The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  * * *

  Gale was not long out of the bath when the maid came to say that there was a telephone call for her.

  She’d been lying in the tub for an hour, sifting through the reasons for and against going to M.G.M.’s party tonight. Mayer and Peterson had given her the choice but implied that, while very soon after Herbert’s death, the evening was the perfect opportunity to rebuild her image and publicize The Tainted Feather.

  Mayer had warned her there would be no mention of Herbert in his speech tonight. Use the occasion to move forward, he’d said. Apparently there was great debate in Peterson’s department over the requisite duration of mourning and no doubt more conservative parties would consider it too premature for a public appearance. The message was to forgo a black mourning dress in place of something a little more glamorous but discard her usual jewelry in favor of black jet beads. She should be seen to be solemn but not forlorn, somber but not dramatically so. It was crucial to find that perfect balance between grieving and keening.

  Worse than having to perform to the studio’s instructions was Gale’s uncertainty about her own feelings. Although she was upset, the past few years with Herbert had been so difficult that she couldn’t help but feel a little relieved too, even if that in turn made her feel guilty.

  Gale had met her future husband at M.G.M.’s Christmas party at the end of ’32. At the time she was Gale Gretsberg, a contract actress playing supporting roles in low-budget B-pictures for fifty dollars a week. Herbert Stanley, on the other hand, was a successful screenwriter who had recently been promoted, his “pencil broken” so that he could now produce pictures for one of M.G.M.’s new musical units. Herbert wasn’t handsome in a conventional way. He was older, too, almost by twenty years, but Gale found his interest in her charming and his fierce intelligence attractive. She wanted to learn from him and he in turn relished the role of mentor and pedagogue. Herbert helped her to understand the technical aspects of motion pictures, the importance of lighting and framing and how she could best perform for the screen. He used his influence with Mayer to extend her contract with the studio. She signed a four-year deal worth two thousand dollars a week and was given her first leading role. Shortly before she signed, Herbert and Mayer persuaded her to change her name. Gale Gretsberg became Gale Goodwin.

  The maid tapped twice on the door and Gale almost forgot where she was. “Miss Goodwin, shall I tell the gentleman to call back?”

  “No, I’ll be right out,” she said, jumping out of the water. “Sorry, I was half asleep. Give me a moment.”

  Gale told the maid she’d take the call in the bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed in a silk petticoat, her maroon Crêpe de chine evening dress spread out beside her. She suspected it would be Peterson. She hoped it wasn’t. “Hello?” she said, lifting up the receiver.

  “Hello, this is Jonathan Craine.”

  When she heard his voice her stomach tingled. “Hello, Jonathan,” she replied, shuffling back onto the bed. Gale suddenly felt exposed, as if he was in the room with her, scrutinizing her freckled face and weak, pallid body.

  “How was the rest of your afternoon?” was all she could think to say.

  “I felt bad about what happened. I wanted to call to apologize.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I do,” he said earnestly. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. And not in such a public place. I thought it would be more relaxed. The two of us having coffee. I wasn’t only there in an official capacity. I wanted to be there as—”

  “—a friend?”

  “Yes. Exactly. As someone who knows what you’re going through. But you seem like you’re dealing with it fine on your own, so I won’t bother you any longer.”

  Although he’d upset her today there was something about Jonathan that intrigued her. And Celia’s death . . . it meant he understood what she was going through. There was no one else she knew who could relate.

  There was a long pause as neither of them said anything. “Anyway,” Jonathan said, “I only called to apologize.”

  “Are you going to Loew House?” she asked quickly. “I was hoping to but I can’t quite decide. There’ll be so many people there.”

  “I’m not sure either. Maybe. There are some friends I’d like to see,” he added. “A few people I should catch up with.”

  “Well, perhaps we’ll bump into each other. If we both go.”

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  “And thank you for calling.”

  “Good night, Gale.”

  Gale put the receiver down and lay back on the bed, her arms spread and her head resting on the pillow. She said his name in her head. Jonathan. She repeated it.

  Gale rolled over onto her side and tried to understand the anger he had stoked today. Was it the accusing questions that made her angry? Or was it because it was Jonathan who had asked them? He was a strange man. Not as stern as she had first thought. There was a hidden fragility to him she’d sensed when he’d driven her home—he wasn’t the intimidating figure she’d always imagined he was. Something about Jonathan intrigued her. She wanted to understand him.

  When Kamona arrived back at the hotel, there was a letter waiting for him at reception. Hand-delivered, the clerk said. It was a large rectangular envelope—no stamp, no return address, only his name printed in plain black lettering on the front. He thanked the desk clerk and went up to his room.

  Kamona locked and chained the door and sat on the edge of the bed. He squeezed the manila envelope between thumb and forefinger. Nothing but thick paper inside, possibly card. He sniffed the seal. No noticeable scent apart from the sealing gum. He took a stiletto knife from his coat pocket and used it to slice the envelope open. He noticed Campbell’s blood was still on the blade.

  The envelope contained two photographs, one a standard-issue identification photograph taken from a passport or identity card, the other a monochrome picture of the same man standing among a group of men at what looked like a party. Kamona didn’t recognize any of the faces. He turned the pictures over. One of them was blank. On the other, a name and an address were scrawled in pencil.

  The telephone rang. He checked his watch. It was eight o’clock, two hours earlier than expected. He’d barely slept in thirty-six hours. He’d spent the day traveling back from San Bernardino. It had taken all morning to dispose of the body. He’d got so much blood in his car that he’d ditched it by the side of the road and taken Campbell’s Packard 120 instead. His leg was throbbing again—the wound would need cleaning. His arms ached too from the work he’d done. Campbell had proved very stubborn. He hadn’t made things easy.

  “Kamona?” said the urgent voice on the other end of the line.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find Campbell?”

  “I found him.”

  An audible sigh of relief. “And the pictures?”

  “He had a case full of film. A few photographs.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  “I burned everything, as you asked.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Kamona exhaled. He didn’t like being second-guessed.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I had to be sure. Will I be reading about Campbell in the papers?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Good. I have one more I need. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Did you get the envelope?”

  “I have it in my hand.”

  “His name is on the back.”

  “And my fee?”

  “Are your rates the same?”

  “They’re the same.”

  “It’ll be transferred to your account tomorrow morning. Plus a bonus. This one has some urgency attached. I can’t stress that enough—”

  Kamona put the telephone down. He looked at his hands. There was still dried blood under his fingernails. He laid the photos on the bed, went into the bathroom and picked up the soap.

  Chapter 19

  Louis Mayer had every reason to be please
d with himself. All the preparations had paid off: most of the guests had arrived, music was playing, champagne coupes tinkled and everyone looked like they were enjoying themselves.

  He was standing in the reception hall of Loew House, a vast studio property in the Hollywood Hills used for hosting corporate parties or for housing the board of directors when they visited from New York. Mayer had ordered two hundred cases of champagne for three hundred guests. White-gloved waiters were on hand with trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks and there were two dozen kitchen staff preparing an evening buffet.

  Mayer started moving around the room, greeting men in black and white tuxedos and women in long gowns that showed off bare backs and naked shoulders. He shook hands, pecked cheeks and made polite chitchat before stopping servers carrying trays to offer around coupes of champagne and lowballs of whiskey.

  “Good to see you. How’s your mother? Send her my best.”

  “Great party, L.B.”

  “Thank you. Here, have some champagne. Scotch for you, Groucho.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Margaret by the long staircase talking to Chief Davidson and the District Attorney. Good, Davidson was laughing. Well done, Margaret. “Apologies, Groucho, I must say hello to our guests. If I don’t top up the Chief of Police’s glass he’ll have me arrested.”

  Mayer joined Margaret, shaking hands in turn with Chief Davidson and the District Attorney.

  “Gentlemen, great to see you here.”

  “Louis, I was telling them both about your horses.”

  “Oh, don’t get me started. The money it costs me.”

  “Thank you so much for the invitation,” said the D.A. “This is quite some place you have here.”

  Mayer squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “Well, thank Margaret, she organized everything.”

  Davidson grinned awkwardly at Margaret. “You know what they say. Behind every great man . . .”

  The District Attorney raised his glass. “And with the week you’ve been having.”

  Before Mayer could answer a waiter without a tray hovered by his shoulder.

  “The screening room is all set up for you upstairs, Mr. Mayer.”

  “I’m sorry? Oh, of course. Is LeRoy up there?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s waiting for you.” The waiter leaned in closer. “One other thing. You asked me to tell you when Gale Goodwin arrived.”

  “She’s here?”

  The waiter nodded, the model of discretion.

  “Thank you. Tell LeRoy I’ll be up in five minutes.”

  “Oh, Louis,” Margaret said with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Surely you’re not working now? I’m coming to keep an eye on you.”

  “Apologies,” Mayer said to his two guests. “No rest for the wicked.”

  “Please don’t apologize. And L.B.—” Davidson winked clumsily. “No need to worry about this Stanley business. We’ll make sure of it.”

  Mayer managed a smile back and took Margaret’s hand. “Thank you. Have a great evening, both of you.”

  As they walked toward the staircase, Mayer spotted Benjamin Carell, the club manager at the Lilac Club. He’d never much liked that man. Didn’t trust him either. But some people in this town simply had to be invited.

  Craine parked his Fleetwood in the large parking lot outside Loew House. He checked his reflection in the driver’s window. He was wearing a single-breasted black dinner jacket with a silk bow tie. He looked smart but his eyes were red and bloodshot and there were still black grains of gunpowder embedded in his chin from the apartment shoot-out. What was he doing here?

  He stood there dumbly, contemplating the house ahead, with its uplit turrets and stained-glass windows. He strained to listen to the noise coming from the house as if he could distinguish Gale’s voice from the distant murmurs inside.

  He had spent the hours at home trying not to think about her, convincing himself not to come, but with nothing else to distract him, he had started drinking. The alcohol fueled his curiosity. He knew that he was making a mistake by coming, that nothing good would come from seeing her. The phone call too was unplanned, a spur-of-the-moment decision made after two more glasses of Scotch. He regretted it as soon as the maid answered but it was too late by then. And he couldn’t help but feel that he had to see her, that there was something between them. Or if there wasn’t, he needed to know.

  He stood there, eyes fixed and staring as he wavered between leaving and staying. He breathed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. He was staying.

  Craine didn’t have a written invitation but the M.G.M. doormen standing under the porte cochère recognized him immediately and let him pass inside.

  “Nice to see you again, Detective Craine.”

  From the entrance lobby, Craine walked down a long corridor toward a huge, sunken reception hall with a white marble staircase curving up to the second floor. A tray of drinks went by and he helped himself to a glass of champagne.

  As he entered the reception room the band segued into a rousing Glenn Miller tune. A black bandleader was singing, clutching the microphone with one hand and clicking his fingers with the other. Craine moved through couples on the dance floor and scanned the room: was Gale here? It was the usual M.G.M. crowd, a mix of top-tier stars and bottom-rung bit-part players. He knew them all by name, usually introduced at their most vulnerable: drunk at a curbside; weeping in a jail cell; wide-eyed behind the wheel of a crashed car. Most of them turned their gaze as he passed.

  Benjamin Carell was there with Kinney, his head of security. As he looked around, Craine recognized some girls from the Lilac Club drinking and dancing but couldn’t name the faces. Who were they? Newly contracted ingénues? Part of Carell’s entourage?

  A bartender in a tuxedo poured coupes of champagne at a bar. Two servers with trays stood to one side on standby. Behind them, twenty-year-old Scotch whiskey bottles were lined up between tall glass vases filled with ice. The waiter answered Craine’s brief wave. “French 75,” he said.

  Craine spotted O’Neill at an adjacent buffet table, tentatively placing two oyster bisques on a plate of Waldorf salad. His boyish face looked as if it had been shaved within the hour and he was wearing a wrinkled dinner jacket one size too big for him.

  “Enjoying yourself, O’Neill?”

  “Oh, good evening, Craine.” O’Neill shrank back, as if Craine might launch at him at any moment.

  “Relax, O’Neill. I’m not going to hurt you. I shouldn’t have snapped at you yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry. I only wanted to understand the connection.”

  “I get it. You’re a details guy. Once upon a time I was too.” The waiter placed Craine’s order on the bar and he quickly knocked half of it back. “But it doesn’t matter. I looked into a few leads and got nowhere. I promise you, it’s a dead end—a waste of time.”

  O’Neill put his drink down, his interest piqued. “Really? Because Simms won’t let me anywhere near it. The Chief of Police personally requested I was reassigned—”

  “I told you. I came up with nothing. Stanley was an addict, O’Neill. He wasn’t drugged.”

  O’Neill looked disappointed. “You know that for certain? Did you speak to Gale Goodwin?”

  Craine turned around. “Why? Is she here? Have you seen her?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, I doubt she’s here, if I’m honest. But don’t you think we should bring her in for questioning? Who else is really going to know what happened to Stanley better than his wife?”

  Craine leaned in closer, his speech a little slurred. “Stanley’s dead, O’Neill. You were there at the autopsy—he killed himself. When all’s said and done, who cares why? Pick the story you like best.” As he spoke, he became aware of a familiar figure at the edge of his periphery and turned to see Gale talking on the stairway’s mezzanine beneath a heavy crystal chandelier. Her hair was down past her shoulders and she was wearing a maroon evening gown, halter-necked and backless with a bias cut that accentuated her figure. Sh
e looked beautiful.

  “Look, forget it. I have to go.” He took a long pull from his champagne cocktail and walked away.

  “Craine. There was a guy looking for you—”

  “Enjoy your night, O’Neill,” Craine called back, handing his half-empty glass to a passing waiter as he crossed the hall toward the sweeping staircase.

  Gale was already walking lightly across the landing, politely declining entreaties from approaching waiters, only pausing when she crossed Katharine Hepburn and Mae West on the stairs. Craine watched as exaggerated, teary-eyed pity ensued, empty words of condolence for a sorrow they didn’t really understand. “Our condolences,” they’d be saying; “We’re all thinking of you,” they’d fuss, with a kiss on the cheek and a lingering touch on the shoulder.

  Gale was half-way down the stairs when he reached the volute at the bottom step. She stopped when she saw him waiting for her but she didn’t seem surprised.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Good evening.”

  She put her hand on the banister and carefully stepped down to the floor. Craine had prepared nothing to say. For what seemed like a long time, they stood there without saying a word. The swing tune reached its climax and the room burst into applause. Gale went to step past him before the room fell quiet and the music’s tempo changed. The four-piece band started playing a slow waltz and couples across the floor came together. Gale remained standing completely still; Craine said nothing. Then, with his jaw locked firmly shut and his eyes betraying nothing, Craine held out one hand. Gale paused and considered the offer before tentatively stepping forward. In strained silence, the two of them drew together. He placed his right hand in the center of her back; she rested her left firmly on his right shoulder. With two hands lightly clasped together, they slipped into the rhythm of the song and began gliding across the floor, turning slowly in time with other couples around them.