“Right! And second, not thirty seconds before, Mrs. Murray had said how Marilyn often kept one of her phones in there with her at bedtime—to make late-night calls when she couldn’t sleep.”
“Which was most nights.”
“Right, which was most nights. So what was suspicious about the phone cord under the door? It was typical, not unusual. Mrs. Murray also said the door was locked, but I didn’t see any keys around.”
Murray had told Clemmons the same tale she gave to Lieutenant Armstrong about Greenson having to break in the window.
“Even while she was fidgeting with that laundry, nervous as hell, she’s speaking in this soft, even, precise little voice. And everything she gave me seemed prepared, rehearsed as hell. Anyway, I went back to the bedroom, where the doctors were still keeping the body company.”
I gave him half a grin. “Let me guess. You wanted to ask them why they waited four hours to notify the police.”
“Oh yeah. Well, this Greenson, in this smart-ass tone, says, ‘We had to get permission.’ And I say, ‘Who the hell from?’ Not terribly professional, but it was getting to me. And he says, ‘The studio publicity department. Twentieth Century–Fox. Miss Monroe is making a film there.’ Like I should know better than to ask.”
“Told you this right out.”
He cut the air with a hand. “Right out. I’ve heard about this kind of thing, but I was dumbfounded. And when I asked those docs what they’d done during those four hours, they told me—you’re gonna love this, Mr. Heller—they said, ‘We were just talking.’”
“About what in hell?”
“Oh, when I asked them … they shrugged. Cop at the scene of a suspicious death, they know it’s a coroner’s case, they know they have to notify the police in such an instance, and right away … and what do they do? Just shrug.”
Greenson had then told Clemmons of discovering Marilyn’s body in a manner perfectly consistent with Murray’s version.
“His only additional touch,” Clemmons said, “was saying he removed the phone receiver from the woman’s hand. Said she must have been trying to call for help.”
“Calling for help?” I asked. “With her housekeeper down the hall, ten feet away?”
“I know. But it wasn’t my job to investigate, was it? I was there to take down the initial report. Record what I saw and heard. Then I was relieved by Sergeant Iannone.”
“Good man?”
A shrug. “Good enough, I’d say. Only one thing about Marv I’m not crazy about—he’s in tight with Hamilton’s crowd.”
“Works for intel, you mean?”
“No, but works with them, time to time. They like him. One of his special duty assignments is kind of interesting, in light of things.”
“Interesting how?”
“Well, whenever the president or the attorney general visits the Lawfords, Iannone gets the assignment from Hamilton to work the beach house.”
Neither of us said anything. Colorful fish swam by, swishing their tails, the kind of display they invented Technicolor for. The fountain bubbled. Squirrels scampered.
“I filed a report when I got back to the substation,” he said. “For all the good it did. Then I called Jim.”
“Jim?”
“Marilyn’s first husband—Jim Dougherty. He’s a cop on the LAPD, y’know. We’re old friends. He said two things that both got to me. I think they’ve been keeping me awake more than anything else.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, first he said he was surprised. And then he said, ‘There’s no way Norma Jeane killed herself.’ No elaboration. Just those two things.”
Traffic sounds from Sunset Boulevard provided a dissonant reminder of the city surrounding.
“I appreciate you telling me this,” I said.
“It has to stay off the record,” he said.
“I know.”
“I could lose my job, this gets out. They’ve clamped down tight on this, Mr. Heller.”
“Then why talk to me?”
“Because that woman was murdered.”
We shook hands, and he headed home. Maybe he could catch a nap before he went on at midnight.
Maybe.
* * *
I didn’t have an appointment with the boss at the Arthur P. Jacobs agency on the Sunset Strip, not caring to risk one. Instead I waltzed into the posh, modern offices, and told the attractive brunette at the amoeba-shaped reception desk that I was Nathan Heller, had no appointment, and was here to see Mr. Jacobs.
She of course asked if she could tell him what it was about, and I told her Norma Jeane Baker.
I had barely got nestled in my curved space-age chair, preparing to read the front page of Daily Variety, when another attractive girl (this one blonde) appeared, and walked me up some winding, exposed stairs out of a science-fiction movie to Mr. Jacobs’ private office. She delivered me to his receptionist, a redhead (all bases covered), and buzzed me on through.
His office wasn’t ostentatiously large, no more than twice mine back in Chicago, but it had a modern, empty look that made it seem bigger. One wall was all windows onto the strip, though the view was obscured by black vertical blinds. The other walls were bone-colored, with sleekly framed black-and-white portraits of stars he represented, Marilyn prominent among them; several framed one-sheet posters (including Bus Stop and Let’s Make Love) hung opposite the window wall.
Jacobs sat in the recession of a kidney-shaped, black-topped, metal-legged desk arrayed with phones and stacks of paperwork and a scattering of pens, a black enamel ashtray, a black enamel box or two, and no family photos. Behind him was a big built-in black wall cabinet with doors below and shelves stacked with books, screenplays, and piles of magazines, a working library at odds with the sterile modernity of the rest of the office.
He looked small for so important a man, and in the publicity game, Arthur Jacobs was among Hollywood’s most powerful. This former MGM mail-room clerk now ruled an agency with New York, Hollywood, and London offices.
His suit was dark gray and tailored, his tie black, narrow, and silk, his hair dark, just starting to gray, and cut in Caesar bangs. His oval face had intelligence despite simian grooves, and he might have been handsome if the nose had been shorter and the ears smaller.
He gave me a practiced smile and stood behind the desk and held out his hand for me to shake, saying, “Nate Heller. You’re lucky—you caught me toward the end of my day.”
His handshake was just firm enough—it was practiced, too—and I said, “Arthur, I don’t need much of your time,” and sat down in one of the two leather director’s chairs opposite him.
We were on a first-name basis, it seemed, though we knew more of each other than actually knew each other. He’d been to Sherry’s with clients a couple times when I was on hand, and I’d seen him at this event and that one, exchanging a few friendly social words, mostly because of shared friends and acquaintances. Like Marilyn.
Anyway, I was here to run a bluff, so I got started.
“Listen, Arthur, I guess you know I was helping Marilyn with security at her home. She had me wiretap her place, but by the time I got there Sunday morning, the tapes were gone and so were the gimmicks in her two phones.”
“Really,” he said, his longish face trying to decide whether to stop smiling or not.
“And I’m glad of that, as far as it goes … but I wondered if you knew what had become of them? The tapes, I mean. Pat Newcomb said I’d just missed you at the house.”
“She did? Well, I don’t know anything about those tapes, Nate. Or the phone ‘gimmicks.’ Sorry.”
I shrugged, crossed a leg. “Well, I don’t know what’s on the tapes, so whether it’s a problem for anybody, who can say? I’m just trying to do right by Marilyn. And you know, I wouldn’t mind helping Bobby and Peter out. Wouldn’t want to see them get pulled into this.”
His mouth kept smiling but his forehead frowned. Then he shot a finger like a gun at me and said, �
��That’s right—you’re a friend of Bobby’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Go way back. We played Untouchables together in the fifties.” I raised my hands in surrender mode. “I’m not working for him, understand. Quite the contrary—when I offered to help out, he just said I should stay out of it as much as possible.”
“Not bad advice.”
“I do feel I have a responsibility to Marilyn in this. As I’m sure you do.”
Jacobs opened a black enamel box on the desk. It contained cigars, and they smelled fine—Havanas, I would wager. He slid it over by way of offering me one and I didn’t decline. Then I slid the box back, and he selected a plump specimen and lighted it up. I got mine going. It took a while. It does, with Havanas.
I drew in the thick, rich smoke and tried not to choke. Then said, “If I’m not overstepping, I’m assuming you’re walking point on this—I’m sort of on the fringes, but I’d like to know the party line.”
He nodded, let out some smoke he’d been holding in. “We were all upset when this suicide story got out.”
“Yeah. Hell, I heard it called that on the radio on my way to Fifth Helena!”
The publicist frowned, shook his head in irritation. “Stupid. Very stupid. How can we market Marilyn, if she’s a tragic suicide? Now—an accidental death. That’s a tragedy we can work with.”
“Right. Are you planning a press conference?”
“Hell no! No press releases. Everything oral. We’re working hand in hand with Fox on this thing. Very delicate. Very controlled.”
I sat forward, rested the cigar in the ashtray. Thing tasted great but was so strong I thought I might pass out.
“Arthur, I’ve managed to duck the cops so far. I had a lucky break of sorts when that Captain Hamilton showed up. He and I have a love/hate relationship—he loves to hate me. So instead of questioning me, he threw my ass out.”
Jacobs chuckled. “Well, the good captain has his uses.”
“So what is the story line? What do we say … I mean, what do we think … happened to Marilyn?”
He gestured with an open palm. “Simple. Marilyn took a normal dose of sleeping pills and dozed off. Then she woke up a half hour later and took another dose. Then a half hour later, she did the same, and so on, until it all added up. To tragedy.”
“Okay.” I showed him an open palm. “You know, I hear the autopsy tells a different story. She’d have needed to take a wheelbarrow full of pills.”
Jacobs smiled patiently, putting his cigar next to mine in the tray; we were sharing. “Nate, that doesn’t matter. I don’t know what happened to Marilyn. What does it matter what happened to Marilyn, really? What counts now is her legacy. Suicide is sad and weak. An overdose is accidental and tragic. Like James Dean in that smash-up. Look how big Dean still is. They re-release his three pictures every few years.”
“Ah. So what’s the full story, then? The official story?”
He leaned back in his swivel chair; tented his fingers, looked at the ceiling, which was high above us. “Three thirty, Eunice Murray notices that Marilyn’s bedroom light is still on, and knocks. Marilyn doesn’t answer. Murray runs outside, looks through the window and sees Marilyn looking strange. She phones Dr. Greenson, alarmed. Greenson rushes over and finds his patient already gone. Dr. Engelberg comes right over and pronounces Marilyn dead at four A.M. The police are called shortly thereafter.” He took his eyes off the ceiling and sent them my way. “The end.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “But I heard the housekeeper told the first cop on the scene that she found Marilyn at midnight or earlier.”
“Doesn’t matter. That first cop isn’t in charge. Your ‘friend’ Captain Hamilton is.”
“Which must mean Chief Parker’s given his blessing.” I shook my head. “Must’ve been wild, those four hours or so, before the police were officially called. Fox fixers crawling all over the joint, making sure nothing unflattering turned up. House getting searched stem to stern. You and Pat Newcomb and those doctors and, Christ, trying to help that flaky Murray woman get her story straight and keep it straight. And somebody must have been looking after Bobby’s interests. Don’t tell me you had FBI stepping on your toes, too. Must have been crazy.”
Well, this time I had overstepped.
Jacobs was looking at me with eyes turned unblinking and cold. He even stamped out that expensive, barely smoked cigar.
I risked half a smile. “If I’ve said too much…”
“Mr. Heller, why are you here?”
“I told you. For Marilyn’s sake.” I dropped the pretense. “So what time did you get there, Art?”
“Who says I was there at all?”
“You didn’t deny it earlier, when I brought it up. Pat Newcomb told the West LA Detective Division boys that you were there—I heard her. So it’s in their notes and records. Maybe you better warn Hamilton to take his eraser over there.”
Scorn met defensiveness in his tone. “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Heller, but I was at the Hollywood Bowl Saturday evening, with my fiancée, till quite late. The Henry Mancini concert? I was seen by hundreds of people.”
“I don’t remember saying you needed an alibi.”
His eyes left me and he was straightening a pile of papers in front of him. “I do have a few more minutes of work I need to get done today, Mr. Heller. Anyway, you were just going.”
“Yeah,” I said, getting up. “I was.” At the door, I threw back: “Does Bobby know you’re smoking Castro-brand cigars?”
That wasn’t the best exit line I ever came up with, but probably better than nothing.
And much better than nothing was the piece of luck I caught (rivaling my having gotten a parking place on the strip) just as I was exiting the glass-and-steel building.
I practically bumped into her. About to go in was a lovely strawberry blonde with light-colored eyes and freckles and a great smile. She was wearing a simple yellow dress that her slender yet curvy figure did wonders for.
But seeing a great-looking girl in her early twenties didn’t require any luck on the Sunset Strip. Running into Natalie Trundy, Arthur Jacobs’ young fiancée, did, especially since we knew each other a little. I had dated a girlfriend of hers.
“Nate!” she said. “You’re looking well.”
“You look gorgeous. Which is par. Going in to see Arthur?”
I maneuvered to keep her out on the sidewalk, just outside the building. The sidewalk was wide enough for a conversation without interfering with beautiful out-of-work actresses and actors strolling by.
“Yes,” she said. “Art and I are having an early dinner. We have to take in a premiere tonight for one of his clients.”
I snapped my fingers. “Say, didn’t I see you at the concert the other night? At the bowl?”
“Well, I was there. I don’t remember seeing you, though.”
“I waved. Thought you had. Anyway, that Mancini’s great, isn’t he?”
“Oh yes. And with Ferrante and Teicher, those dueling pianos! Really wonderful, and in the open air. Of course, we missed the last part.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” She gave me a you-know-how-it-is shrug. “Art got a phone call and had to go.”
I nodded knowingly. “Sure. Marilyn thing.”
“Right.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know about that…?”
“Uh-huh, I was just in talking with Arthur about her. Comparing notes. I’d been doing some work for Marilyn lately.”
Another shrug. “All I know is some guard came and got Art, and he came back and said he’d got a call from Mickey, saying poor Marilyn was dead, and he had to go handle it.”
“Marilyn’s lawyer, Mickey Rudin, you mean?”
Her head bobbed, making the strawberry blonde locks shimmer. “And then we were out of there like a shot. I was home by eleven and didn’t see Art till the next evening.”
“A hell of a thing.”
“Terrible tragedy. I liked her. Really liked her. Art a
nd I spent a lot of time with Marilyn, trying to support her through some … some tough times.”
I gave her a worldly-wise nod. “I know all about Bobby.”
She smiled bravely, crinkling her chin; her eyes were moist. “Poor thing really thought she’d be First Lady someday. But I agree with Arthur.”
“Yeah?”
“She didn’t commit suicide. It was accidental. So tragic.… Nice to see you, Nate. You know, Melody got married.”
“I heard. I was too old for her anyway.”
Her smile was teasing. “That’s funny. She said she found you immature.”
She and her delightful smile went inside to meet her fiancé. At least he was mature. Twenty years more mature than she was, anyway.
I headed to the A-1 and filled Fred Rubinski in, but just the broadest outlines.
“I don’t want you or the A-1 directly involved in this,” I said to him in his office.
Behind his desk, Fred was smoking a cigar that he wished was a Havana. He wrinkled up his Edward G. Robinson puss and said, “Nate, you are the A-1. Christ, after all these years, are you gonna finally manage to get yourself killed?”
“Don’t be stupid. But I guess I might as well use some of our agents for simple legwork stuff. Fact-checking. Like trying to locate the guard at the Hollywood Bowl who paged Jacobs for that phone call.”
“Sure. We’ll just keep the boys blissfully ignorant of context. You can pay for it out of the Kilgore dame’s mazuma.”
“Damon Runyon is dead, you know.”
“I heard.”
By the time I got back to the Beverly Hills Hotel, I was feeling pretty cocky. My investigative skills seemed intact, after several years of mostly PR and management duties.
I stepped into the darkened bungalow, reaching for the light switch, wondering why housekeeping hadn’t left a goddamn lamp on at least, when a hand clamped onto my right suit sleeve, followed by a hand on the other side doing the same with my left.
I moved forcefully forward and walked out of the suit coat and left the two big boys holding onto either empty sleeve, like they were fighting over a sale item. The guy who’d grabbed me first—they were both just dark shapes, but big dark shapes—I swung my elbow around and caught on the left side of his face. As he was going down I flat-kicked him in the stomach like I was putting out a fire.
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