The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  “You feed their addictions, Jack. You give them the tools they need to destroy themselves.”

  “Don’t blame me for what happened! You go see Judy Garland dancing on Stage Four and then come and accuse me of ruining lives,” he said thickly, his nostrils flaring. “Mayer needs them up at dawn, on set ’til gone midnight. Six days a week, seven if they fall behind schedule. I keep them awake when they’re running on fumes.”

  “And Stanley? You sold to him?”

  Rochelle sighed, a hard crease forming above his nose. He took a seat on one of the lever chairs and patted his pockets, pulling out a half-smoked cigar. He lit it without offering another one. “He bought off me maybe half a dozen times. Never large amounts, small doses here and there. Said he had trouble sleeping.”

  “What did you sell him?”

  He spoke calmly but trembling hands and darting eyes combined to suggest disquiet. “Bluebirds mostly: barbiturates. Sometimes oxycodone. But he stopped coming by here months ago.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since then?”

  Rochelle removed the cigar from his mouth and examined its sodden end. “Why would I lie, Craine? Tell me one reason why I would lie to you? Look, Stanley, he was a nutball, he hanged himself because he was a depressive whose wife outgrew him. What else is there to know?”

  “Did he know James Campbell?”

  Rochelle wasn’t expecting that. “How should I know? I told you already,” he said slowly, to emphasize the point. “I haven’t seen Jimmy in years.”

  They were interrupted by the bell above the door. Both men turned to see Whitey Hendry, the studio security chief, standing on the small porch step.

  “Detective Craine,” he said, tapping on the door as an afterthought. “Mr. Mayer would like to see you in his office.”

  “Thank you, I’ll be over in a minute.”

  “I’ll take you over,” Hendry said, less an offer than a command. “He said it was important.”

  Craine’s shoulders rolled forward. Mayer wants me out of here immediately, he means. He’s heard I’ve been asking questions about Stanley and now he wants my nose out of the trough. He wants the detective hired to keep the peace to stop what he’s doing and remember who he is and who he works for.

  “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”

  Outside, Craine saw Denny strolling toward the barber shop with a brown paper bag under one arm.

  He smiled when he saw Craine. “I got you a soup,” he said.

  “Craine, how are you?” bellowed Louis Mayer, pounding down the hallway, arm extended, grin wide-set. “I haven’t seen you since—oh, let’s not.” He clasped Craine’s right hand in both of his and dropped his voice. For a moment Craine thought he saw a tear in his eye. “Celia was like a daughter to us. Great actress, real heart. We all have very fond memories. You should read some of the letters we get sent. Honestly, her pictures touched so many. She’s a star in heaven, she really is. Margaret sends her love. Did you get our flowers?”

  “Yes, thank you Mr. Mayer.”

  “Come in, come in. Shut the door. Don’t want you to catch a cold. Ida’s been coughing and spluttering all morning. How about the weather we’ve been having?”

  Mayer’s room had been redecorated since Craine had last been here. White walls, ivory drapes, a cream carpet and a curved white desk centered against one wall. It felt sterile, cold and unimaginative.

  “You asked to see me?”

  “How was New York?” Mayer said, ignoring him. “Completely understood. Would have done the same myself. Don’t listen to the naysayers, doesn’t make you a coward and definitely not a fool, running away like that. You wouldn’t have heard those words in these halls, oh lord, no. Steadfast, there’s one. Dignified, there’s another.” New vocabulary for Mayer. Probably lifted straight from the dictionary on his desk only minutes ago. Celia used to say he tried to use a new word every day, whether he understood its correct meaning or not.

  “It’s nice to be back.”

  “Well, bravo on showing a face so soon. You sure you’re alright? Looking tired. You sleeping?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Craine had known Mayer casually for most of ten years. They’d shake hands and mumble pleasantries at parties but Mayer had only ever acknowledged their secret alliance in his own office, away from the glare of others.

  “Anyway, you’re back in the thick of it, that’s the main thing,” Mayer said, taking a seat behind his curved desk and motioning for Craine to do the same. “It’s good to see you. Did you know we’re celebrating our anniversary this weekend at M.G.M.?”

  “I’d heard.”

  “Well, we’re having a little soirée up at Loew House this evening. You should come. Wait a second, where are my manners? Would you like a drink? Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You’re right. Shouldn’t touch the stuff, it’s dehydrating.” He pressed the intercom. “Ida, can I have a coffee please?”

  A muffled reply. “Certainly, Mr. Mayer.”

  “Whitey Hendry said you wanted to see me.”

  “Yes, of course. About Herbert—I wanted to thank you. Heartbreaking, isn’t it?” A tilt of the head, a roll of the shoulders. “I mean, really, as if we haven’t suffered enough. Can you believe it? Right in the middle of everything, he signs out. Left with his entire slate: Gone With the Wind; the new Andy Hardy picture; The Wizard of Oz—”

  “What exactly did you want to discuss about Stanley, Mr. Mayer? Whitey Hendry was insistent I come see you.”

  “Well, Craine,” Mayer said, coming to the point with a strained smile, “a little birdy told me you had lunch with Gale Goodwin and I wanted to know what made you think that was necessary?”

  “I had a few more questions about Stanley. An autopsy was performed yesterday morning. I wanted to follow up on a few things.”

  “Oh really? Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, I assume?”

  “The results indicate that he had consumed a large quantity of sedatives. O’Neill suggested he might have been drugged. However, I’m now confident that they were for personal use.”

  “Didn’t know anything about drug use,” Mayer said dismissively. “Not on my watch. No, classic case of depression with Stanley—he was a sick man who gave it all up. We needed that to translate into print and you performed brilliantly. What more is there to say? And O’Neill—that boy with the baby face? Christ, how old are you recruiting them these days?”

  “Stanley’s own wife said that he was an addict.”

  “Why do you insist on dragging her into this?”

  “There’ll be questions from the press. She knew him more than anyone.”

  “Stanley didn’t use drugs, no one here does. And I don’t want anyone saying otherwise. He was a hard-working man who suffered from severe depression. He drank, we can say he drank. And he was a homosexual. I’m not judging but we all had our suspicions. And, let’s be honest, something like that, him being that way, it goes to show what Gale Goodwin went through, doesn’t it? What girl reading the papers isn’t going to feel sorry for—”

  “—Mr. Mayer.” Craine was more forthright now, holding up a hand to cut Mayer mid-sentence. The head of M.G.M. wasn’t used to that. “This isn’t just about Gale,” Craine said. “There’s something else. A woman was killed. Florence Lloyd. She knew another man—James Campbell. It appears they may be connected to this. To Stanley’s death.”

  “Never heard of either of them. How are they possibly related to Herbert?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Craine admitted. “But it might be the drugs element. I’d like to look into it further. I’m confident I can make a connection.”

  “That’s not necessary, surely.”

  Craine wasn’t planning on kowtowing to Mayer’s bullying tactics. “If there’s nothing to hide then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  A silence crept between them, broken only by Mayer tapping a pen against his desk. “If you run wit
h this, with the drugs angle, then people will start to question whether it’s a one-off. If Gale herself isn’t some kind of addict; if half the studio isn’t on drugs; if there isn’t some kind of drugs problem on the lot. And to link Stanley’s suicide to some murder? It’s not only foolish, it’s dangerous.”

  “I’m not asking for permission,” Craine said as calmly as he could.

  “Well you should, Craine!” Mayer banged a closed fist on the table. “Don’t forget where your bread’s been buttered for the past ten years. Your job is to make things easier for us. You’ve always been good with that, Craine, it’s why you’re here. So why in God’s name are you suddenly trying to make it more difficult?”

  There was a pause as Craine registered what Mayer was telling him. If he was honest with himself, he had known all along where this conversation was headed. Like the best of his own interrogations, their dialogue had a fixed destination. I’m meddling, he thought, I’m upsetting the balance. This meeting has been about stopping me in my tracks.

  Mayer smiled, holding up his hands and leaning forward in a conciliatory gesture. “Who knows what he was taking?” he said softly. “Who knows what was going through his mind at the time? And to be honest, at this point, who cares? What’s done is done. Do the details really matter? You come to a point, after all the shit-stirring and the conspiracies, where you simply have to accept the obvious. He took his belt, he wrapped it around his neck and he hanged himself. Let’s leave it at that, okay? No unnecessary fuss. And as for those other two names you mentioned—never heard of them. Never heard of them at all.”

  Craine was considering whether he believed Mayer when there was a tap at the door and a half-second later two men walked in. Craine recognized them both immediately and felt the fulcrum shift. The first was Russell Peterson. The second was the Chief of Police.

  Mayer pushed himself away from his desk. “Chief Davidson, so good to see you. Peterson giving you the grand tour?”

  The Chief of Police held two hands up and grinned. “Thought I’d stop by to thank you personally for your invitation.”

  “To Loew House? Think nothing of it. Delighted to have you and—”

  “—Betty.”

  “Delighted to have you both. Come on in. Detective Craine and I were just discussing Herbert Stanley.”

  Chief Davidson didn’t look surprised to see Craine, as if he already knew he was there. It was clear to Craine that the Chief of Police’s arrival was no coincidence.

  “Oh, I’m sure there’s no need for that,” Chief Davidson said boldly. “Detective Craine, I think you’ve taken up enough of Mr. Mayer’s time.” Davidson’s mouth was smiling but his eyes were squeezed into a scowl. “Why don’t we leave these gentlemen to run their studio?”

  “Sir—”

  Chief Davidson’s voice was loud. It filled the room. “Craine, Russell Peterson has kindly outlined all the necessary details regarding Herbert Stanley’s suicide. I’ve reviewed the case notes provided by Captain Simms and have concluded that there will be no inquest. As far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed. I suggest we leave it at that.”

  “Gentlemen, I want to underline how much M.G.M. values the support of the police department. Detective Craine’s contribution has been invaluable.” This from Peterson, that smile never leaving his face for one second.

  Several seconds passed awkwardly in silence before Mayer looked at Craine. “We’ll see you tonight for the party, I hope, Detective?”

  Craine waited for a long time before leaving silently, ignoring Peterson’s outstretched hand as he left the room.

  Whitey Hendry walked Craine to the elevators but neither one of them said anything. In the elevator he felt his face begin to burn and his arms start to shake. He noticed the elevator attendant give him a side glance.

  “Are you okay, suh?”

  No, he was pretty far from okay. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  It was rare that Craine lost his cool but the wall he’d come up against in the past few days had stirred something in him. It wasn’t merely the trammels of the studio and the police department, it was the knowledge that he was no better than they were. He’d spent years loading the dice, so what justification did he have for his sudden moral resolve?

  Driving home, he was angry at first but exhaustion soon drained him of all feeling. Once the adrenaline had left his body, his determination went with it, replaced by a dull resignation that Captain Simms and the Chief of Police would always consider Stanley’s death as palindromic: to their eyes, it looked the same whichever way you looked at it. I have reached the end of the road because nothing I could ever say or do would prevent City Hall from protecting their precious studios. Further enquiry would be fruitless. Besides, Louis Mayer was right, of course: the why or the how of Stanley’s death didn’t matter. I should accept that Stanley’s death was suicide, his own personal problems irrelevant. I should accept this because M.G.M. studio is my livelihood.

  Chapter 18

  By the time Craine pulled into his driveway, the evening sun had declined and the air was cool, a light breeze stirring the grass blades on the front lawn. He parked his car in the house’s attached garage and placed his pistol under the car seat as he always did.

  Inside, the house was dark. A long corridor led from the garage to the lobby and Craine groped his way through the empty house toward the maid’s old bathroom. It was a single-storied house but widely set and Craine had to cross through their chandeliered foyer, past the music room, study and the poolroom until he reached the unlit hallway that took him to the maid’s quarters.

  When Celia was alive, they had guests around for dinner most weeknights and held drinks parties at least twice a month. Before Celia’s depression, the house was overrun with screaming children at the weekends, Celia doing her best to make cakes and buns and he doing his best to stay out of everybody’s way. But now, after so many months absent, Craine had come back to an empty household. Without Celia, the house felt desolate.

  He passed the grandfather clock in the lobby. Almost 7 P.M.—M.G.M.’s party would be starting soon. Craine took a clean towel from a wall cupboard and went into the maid’s bathroom. Standing under the hot shower, he pushed his face into the water until it burned. Maybe he wanted to feel something other than self-pity. He’d failed today on all fronts. His attempts to investigate the deaths of Herbert Stanley and Florence Lloyd had done nothing but anger his superiors, frustrate the very studio that supplemented his income and upset the one person he had felt any connection to since Celia died.

  When he’d washed, dressed and shaved, he poured himself a drink and moved into the living room. Switching on the lights, he steeled himself against all the things in the room that reminded him of Celia. He drained his glass. Then, without thinking, he picked up a cardboard box and started to fill it with the remains of her possessions. The dead flowers went in with the books and scripts. Pictures on the wall, trophies, awards: he didn’t want any of it. He ran his arm along the mantelpiece and swept all her useless trinkets into the box. He would burn it all.

  Louis Mayer finished buttoning up his shirt and put on his white dinner jacket. At the other end of the long dressing room, Margaret was examining herself in her triple-mirrored dressing table, fussing over her hair. God knows what takes her so long, he said to himself. Looks the same whatever she does to it.

  Tonight’s dress was black tie, not white tie, but he still wanted to look his best. He stood in front of the long cheval mirror then twisted to see his profile. He was looking a little heavy. He sucked in his stomach then let out a long sigh. Too many prime steaks for supper. His wife was always warning him about his weight. Still, it didn’t matter; he’d never been much to look at anyway. It was his personality that was important. One of the few things God had given him was a persuasive charm and tonight he’d need it more than ever. The Loew House party wasn’t simply an opportunity to celebrate M.G.M.’s success over the past fifteen years, it was also an important n
etworking event. Some of California’s most influential figures were on the guest list and Mayer knew he had to ingratiate himself with Randolph Hearst and the other newspaper owners if he wanted the studio to survive the damage Stanley’s suicide had done to their stock value this week. He also had to think long term, and needed the ear of city politicians and policymakers if he wanted a chance at better motion picture tax breaks in the next annual budget. Tonight was the most important event of his social calendar this year.

  “What is wrong with this thing?” Mayer’s stubby fingers were still struggling with his bow tie. “Margaret, can you help me tie this. It’s not even—does this look even to you?”

  “Give me five minutes, Louis.”

  “We don’t have five minutes. We should have left ten minutes ago.”

  “Don’t rush me, Louis! I’m rushed as it is. Do you want me to look good tonight?”

  “I want to be on time tonight. Christ, how do you tie these things?”

  Mayer quickly tied the bow tie then glanced at his watch. Dammit, they were definitely going to be late. Where was his speech? He scanned the floor then patted himself down. In his back pocket. He’d go over it in the car. What else did he need for tonight? His notes on The Wizard of Oz.

  “Margaret, have you seen my briefcase?”

  “Which one?”

  “My work case. The brown one with The Wizard of Oz binder in it.”

  “By the door, Louis, right where you left it.”

  “What would I ever do without you?” Margaret let out a skeptical humming noise, a verbal rolling of the eyes. “You’re not working tonight, are you?”

  “’Course not, honey.” Actually, he needed to have a quick screening of Oz with his producers tonight. Ten or fifteen minutes at most. He’d tell Margaret once they arrived and she had a few drinks inside her. She’d understand. Discussions were taking place over whether to cut another musical number in the first reel of the movie, a scene where Garland is singing in a barnyard: “Over the Rainbow,” the song was called. Mayer was pushing toward removing it completely but last week the producers kept begging him to keep it in the picture.