by Guy Bolton
“What happened to Herbert?”
“I got a call from some guy. I never knew who.”
“Campbell.”
“Campbell, then. He said he had pictures of me. He wanted money but I couldn’t pay. Herbert had always looked after our accounts. I tried to get him the money but he wouldn’t wait. He said he would show the pictures to Herbert. I never thought he’d go through with it.”
“Then what happened? He showed Herbert the pictures?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
In despair, she replied, “The day he hanged himself. They were delivered in the morning. They phoned him afterward, threatening to take them to the newspapers.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “I went over. He had the photos in his hand and he was screaming at me. He was drunk and high on whatever it was he’d been taking. He asked me what had happened. I tried to explain myself but he wouldn’t have it. He kept screaming at me. He hated me. Said I’d made a fool of him. His career was over and it was all my fault.”
“Then what?”
“I left. I went to the Lilac Club.”
“Did you speak to Peterson?”
Gale nodded. “Yes,” she replied wearily. “I told him what had happened. I could barely look at him. I felt so humiliated.”
“What did Peterson do?”
“He went over to the house. He found Herbert dead.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think!”
Gale closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. “Around three in the morning.”
“Before the maid found him?”
“Yes.”
“And the photos?”
“He took them. He said he’d found them in the study with—”
He cut her off. “Was there a note?”
“He took that too.”
“You’ve read it?”
Gale nodded. “I burned it. All it said was he was sorry but he couldn’t forgive what I’d done. Peterson told me he’d destroyed the photos too.”
“What happened after?”
“He told me that he’d deal with it. That I shouldn’t worry, no one would know. He said I had to stick to my story and that if Louis Mayer ever found out, they’d cancel my contract. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Did you know Peterson had a deal with Campbell and Lloyd?”
Gale shook her head. “No. What deal? I don’t understand.”
Jonathan stood up, pacing in front of her. “He paid Campbell and Lloyd to take pictures of Carell’s girls with clients. Then they extorted them for their own gain. But they went too far; Peterson had them killed when they tried to sell the pictures to newspapers. He killed Rochelle because he knew he was on to him. I got too close to finding out the truth and tonight Peterson ordered me dead. Men came into my house with guns, Gale. Michael is lucky to be alive. So am I. They killed O’Neill.”
She looked at him incredulously. “I can’t—Peterson? It can’t be true.”
“We know it was Peterson. He was behind all of this.”
“I had no idea. Jesus Christ.” She wiped at her eyes again, her makeup smeared down her cheeks. “All this time. And I went to him for help. I trusted him. Peterson . . . I can’t believe it. Peterson . . .”
Craine was looking down at her, searching her face. “Will you testify? Will you go to court and tell a judge what you’ve told me?”
Gale was shaking. She could barely tell Jonathan what had happened, let alone a court full of strangers. She imagined the newspaper headlines and flushed with the humiliation of it all. She saw no reason for her life to become a common opera for the amusement of others.
“Jonathan, please. I can’t.” Gale pushed herself off the floor, looking at him imploringly. She was desperate. “My life, everything I have. I’ll lose everything. Please, don’t ask me to.”
He went to leave and she grabbed his arm, twisting him back. “Jonathan . . . no, please, no . . . You can’t do this . . .”
“For once, I’m going to do the right thing.”
“It’s not right. It isn’t. What you’ll do will ruin lives. No one will gain from this.”
She looked at Jonathan and wanted to tell him how much it would hurt her for people to know the intimacies of her life. That she could never get over knowing that everyone across America thought her a tramp. That she loved him so much, and would do anything for them to start again, make believe that none of this ever happened.
Instead she said simply, “If you do this, I’ll never forgive you.”
Craine pulled his arm free. He remained rigidly silent.
Abandoned to the loss she knew was inevitable, Gale said finally, “You’re choosing between me and them, Jonathan. You and I, we have a chance for something better. We can go away, leave here, make a better life. But if you do this, there’s no going back. You’ll carry this with you forever.”
It was dark outside, but Craine could make out car headlights working their way up the hill. He heard the drone of approaching sirens and a few seconds later the sound of gravel under tires. Two round headlights blinded him as the cars pulled into the driveway. More police cars followed until there were four vehicles parked outside Gale’s house.
He held his hand up to protect his eyes and watched as a lone silhouette stepped out of the lead vehicle and followed the beam of the car headlights until he was only a few feet away.
“Craine?” It was Simms’ voice. “Mayer called me from Peterson’s apartment. He told me everything.”
“Did he ask you to stop me?”
The corona of Simms’ head shook from side to side. “He only wants to protect Gale Goodwin. If she’s involved, Carell might try and come for her.”
“Where is Michael?”
“I had two cars take him home.”
“Who’s with him?”
“He’s safe, Craine, I promise. He’s in good hands.”
“Did he look scared?”
“Don’t worry, he’ll be safe there. We have twelve uniforms keeping watch. I spoke to your secretary. She’s been worried about you so she’s gone over to look after him.”
“Was he alright?”
“He’s in shock but the doctors think he’ll be fine. It’s a lot for a kid to take in. I spoke to him myself. He didn’t say anything but I explained what happened as best as I could. I told him you were safe. I told him not to worry.”
Craine wanted to be with Michael. Couldn’t bear the idea of him being alone any longer. But he needed to be done with all of this first.
“Have you identified the shooter?” Craine asked.
“His name’s Gibson. Identified by his driver’s license—looks legitimate. Twenty-six years old, employment files we have on him say he works security detail for the Lilac Club. That gives us probable cause but time is against us. We think Carell has chartered a private plane to Chicago.”
“And Peterson?”
“We’ve made some calls,” Simms said quietly. “We’re trying to find out where he’s going.”
“What about a warrant? We’ll get nowhere without a warrant. The D.A. will stall until it’s too late.”
From behind him, the sound of another door opening.
“I found someone who can help us.”
A man stepped into the light, walking toward Craine until he was close enough to see him. He was wearing a chestnut suit, his dark red hair loosely combed over his skull, his stubble almost a beard. He looked taller now that he wasn’t in his Pontiac.
“This is Special Agent Redhill from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I believe you may have met before.”
Craine didn’t hide his uncertainty. “You work for the F.B.I.?”
Redhill spoke with a staid demeanor. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances, Craine.”
“Agent Redhill has already issued us with a federal warrant. His team will help us arrest Carell. There’s no way we can do this without him;
Chief Davidson will have none of it.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’ve been following me,” Craine said, bridling.
“I wasn’t following you, I was trying to help you,” Redhill explained. “A few months ago I was asked by my seniors to look into the Chicago crime syndicates’ migration from Illinois to Los Angeles. We’ve been interested in Carell for some time. We knew he was up to something but prostitution isn’t a federal crime.”
“But extortion is?”
“Exactly. I had a sense he was angling for control of the labor unions to extort the studios, but nothing concrete. Then when Stanley died and Florence Lloyd was murdered, I knew I had something to go on. But even after the Loew House shootings, I had no idea it was Peterson who hired the shooter. It was too early to launch a public enquiry.”
“So you waited for me to do the work for you.”
“No,” said Redhill, his jaw unyielding. “I needed to know you weren’t going to interfere with our investigation. I needed to know you could be trusted.”
“You’ve been tailing me for days, but you were somehow missing the moment Carell’s men turned up at my house? Where were you?”
“I appreciate it’s been a long night for you, Detective Craine, but I think your questions might have to wait for a more opportune moment.”
Craine lunged at Redhill, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and throwing him against the hood of the car. “You knew what they were up to. You knew they would come for me.”
Simms’ hand was already at his shoulder, pulling him away before Craine could land his first punch.
Redhill staggered to his feet, his face swollen and crimson. “I couldn’t jeopardize my investigation,” he said indignantly. “There was no way of knowing you’d be directly threatened.”
“You knew it was a possibility and yet you did nothing.”
Redhill shrugged, contrite. “I tried to warn you.”
“Warn me? A police detective was murdered because you didn’t do anything to stop it.”
“Sometimes it takes events like tonight to make things happen.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this—”
Simms stood between them. “Enough! Craine, you’ve done the hard work. From what you’ve both told me, we can have Carell on extorting the studios over the labor unions, we can have him on prostitution, we can have him on murder.”
“And if he falls,” Redhill blurted, turning his face to Craine, “God knows who else will. I want to see Nitti inside with Capone. You’ll get your revenge, Craine.”
“This was never about revenge.” But Craine knew in his heart that simply wasn’t true.
The three men stood there gathering breath before Redhill asked, “Do you have the pictures?”
If he paused, it wasn’t for long. Craine reached inside his jacket and handed Redhill the envelope with the remaining photographs. He wondered if Gale was watching him from the window, her Judas conferring with the priests.
Redhill opened the envelope and glanced at the pictures, his face impassive. Craine couldn’t watch. “And Gale Goodwin?” he asked.
“Will be subpoenaed. She’ll have to testify, along with Mayer.”
“This will ruin her,” Simms said sadly.
“It might. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” Redhill said to Craine with a questioning glance. “And it didn’t stop you from coming.”
They heard several police radios bleating simultaneously from all four cars and then a few seconds later a car door opening. Simms was the first to turn toward Detective Henson as he approached apprehensively.
“Captain Simms, we’ve had a call from Union Station. A few minutes ago a ticket was acquired under Peterson’s name. It’s a Chicago-bound Challenger train.”
Simms looked at Craine, then back at Henson.
“What time does it leave?”
“Tonight. Midnight.”
Simms looked at his watch. They had less than twenty minutes.
“Craine, we’ll deal with Carell, you—”
But when Simms turned to face Craine he was already lost to the dark, his shoes scraping against the gravel as he sprinted for his car.
Chapter 43
Carell ordered his men to destroy everything. Accounts, receipts, payment transfers, balance sheets and employment histories—nothing could remain that could be held up to scrutiny. Burn anything the police might be able to use against them.
There was a floor safe in his office, and Carell removed three thick envelopes. From the first two he pulled out tight bundles of money and slid them into his pants pockets. From the other he removed a thick file of photographs. After tearing the glossed pages into quarters, he tossed the pieces into the tin wastebasket that sat beside his chair.
The telephone on his desk rang.
“Yes?”
The man on the other end didn’t introduce himself. Informants never did. “The police already left. You have ten minutes.” The line went dead.
There was a bottle of cognac in the bottom drawer of his desk and Carell took it out and tipped half the contents down his throat. The alcohol helped settle his nerves. In a few minutes the building would be swarming with police, and if he left the club with any trace of their business dealings, federal police would hunt him down.
He thought of Russell Peterson and how serious their situation would become if he got away. Peterson had been playing him for a fool all along, using the club to fill his own coffers and do his own dirty work. Now Carell had lost the trust of M.G.M. and the other major studios in town. In turn, he’d soon lose the support of City Hall. Killing Peterson wouldn’t be what Mayer would have wanted, but what he’d done couldn’t go unpunished.
He tugged again at the bottle of brandy. What next? He’d already got everyone out of the club. Now he needed to get out of Los Angeles. A private plane was chartered to fly them to Chicago in an hour’s time. From there he could beg Nitti for another chance.
Carell poured the rest of the bottle of cognac over the metal bin. He felt tense but his emotions remained undefined. He didn’t know what he was feeling, or indeed what he should be feeling. Disappointed, more than anything. Frustrated. Possibly afraid. He took a short-barreled pistol from his top desk drawer and slid it into his inner jacket pocket. He knew that if the police got to him, he’d be offered indemnity to testify against his superiors. He wouldn’t allow that to happen.
There was a knock on the door and Nelson entered.
“Russell Peterson is booked on a midnight train from Union Station.”
“And Kinney?”
“Should be there any minute.”
Carell nodded. Mistakes had been made tonight but Kinney was his top operator, dependable to the end. He tried not to consider the implications of murdering a Hollywood executive. He told himself again it was necessary. Peterson would squeal at the first scent of a plea bargain; he was too involved in this not to be a threat.
“Are the cars ready?”
“They’re outside.” Nelson nodded and turned to leave.
“Wait—Nelson, give me your lighter.”
Carell clicked the flint between his thumb and finger and dropped the flaming case into the bin. The pictures of the club’s girls curled and darkened, the images melting away. He should have done this a long time ago.
Carell flicked his blinds shut and turned off the desk lamp as if it were the close of a normal working night. There was nothing else to do.
He walked through the deserted dance hall, past the empty bandstand and the closed bar to the club’s lobby. One of his low-rank button men handed him his coat and held open the double glass exit doors.
Outside, four black Chevy sedans were lined up with their engines running. Carell entered the third car from the rear. Arthur Gibson sat in the front passenger seat thumbing the safety catch on a Thompson.
“Good evening, sir,” Gibson said deferentially, twisting round from the front passenger seat.
Carell nodded but s
aid nothing. Arthur Gibson didn’t know his brother would be killed tonight by hospital doctors on the club’s payroll. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t care. Traitors had it coming, everyone knew that much.
Michael sat at the dining table in his home in Beverly Hills.
When they’d first arrived back there were four other policemen with long rifles in their hands, two of them walking round the garden and the other two watching the gate. There were more strange men already in the house, men in uniforms who were brushing down the doorframes and taking photographs. Someone else was sweeping up the glass and another man had a pair of long, thin pliers he was using to pull the bullets out of the wall. They’d roped off the end of the house nearest the garage but he’d caught a glimpse from the lobby. There was blood on the floor, he could see that. He wondered who it belonged to.
The dining room was one of the only rooms undamaged by the gunfire. A woman with the policemen had brought some meat loaf and chocolate milk. She said her name was Elaine and that she worked for his father. He liked her blond hair and soft, rosy cheeks. Something about her reminded him of his mother. He wasn’t sure what.
Michael forked at his food. Through the window he could make out unknown shapes in the back garden. All of them, the bushes, the line of trees behind the pool, they all looked like men with guns. He told himself not to worry but a part of him expected the room to light up and the shooting to start at any second. Only a few hours ago men had come into the house and tried to kill him and no one had explained why. All he knew was that tonight his father had abandoned him.
“Michael?”
He turned at his name and saw the woman was standing in the doorway. She looked so worried.
“Are you all done? Would you like anything else to eat?”
He sat there dumbly for a few seconds then shook his head.
“Are you sure? Well, it’s getting late. Would you like to start getting ready for bed? How about a bath?”
He thought about that and nodded. A bath.
When the bath was run and the woman had left him alone, Michael locked the door. He was standing on a large cork mat in his mother’s bathroom. This was where he saw her last, of course. He tried not to picture her there, lying naked and still beneath the cold water, but the image rarely left him. And it was there with him now.