Authors: Mary Miley
“Yeah, this is a pretty easygoing town. But it isn’t all Mexican, you know. Plenty of bathtub gin is brewed right here. A friend told me most of it starts downtown at L.A. General Hospital. They’re allowed to buy alcohol for cleaning surgical instruments—a legal exception, like the Catholic Church’s sacramental wine. The funny thing is, though, before Prohibition, the hospital bought denatured alcohol by the gallon. Now they buy it by the boxcar. Someone gets hold of the extra, ‘renatures’ it, dilutes it with water, adds a little juniper juice, and presto! Gin.” He shook his head with admiration as we sipped our sodas. “Pure genius. Ideas like that keep me humble. In all my years in the business, I never thought of the hospital angle.”
I waited until we had ordered our steaks and the waiter was out of range before I steered him back to my original topic.
“All right, I want to know the whole story. How did you get the suitcases from Johnnie Salazar? And don’t lie to me.”
A smile softened the angles of his face. “I don’t dare. Besides, I have you to thank. You told me about the detectives stealing the dope from Heilmann’s. I was following them to see where they’d stashed it, thinking I might be able to relieve them of it without much trouble and sell it out of town. Do you know where it was all along? In the trunk of their damn police car! I had binoculars. I saw them out in the desert trying to sell the stuff to Salazar’s boys. A very stupid plan. Anyone over the age of eight could have told them that.”
He shook his head, baffled at such naïveté. “When the dustup was over, I followed Salazar back to town. I could tell by the way he was driving he’d been hit pretty bad, and I saw my chance. I figured he’d go to a hospital, and I could grab the suitcases then. But he was no fool. He stopped at a doctor’s house, some fella who knew better than to talk about bullet wounds. While he was getting patched up, I moved all three suitcases to my car, the dope and the cash. I didn’t think anyone saw me.”
“Someone did. Someone must’ve told Salazar. Maybe described your car.”
“Probably got a license plate number. Anyway, I went straight to the train station to put the luggage where it would attract the least attention and contacted an old chum to buy the contents. Heilmann suitcases in one locker, money suitcase in another. Never mix dope and money, that’s my motto. The man I was meeting had a satchel full of Grover Clevelands that he was going to put into a locker, then we were going to swap keys and go our separate ways.”
“Nothing like selling the dope twice.”
“Double the money. That was the idea. Still, I came out ahead. Thanks to your warning.” He lifted his glass in a toast.
“I wasn’t trying to help you get rich. I was trying to pay you back for saving my life in Oregon last year. The cops thought you’d killed Tuttle and Rios, and you were not going to live to see a trial.”
“I am forever in your debt.”
“No, the score’s even now.”
“Let’s see if we can’t both stay out of trouble.”
“I’m still wondering who could have tipped off the police. Who else knew you were going to the depot at two o’clock?”
“Salazar must’ve followed me there. As for the police … I have my own ideas.”
“Such as?”
“The only people who knew about the two-o’clock swap were me and the Portland boys. I hear there’s a struggle going on between some of the old gang now that I’m not there to keep a lid on things, and I’m pretty sure one of them sent word to the L.A. cops in order to be rid of Danny. That’s the guy I was meeting. Maybe also to make sure I wasn’t planning a comeback.”
“And are you?” I asked.
“I told you. I’m done with all that. Gone straight.”
Our steaks arrived. “You promised your whole true-life story.”
“In exchange for yours.”
A nod sealed the deal. He waited for the waiter to finish serving, then surveyed the room again. Musso & Frank’s was popular with film people, but I saw no familiar faces, and no one was close enough to eavesdrop.
“When I was about fourteen,” he began, “I fell in with some lads who were bringing whiskey in from Canada. Oregon went dry before the rest of the country, you know, and there was good money to be made for doing nothing more than driving through Washington, across the Canadian border, and back again. Over the years I worked harder and smarter than anyone else, and it got noticed. I moved up in the ranks, supervised local purchases, organized overland and sea runs, and branched into speakeasies. Pretty soon I was running the show.”
He paused to cut into his steak.
“What sort of show, besides the hooch?”
“Some gambling around town.”
“Dope?”
“The Chinese handled most of that through their opium dens. And you don’t want to cross the Chinese when it comes to opium.”
“Brothels?”
“A couple high-class houses attached to the speakeasies, to keep customers and cops happy.”
“Did you kill people?”
He put a large piece of steak in his mouth and chewed it slowly. “Only in self-defense. Like yesterday.” Something in the way he replied told me further questions on that topic would not be welcomed. Besides, I wanted to believe him. “When the cops came after me last fall, I skipped to Vancouver, changed my name, and lay low for a while. After things quieted down, I came back to the States, but no one knew where you’d gone. Finally I tracked down some of your vaudeville friends who told me you were living in Hollywood, so I came south, figuring Hollywood would be just the right starting-over business for David Carr. I have plenty of money, and that makes me very popular in the film industry. And now that you know more about me than anyone on this earth, you’ll have to marry me.”
I looked up, startled, and my face flushed hot. David had a way of getting under my skin with a single word. I raised my eyebrows and looked my question at him, hoping the dim light was hiding my discomfort.
“Wives can’t testify in court against their husbands,” he continued.
“Ahhh, I see.” He was toying with me, the way men do, trying to rattle me. Our conversation paused as another couple was seated in the booth behind ours.
“And what about your activities now?” I asked, careful to use innocent-sounding words and a quiet voice.
“You mean here in Hollywood? Like I said, I’ve gone arrow-straight.”
“Except for Salazar’s cash.”
“That doesn’t count. It fell into my lap. I didn’t go looking for trouble. I could not in good conscience let all that money get into the hands of some undeserving crook, could I?” The deserving crook grinned. It was all a game to him.
Over apple pie and ice cream, it was my turn. I gave David a brief synopsis of my life in vaudeville, describing the hungry times as well as the successes. I told him a little about the mother who raised me and the grandmother I had only recently discovered. He wanted to know more about my acts, the best ones and the worst.
“That’s a hard question; there were so many.” I thought a while, then told him the best act was probably the Little Darlings, a lighthearted song-and-dance team where I played one of the older children. “And the worst? Let’s see. Well, I guess I’m not too proud of my stint with the fakir when I impersonated a grieving widow to help swindle other grieving widows. And the time I worked as a magician’s assistant was pretty sleazy. As I was telling Myrna last week, I was practically nude on the stage.”
“I’d like to have seen that!” I tried to keep a stern face but the mischievous look on his face drove off all my resolve. “Any chance of an encore later tonight?”
“Nope.”
“Mmmm. And you started over when you came to Hollywood, just like me.”
“Hollywood’s a new start for a lot of people.”
“You sure you’re not operating a swindle now?”
“No!”
“Don’t give me any outrage. Are you going to tell me you’ve never run afoul of the law?”
I sighed. “It was a long time ago. I … well, I got off light—if anyone had known my real age, the story would be a lot worse.”
“So here we are, two reformed delinquents. Two upstanding citizens. No reason we can’t let this fine friendship grow into something stronger, is there?”
36
In
Son of Zorro,
Douglas Fairbanks plays two roles, reprising the original Zorro from the first film, now a graying aristocrat but still a formidable swordsman, as well as Zorro’s son, Don Q. Thanks to the wizardry of the studio’s film crew and cameramen, he could play them both in the same scene. This delicate procedure, perfected a few years earlier for Mary Pickford’s astonishing dual role in
Little Lord Fauntleroy,
calls for the cameraman to matte part of the frame, then rewind the film for a second pass. One of these double-exposure scenes was on the schedule for Monday.
Douglas Fairbanks emerged from a lengthy session in Makeup looking so much older that Frank Richardson called him Gramps. Douglas scowled, and Frank didn’t repeat the joke.
We worked hard until noon. Frank called a lunch break, and Douglas motioned me to his side. “What happened this morning? Did you get to talk to Faye Gordon?”
“Nothing happened. I went to Faye’s home at about nine with some flowers. A snooty maid let me in and took my name, then returned to tell me Miss Gordon wasn’t feeling well enough for visitors.”
“You really think she can tell you anything you don’t already know?”
“It was worth the try.”
He tapped a cigarette out of its box and struck a match. “I’m glad you haven’t given up on the case. It spooks me knowing the person who killed Lorna McCall and Paul Corrigan—and very nearly killed Faye—is still walking around. What if you went to see Faye again this afternoon?”
“I don’t think I’d have any better—”
“What if my Mary went with you?”
I considered it. “That might work. Although as I recall, Faye wouldn’t see Miss Pickford when she was in the hospital.”
“But she might now.”
“She might.”
That’s how, a few hours later, I found myself in the backseat of a Rolls-Royce with Mary Pickford heading to Faye Gordon’s apartment on the west side of Hollywood. I took the opportunity to ask her something that had been pestering me. “What was Faye’s relationship with Paul Corrigan?”
Miss Pickford thought for a moment. “I suppose you’d call it the love/hate sort. They were lovers once, and she threw him over. He took it hard. Lately they had been friendly. I suspected they were back together again, which is why I invited them both to dinner last week.” She sighed and shook her head sadly.
“Paul said some pretty harsh things about her at dinner.”
“Paul … well, one hates to speak ill of the dead, but Paul had a way of saying cruel things quite unconsciously. I never held it against him.”
Not sharing Miss Pickford’s generous nature, I believed Paul Corrigan’s remarks were quite deliberate, but I didn’t voice my thoughts. We had reached Faye Gordon’s apartment building.
This time, I stood back and let Miss Pickford handle the maid. The maid oozed deference, returned promptly, simpered, and showed us into a fussy, red and white living room with large windows overlooking the gentle western hills.
“Miss Gordon will be with you in a moment,” she said, and I pictured the actress hurriedly applying more makeup and changing her dress. “May I get you ladies some tea?”
It was some time before Faye glided into the room, clad in a Chinese silk dressing gown that puddled on the floor when she paused. “Darling.” She greeted her friend with a kiss on both cheeks. I got a limp hand. She sat facing us with her back against the afternoon sun, taking care to position herself in the flattering backlight.
I allowed the pleasantries to flow over me for a few minutes. Faye was delighted to see Mary, Mary was charmed to see Faye, the flowers were lovely, the weather was grand, and Douglas sent his regrets but wished her well. I had agreed with Miss Pickford on the drive over that she would steer the conversation to Faye’s health, at which point I would take over.
“Well, I must say, my dear, you look divine after such a monstrous experience,” said Miss Pickford. “Douglas and I were very worried about you, and everyone is most grateful that you have had a complete recovery.”
That was my cue. “I wonder, Miss Gordon, do you expect to return to the
Cobra
set soon?”
She gave me a slightly startled glance as if she had just noticed I was sitting on her sofa. “Joe Henabery was kind enough to adjust the filming schedule to work around my … my illness,” she said delicately, facing Mary Pickford as she replied, as if Mary had asked the question and not her upstart little companion. “He won’t resume filming my scenes until next week, so I have plenty of time to recuperate.”
I am not that easily deterred. “I—we were wondering if you might tell us about what happened last Tuesday morning.”
She straightened her back and peered down her nose at me like an affronted duchess. “And what earthly business is that of yours?” she asked haughtily.
“Now, Faye, you mustn’t take offense,” said Miss Pickford, trying to smooth the ruffled fur. “Jessie is helping Douglas with his own investigation of these tragic deaths, and she only wanted to ask you a few questions on his behalf. I told her you wouldn’t mind. It’s the least we can do, in Paul’s memory.”
“Well, I don’t know … I mean, naturally, Mary dear, I’d do anything for you and Douglas, but, well, heavens…”
I interpreted that as a green light. “Were you expecting Mr. Corrigan that morning?”
“Of course not. He just dropped by the studio unannounced.”
“I was wondering what his purpose was.”
“His purpose? Why, to see me. What a ridiculous question.”
“But didn’t it seem odd that he would come by the set when he had just seen you at Pickfair the night before?”
“Really, you sound like those nasty policemen. What is the reason for all this? The murderer has been identified and the police have killed him.”
“Oh, I know what the newspapers are saying,” said Miss Pickford, “but you and I know better than most how they make things up. That awful director Salazar was part of the shootout that left the two detectives dead, but we believe someone else—another gangster from Chicago—killed Bruno Heilmann and the waitress after his party.”