by Tim Ellis
‘Yes, that’ll be fine. Thanks for your help.’
‘That’s what I’m here for. Are you new in town, or just visiting?’
‘New.’
‘You want to get yourself into films. Someone who looks like you would give Lana Turner and Lauren Bacall a run for their money.’
‘Very kind, but I don’t want to be an actress.’
‘The wife loved Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice with John Garfield; and Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep with Humphrey Bogart. Mind you, if I’m being honest, my wife loves any movie more than she loves me. Wanted to be an actress herself, but she didn’t have the looks, the figure or the voice, so she married me instead.’
‘I’m sure she’s lovely.’
‘You haven’t seen or heard her. Got a body like a gorilla and a voice that sounds exactly like a steam engine pulling into the station.’
Katie laughed. ‘I’m sure that isn’t true.’
He caught her eye in the rear view mirror. ‘Trust me, lady. The truth is a lot worse than what I’m telling you. I’m being kind to her this morning.’
‘And what does she say about you?’
‘That I’m the sweetest guy she ever met.’
‘Is that so?’
‘As God is my witness.’
They both laughed.
He passed her a card over his shoulder. ‘You need a driver, call Jerry Romero.’
‘Thanks.’ She slipped the card into her handbag with the others. She was getting quite a collection.
They arrived outside Larry Edmunds: Cinema & Theatre Bookshop, which was a small inconspicuous store wedged between the South Side Theatre and the Pandora Gift Shop.
‘That’ll be six dollars, lady,’ Jerry said.
She gave him a ten and said, ‘Keep the change.’
‘Maybe I’ll take the wife and ten kids to the zoo with that four bucks,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Some of the wife’s relatives work there entertaining the crowds.’
‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘I don’t even know what that word means. Have a good day, lady. And get yourself into the movies. That’s where the money’s at.’
She shut the door, watched him drive off and made her way into the bookshop.
‘Can I help you?’ a woman asked her.
Unsurprisingly, the shop was lined with shelves full of books that extended backwards a good way.
‘Is Larry about?’ she said.
‘Committed suicide in 1941, love. His partner, my husband – Milton Luboviski – and I run the shop now. My name’s Git. What is it you want with Larry?’
‘I have some questions.’
‘Book-related questions?’
‘Movie-related I think . . . That’s what the questions are about.’
‘Milton will have answers to your questions. He has a memory like an encyclopaedia. He’s cataloguing in the back just now. You want I should go and get him?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble?’
‘Milton hates cataloguing and loves being tested on his movie knowledge, so it ain’t no trouble.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You wait here.’
She was gone a few minutes and returned with a tall thin man in tow.
Milton Luboviski was all skin and bone. He had dark greying wiry hair, large brown eyes and ears to match.
He extended his hand. ‘Milton Luboviski. Git tells me you have some questions?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Can I tell you afterwards?’
‘Sure.’
They were standing in a thoroughfare and three people entered the shop and squeezed past them.
Milton said, ‘Let’s go into the back where it’s quiet and we can sit down.’
She followed him deep into the shop and through a door that led into a stock room with metal concertina doors that opened out onto an alleyway.
He pointed to a wooden chest. ‘All the comforts of home. Okay, shoot, as John Wayne said in Stagecoach.’
‘What does a dead rattlesnake mean to you?’
‘I take it you’re referring to a movie?’
‘Possibly.’
‘A dead rattlesnake?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mmmm! Let me see. In 1914 there was the Perils of Pauline. In which a Gypsy woman hides a snake under flowers in a basket and gives it to Pauline hoping it will bite her and kill her. Her boyfriend finds the snake and whips it to death; in 1919 there was The Spiders: Chapter 1 in which an adventurer saves an island princess from a big Burmese python; in 1922 there was Haxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages in which live snakes, frogs, and dried fingers are tossed into a witch's potion; in 1924 The Thief of Bagdad had a snake in an orb on top of a sceptre that is used as a murder weapon . . .’
‘Is there a lot?’
‘Thirty-five, but that’s not counting the twenty-one Tarzan movies. There’s always snakes in a Tarzan movie.’
‘What if I said a dead rattlesnake between a woman’s breasts?’
‘Ah! Then you’d be watching the 1934 film of Cleopatra with Claudette Colbert in the lead role. Cleopatra commits suicide by holding an asp to her breast.’
‘Is that the only film that has been made about Cleopatra?’
‘No, no. There was the 1917 version starring Theda Bara, but there were no snakes in it. Also, it was heavily censured by city and state censorship boards due to the risqué nature of her costumes. They particularly objected to her showing her breasts wearing the snake breast plates. I personally thought it was very tasteful.’ He chuckled. ‘But don’t tell Git I said so. Is that it then?’
‘No, I have some more for you.’
‘All right.’
‘A car key?’
‘What type of car does the key fit?’
‘I don’t know.’ She made a mental note to ask Erik.
He shook his head. ‘I’m sure there are lots of car keys in films, but I have nothing specific.’
‘A bottle of perfume?’
‘No.’
‘A needle and syringe?’
‘Ah! There’s quite a few films about drug use. In fact, some of the earliest films were about drug use such as the 1894 film Chinese Opium Den; and the 1904 Rube in an Opium Joint. I have quite a few more – twenty-seven to be exact, but nothing specific on a needle and syringe.’
‘A new red shoe?’
‘I understand that there is a film currently in production with Moira Shearer in the lead role called The Red Shoes, but nothing before then.’
‘A Chinese hair stick?’
‘With Chinese symbols on it?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘A black velvet wrist bow?’
‘Nothing.’
‘A red and blue striped scarf?’
‘Could be anything. Women wear scarves in lots of films I have nothing specific.’
Katie shrugged. ‘That’s all the questions I have for you.’
‘Oh! Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. I like nothing better than being tested on my movie knowledge.’
‘Can I give you my number?’
‘Git is always going through my pockets.’
‘No, I meant so that you could call me if you think of anything.’
‘Oh! Of course. I thought . . . Well, never mind what I thought.’ He wrote her number down on a scrap of paper that he took from his shirt pocket.
She pushed herself off the wooden crate and offered her hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Mister Luboviski.’
‘You’re welcome, Miss Brazil. You were going to tell me the reason for your questions?’
‘Oh yes. They’re the items that were left on the dead women in the starlet murders.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m certainly aware of the murders, but not all the details are published in the papers. Why are you asking me these questions instead of the police?�
�
‘My sister was the killer’s seventh victim.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’ll be sure to call if anything does come to mind.’ He passed her a business card. ‘And likewise for you.’
‘Of course.’ She slipped the card into her handbag with the others in her growing collection.
She made her way out through the shop and squinted in the bright sunlight. She hadn’t realised how dark and dingy it was in the bookshop. If the truth be told, she was disappointed. After the connection Erik had made between the snake and the actress Theda Bara appearing in Cleopatra in 1917, she thought they’d identified why the killer had left the items, but it was a false lead. None of the other items led to actresses or films.
Now, she had some shopping to do if Sam Rich and all the other men involved in producing a Hollywood film were going to take her seriously as an actress. Her clothes were mostly working clothes for teaching History in an Elementary School, not for walking out as an actress.
***
He caught a cab out to 1603 East Myrrh Street in Compton to pay his respects to Jan’s wife – Barbara. On his way he bought a bunch of flowers from a street vendor.
He asked the cabbie to wait.
No one answered when he knocked on the door. He walked along the front of the house and peered through the window, but it looked as though no one was at home.
‘Is this what you do for a living now, Erik?’ Barbara’s voice came from behind him.
He clutched his chest and turned. ‘I won’t be doing much of anything if people don’t stop creeping up on me.’
She hugged him. ‘Jan said you looked awful.’
Barbara Janik was in her late forties with tight dark-brown curly hair, more than filled out her flowery dress and her round chubby face was more puffy than usual.
He gave her the flowers and nodded. ‘Jan was right. I’m sorry I never made it to the funeral. I called into the cemetery yesterday to say goodbye to him. I was close to death, but a week ago a woman pulled me back from the edge.’
‘A woman you could give your heart to?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Shame! You deserve some happiness.’
‘She wants me to find the man who killed her sister.’
‘Don’t tell me. Her sister is one of the murdered girls from the case you and Jan were working on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘I’ve just been to take the children to school.’ She and Jan had been late parents with a boy followed by a girl, but the girl – Margaret – had nearly killed Barbara.
‘How are they holding up?’
‘They’ll be all right. Do you want coffee?’
‘No, I’m good, thanks. I’ve not long had breakfast. And what about you?’
‘Oh, you know?’
‘No, I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.’
‘It’s been hard the last couple of weeks.’
He stroked her upper arm, followed her inside and perched on the edge of a chair. ‘If you need anything, or you just want to talk . . .’
‘I should be saying that to you.’
‘I only lost myself, but I’m on the mend now. You lost the man you loved and the kids lost a father.’
‘You lost him as well.’
‘I know. He was a good partner and friend, but I’m not here to talk about me. Are you all right for money?’
‘Jan died in service, so I’ll get death benefits. Also, there’s his pension and we had some savings set by.’
‘I don’t have a lot, but you’re welcome to what I do have. My living expenses have reduced dramatically. The woman who saved me, helped herself to my apartment while I was recovering, so I’m living with a neighbour for now who’s nursing me back to health.’
‘The children and I are moving back to Iowa soon to be near my family. They’ll help if we need it.’
‘That’s probably for the best. LA is no place to raise a family.’
‘I always said that to Jan. Another couple of years and he would have retired. He wasn’t like you, Erik.’
‘No . . . The lieutenant has ordered me back to work a week on Monday.’
‘So soon?’
‘The Mayor isn’t happy with the progress that’s been made on the case.’
‘It’s been nearly two years since that first woman was murdered, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s been no progress, because you got sick. Jan always said that you were the best detective he’d ever worked with.’
‘Not so much anymore.’ He didn’t tell her about Katie and Eliza helping him – she didn’t need to know.
‘What are you doing today?’
‘I’m on my way to the library.’
‘You’ve taken up reading?’
‘No. I’m doing research for the case.’
‘You should be resting.’
‘There’ll be plenty of time to rest when I’m dead.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘It’s the truth, Barbara. There’s a man out there who’s already killed eight young women and he’s now looking for his ninth victim.’
There was an awkward silence.
Erik stood up and said, ‘I’ll let you get on. I just wanted to come by and . . .’
‘Yes. Thanks.’ Tears skittered down her face.
He hugged her again. ‘Look after yourself, Barbara. And say “hello” to the children for me.’
‘I will. They’ll be sorry to have missed you.’
He made his way outside, climbed into the waiting cab and waved to her as the driver pulled away. He knew it was the last time he’d see her.
‘We’re here, fella,’ the cabbie said.
The voice pulled him back from the darkness. He looked out of the side window at the entrance to Cahuenga Branch Library at 4591 Santa Monica Boulevard in East Hollywood.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Sixteen bucks.’
He gave the man a twenty and said, ‘Keep the change.’
‘You got more money than sense, Mister.’
‘I could change my mind.’
‘That won’t be necessary. You have a good day.’
He climbed out of the cab and, recalling what had happened yesterday, he took things nice and slow. He didn’t want to end up sleeping on the sidewalk.
Inside the library he held up a lunch box and flask and said, ‘Good morning, Mrs Rackham. I brought my own today.’ He’d asked Ruby to make him a Monte Cristo sandwich, which was simply a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich dipped in egg batter and fried. It had been many years since he’d eaten one, which reminded him of a long-time girlfriend from his youth called Eva Moens and, of course, her mother Hilda, who had a habit of brushing herself against him and had introduced him to the sandwich. On September 14, 1927, Eva had disappeared. Apparently, she’d taken a suitcase stuffed with her clothes and possessions, and simply vanished. Nobody ever heard from her again. It had taken him months to get over her desertion. Later – when he was working as a deputy in the Sherriff’s Department – he often wondered if Eva had really left as her parents had said.
‘I hope you understand that there’s no eating and drinking under any circumstances in the library, Detective?’
‘I understand. I’ll take it outside when the time comes.’
‘I certainly hope you do. It would be a shame if I had to revoke your library card.’
‘Is it all right if I continue on the microfilm reader?’
‘All ready and waiting for you. Oh, and try and stay awake today.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
He made his way between the book-filled shelves, and the morning rush of people, to the small alcove containing the machine, settled himself in, put the next reel on the spool and switched the reader on.
Yesterday, he had reached the end of 1936. The next reel began in January 1935. How far did he go back? He thought of Theda Bara and the possible lin
k between the dead rattlesnake left on Hildegard Zinn’s chest and Theda Bara’s portrayal of Cleopatra in 1917. It was the only lead he had, so he decided to keep going to at least 1916, which was another twenty years down the road.
The thought made him want to lie down on the floor and sleep. He wondered if there was a way of speeding things up, but he knew that taking any kind of short-cut was the place he’d find the answer. He wasn’t a short-cut kind of guy, which was probably how he’d made it through the war. How many times had he seen a short-cut end in disaster?
Shortly after he’d begun scrolling through the LA Times again, he came across an article on December 18, 1935, about the Coroner’s Inquest into the death of actress Thelma Todd, who had died two days before that date under suspicious circumstances from carbon monoxide poisoning. One of the problems with the theory of her accidental death was the condition of her red shoes. She was meant to have walked between her apartment and the garage where her car was stored, which would have involved her climbing over 270 stairs, or walking through dark streets in a very hilly area, but her shoes showed no evidence of her having done either of those things. Also, from the condition of her stockinged feet, it was obvious that she hadn’t taken her shoes off, so how did she get to the garage?
He read the rest of the article, and returned to the previous reel to read the Grand Jury probe into her death. And even though there were a number of unanswered questions, her death was still ruled an accident.
The only thing that interested him about the reports was reference to the red shoes. Was it connected to the investigation? Or was it simply another coincidence? He now had two possible links, but to what? How were those events connected? There was the snake left on Hildegard Zinn, and a new red shoe left on Dawn Morrison. What was the killer’s message? After comparing the two clues, all he was left with was the actresses themselves: Theda Bara and Thelma Todd – they were both silent film stars, although Thelma Todd had begun doing talkies from 1929 until her death.
Was that the connection between the murders? If it was, what did it mean? How did it help them to identify the missing pieces of the puzzle?