by Andrew Hunt
“You two were close?”
“We lived together a while, back when she was a secretary in a downtown office, before she met Hans. I was the only member of my family still speaking to her at the time of…” Constance couldn’t bring herself to say the words “her death.” She sighed shakily and gazed down into her lap.
I felt sorry for her. The pain of her loss was visible in her face. Every few minutes, I’d catch a glimpse of Dr. Pfalzgraf’s profile. No emotion was evident there.
“I’m sure there are sisters out there closer than we were,” she said. “We talked on the telephone most days, and once or twice a month we’d go to lunch. She always had more money than I did, so she always treated. She loved to eat at Lamb’s on Main. We talked. I knew she was seeing a few different men…”
“This Persian prince who’s all over the newspapers,” said Nash. “Is that who you’re talking about?”
“Yeah. Him. There were others, too. Helen saw the prince a couple of times when she was in Europe. She claims he swore his undying love for her, but I’m pretty sure he was just leading her on to…” She paused as if screening her words and then decided that what she was about to say wasn’t proper for a public inquest. She cleared her throat and drank water from a nearby glass. “She made it out to be a storybook romance, claiming he wanted to marry her, but I’m sure she exaggerated it. He had plenty of opportunities to come here and sweep her off her feet, and he didn’t.”
“You said there were others?”
“Uh-huh. One was a movie actor she met in Los Angeles, big shot in the silent pictures, star of a couple of talkies, Roland Lane.” Lane’s name triggered a flurry of whispers, laughs, and even outright talking. Nash banged his gavel, and the audience eventually fell silent. Constance resumed. “They spent time together. She hinted it was something more than friendship. She wanted to be in pictures and thought he was the ticket. I don’t think there was much going on between them. I’m sure it was another case of wishful thinking on her part.”
“Anyone else?”
She blinked a few times and nodded. “Yeah. The mining man.”
“Mining man?”
She tilted her head back and gazed at the ceiling, then looked straight at Nash. “Clyde—er, uh, C. W. Alexander. He has an office in the Newhouse.”
“The Newhouse? Isn’t that a hotel?”
“They rent office space. You can look him up in the city directory if you want.”
“No. I believe you. So your sister was involved with this Mr. Alexander?”
She nodded. “Yes. She met him at a Labor Day picnic last year and saw him a bunch of times after that. They went on a long drive on Saint Valentine’s Day, but it got cut short when that snowstorm moved in. He was crazy about her. She didn’t return his affections. I think the prince sort of let her down and Alexander didn’t stack up. She was sweet on him at first, but she turned cold real fast. She did that with men. He telephoned her all the time, always pressuring her to leave Hans. I remember one time Helen told me, ‘I would not have Clyde. The lop-eared fool.’ Those were her exact words.”
“Do you know where they went on their Saint Valentine’s Day outing?”
“I’m not sure. Helen said he had to put the top up on his car because it was snowing so hard. She said he drove her to a quiet place out in the west valley.”
“Did she give you an address?”
“No.”
“When you say this Alexander fellow was a mining man, what do you mean?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Mister, do I look like an expert? All I know is the fella was involved with mines somehow. He was all the time driving around the state, looking for mines and trying to get big shots to invest in them. Sorry I can’t be more helpful. That’s all I know. Helen called him a speculator. You’ll have to find him and ask him what he does to put meat and potatoes on the table. I’m sure he’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
“Did you ever meet C. W. Alexander?”
“Yeah, once.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“We went on a drive up the canyon to see the changing leaves. There were three of us—me, Clyde, Helen. This was in, oh, early November, maybe late October. I can’t remember. He didn’t talk much, and when he did, he didn’t have much to say. I’ve had week-old bread less stale than him.”
The audience laughed, and the coroner banged his gavel a few times. “Order in the chambers. Thank you for speaking so frankly, Miss Higginbotham. You may be excused. If we have any further questions for you, we will summon you again.”
* * *
The coroner excused the jury before noon for a lunch break. In front of the City and County Building, vendors did a brisk business selling hot dogs, tamales, and ice-cold bottles of soda pop to long lines of customers. Roscoe and I stood in the slush drinking Nehi Colas through straws and eating lukewarm frankfurters. Some of the crowd gathered around a lanky radio announcer in a gray suit standing at a microphone with a KSL logo above it.
“I cannot begin to convey the drama, the tragedy, the intrigue that pervade this chamber,” he said. “In all my years covering events for the press and the radio, the murder of Helen Kent Pfalzgraf is unique in its sheer brutality and ability to captivate the citizens of this fair city…”
Roscoe fed a stick of Black Jack chewing gum into his mouth and offered me a piece with a tilt of the pack. I shook my head and listened to the announcer for a moment, but Roscoe pushed his Stetson back on his head and said, “I’ve heard enough of this horseshit, Art. Let’s go inside and find some seats.”
Roscoe said it loudly enough that the mike probably picked up his words, and the announcer went pale, but Roscoe didn’t care. Ruffling feathers was his specialty, and I noticed him cracking a grin as our footsteps echoed across the marble lobby.
When the clock on the wall said one, the chamber filled up and we heard Parley Tanner’s testimony. Tanner was in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, a lean and handsome face, and small gray eyes. You could tell this was a man with the most expensive taste in clothing imaginable, right down to his gold cuff links. He came across as calm and sure of himself, and he looked around the room making eye contact with just about everybody whenever he spoke.
Nash said, “You’re the head partner of the firm Tanner, Smith, and Wells.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve said you are testifying on behalf Dr. Hans Pfalzgraf?”
“Yes. As his legal counsel, I am allowed by the state of Utah law to testify in his stead in these proceedings.”
“Of course. How long have you known him?”
“We—my wife and I—met Dr. Pfalzgraf and his first wife, Nellie, back in 1908, not long after Pfalzgraf opened his office in the Brooks Arcade. We liked each other right away. He offered to be our family physician and we said yes. We needed no coaxing. He had—has—a reputation as the finest physician in the state.”
“So your relationship with him is closer than arm’s length?”
“He’s my client and dearest friend,” said Parley Tanner. “Miriam shares my fondness for him. We’ll never forget when the doctor made a house call in the middle of the night two years ago to bring medicine to our daughter, Elizabeth, when she was ill. He’s a true saint, the most generous man I’ve ever known.”
Nash cut off the praise. “Were you with him when he identified Helen Kent Pfalzgraf’s body?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. Her death left him devastated. I’ve been worried about him ever since.”
I turned on the bench to see Pfalzgraf’s profile across the room. He sat still, and his expression did not change. If this testimony was causing him grief, he wasn’t showing it.
“Worried? How so?”
“I wouldn’t want Hans’s melancholy to get the best of him,” he said. “He’s one of this city’s finest citizens.”
“What was Dr. Pfalzgraf’s reaction to the allegations that Mrs. Helen Pfalzgraf was
seeing this…” Nash stared down at his notes for a long second and shook his head. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, I can’t say his name. The Persian prince.”
There was light laughter. Tanner propped his right leg over his left knee. “The newspapers have made a real to-do out of that whole deal. I’d like to underscore what Mrs. Pfalzgraf’s sister said in her testimony. The gossip about the Persian fellow was just that—gossip. Mrs. Pfalzgraf was a lovely woman with an active imagination.”
“Are you saying she made it up?”
“No. I’m sure she really met him in Paris. But a romance?” He shook his head as he picked a piece of lint off his thigh. “Helen once said she was being considered for a role in a Cecil B. DeMille movie. That’s how she was. She enjoyed boasting, but her achievements were hardly remarkable. Then again, she was only thirty-two when she died. Who knows what she might’ve accomplished had she lived longer?”
“What about the newspaper claims that she and the doctor visited you the day before her death to discuss divorce proceedings?” asked Nash.
“There’s no truth to the claims. I’m sure this talk of divorce was a gimmick cooked up by the press to sell papers.”
“Do you know C. W. Alexander?”
“I’ve never met him.”
“Had you heard of him before today?”
“No.”
“You weren’t aware of this Saint Valentine’s Day outing of theirs?”
“No.”
“Dr. Pfalzgraf never voiced any concerns about this man?”
“To me? No.”
Nash read from his dossier and jotted notes. Without looking up, he said, “I understand you were with Dr. Pfalzgraf the night Mrs. Pfalzgraf was murdered.”
“Yes. We were at the Majestic on Ninth watching wrestling. It was one of those touring road shows—ten matches for two and a quarter, including Lippert versus Barnett. I know the doctor isn’t an avid wrestling fan, but I thought he seemed to be gripped by melancholy, and I find that wrestling, for all of its ballyhoo, possesses a certain thrilling quality that I hoped would cheer him up.”
Nash smiled as he stared at Tanner. “Who won?”
“Lippert. He pinned Barnett in less than ten minutes. The match was broadcast on the radio, but you had to be there to fully savor it. Worth every nickel.”
“Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Tanner,” said Nash, capping his fountain pen. “You may be excused.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nash.”
Eight
Sheriff Cannon staged a photo shoot in front of the Newhouse Hotel, and the weather was on his side. That Tuesday was our first cloudless day in a month, and the skies offered plenty of natural lighting when the Examiner photographer arrived. He wasn’t much more than a kid, late teens I guessed, pimply and dressed in a baggy suit. His press badge said his name was Ephraim Nielsen. He set up a tripod in front of the Newhouse, opened his folding camera, and expanded its leather bellows outward like an accordion.
Near me, three other deputies—Roscoe Lund, Billy Taggart, and Ralph Young—stood patiently, waiting for something to happen. A streetcar roared past us, dinging its bell and dropping off passengers half a block to the south. Moments later, Examiner reporter Frank Ferguson, a mustachioed man with a thin neck covered in shaving cuts, showed up with his notepad and pencil, ready for action. The six of us—two newspapermen and four deputies—formed a semicircle around Cannon and waited for orders.
“Here’s what I’d like,” Cannon told Nielsen. “I’d like a shot of me entering the lobby. I’ll go in first, followed by Oveson and the other deputies. If need be, I’ll do it a few times for so you can get the perfect picture.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ephraim, removing the lens cap from the camera.
Cannon pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the revolving door. “After that, you take photos of us in the lobby, heading to the elevator.”
“Sure thing.”
Cannon nodded and patted the shutterbug on the shoulder, then turned to Ferguson. “I’ve got a gut feeling this C. W. Alexander fellow is our man. I’m giving you the scoop. You think this will make front page?”
Ferguson bobbed his head up and down. “I have no doubt, Sheriff.”
“Dandy. Let’s get this show on the road. Look lively, fellows.”
Cannon charged through the revolving door, and I reluctantly followed. I noticed the stony-faced expressions of the other deputies. None of us liked where this was going. Cannon was playing judge, jury, and executioner. He had a reputation as a lawman who would decide on the guilt or innocence of suspects based on nothing more than his hunches and gut reactions. If he thought someone was guilty, he’d pursue that individual relentlessly. If convinced of a man’s innocence, he’d order his deputies to stay away from that person. That was one reason so many of his deputies hated him. If I had more courage, I would tell Cannon exactly what I thought. There is such a thing as innocent until proven guilty. We have no business zeroing in on one person like this. Any decent lawman would …
“Oveson, snap out of it!” said Cannon, leading the way. “This ain’t no time for daydreaming!”
As we spun through the revolving door, Roscoe shared a wedge with me, leaned forward, and whispered, “If the cocksucker is right, this is his ticket to reelection.”
“If he’s right,” I said.
The revolving door spit us out into a lobby with potted palms and glassy marble floors so shiny you could see your reflection. Cannon posed for more photographs inside the lobby.
CLICK: Cannon stopping at the front desk to inquire about the location of C. W. Alexander’s office.
CLICK: Cannon gesturing to his deputies to follow him to the elevator.
CLICK: Cannon pushing the UP button while his deputies wait for orders.
The elevator’s copper-plated doors slid open, and an operator in a maroon monkey suit and matching pillbox hat stepped out of the way, eyes wide with surprise, as Cannon pushed inside. I went in next, followed by Roscoe, but Cannon raised his palm to halt the other deputies. “Stay put, men. Let the press boys come with us. Remain in the lobby.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
“Gents,” Cannon said to Ferguson and Nielsen, “there’s room for two more.”
The men stepped inside, and the operator threw a lever that closed the heavy doors. The elevator hummed as it lurched upward, climbing slowly to the eighth floor. The operator finally threw the lever again, and the five of us spilled out into a hallway.
“How’s the lighting in here?” asked Cannon.
The photographer looked around the dimly lit hall and held his camera up to chest level. “Poor. I can see what I can do…”
“That’s a boy. You’re about to witness history in the making. The office is right over here.”
CLICK: The silhouettes of Cannon and two deputies walking down the hall of the Newhouse’s eighth floor.
CLICK: Sheriff Cannon knocking on the door of room 805. The frosted glass on the door reads INTERMOUNTAIN MINING SPECULATORS, LTD.—C. W. ALEXANDER, PROPRIETOR.
CLICK: Sheriff Cannon and his deputies entering Alexander’s office, a portion of the photo obscured by the glare of the sun piercing through the window against the lens of the camera.
A pale woman with an Irene Castle bob, a doughy face, and a string of pearls jumped out of her swivel chair and crouched behind her desk when we charged into the room.
“Sheriff Fred Cannon.” He held his badge high so she could get a better look. “We’re here for C. W. Alexander. Is he in?”
“What do you want with—”
“I take it that’s his office,” said Cannon, pointing at a door with C. W. ALEXANDER painted on pebbled glass.
“Yes, but he’s not—”
Cannon wouldn’t hear her out. “This way, fellows.”
“Do you men have a search warrant?” asked the secretary.
“We don’t need one when we’re arresting somebody,” said Cannon.
“Ma’am,” said Cannon, smile now gone. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“He isn’t in there!”
Cannon walked over to her desk, placed both hands on it for effect, and leaned in close to her. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t show up today. Maybe it’s all that stuff in the newspapers.”
Cannon slammed his hand on a little file card box on the desk, startling the poor woman. “Reach in there and pull out his address. Will you?”
She nodded, flipped open the box, and fumbled for a 3 × 5 file card. Her shaking hand brought it out. Cannon snatched it from her before she had a chance to pass it to him. He got a good look at it and dropped it on her desk.
“Much obliged.”
* * *
C. W. Alexander lived in a bungalow on 500 East, one of those three-thousand-dollar brick jobs across the street from Liberty Park. It had a detached one-car garage with no auto inside and a sleeping porch containing a hammock. We parked next to the curb, two houses down. Roscoe got out of the car first and double-checked to make sure his revolver was loaded. Cannon’s car pulled up next, followed by another county sedan and the press boys in a tan Pontiac. Water dripping from nearby eaves troughs fooled me into thinking spring was around the corner. We had a while of winter yet.
Cannon ordered shutterbug Nielsen to set up his camera near the Alexander place. Nielsen did as told and snapped pictures of us as Roscoe charged up the wet sidewalk, leaping every other step to the porch, and turned to Cannon for a signal. He and two other deputies opened a fence door at the side of the house and followed a path to the dwelling’s rear, to make sure Alexander didn’t try to make a run for it out the back door. I stood on the sidewalk watching Roscoe, waiting for him to do something and feeling uneasy about this operation.
“You ready to go in, Deputy?”
Cannon’s voice jarred me out of my thoughts. “Yes, sir.”