by Guy Bolton
“I didn’t.”
“Huh. Well, I guess you don’t have any expectations to live up to. But I bet your son wishes he was like you. My dad was everything to me, growing up.”
Before Craine could consider this, the porch light went on outside the Desmond household and a moment later the front door opened. The driver must have woken up with the light because he heard the ignition turn and then the Lincoln reversed back onto the road. It sat with the engine turning over for a few seconds before a man dressed in a black dinner jacket and loose-buttoned shirt ran down the driveway with an umbrella low over his head. It wasn’t raining.
“They were taken around ten months ago, maybe a year,” she said frankly after they’d shown her Denny’s pictures of her and the other girls.
Delilah hadn’t made a fuss at the door, conceding it was better to usher them inside than risk losing face in front of the neighbors. Discretion appeared paramount.
“Either of you want coffee?” They were standing in her kitchen. Delilah flipped the pictures face down on the table and turned toward the cooker, placing a kettle on the stove.
O’Neill, standing awkwardly by the kitchen door, looked at Craine, who shrugged then said, “Black, no sugar.”
“What about you, Patrick? It is Patrick, isn’t it? We met at M.G.M.’s gala.”
“Milk and two sugars,” O’Neill added when she’d lit the stove, somewhat shamefaced he’d pretended he’d never seen her before.
Delilah took a seat at the round breakfast table. Her hair was wet and she was wearing a white cotton dressing gown. Without makeup, he almost didn’t recognize her from the photograph. “Who took the picture?” Craine asked.
There was a pack of cigarettes on its side beside a cut-glass ashtray and she stared at it long and hard, avoiding all eye contact. “Some guy.”
“James Campbell?”
Delilah nodded. “Jimmy, we called him.”
“Whose we?”
“The other girls.”
“So you knew the other girls?” Craine gestured toward the pictures. “The girls in the other photos?”
Delilah didn’t reply, stroking the cigarette pack with her fingernails.
“How did you know the other girls, Miss Desmond? Or do you prefer Deschamps?”
Delilah winced at the mention and opened the pack. “Desmond is my real name,” she said, resigned to the approaching questions. A fresh cigarette seemed to calm her nerves. “Deschamps was a name I heard once. I think it was one of my mother’s friends. Pretty glamorous, huh? I liked it, so I decided to use it for work.”
“Working as what?”
“Why should I be telling you any of this, anyway?”
“I’m only asking what your job is.”
She stirred uncomfortably. “You know, it’s none of your—”
Delilah flinched as Craine scraped a chair across the floor and took a seat opposite. “It’s really a very simple question. We’re not after you, here, you’re not in trouble—not as yet—but we need to know all the details on this. It’s not a matter of you being in these pictures, it’s more complicated than that. Three people have died and we think these have something to do with it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“What are you? Models? Or prostitutes?” O’Neill asked.
She shot him a look then glanced back at Craine. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“That night at the M.G.M. party. You were working?”
She nodded.
“And Florence Lloyd?” asked Craine. “You knew her?”
“I knew her, yeah. But to the clients she was Felicity.”
“Felicity? She was a prostitute?”
Delilah’s shoulders sagged at the mention of the word. She nodded again.
“So what about the pictures?” O’Neill moved around the kitchen and leaned against the worktop. “Where were the photos taken?”
“Here. Mine were taken here.”
“Where?”
“I have a room upstairs.”
“Your bedroom?”
“The bedroom is for me, Delilah Deschamps has a room at the end of the corridor. I keep it locked. The photos were taken there by Jimmy. He came round late one evening. Just him.”
Delilah swallowed two pills from a brown bottle in her gown. He didn’t ask her what they were for.
“What was he like?” Craine said.
Delilah shrugged. “He was always pretty polite, didn’t say much. To be honest with you I thought he was a nice enough guy. Although it was a pretty weird setup, I mean with him and Florence.”
“He was her boyfriend?”
“I guess so. She said he was. His prick didn’t work; some birth defect, she said. Told me she liked that he didn’t only want her for sex, you know? But I think he got off watching her with other guys. Anyway, they say he died at that party, but I didn’t see him there. He didn’t strike me as the type of guy to shoot someone neither.”
Craine nodded and sat back in thought. Campbell was the photographer. Lloyd had the means to develop the pictures sub rosa. What about Rochelle? He pondered his next question carefully. “What happened after Campbell took the pictures?” he said, lowering his voice. “He sold them?”
“No, not that I know of. Not the ones he took of us.”
“Us?” asked Craine.
“I’m not giving you names.”
Craine shuffled his chair closer toward the table. “I’m confused. Us. We. You say it like there’s a group of you. Like you all know each other personally.”
“I only really know Florence and a few others, but the photos of me and the other girls I know of weren’t for sale.”
“For what, then?”
“For publicity,” she said eventually, nursing her elbow in one palm, waving the cigarette in front of her mouth. “Jimmy took the pictures, developed them, gave them to someone else who provided them to clients—”
“Provided for what?”
“I told you, publicity. They use them as—” a pause as she tried to find the right word “—I don’t know, like casting photos . . . headshots.”
Craine and O’Neill shared a look. “Headshots? Like an actress?”
“The clients look at the pictures and it helps them decide who they want. Some guys like blonds, others brunettes, fair, dark, curvy, slim. I told you, they’re like publicity photographs.”
“Then who are the clients?” Craine persisted.
Delilah looked away, gathering her thoughts for a moment. Behind her the kettle started to whistle and shake on the hob. She looked up at the ceiling then stood up and turned off the gas. “I only let you in here because I didn’t want to make a scene. Unless you’re actually going to arrest me I suggest you leave.”
“You understand we can charge you with pornography, we can charge you with soliciting—”
“Soliciting on what grounds?” she asked sharply. “I haven’t told you anything. I know my rights, and if you pull me in I’ll deny everything.”
“We saw a man leave before we came in here. Do you want us to look him up?”
“We got the license plate,” O’Neill added, lying.
Delilah remained standing, tapping her foot on the floor as she considered what to tell them. She poured them all coffee and after a minute or so her expression softened. “I already said no names. You can allow me that.”
Craine nodded. “That’s fair. Now, what can you tell us?”
Her right hand balled into a fist and she put it behind her back. It took a long pull on her cigarette for her to answer. “They’re actors, movie stars, whatever you want to call them.”
Craine stole a glance at O’Neill. “You sleep with contract players?”
A shrug.
“For M.G.M.?” O’Neill suggested.
Delilah hesitated. She stubbed the cigarette out in the glass bowl and sat back down. “Not only for M.G.M. Warner’s, R.K.O., Paramount.”
Craine took a deep breath. “I
want to make sure I’m getting all of this right. Campbell took pictures of you and a number of other girls, these pictures were given to studio actors, then they decided which one they wanted to have sex with?”
“Crudely put,” she said with a mixture of anger and embarrassment, “but yes, why not?”
Craine looked at O’Neill, who took out the second set of photographs and dropped them onto the table. They watched as Delilah frowned, confused.
“You’ve seen these before?”
“No, never.”
“You recognize Florence?”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“She’s with someone. Can you tell us who?”
Delilah looked closely at the pictures, taking her time, thumbing through them one by one. “No, it’s not clear. I don’t even see the second person. It could be anyone.”
“What about Herbert Stanley? Was he a client?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You said there was a middleman,” O’Neill observed, “someone who provided the photos to the clients. Who was he?”
She ran a hand through her hair and looked at him earnestly. “I never met him.”
“Was it Rochelle?”
She shrugged. Craine scrutinized her. He couldn’t be sure she was telling the truth.
“I told you,” she said defensively, “I never met him. I never heard his name mentioned either. But the other girls at the club said there was somebody and it made sense.”
As soon as she’d finished speaking, Delilah closed her eyes. The club. She knew at once she’d given herself away.
“What club?” O’Neill asked before Craine could.
“Say what?”
“You just said the girls at the club,” Craine said calmly. “Which club is it you work for?”
“If I tell you, that’s it,” she said with a look that was meant to engender assertiveness but came across as desperation. Her body shook involuntarily and she went on with a hardness in her voice. “I don’t have anything else to tell you. I’m not giving you the names of the other girls, I’m not giving you the names of the clients. I’m not going down to the precinct and you guys were never here—”
Craine held up his hand. “Agreed, Miss Desmond. You have my word. This is as far as we go.”
Delilah opened her mouth to speak when there was a gentle thudding from upstairs. Craine followed her eyes as she looked out through the kitchen door, staring at the corridor toward the stairs.
A little girl in a purple nightgown came through the hallway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Craine’s eyes widened. He looked at O’Neill then back at the small purple figure hovering in the doorway. She couldn’t have been more than four years old.
“Hey, sweetie,” Delilah shrilled uncomfortably, dashing over to sweep the girl into her arms. “You’re up already? How did you sleep? No nightmares, you sleep okay this time?”
The little girl nodded. She stared first at Craine then at O’Neill. It was the look of a girl who wasn’t used to seeing strangers in her house. It wasn’t the look Craine expected.
“Oh, you don’t have to be shy; these nice men are leaving now.”
Craine stood and picked up his hat. He smiled awkwardly at the girl before she twisted away and buried her face in her mother’s chest. He thought suddenly of Michael. He would probably be waking up right now.
With the girl held tight in her arms, Delilah closed her eyes and pressed a finger and thumb against her eyelids, holding fresh tears in their place. “It’s the Lilac Club,” she said, her voice tired and strained. “We work for the Lilac Club on Sunset.”
“William Wilson’s club?” asked O’Neill.
Delilah nodded.
“We’ll go,” Craine said reassuringly, with a look that told Delilah that she didn’t have to worry, she wouldn’t be involved, they weren’t here to take her away from her daughter.
O’Neill followed Craine as he moved toward the door. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about what I called you before. This is . . . You have a really nice place here.”
“It’s just a job,” Delilah said once they were in the hallway. “You’d understand if you were in my position. I was fourteen when I got pregnant. I have to provide for her, you see? It’s not as simple as going out and working somewhere. There isn’t work available, not for a girl like me. I don’t have a choice about what I do.” For several seconds she lost the thread, momentarily overwhelmed. “She never sees the clients when they come. I’m here when she wakes up; I’m here when she goes to bed. I pick her up from school and I cook for her every night. Sure, question what I do for a living but please don’t question my abilities as a mother. I only want the best for her so she doesn’t have to grow up to be like me.”
Chapter 33
Vincent Kinney—Head of Security—walked through the rear entrance of the Lilac Club, down through the basement corridors, past the card rooms and private opium dens until he reached the stairwell. He took the cage elevator up one floor and walked through the main restaurant toward the administrative offices at the back of the building. It was mid-morning but they were already laying the tables ready for tonight’s seven o’clock opening. Bing Crosby was due to perform, and several people were busy installing a white piano center stage.
The club manager’s driver, Nelson, met him outside the double doors to the kitchen. Kinney kept moving, pushing through the kitchen toward the back offices.
“Is he in?”
“In his office,” said Nelson, keeping step. “Are you worried?”
“I’m concerned. I need you and two others. Pick them yourself.”
“When for?”
“For tonight.”
“I’m not working tonight.”
“You are now.”
“It’s my anniversary,” Nelson said, disappointed. “My wife and I had plans.”
“Move them. We’ve had a leak from one of our girls.”
The Lilac Club had fifteen contracted escorts and Kinney had personally interviewed every single one of them, using the club’s contacts in local police departments and Pinkerton agencies to perform background and credit checks. As Club Manager, Benjamin Carell was keen to hire attractive girls of different ages and appearances to cater to a range of tastes. But an assessment of a girl’s erotic capital wasn’t really Kinney’s concern; he was more interested in finding girls with relatively short criminal histories, stable home lives and no dependence on drugs or alcohol. He refused to consider fame-whores; he dismissed gamblers and junkies, however beautiful, however alluring. Yes, the clients paid for sex appeal, but they also paid for discretion. Most of the club’s clients were property tycoons, oilmen, newspaper owners and, of course, rich movie stars. They hired the girls for sex to avoid the common problems they faced with press intrusion, disclosure, blackmail, and infatuation that more often came with sexual relations with a person of their status.
During the five years he had worked for Carell—a relatively long time in any illicit business relationship, particularly when both men were Chicago-born to Italian blood—Kinney had never once made an error. There had been no scandals, no yellow press interest, no police interference. Operations had run smoothly.
Until now.
“Come in,” said Carell when Kinney knocked on the door.
Kinney entered and stood in the center of the room. The club manager was seated behind his long desk, as he almost always was, going through the account books for the last financial quarter. Frank Nitti, their Chicago boss, had been upset by recent events and was sending representatives from Chicago to “audit” the club. Unsurprisingly, Carell was anxious that everything be perfect. Like a Shakespearean tragedy, employment contracts in the Outfit were usually terminated through violent means. If the audit went badly, Kinney wasn’t expecting his employer to get a pink slip and a handshake.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
“I got a call from one of our girls. She
said two detectives were asking about the club. She said they had pictures of other girls.”
Carell stopped what he was doing. He paled, as if Kinney had just told him his wife had died. “Christ,” he exhaled. “What did she tell them?”
“Nothing. Said they already knew about the club but they were asking questions about Florence Lloyd. Someone’s talked. Or someone will.”
Carell put down his pen and closed the accounts ledger. He sighed and tapped his fingers against the desk. “Jesus. God dammit,” he said, suddenly kicking out against the wall. Kinney had never known his boss to be a patient man. He had a short fuse and a violent temper. He’d seen Carell’s wife with a black eye once a few days after she got too drunk and cozy with a jazz singer performing at the club.
“Find Wilson,” Carell said firmly, coming to his decision. “If they’re onto the club then Wilson’s next.”
Kinney stepped back and nodded. “Anything else?”
“No. Shut the door on your way out. I need to make some calls.”
Craine phoned William Wilson at his main residence but the maid told him, somewhat hesitantly, that Wilson was spending the weekend at the Chateau Marmont.
Modeled on a French mansion of the same name, the Chateau Marmont was the destination of many celebrities around town after a long night of partying on Sunset Boulevard. When he worked studio cases regularly, Craine would receive calls from the hotel on a weekly basis. There was the R.K.O. actor who called his house on a Saturday night when his seventeen-year-old girlfriend started overdosing on heroin. Then the Warner Brothers’ producer who got in a brawl with Walt Disney over some actress and Craine had to pay off the uniformed officers not to charge either for assault. Then two years ago, a waitress almost drowned in the swimming pool when one drunk screen siren pushed her in for a joke.
These scenes replayed in his mind as Craine pulled into the hotel’s driveway. This was the backbone of my life, thought Craine. How could I bear to be a part of it?
They parked outside the front and showed their badges at reception. A young Mexican concierge who spoke with a light accent led them up to Wilson’s room on the fifth floor. Despite asking her not to call up ahead, Craine knew that hotel policy would be to telephone Wilson’s room immediately.