Authors: Mary Miley
“Yes. Yes, I am, I just, I mean … I wonder, were you here on Saturday, April 4, when a woman purchased some bichloride of mercury?”
Now it was his turn to look startled. “I’m here every Saturday,” he said cautiously.
I pulled the publicity photograph of Faye Gordon out of its envelope. “Would you happen to remember the woman who came in that day and bought it? Was it this woman?”
He looked at the photograph without showing a flicker of recognition. Then he looked sternly down at me. “Why do you want to know about such things, young lady? You’re not the police.”
“I’m Jessie Beckett and I work for Douglas Fairbanks. We are investigating the murders that took place last week in Hollywood. The police believe that one person murdered all four people, and since that person is now dead, they have closed the case. Mr. Fairbanks and I think there’s a strong possibility that the woman who bought this bichloride of mercury from you”—and I tapped the page—“killed two of them.”
I’m afraid I lie better than I tell the truth. My story sounded feeble even to my own ears. The man’s expression didn’t change one whit. I tried again.
“The police checked all the drugstores in Los Angeles for sales of bichloride of mercury in the past month, and they didn’t find anything suspicious. They didn’t think to check here in Bakersfield, which is where this woman was on April 4. And here is a purchase on that very day. I can’t read the signature, can you?”
Without looking down he said, “No.”
I wilted. He wasn’t going to help me. I couldn’t blame him. Why should a medical man discuss such things with a young woman from out of town who had no official status? I gave it one last try. Holding up the photograph once more, I said, “I figure she made it illegible on purpose. And I’ll bet it’s a phony name anyway.”
The pharmacist seemed to look through me for a long moment, then his eyes shifted to the photograph. “It was the same woman. Her hair was dark, but it could have been a wig or hair dye.”
My pulse leaped. “You remember her well enough to be sure?”
“I tend to pay attention to strangers who come in and buy poison. And I remember looking at the book after she had left and noting that I couldn’t make out her name. That made me uneasy, and I don’t mind saying so. It was my own carelessness that she got out the door before I noticed and could call her back. Is this about the murder of that director and the people who came to his party that was in all the papers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what makes you think this woman had anything to do with it? There are honest reasons why people buy bichloride of mercury and those people don’t deserve to be bothered by nosy reporters.”
“I’m not a reporter,” I said, relieved that I hadn’t attempted that impersonation. I couldn’t explain what had really made me suspect Faye Gordon—the inexpressible fear that came over me as Mary Pickford and I drank tea at her house and the malevolent look in her eyes that made me think she could read my thoughts. I couldn’t explain that, but I could tell him the facts, and I did so as succinctly as possible.
“And people who buy bichloride of mercury for honest reasons don’t disguise their signatures and come into out-of-town drugstores in wigs. I think there were two different killers in these deaths, one a Chicago gangster and the other this woman,” and I tapped the page again, “who planned to kill a rival, a young actress, and she bought your bichloride of mercury to do it. And then she used it to kill someone else, another actor.”
“That young actress was the girl named Lorna McCall, wasn’t it?”
“Right. She thought that if she killed Lorna immediately after the other deaths, it would be blamed on someone else. The police would see it as the death of another witness. And she was right. That’s exactly what the police think. I believe Faye went to Lorna’s apartment, sweet-talked her way inside with the intention of pouring some poison into Lorna’s coffee. She may have done so, or she may not have had the chance, but something made Lorna start to feel sick, and she went to the bathroom to throw up. Faye followed and pushed her head in the toilet, drowning her quickly.”
“I read about that, too. A gruesome way to die.”
“I don’t think Faye planned that in advance; she couldn’t have known that opportunity would present itself. But it worked out well for her. Since Lorna died from drowning, no one ever considered that she might have been poisoned first. Some even thought it was an accident or suicide. Which it may have been, but I doubt it.”
The pharmacist shook his head. “I wish I were more shocked, but I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime. Sad to say, I’d believe just about anything.”
“I think Faye was the one who put bichloride of mercury in the coffee at Paramount. To make it look good, she drank some of the coffee herself, not much, but enough to make sure the doctors found traces in her stomach.”
“A little of the stuff won’t kill you,” he said. “In small doses it’s good for treating anemia or tonsillitis. It’s only dangerous in larger amounts.”
“And the victim, Paul Corrigan, drank at least two cups of coffee.”
“What are you going to do with this information?”
“I’m going to go back to Hollywood and tell an honest cop I know. He can come up here and have a look at your book, and if he agrees with me that it’s suspicious, he can arrest Faye.”
He closed the book with a bang. “I’ll keep this safe right here until then, little lady.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your help.” Euphoric, I turned and nearly floated toward the door. I had done it! I had found the proof we needed to implicate Faye Gordon in both murders. I couldn’t wait to tell Douglas.
“Miss Beckett!” I turned. “If you’re right and this woman killed two people, she isn’t going to take kindly to you making the information public. You take care.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m going back to Los Angeles right now and straight to the police.”
40
The return trip to Los Angeles took longer than the one to Bakersfield, and it was dark when the train pulled into La Grande. Most of the seats in my car were occupied, but the entire ride was eerily silent, as if no one knew anyone else in the car. We were slowing into the station when out of the blue, the young woman beside me, who hadn’t uttered a word since she sat down, suddenly remarked that if her husband wasn’t able to meet her, she was supposed to take a taxi. Did I know where they waited?
“They line up out front.”
She settled back into silence, and I looked out the window. There wasn’t much to see.
I was famished. There was no dining car on the train. The “Blue Plate Special” was calling me from the Harvey House, and it wouldn’t have taken fifteen minutes to gobble it up. But no, I told my stomach sternly, I needed to get to the police station as quickly as possible.
I followed the flow of passengers that surged from the platform through the station where it parted into streams, some to the restaurant, some to the main exit, some to the luggage lockers. The potted palms had been righted and the dirt and blood cleaned up, making what had happened last Saturday seem like a bad dream. The smell of fresh bread and roast beef wafting out of the Harvey House nearly mugged me, but I trailed toward the exit where taxis congregate.
Wouldn’t Carl’s mouth drop when he heard what I’d learned in Bakersfield? I hoped he would handle the case now. I didn’t know how these things were done, perhaps he would go to Pipkin Drugs to see the poison book himself, perhaps they would send a detective. Or maybe it was more tactful to inform Bakersfield’s police and let them take over. I hoped to high heaven the drugstore evidence was enough to arrest Faye Gordon tonight. The idea of that lunatic strolling around Hollywood with a bottle of mercury bichloride in her handbag made me queasy. The evidence seemed sufficient to arrest her, if not for the murder of Lorna McCall then at least for the murder of Paul Corrigan. Maybe nabbing her for one would make her confess to the other.
It wasn’t until I stepped outside that I remembered I had driven the studio’s Ford flivver to the depot. How had I forgotten that? It was parked in the lot behind the station. I didn’t need to take a taxi. I made my way around the station to the rear lot. At least half the cars parked there were flivvers, all of them black and boxy, but I had planned for that this morning by putting mine in the far corner where I would not mistake it for another.
The merest fingernail of a moon hung in the sky. The air was chilly. My footsteps echoed on the pavement as if I were alone in the parking lot, and yet I wasn’t. A man started up his car one row over. Another turned on his headlamps and pulled out onto the main street. A Mexican couple with a baby passed me on their way toward the station. A dark-haired woman behind me headed down my row. Two men were struggling to fit all their luggage in the trunk.
I paid none of them any attention. That was my mistake.
The flivver was waiting for me where I had left it. I scrounged in my purse for the key. The dark-haired woman passed me and went to the car on my right. As I settled into the front seat, she wrenched open the door on the passenger’s side and climbed in beside me. Startled, I turned toward her thinking hazily that she wanted to ask directions.
I was facing Faye Gordon.
A dark wig covered her bleached hair, and a hat brim obscured part of her face, but I couldn’t miss those angry eyes burning with hate. I could also make out the small pistol in her right hand.
“You little bitch. Drive or I’ll shoot you, and don’t think I won’t.”
I didn’t think it for a second.
“What’s wrong, Faye?” I asked, reacting automatically with an exaggerated calm as we always did onstage when a mishap occurred and we needed to keep the show moving forward at all costs.
“You damn well know what’s wrong. Drive!”
I shifted into reverse and eased out of the parking space, searching frantically for some explanation that would put her off, all the while knowing it was too late.
“Maybe if you were to tell me—”
“Shut up!”
I had come to the main street. “Which way do you want me to turn?”
“Back to Hollywood.”
I pulled into traffic and headed west with a gun eighteen inches from my chest. I had to assume she knew I’d been to Bakersfield and why I’d gone, although for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how she had found out. Only Douglas knew, and he certainly wouldn’t have warned her. The only other person was the pharmacist at Pipkin Drugs and, unless he was Faye’s uncle in disguise, I couldn’t imagine him telephoning her. But I hadn’t time to ponder where I’d stumbled. I needed to figure a way out of this mess.
“Douglas Fairbanks knows where I am, Faye, and he knows the whole story. He’s expecting me right now at his house. He’ll have the police out looking for me if I don’t show up at Pickfair in a few minutes.”
“Shut up.”
If she noticed I was taking a longer route, she didn’t object. I spent some time wondering if I could slow down, get my door open, and jump out before she could shoot me, and decided I couldn’t. Her eyes never left my face. Her little gun never wavered. I remembered David telling me how inaccurate those short-barrel handguns were, but it was cold comfort. At this distance, a monkey couldn’t miss.
“Killing me will only make things worse, Faye. Everyone will know you did it.”
“You stupid little bitch. Shut. The hell. Up!”
So maybe she didn’t plan to shoot me. She needed me dead; that was certain. How would she accomplish it? I keenly regretted not having telephoned ahead once I had the information. I should have told Carl Delaney to meet me at the station. I should have taken a taxi. I should have passed along the information to Douglas immediately. It dawned on me then that Faye would also need to kill Douglas. He’d be a lot harder to do in than me—he was never alone—and he’d be forewarned by my own disappearance. I thought longingly of Carl and his gruff partner. Any policeman would be a welcome sight about now.
“Turn right up ahead,” she snapped. I turned on Cahuenga and headed north toward the Hollywood Hills. Toward the reservoir? Was she going to push me in and make it seem like a drowning accident? How did she know I couldn’t swim? Maybe I could make a break for it as we got out of the car. Or maybe the reservoir would provide a chance to get away. Faye would have to drag me in and hold my head under until my lungs filled with water, and to do that, she’d need two arms, which would necessitate laying aside the gun. Or maybe we were headed to a sheer drop somewhere in the desert where my death would look like an accidental fall. She’d find me hard to push over the side and here, too, she would need both arms free to do it. Faye had a good eight inches on me and a couple dozen pounds, but I throw a solid punch. And I don’t fight fair.
“This will never work, Faye. If I disappear, Douglas will know it was you. If I drown or fall off a cliff, he and the police will know it wasn’t an accident.”
“Shut up.”
“Play it smart. You can still get away. All you have to do is dump me here and keep on driving. I won’t tell a soul, I promise. Go east to some city where no one knows you. Change your name. No one will ever find you.”
Her eyes blazed with the fury of a maniac insulted beyond all reason. “They know me
everywhere
in the whole country,” she hissed, spewing flecks of spittle on my arm. “In the whole
world.
I am famous. I am a star.”
I kept driving.
Until Faye ordered, “Turn here,” I was confident we were heading to the reservoir for an accidental drowning. This optimistic scenario vanished when she demanded I turn right, away from the reservoir, on an all-too-familiar road that led up into the hills. Last time I had traveled this road, I’d been handcuffed.
The pavement meandered as if it had all the time in the world. I had very little so I drove slowly, following the turns by the light of my headlamps, trying to stretch the seconds and keep my wits about me as I figured out what this madwoman intended to do to me and, more urgently, how I was going to prevent it.
The engine coughed once. Twice. It sputtered to a stop in the middle of the narrow road and choked again. “It’s out of gas,” I said.