by Mary Miley
I nodded. “Eighteen. And he didn’t know her name so he couldn’t look on the mailboxes, like I did when I came the next morning. No, he probably watched from outside to see which window lit up. That’s what I would have done.”
He stared for some minutes at a spot on the wall behind me before heaving a sigh. “What a terrible way to die. I hate to think of her, alone and frightened, dying like that.”
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Frankel—”
“Call me Gus, please.”
“To tell you the truth, Gus, I don’t think she ever knew what killed her. And I don’t think she suffered. From the looks of it, she was standing by her bed, looking through the playbills that she was going to show me the next day, with her back to the door. I figure she didn’t hear the man break in—he had some sort of skeleton key that snapped off in the lock—and she never saw him come up behind her. I think he didn’t shoot her because of the noise. Even silencers make some noise, and you may have noticed how thin the walls are in this building. And her horse statue was right there. I think he picked it up and hit her over the head, and that she never saw it coming. I don’t think she suffered one second.”
Another knock at the door. Another neighbor. From where I sat, I could see her, a young woman in a plaid dress holding a hot casserole dish with quilted mitts.
“You must be Mr. Frankel. I’m so sorry for your loss. I liked Esther. We all did. Why anyone would want to kill her, I don’t know. It just doesn’t make sense to any of us.”
Gus invited the young woman inside. He introduced me as the person who had found Esther’s body.
“Oh, yes, we all know that. We all saw you on Sunday when the police came. They weren’t very nice to you, were they? I wish I could have been more help. I’m sure I nearly saw the man who did it.”
“Really?”
She nodded importantly. “I told the police I probably missed seeing him by minutes. You see, I was in the hall after about three o’clock in the morning, talking to my fiancé. We just got engaged”—she held out her left hand as proof—“and Steve came straight here with this ring after his boat docked. He’s in the navy.”
Someone needed to say something, so I did. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Why were you in the hall?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, we didn’t want to keep my sister and my mother up. And well, it was more private.”
“The hall?”
“That time of night, there’s no one around. This is a pretty quiet floor.”
“So you didn’t see anyone come out of this apartment?”
“We were sitting right there”—she pointed—“so we couldn’t have missed him if he’d come out. But he had already sneaked off by then.”
Maybe not.
“Tell me something. Did you notice the door cracked open?”
She frowned. “No, I didn’t. I wasn’t really looking at the door or thinking about that sort of thing, but I think I’d’ve noticed if Esther’s door had been open, sitting right across from it like we were, you know.”
I knew. “It’s just as well you didn’t see him. The killer was a man who didn’t want to be seen. I think Esther saw him and that’s what cost her her life.”
“Gosh, you’re right. I didn’t think of that. It’s scary living next to a murdered person.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I reassured her. “You didn’t see anyone, and the killer is probably far away by now.”
“Well, Mr. Frankel, I hope you enjoy the goulash, and just leave the dish beside the door across the hall whenever you’re done with it. Mother will be over as soon as she gets home from work, to tell you how much we … well, you know. We’re all pretty shocked, I don’t mind telling you.”
21
The mortal remains of Bruno S. Heilmann were laid to rest at the Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery on Wednesday afternoon, April 15, 1925. A garden of funerary sprays and floral wreaths ringed the gravesite, and a flowery obituary appeared in the Times. Anticipating a large turnout of mourners and reporters, police cordoned off the area to keep the latter from pestering the former. Officers Delaney and Brickles were among those on duty, minding the reporters’ manners. Carl Delaney gave a nod when he saw me.
“Myrna,” I began softly. “I have an acting job for you. See that policeman by the rope?”
“The handsome one?”
“No, the older one. I need you to distract him for a moment while I speak to his partner. Ask him how the investigation is going. Act young and scared.”
“That shouldn’t be hard.”
If I ever had doubts about Myrna making it in the pictures, they would have evaporated with her show that morning. Her lower lip trembling, she engaged Officer Brickles with a masterful performance, planting herself so he had to turn away from me to face her. I don’t know what she was saying, but it did the trick.
“Good morning, Officer Delaney,” I said, my back toward Brickles.
He touched his cap. “Miss Beckett.”
“Getting any closer to finding the murderer?”
“I think so,” he said cautiously. “Good news is there haven’t been any more murders in the last twenty-four hours. Bad news is the newspapers’ War of Words is scaring folks. We’re flooded with calls about suspicious characters sneaking through the shrubbery.”
“The papers are full of suspects.”
“That’s because reporters have nothing else to do but speculate. No one will talk to them. We have orders not to say anything. Same is true for the movie people.”
I nodded. He was right; the studio bosses had threatened to fire anyone who spoke to the newspapers. With no reputable sources, reporters were going wild turning fantasy into fact.
“You, on the other hand, are likely to get a visit soon from your favorite detectives.”
“Oh?”
“Your fingerprints were found all over Miss Frankel’s apartment, specifically her desk. After you told us you hadn’t touched anything.”
I had been ready for that one ever since I’d been arrested and fingerprinted. I had lied with confidence at the time because I knew my fingerprints weren’t on file, so there would be no match for the prints found on Esther’s desk. Once that comforting anonymity was lost, I figured someone would match me up eventually and notice the discrepancy between what I had said and what I had done.
“I guess I forgot about looking for a telephone. It was after I found Esther. I did a quick look around the apartment, thinking she might have a telephone—”
“You searched her desk?”
“Some people keep telephones in their desks.”
“Really?”
This wasn’t going the way I’d planned. “Yes, really.” It was quite adept as explanations went, and his skepticism offended me. Carl didn’t reply, he just gazed steadily at me with those big brown eyes that looked like they could see a long way into things, past the surface and into the underneath parts, letting me know he knew I was lying. Affronted, I excused myself and moved away without picking up anything useful.
Myrna cut her scene and joined me.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Nothing to it. Look around. There are more reporters than mourners.”
“Well, we’re early…”
I spotted Lottie Pickford near the coffin. She had hidden her face behind a dramatic black veil, but her theatrical gestures gave her away, at least to those who knew her. Mary Pickford was beside her. She hadn’t come out of love for Heilmann, but for her sister. Like Lottie, she wore an ankle-length black dress and a hat with a net veil, and like Lottie, she wasn’t fooling anyone. Her size would always give her away.
A few men stood near the two women. One was David Carr, looking impossibly handsome in a severe black suit of excellent cut. On the other side of Miss Pickford stood a man as tall as David and every bit as handsome, but twice his age, with short, dark hair flecked with gray, thin lips, and steely eyes. With a jol
t, I realized it had to be Adolph Zukor, Heilmann’s employer and the most powerful businessman in Hollywood. I had never seen him, but I had heard that Mary Pickford used to work for him when she first came to Hollywood, and, while they had their professional differences, they remained close personally. The third man hung back a little from the Pickfords, his eyes continually moving over the mourners and the larger group of reporters. The bodyguard.
My black dress had been too heavy for the warm day, so I wore a dark purple skirt with matching vest and jacket, a black hat, plain Mary Janes, and black gloves. Myrna and I moved a little to the side to take advantage of the shade of an old tree. The silence was such that we could hear the steady drone of bees attracted to the floral arrangements all around the gravesite. A young minister arrived in a black sedan and began shaking hands with the mourners. Probably looking for family members.
“The crowd looks very, very thin,” whispered Myrna.
“Douglas Fairbanks said Bruno Heilmann had no relatives in this country other than a stable of ex-wives, and not a lot of friends.”
“Hollywood friends,” she scoffed. “The sort who come to your parties but not your funeral.”
“To be fair, some of the people who were at his party Saturday have left town out of fear. They’re thinking some madman is on a killing spree, trying to eliminate anyone who saw him. After what happened yesterday morning at Paramount, I can’t say as I blame them.”
“You and I didn’t run away.”
“We aren’t in any danger. We left the party early.”
“Thank goodness for that! Hey, look. There’s my friend Coop.” She pointed as the tall young actor joined the group at the gravesite.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw David detach himself from the Pickfords and amble toward our shade. “Hello, ladies,” he said in a quiet voice, flashing his teeth at Myrna before turning to me for an introduction. After a polite exchange, he divulged his news. “The latest word on Faye Gordon is encouraging. She’s going to survive. One of the doctors from the hospital just told the Pickfords that Faye drank only a little of the poisoned coffee. He thought she’d be released soon.”
“I suppose she is swamped with flowers and well-wishers,” I said, trying to think of a way I could talk with her. But having attended the same dinner party didn’t make me a friend. “I wonder if she had any information for the police that would help their investigation.”
“The police have questioned her, of course, but she isn’t seeing visitors. Even Mary Pickford was turned away at the hospital. Seems Faye doesn’t want anyone to see her without her hair arranged and her makeup fresh. You know what they say: no one in Hollywood has birthday parties.”
“Oh, that’s silly,” said Myrna.
“Not if you’re worried about the wrinkles showing. Mary understood,” continued David. “She sent her own maid over to the hospital with her own makeup kit so Faye could look her best when she is discharged tomorrow. You know there will be a crowd of photographers waiting for her, and one unglamorous picture can sink a career.”
“How thoughtful of Miss Pickford,” I said, wondering whether I had the effrontery to call on Faye at her home with some flowers or a casserole. I could always say I was there on behalf of Pickford-Fairbanks Studio. It was somewhat true.
“I hope the police are close to catching the killer,” said Myrna. “Who could do such monstrous things? It’s awful knowing that someone at that party—someone I might have talked to—is a murderer.” She punched her palm with her fist. “They’ve just got to catch him!”
“And quickly,” agreed David. “Before he gets to anyone else.”
“I’ve been thinking…” I began. “What if the killer isn’t someone we know? What if he wasn’t a guest at the party?”
David looked at me sharply. “What do you mean? You think it was someone hiding outside until everyone had gone home?”
“Possibly. But here’s what’s bothering me. No one heard the gunshot. The police asked the neighbors and no one heard a thing.”
“They were all probably asleep,” said Myrna.
“The Cisneros brothers weren’t asleep. They were outside behind the house, loading up the catering truck when Esther joined them. She had to have left the house just about when the killer fired the gun, yet she didn’t say anything to them about hearing a gunshot. Of course, she was hard of hearing, but when I asked the Cisneroses about it, they’d heard nothing, either.”
“Maybe they drove away and then the shot was fired,” said Myrna.
I shook my head. “Possible, but not likely. If the killer had waited until after the truck left to fire, he wouldn’t have had time to get to his car and follow them. And another thing. The killer shot Bruno once in the back of the head, and from a distance—I had this from Carl Delaney, that officer, over there. I keep thinking about that: one long-distance shot. That no one heard.” I looked pointedly at David.
He followed my thoughts. “You think the killer used a silencer.”
“And that he was a crack shot. Put those together and what do you have?”
“A torpedo.”
“A what?” asked Myrna.
“A hired killer,” explained David. “A paid professional. The sort who would carry a Maxim silencer. Those things don’t really silence, you know. There’s still a sharp noise, but it doesn’t carry very far.” The voice of experience.
“So some jilted girl or angry husband hired a killer?” asked Myrna.
“That’s possible,” I said. “Shhh. The service is starting.”
I put my hand on David’s arm to hold him back as Myrna moved toward the tent. “There’s something else,” I whispered, “but I don’t want to worry Myrna about it.”
“After the service,” he replied.
The minister opened his prayer book. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”
22
Ministers are fine people to have at funerals. They can come up with nice things to say about anybody. The good reverend earned his pay that day, waxing eloquent on the noble life of a man he had never met, a man who, by all accounts, had done nothing more laudable than to create some first-quality pictures. A thin legacy, in my book. My gaze wandered from face to face, finding few that looked familiar. The majority of the mourners were the actors and cameramen who had been working with Heilmann on his last picture, a picture that was now stalled until Zukor could find a director with an undersized ego who would agree to finish another man’s work. A tall order.
After twenty minutes, a splendid coffin bearing the remains of Bruno Heilmann was lowered into the ground with ropes, and the minister threw in the first handful of earth. Some of the more publicity-hungry mourners went over to the reporters to offer quotations for tomorrow’s papers. The photographers fiddled with their flashes, waiting for the police to allow them access to the gravesite. Adolph Zukor escorted the Pickford ladies to their Rolls-Royce. When I saw Myrna engaged in conversation with her hometown friend, Gary Cooper, I seized the opportunity to pull David aside. I needed an expert.
“Look here, David. What if the motive wasn’t jealousy or revenge, like the police think, but dope? I saw some at his house. In an upstairs bedroom.”
“What sort?”
“I think it was mostly heroin and morphine, maybe some cocaine, too.”
“So what? All the parties around here serve dope.”
“But there was a lot of it. Drawers full. Big bundles, wrapped in blue paper. More than you would need for a hundred parties. And Douglas mentioned once that he thought Bruno was supplying Wallace Reid. You remember him?”
“The actor? Sure, I saw a few of his flicks. He died a couple years ago. It was in all the papers. Morphine, wasn’t it? Everyone was shocked to learn handsome Wallace Reid was a hophead.”
“What if Bruno’s death involved dope? What if some hired gangster killed him for that?”
“Sounds likel
y. I’m sure the police are investigating all leads.”
I winced. “No they’re not. They don’t know about the blue packages in the guest room. I asked Carl Delaney yesterday and he said there was nothing in the report about packages of dope, just that there were some traces around the house.”
“So let me get this straight. You think a hired killer shot Heilmann with a silencer, searched the house, found the dope, took it, then followed the caterers to your friend’s house and killed her?”
“No, the killer didn’t take anything. He may have meant to, but he wouldn’t have had time to search once Esther had seen his face. He had to shoot and leave fast to follow her home.”
“Maybe he came back after he’d killed Esther.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. A neighbor saw him leave Esther’s, and it wasn’t until the next morning. And he went straight to the train station.”
“Then why didn’t the police find the dope the next morning when they found the body?”
“The policemen who came first to the house didn’t do a thorough search, you know, for fingerprints and traces of drugs and clues like that. Nowadays, they divide up the work and evidently that’s a detective’s job. I learned that from Esther’s death. Two detectives came by Heilmann’s later and searched the whole house, took fingerprints, that sort of thing. I think they found it—”
“And kept it for themselves. Happens all the time. That’s why it didn’t make the official police report. And so the investigators don’t know to look for a torpedo.”
“Right.”
“One thing I don’t get. What makes you so sure the stuff was found by the detectives and not by the policemen who got there first?”
I’ll say one thing for David—he isn’t slow-witted.
“That’s a little hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“I, well, I went into the house after the cops had left so I could … well, to get some things from upstairs that belonged to Lottie, so the police wouldn’t find them, so they wouldn’t link Bruno’s murder to Lottie. Because, really, Lottie didn’t do it. I’m certain of that. The detectives hadn’t arrived yet, and the body was still downstairs. I wasn’t looking for dope; I was checking quickly in each bedroom to make sure Lottie hadn’t left anything there, and that’s when I saw it. I have no idea how much. There were drawers full of the stuff, pounds and pounds of it.”