The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  Chapter 15

  Craine was met by the Lilac Club’s head of security outside the main entrance doors. Vincent Kinney, as he introduced himself, was about Craine’s height but with broader shoulders and a deep barrel chest that filled every inch of his double-breasted suit. His face was large, his features slack and his voice, when he did speak, was low and feral, the accent of a man brought up in untamed neighborhoods.

  “You should call two hours ahead in future, Mr. Craine. The manager is a very busy man.”

  Craine handed Kinney his police identification. “It’s Detective Craine, and I won’t take up much of his time.”

  Two thick, knotted arms held the badge out for inspection before handing it back. “Are you carrying a weapon? We don’t allow firearms inside the building.”

  “I’m a law officer. I’m required to carry one at all times.” Not strictly true, and rarely taken as gospel. Craine had to remind himself most days to take it out from under his driver’s seat.

  Kinney grunted and for a moment it looked like he wanted to spit. He swallowed heavily instead and walked briskly through reception. “Come with me,” he said without turning back.

  Craine followed Kinney through the club restaurant, past empty tables and stacked chairs as they walked toward the rear of the building. They continued on through a door to the left of the stage, leading into a long corridor with glass-fronted offices to either side. Despite coming to the club almost weekly for the past few years, Craine had never met the manager, Benjamin Carell. It seemed strange, considering that Craine was acquainted with almost every person of note in this city, that their paths had never crossed. More than that, he could find no records of arrests or prosecutions on Carell. He’d heard the rumors of Carell’s history in Chicago, whisperings of friendships with Al Capone and his successor, Frank Nitti, and yet what people said had never seemed to amount to anything more than hearsay. In a town where everybody knew everybody, Benjamin Carell should be congratulated on keeping his personal history locked up behind closed doors.

  Carell had an attractive office with wood-paneled walls and mullioned windows through which you could see the Hollywood Hills.

  “Jonathan Craine, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” said Carell in a warm, if slightly controlled voice.

  Craine shook him by the hand. Carell’s palm was damp and spongy and he noticed a row of gold rings rippling over his knuckles that betrayed a meager upbringing. His father told him once, “A gentleman never wears jewelry.”

  “Please come in. Thank you, Vincent. You can leave Detective Craine in my hands.”

  Kinney grunted again and left them alone. When the door closed behind them, Carell took his place behind his desk and offered his guest one of the two leather-backed chairs opposite, which Craine noticed were slightly lower and smaller than Carell’s.

  “Apologies for my head of security. ‘Taciturn’ is a polite way to describe him. Hot, isn’t it? All this rain seems to make it worse. Can I offer you anything?” he asked hospitably. “Iced tea? Coffee? Something stronger?” Two of the rings clicked against each other as a long arm swept toward a hidden corner where a bow-fronted sideboard held bottles of liquor, crystal glasses and a silver ice bucket. Craine examined Carell as his gaze turned away, contemplating his easy confidence and cared-for features. His olive skin betrayed Italian heritage and he reasoned that Carell was an anglicized version of Carelli or Carello. Craine had assumed at first that he was in his early forties but he had the childish eyes and incipient stubble of a much younger man. He couldn’t have been much older than thirty-four or thirty-five.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Craine replied eventually, taking a notepad and pen from his pocket.

  “I’ve heard so much about you. I understand you’re one of our regulars.” The accent was hard to place. If he was born in Chicago then he’d tried hard to lose his northern city vowel shift. “You were married to Celia Raymond, isn’t that right? My deepest condolences. A wonderful actress. A genuine loss.”

  “You knew my wife personally?”

  Carell lit a cigarette. “I’m afraid I never met her myself. But I’ve seen a lot of her pictures. I was so sorry to hear about her accident.”

  That final word tripped off Carell’s tongue like foreign vocabulary. Craine wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not. “Thank you,” he said anyway. “It’s not necessary. Mr. Carell, I appreciate you seeing me at such short notice.”

  “Not a problem. I assume this isn’t a social visit?”

  “I’m afraid not. I was hoping to talk to you about an employee of yours, a Mr. James Campbell.”

  “Campbell?” he said, visibly discomfited but feigning otherwise. “Are you sure?”

  “Campbell’s employment records state he worked here as a photographer.”

  “The name rings a bell. I could have my secretary find out for you.” He pressed a button on the underside of his desk and leaned sideways into a hidden microphone. “Emily?”

  “Yes, Mr. Carell,” a young voice said.

  “Would you be so kind as to look through our personnel files to see if we employ someone called Campbell, John Campbell?”

  “James Campbell,” Craine quickly corrected.

  “Sorry, James Campbell.”

  “I can tell you right away that we did, Mr. Carell, but his contract ended some time ago. He was the young gentleman who—”

  Carell cut her off before she could finish. “Well there you have it; it appears we did. Wait a minute, yes, Campbell—I know him. He worked here, of course he did. We have a number of photographers, you see, and I’m not necessarily the best person to ask about our staff rota.”

  “How many photographers do you have?”

  “A different number at different times. Four, maybe.”

  “Can you explain exactly what a club photographer does here at the Lilac Club?”

  Carell’s mouth pursed. “The photographers? Well, they take pictures of guests at tables,” he explained airily.

  Craine wanted to believe him but he was too well versed in lies not to recognize one said to his face. “What for?” he asked.

  “What for?” Carell took his time to answer. Time to remember? Or time to imagine? “For framed photographs in the reception hall.” Carell blew his smoke out sideways. “That kind of thing.”

  “I didn’t see any photographs in the hall.”

  A second or two of hesitation, then: “Well, I will admit the photos are sometimes used for other means.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  Carell smiled thinly. “Motion picture studios procure them from our club and provide the pictures to newspapers. We take a small commission, of course. They’re mainly for publicity purposes.” He waved his hand in the air. “Gary Cooper out with his wife the night before his picture is to be released, that type of thing.”

  “You do that for all the studios?”

  “In this town, different hands feed different mouths. We all help each other to get by. Isn’t that true, Detective?”

  Craine didn’t answer him. “Campbell’s employment record says he was working here until November. Can you expand on why he left?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t recall. We have over a hundred staff,” Carell offered by way of explanation. “Some people stay months, others weeks. Contracts are often fixed-term or they leave on their own accord. These things happen. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. You must understand I’m a very busy man.”

  “So your head of security told me.”

  “Is this Campbell someone you’re looking for?”

  Craine nodded: “There was an incident.” He paused, uncertain as to how much he should give away. He decided to tell Carell about Florence Lloyd, without mentioning the connection to Herbert Stanley. “A young woman was found shot dead in her home a few days ago,” he went on, candidly. “You could say that Campbell is considered a suspect.”

  “That’s awful. Who was she?”

  “
Florence Lloyd. Does her name sound familiar?”

  The club manager shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

  “You’re sure? She’s never worked here?”

  “Never.”

  “You don’t want to check with your secretary?”

  “This time I’m certain. But do you know why Campbell would do that? Murder her, I mean.”

  Craine didn’t answer straight away. “I’m not sure yet,” he admitted quietly.

  Carell seemed pleased by this fact and didn’t bother to hide it. “My, my, you do have a lot of strings to tie. I don’t envy you, Detective Craine.”

  The phone rang and Carell answered it at once.

  “Yes?”

  A pause as he listened. “Then try and book him for the week after. We’ll be amenable,” he said before ringing off.

  “Apologies.”

  The phone rang again. This time Carell listened intently when he answered. It was evidently important. His face strained and twisted.

  “Detective Craine, I have to take this. I’m afraid our conversation will have to continue another time.”

  Craine managed a smile to meet Carell’s. “I understand,” he said, standing. “Thank you for meeting with me at such short notice.”

  “Absolutely. Anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  I’ve learned nothing, Craine reflected as he made his back way through the corridors, that gorilla Kinney inches from his side. He knew he could have demanded more time but had decided not to. He had nothing left to ask. Some questions are traps, he thought, and some are merely enquiries. Today I have nothing but the latter. Besides, it’s too premature to offer an interrogation. Why act like the hangman when you’re not even sure who the right man is for the gallows?

  Chapter 16

  Louis Mayer was standing on the yellow brick road in Munchkinland, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot in a stiff navy blazer and cream flannel slacks. It was hot under the arc lights on Sound Stage Eleven, and only the blossoming sweat patches under his arms kept him from taking off his jacket.

  Mervyn LeRoy, the picture’s primary producer, came and stood officiously at his side. He was a genius, that boy, as smart and creative as any he’d ever met. But Jesus Christ if a monkey wasn’t more business-minded. If only Herbert were here. He was always good at keeping the accounts in order.

  “They’re almost ready for another take, sir.”

  Mayer squinted as an arc light turned his way. “What is it, take twelve?”

  LeRoy cleared his throat. “The Technicolor cameras are proving more complex than we expected.”

  “Mervyn, the budget for the reshoots is almost as high as our original shooting budget.”

  “Yes, I know our ledger is a little heavy. Unforeseen circumstances.”

  “Thank God we don’t have to worry about the unions. But I don’t want the press to find out about this. This will not be a box-office flop before it’s even out.”

  “We’re working closely with Peterson. The publicity campaign is well underway.”

  “Good,” said Mayer, making his way toward the exit before he had reason to throttle his producer. “And don’t ever ask me to come down to the studio lot again. It’s giving me a headache just standing here.”

  Outside, the sun was high in the sky and the heat was unbearable. Mayer took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and neck. He could smell the hot, wet concrete so distinct to Los Angeles. At least that clammy rain had stopped.

  Russell Peterson was standing beside the rear passenger door of Mayer’s limousine, looking even more flustered and tense than he normally did.

  “Sir?”

  “What is it now, Peterson?”

  “I’ve made a discretionary donation to the D.A.’s re-election campaign. He also has a niece who wants to be an actress. I’m going over to speak to him shortly.”

  “Give her a basic three-month contract. B-pictures only. And invite both him and the Chief of Police to Loew House. Make sure they have a good time.”

  Peterson looked around. “There’s something else.”

  “Can it wait? I’m due to meet Margaret for lunch in ten minutes.”

  “I want to talk about Jonathan Craine.”

  Mayer leaned inside the door and said to his driver, “One second, Artie,” before shutting the door behind him and taking a few paces back away from the car. “What about him?” he said quietly, beckoning Peterson toward him with a small, cupped hand. “He’s done his job; I don’t know what’s left to talk about.”

  “I’m talking about Craine asking questions he doesn’t need to ask. I’m talking about Craine meeting Gale Goodwin at the Brown Derby.”

  “When?”

  “Right now. He called her at Joan Crawford’s house an hour ago.”

  “Well, let’s not get dramatic. What’s the problem?”

  “We don’t want any unnecessary complications.”

  Mayer squeezed his hands into fists and stood in thought. It was crucial to keep up appearances of success and happiness at all times because more than anything, Mayer understood that audiences came to see his stars. And the only way M.G.M. could rise above its peers would be to make sure it filled its wholesome pictures with wholesome people.

  “Craine’s onside, he’s one of us,” he said eventually to Peterson. “But keep an eye on him. I don’t want the press to find out Gale Goodwin is still speaking to the police department. It’ll send out the wrong impression. Make some calls, find out what Craine’s up to. But whatever happens, for God’s sake make sure City Hall has our back.”

  Craine sipped a coffee in one of a long line of curved leather dining booths. He was tired. He was always tired. He could no longer bear to yawn, and when the urge came he held his jaw shut and breathed heavily through his nose.

  He was sitting in the Hollywood Brown Derby on Vine Street. Craine had chosen the Derby because it was quieter and less formal than the Trocadero or Cocoanut Grove but he was starting to wish he’d booked somewhere even less conspicuous. The restaurant was busier than he remembered, packed with publicity-hungry socialites and debutantes keen to catch the eye of press hounds and movie producers. I should have gone to the house, he thought. I should never have asked her to come somewhere so public.

  A few minutes after two, Gale came into the restaurant. Her hair was waved smoothly and underneath a long black coat she was wearing a dark gray gabardine dress with matching gloves. She looked gaunt, but not as solemn as he might have thought. He saw the maître d’ point her toward his table and felt his stomach knot. He was uneasy about talking to Gale. Interviewing Carell was one thing, but putting probing questions to one of M.G.M.’s biggest stars was an entirely different matter. But there was something else too. Just Gale being here made him a nervous. A little on edge. He wasn’t sure why.

  Gale took a seat nearest the entrance doors, folding herself behind the table. She removed her coat and gloves then laid her hands on the tabletop. An actor’s gesture: I have nothing to hide, it said.

  “Hello, Jonathan,” she said breezily, “you’re looking very tired. Are you sleeping?” Turning the attention away from herself, opening the conversation with a question. He’d seen actors do this a hundred times.

  An Italian waiter appeared pushing a tea wagon before he could muster an answer. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Pall Mall, please. Are you having anything?”

  “Another coffee, please.”

  Gale seemed to have prepared herself. Her confidence took him by surprise. “How’s your son? Did you see him last night?” she said when the waiter had gone.

  Most people he knew liked nothing more than an opportunity to talk about their children. For Craine it served only to remind him that he was a terrible parent. “Michael’s doing well. He’s enjoying school.”

  “Michael. What a lovely name. What school does he attend?”

  “St. Thomas’s.”

  “I’m pleased he’s enjoying it. It’s
very well regarded among people I know.” She smiled, changing the subject. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Are you going to Loew House?”

  “Loew House?”

  “Yes, for the party—M.G.M.’s anniversary. Louis said he’s asked you.”

  “I haven’t decided,” he answered truthfully.

  “Nor me. It feels very premature, but I know Louis and Peterson would prefer it if I did. I’ll see how I feel.” Gale opened her purse and searched for something. She brought out a palm-sized metal case and a thin lighter.

  “You don’t smoke, do you?” she said, taking out a Chesterfield and lighting it.

  Craine shook his head. “Thank you for coming. I’m sorry if this is a little public.”

  “I wasn’t bothered. Louis must have put the press on a leash. Besides, it’s good to get out.”

  “I know it’s very soon. You must be busy making arrangements.”

  Gale looked down at the table, as if talking to herself. “Yes, it’s been complete chaos but we’ve finally picked a date. The funeral is Thursday. You’re very welcome. I haven’t sent out invitations as yet. Do you call them invitations? I suppose I’ve always associated the word with birthdays and celebrations. It seems so inappropriate. Anyway,” she said, puffing at her cigarette, “I’m blabbering again. I’m sure that’s of little interest. I never asked you; did you read the papers? Of course you have, what am I saying? Are you pleased? Is Louis satisfied?”

  Gale was fidgeting, her hands moving from lap to table and back again. I shouldn’t have chosen somewhere so public, Craine thought. This is making her anxious.

  “Yes,” he said, trying to reassure her, “M.G.M. are happy. Although you’ll feature more heavily in the coming week. I don’t know if you’ll be reading the papers yourself.”

  “I’ll ask Joan to tell me. I won’t read them myself, I rarely do. You never really get used to what people write about you.”

  Just as he thought they were incapable of skirting around inanities any longer the waiter arrived with their drinks. They smiled their thank yous but neither looked up. When the two of them were alone again, he cleared his throat, pulled his cup toward him.