miss Gordon. They both showed traces of bichloride of mercury. The detectives think that points to Lottie, too.”
“Actually, it points to Jack Pickford, if it points to anyone.”
“He’s got alibis for everything.”
He would, I thought bitterly. “Just because her brother used the stuff years ago doesn’t mean Lottie has any.” The irony of my vigorous defense of Lottie was not lost on me. I couldn’t stand the woman and here I sat, arguing her innocence like she was my best friend in the world. “Look, Carl,” I said, exasperated. “I don’t know anything. I’m only trying to help.”
“Help who, is what I’m wondering.”
“My boss. He’s trying to protect his wife’s reputation and their studio. Another financial crash like the one after the Fatty Arbuckle scandal could wipe him out, not to mention ruin the whole film industry. They’re all afraid that the Catholic Church will boycott or that those do-gooder women’s groups will rise up and start calling for blood. Did you hear what the head of MGM said yesterday? ‘If this keeps up there won’t be any motion picture industry.’”
That earned me a long look. “You seem to know a lot more than anyone else about these things,” he said in his careful way, “and I like to check in now and then to see if you’re going to tell me something I don’t already know. Besides, I was across the street at the pharmacy, looking at their poison book, so I didn’t have far to come. We’ve been visiting every pharmacy in Los Angeles to see if anyone bought mercury bichloride in the past few weeks. That’s ‘anyone,’ mind you, not just someone who looked like Lottie Pickford.”
Everyone who has ever bought anything like rat poison at a pharmacy knows you have to sign a book saying what you purchased and when, just as a deterrent to crime. And Lottie’s face was so well-known, she couldn’t have gotten away with giving a false name. She could have worn a disguise, but I didn’t think I needed to point that out.
“Any luck?” I asked him.
“Not yet. So why couldn’t Lottie Pickford have done the murders?”
Unable to sidestep the subject any longer, I took a deep breath. “One, she isn’t big enough or strong enough to have bashed in Esther. Two, she was too drunk Saturday night to stand up straight, let alone hit a man in the head from a distance with one shot. Three, she doesn’t know much about guns. Said her husband’s guns were too heavy, so she bought a tiny one for protection—a couple days
after
Heilmann was killed, by the way. And four, how do they think she got inside Paramount Studios without being on the gate list?”
“Sneaked in somehow. She has no alibi for Tuesday morning.”
“She was home in bed nursing a hangover.”
“So she says. And no one was there to corroborate the story. Same for Sunday afternoon, when Lorna McCall was killed.”
I sighed. Had I been a juror, none of this would have sounded very convincing. Then again, the case against Fatty Arbuckle had been far weaker and the trial had still destroyed him. In the motion picture world, the truth never mattered. Only what the public found titillating.
27
I was making myself a late supper when Myrna crept through the front door. “Hey,” I called, “I’m in the kitchen. How did it go?” One look at her pretty face answered my question.
Without a word I poured some orange juice into a tall glass. “Here, sit down. I just squeezed this. I’m making my famous Egg-on-Toast for supper. Two fried eggs on a piece of toasted bread, buttered. There’s nothing better. How about I make you one, too?”
I took her silence for a yes, and in a few moments, placed my culinary masterpiece on the table. Handing her a knife and fork, I sat down across from her. I waited until we’d both cleaned our plates before leaning back in my chair and saying, “What did they want you to do—play the part naked?”
Her lips parted and she stared at me in frank astonishment. Finally she found her tongue. “How on earth did you know?”
How did I know? I’d been in show business my whole life. I’d seen acts go from vaudeville to burlesque and back again. I’d crossed that street myself. Myrna was young and she was pretty. It didn’t take a crystal ball to know that men would want to work with the package unwrapped.
“I’m psychic.”
“Really?”
“No, silly. What else would make you so upset?”
“Well, you’re not quite right. They want me to wear two costumes. One’s a net and the other’s a cloud. Do you know the story of Zeus and Io?”
I confessed I did not.
“It’s a very, very stupid story. Zeus comes down from the sky and sees this river nymph named Io and wants to, you know, and he doesn’t want his wife Hera to find out, so he hides Io in a cloud and they, you know, and then he turns her into a white heifer to disguise her. So Hera sends a vicious fly to sting the heifer, and Io jumps into the sea to get away from the fly, and comes out human again. That’s the fishing net scene. We filmed some of that today.”
“Wearing the net?”
She nodded glumly. “I told Johnnie I didn’t like the costumes, and he said he understood but that I wasn’t a child anymore and it was time for me to grow into adult parts. He’s been very, very nice all along. He told me some really sweet things and said to just give it a try and then decide. All the other girls were wearing nets, and they said it was artistic, that film is art just like Greek statues and Renaissance paintings so I, well…”
“So you tried it. And how do you feel?”
“I don’t know.”
I knew.
“Listen, Myrna. Once when I was seventeen, I worked in an act that crossed the street, meaning it went burlesque. I was a magician’s assistant. You probably know that magic is mostly misdirection—making people look at your right hand while your left hand is really doing the trick. Well, this magician wasn’t very good, and I was the act’s misdirection. The magician said the same things to me that Johnnie is saying to you: everyone’s doing it, the female body is art, don’t be a prude—”