by Guy Bolton
“I wanted to ask you a few more questions,” he began cautiously. “About Herbert.”
Gale ground out her cigarette in the ashtray then lit another. He noticed the fixed smile disappear and her eyes narrow ever so slightly.
“I thought you’d taken your statement? Is that not enough for the press agents?”
“This is something . . . separate. Another matter. Your maid spoke with Detective O’Neill. She mentioned that your husband had received a package the morning he died. And a while later he had a telephone call from an unnamed caller.”
“I wasn’t aware of either.”
“He didn’t mention them? When you argued?”
“No, why would he? It was probably work-related. We often had scripts sent to us. And when Herbert worked from home the phone rang all day.”
Craine trod carefully, conscious that she was becoming defensive. “I’m merely looking into it. But I wanted to know if Herbert . . .” He paused, then decided on a more direct approach. “Gale, have you ever heard of someone called James Campbell?”
The question surprised her. “I’ve never heard of him. Should I?”
She smiled briefly but she wasn’t looking at him anymore.
“I think Herbert knew him. Or at least, he knew Herbert. What about Lloyd? Florence Lloyd?”
“I’m sorry. There are many people he knew that I’m not familiar with. Who is she?”
“She’s a girl who was murdered few days ago. James Campbell is a suspect. Or at least a person of interest.”
Gale stopped smiling and frowned. “That’s horrible. How could this Campbell possibly know Herbert?”
“I’m not sure. He called your husband the day he died. I’m trying to work out why.”
“Are you saying Herbert was involved in a murder?”
Craine was anxious not to scare Gale. “No. Not necessarily. I’m just establishing a line of enquiry. Thank you for clearing that up.”
“Should I be worried?”
“No, not at all. As you say, the call was probably work-related. It’s likely a coincidence.” Gale seemed nervy and he tried to move the conversation on quickly. “I’m sorry if I’ve asked you this before, but you previously mentioned Herbert had been depressed. You said that he drank, that he was drinking a lot.”
Gale held her lower lip between her teeth and nodded. His questions were making her uncomfortable.
“Was Herbert taking anything for his depression? Was he on sedatives or other forms of medication?”
Her eyes flicked down then quickly up again. “What makes you think he took sedatives?”
Craine had been reluctant to mention the internal autopsy but now saw no way of avoiding it.
“There was a medical examination. An autopsy, Gale.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “Is that normal? To do . . . that?”
“It’s an option open to us. In circumstances such as these.”
She shifted in her seat and puffed harder on her cigarette. He saw now that her air of calm was a facade. She was delicate, splintered, so close to breaking.
“Sometimes he had trouble sleeping. And he got these terrible migraines. Dreadful, they were. It got so bad sometimes that he couldn’t even leave the house. He took some medication. For the pain, you see.”
So she’d known about the drugs. Why hadn’t she told him? He wondered whether that ruled out O’Neill’s theory that Stanley had been drugged. It looked like Collins was right—they were for personal consumption.
“When did he start taking them, that you’re aware of?”
“A few years ago when Mayer made him a producer.” There was a tremor in her hands. She slipped them off the table and laid them in her lap. The cigarette sat uselessly in the ashtray; the smoke trailed across the table and scratched at his throat. “The pressure was overwhelming; it was for all of us. It still is. Everyone has seen what’s happened to Columbia, to United Artists, to R.K.O. The studios that we all thought were invincible suddenly started going into receivership. It’s frightening. Mayer wants us to raise our standards, work harder, perform better, whatever that means. We have to make the best pictures—there’s no room for failure, especially if you’re a producer. Herbert was working for weeks on end without a break and if he wasn’t at the studio he’d be at home rewriting scripts. He couldn’t sleep. He would lie awake worrying until it was light outside.”
Now it was Craine’s turn to twist in his seat. He and Stanley shared a habit. Maybe in a few years’ time he’d get to the same point of desperation, decide the best way to get some rest would be to tie himself to the ceiling fan.
“After a few months I told him to see somebody,” she continued, picking up the cigarette and pressing it between her lips. “He didn’t want to see the studio doctor because he didn’t want Mayer to know.”
“If it wasn’t the studio doctor, then where did he get them from? Were they all prescribed?”
“I expect they weren’t. Everyone knows there’s a man on the lot who has ways of getting things.”
“Rochelle. His name is Jack Rochelle.”
“Yes, I think that’s him.”
Craine regarded her through the smoke. She looked nervous now, her face flushed with panic. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he said.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“To an investigation into your husband’s death? Why would you lie?”
Gale’s eyes darkened, her face contracted. “I wasn’t lying,” she snapped, keeping her voice from rising. “It simply didn’t cross my mind to tell you. And you of all people have no right to call me a liar.”
Their waiter approached the table with two lunch menus. “Can I get you anything else to drink? Will you be eating with us today?”
“No, I won’t be staying, thank you,” said Gale. The waiter nodded and moved on to the next table.
“What is it you want from me, Jonathan?” she asked resentfully. “What is it you’re insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating anything.”
“Then why did you drag me here? Why are you asking me all these ridiculous questions? First it’s a murder. Then it’s drugs. My husband killed himself—why does any of this matter?”
“I’m only interested in the truth, Gale.”
“Truth?” she hissed, slamming her glass down so hard people on the adjacent table started to stare. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word. You’ve spent most of your life feeding Mayer’s little stories to the press. Don’t even deny it. So why are you trying to spin something out of nothing?” She was shouting now, anger clinging to her throat. People on other tables stopped eating, their eyes wandering toward their table. They whispered Gale’s name.
“I told you I don’t know those people,” she went on, “I told you I don’t know what Herbert was taking but you’re looking at me like I’m a liar. Like I’m covering something up. How dare you? How dare you?”
At last he spoke, slowly but sharply. “Stop it, Gale. Please, stop it.”
Somewhere in the restaurant a woman shrieked with delight. A table of guests applauded. Two waiters brought out a birthday cake on a silver trolley. The table started singing “Happy Birthday.” Other tables joined in. Another theatric had pushed the spotlight away from them.
Craine and Gale sat in silence.
“I should go,” she said quietly.
“Gale—”
“I have to go. Please, I’m sorry.” She stood up and swathed herself in her coat.
“Gale, don’t go—”
Craine watched Gale stride toward the exit doors. He called out her name again but the sound was drowned beneath the cheers of “happy birthday” and for a second he wasn’t even sure if he’d said anything at all.
Chapter 17
O’Neill had thought long and hard about the repercussions of going behind Craine’s back but he knew that something wasn’t right about Stanley’s connection to James Campbell. Maybe it was the stress of losing his wi
fe or something else entirely, but Craine wasn’t adequately performing his duty as an investigator. Captain Simms could make things right, overrule Craine and open an inquest. O’Neill was counting on his support.
“So what is it I can do for you?” Simms asked when O’Neill had finally managed to find five minutes in his schedule. He’d been waiting for almost an hour outside Simms’ office before his secretary told him to go in.
O’Neill twisted in the small chair in front of Simms’ desk. Talking to senior officers tended to make his anxiety flare up and he was worried he’d stutter and slip over his words. To calm his nerves, he’d rehearsed what he was going to say several times last night.
“Well, Captain,” he began slowly, “while the pathology report concluded that Stanley’s death was probably suicide, it failed to mention that the internal examination revealed Stanley had a high dose of sedatives in his stomach. As you may also know, no suicide note was found at Stanley’s address after he died.”
O’Neill handed over a green folder and Simms’ stiff white eyebrows creased together. “Explain to me why you think this is important?”
“Well, you’ll see in there—that is, on the second page—a transcript from my interview . . . my interview with Stanley’s housemaid.”
Simms opened the folder and scanned through the report. “Go on.”
“Page three, half-way down—yes, yes, right there—she said Stanley received a package the morning of his death. And shortly after the package was delivered he got an anonymous phone call.”
Simms squinted his eyes. “What was her name?”
“The maid? Ana Mercado, I think. Yes, definitely. Ana Mercado.”
“Mexican?” The corners of his mouth turned down disapprovingly. “That doesn’t sound like a reliable witness.”
“She’s reliable. She worked for Stanley.”
Simms shrugged without stirring. “Either way, Craine has already highlighted this to me. I’m sure Stanley received dozens of letters and phone calls every day.”
“Let me go through this from the beginning,” O’Neill said, trying to engage Simms’ interest. “It starts with the phone call and the package—it’s all in the maid’s interview. A package was delivered and less than an hour later a phone call received. Twelve hours later, Herbert Stanley is dead. The key question is: what was it that was said in the call? And where is the package that Stanley received? It’s not listed in the evidence submissions slip.”
Simms gave the document a cursory glance and raised a quizzical eyebrow. When he spoke his voice remained impassive. “Craine spoke with the caller. The matter is dealt with.”
“There was a shooting—”
“Unrelated.”
“I think—I mean, aren’t there areas of gray surrounding Stanley’s death that need to be investigated? Suspicious circumstances?”
Simms picked up a pair of half-moon spectacles. “Nothing you’ve said convinces me an inquest is necessary.”
O’Neill swallowed hard. His ears were burning. “Well, surely it’s my job—our job—to look into these matters.”
Simms drummed his fingers against the desk. “Detective, outline your reasons why I should be spending resources we don’t have looking into a confirmed suicide and upsetting M.G.M. and half the town at the same time.”
O’Neill was losing his bearing. “Captain, I—I mean, the note . . .”
“Go on. I’m giving you the opportunity to make your case. Outline your reasons.”
But in that moment, Patrick O’Neill knew what he wanted to say but somehow couldn’t say it. Under the glare of Captain Simms he became increasingly self-conscious, his confidence disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. It was as if he’d walked out on stage and forgotten what play he was in.
“Sir, I apologize, I . . . I—”
“Speak up, Detective.”
“There’s the phone call . . .” he began reeling off words at random, “. . . the package . . . and the drugs . . . the shooting at the apartment . . .”
“None of which implies anything of significance. The package could have been anything. The phone call could have been business-related. The drugs might have been his own. Either way, Stanley’s death was a suicide; nothing here tells us otherwise.”
“But Captain—”
“But nothing.” Simms stood, transcript in hand. “O’Neill, you’re new here and I had a lot of respect for your father so I’m not going to caution you. But don’t expect special treatment because of your police pedigree. This is my department and I won’t have you getting ahead of yourself.”
O’Neill hadn’t moved. He felt like he was drowning. “Yes, Captain.”
“Now is there anything else I can help you with, Detective?”
“No, no thank you.”
Simms was already holding the door open. There was nothing more to say. There would be no inquest—this investigation was over.
When O’Neill pushed himself out of his seat, Simms said, “Detective Henson is primary investigator on a gangland shooting in Echo Park. Chief Davidson and I believe a second detective may help close the case.”
“You’re taking me off the studio?”
“Stanley’s case is closed. I suggest you report to Henson immediately.”
Craine parked on M.G.M. Studio Lot 1, the square mile along Washington Boulevard that housed the executive offices, sound stages and dressing rooms. He was annoyed with himself for upsetting Gale, but too many questions remained unanswered for him to stop now. He was here to see Jack Rochelle, studio barber and designated bootlegger on the M.G.M. lot. If Stanley had known Campbell, then Rochelle was more than likely the man who introduced them.
Most of the buildings on the lot were long, two-story huts that looked like military barracks and the barbershop was no different except for the helix pole in the window and the small sandwich board beside the doorway that read “HAIRCUT 10¢, SHAVE 5¢”.
Craine stepped inside and let the door close softly behind him. Jack Rochelle was stood in the corner of the room, wet-shaving a man propped back in a lever chair.
“Come on in, sir,” Rochelle said, without glancing back, when the entrance bell rang. “Take a seat over by the corner. Won’t be a minute.” Rochelle was heavyset and chubby-faced, his forehead etched with lines and his jowls red with broken capillaries.
Craine took off his hat but remained standing. The small barbershop smelt of wax and wet hair. At the back there was a cash register and a door in the center of the wall half-covered by a curtain. A white-shirted man holding a broom in one hand stood in front of it. He smiled awkwardly then looked away. He was tall and rangy with slicked blond hair and a pale, vacant face. He looked like Laurel to Rochelle’s Hardy.
“How’s that for you, Eddie?” said Rochelle, levering the barber’s chair forward so that the customer could inspect himself in the mirror.
“That’s a job well done.”
“You working today?”
“Wizard of Oz. Still doing pickups.”
Craine watched as the customer paid Denny at the cash register. Rochelle threw the shaving towel in a tin wash basket and picked up a broom. Finally, he turned to the door. “Sorry about the wait. Would you like a shave or a—” He froze mid-sentence when he saw who he was talking to.
“Hello, Rochelle,” said Craine once the customer had left.
Rochelle’s ruddy face hardened, his wide shoulders sagged. He had a right to feel nervous. There was a time after Celia died that Craine could have killed Rochelle. He’d thought about it plenty of times over the last few months.
“Denny,” Rochelle said, his voice low and burry, “why don’t you pop out and get us some of that chicken soup Mrs. Edwards makes at the commissary?”
“I had lunch already,” the skinny man said, his voice high and frog-like.
“Go and get the soup, Denny,” he said, gripping his broom with his stout, fleshy arms. “Go get the soup.”
Rochelle stood there with his eyes
locked on Craine until Denny had left the shop. When the front door closed, he put the broom to one side and ran the back of his palm over his forehead. He coughed, unclogged the phlegm from his mouth then swallowed. “What do you want?” he said eventually.
“I’m looking for a photographer called James Campbell. Have you seen him recently?”
“I haven’t seen him in years,” Rochelle answered immediately.
“But you knew each other, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “A long time back.”
“You sold dope, didn’t you? Did time in Illinois.”
“Different chapter of my life.”
“What about his girlfriend? What about Florence Lloyd?”
“Never heard of her.”
“She was murdered two nights ago in her house. Campbell knew her.”
“I didn’t. And if you think he killed her that’s nothing to do with me.” Rochelle took several deep breaths. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a business to run.”
Craine wasn’t finished. “How well did you know Herbert Stanley?”
The question caught him off guard. “You asking about Stanley now?”
“This is important. I’m not accusing you of anything but I need to ask a few questions. Now can you help me or not?”
Rochelle held his gaze long enough to know that he couldn’t talk himself free of the situation then shrugged. “The guy killed himself, what could I possibly tell you that you don’t already know?”
“I hear Stanley was a good customer. A regular.”
“I get a lot of regulars from the lot. My wet-shaves are only five cents.”
“But he wasn’t that type of customer, was he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We both know that isn’t true. A bottle of pills at my house tells me that isn’t true.”
Rochelle bristled. “That wasn’t my fault. I help people, is all.” It was the dismissive way Rochelle said it that got to Craine. Rochelle didn’t care what happened to people he sold to. He must have been making a killing. Pills to bring you up. Pills to bring you down. Pills to counteract the pills you just took. On the night of her death, Celia had taken a dozen sleeping pills and a handful of Rochelle’s opiates. Dr. Collins had said after the autopsy that even if she hadn’t drowned, the cocktail of drugs would still have killed her.