Silent Murders

by Mary Miley

“There’s stew on the stove if you’re hungry,” I called through the door as I passed her room, leaving my door open to make it clear I was there if she needed to talk.

  An hour passed before she crossed the hall and leaned against the doorjamb, looking as forlorn as a wilted flower.

  “How was your day?” I asked carefully.

  “Fine. Just fine. I changed my mind about the part. I’m doing it.”

  “That’s your decision to make. You should do what you think best for your career.” Her lower lip trembled and she dropped her face into her hands, unable to hold her emotions inside any longer. “And I see it’s made you very happy,” I deadpanned.

  Myrna couldn’t suppress the giggle that erupted beneath her tears. Wiping her eyes, she came into my room and sat on my bed, folding her dancer’s legs Indian style.

  “What am I gonna do?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to quit, of course. I tried! I told Johnnie Salazar I couldn’t give the part the effort it deserved. And he got very, very angry. I’d never seen him like that … he’s always, well, he’s been so kind and understanding.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “He said I couldn’t quit now, or he’d lose a lot of money reshooting my scenes and a lot of time finding a replacement. He said I was a fool to leave, that this was my big break. And if I quit on him, he’d see to it that I never worked in the pictures again.”

  “So you worked all day?”

  She nodded miserably. “More net scenes, most of them with Fred—he’s Zeus—who was naked, too. I feel like a tart, Jessie. And I didn’t like him touching me. I couldn’t help thinking, What would my father say? I want to be a star like Mary Pickford or Greta Garbo or Gloria Swanson. They manage to keep their clothes on!”

  “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about Johnnie’s threats. He isn’t Mayer or Zukor or one of those big shots who really can ruin you if you cross them. Anyone who knew the circumstances would understand. If worse came to worst, you could change your name and poof! Start over.”

  “You think I should quit?”

  “It isn’t what I think that matters, Myrna. It’s what you think.”

  “I think I should quit,” she admitted, picking at a hangnail. “I’m just chicken. Johnnie was really … well, really mean when I told him … although, to be fair, I think it was because of his arm hurting.”

  “His arm?”

  “His arm was in a sling. He broke it yesterday afternoon in a fall at his house. That’s why he wasn’t at the studio yesterday to talk to me. He was at the hospital.”

  “I see.” Silence hung between us for a few minutes as we both pondered the best course of action. Finally Myrna cleared her throat.

  “Would you—I hate to ask you but I don’t know if I, well, if I can do it alone … would you come with me to Western Compass tomorrow morning when I tell Johnnie? Not to come inside with me, just to wait outside the studio so I know you’re there, and I can say, ‘I have to go now, my friend’s waiting for me.’”

  Tomorrow was Saturday, the last day of the week. I was supposed to be at work, but prying Myrna out of Johnnie Salazar’s clutches took precedence over any paycheck.

  “Sure,” I said. “You realize he won’t pay you for the days you worked, don’t you?” She nodded glumly. “Cheer up! Everything will work out. Now, how about some of Lillian’s stew?”

  31

  Like other slapdash studios in Los Angeles, Western Compass took a frugal approach to filmmaking. Although I couldn’t see past the building’s façade from where I was positioned, Myrna had told me the compound consisted of five or six small sets, a few offices, and some workrooms all squashed on a one-acre lot. Anticipating something squalid, I was reassured by the clean coat of pale yellow paint and the classy sign—the word “Western” in gold script superimposed on a gray compass—that gleamed in the morning sunshine. Maybe this wasn’t such a disreputable operation after all.

  I settled onto a bench at the bus stop opposite the entrance to wait for Myrna, whose confidence had returned. “Just knowing you’re outside makes it easier,” she had said. Then, lifting her chin, she crossed the street, every step revealing that regal posture so typical of classically trained dancers. I crossed my fingers.

  Moments later a Cadillac pulled curbside and a man got out of the backseat, his left arm cradled in a muslin sling. Who else but Johnnie Salazar? I got a good look at him today: medium build, dark curly hair, a Roman nose, and dressed like a model for a clothier’s advertisement. I was right, this was the same man I’d noticed with Jack Pickford at Heilmann’s party last week. His high-pitched voice and fidgety motions gave him a nervous appearance today. I paid little attention to his conversation with the driver, but rather focused on his hand and his arm, which I could see quite clearly. At one point, he became animated and jerked his left hand, then winced with pain. Salazar had hurt his arm, yes, but it wasn’t in a plaster cast. It was in a sling. It wasn’t broken. Myrna must have misunderstood.

  He disappeared into the building. The Cadillac waited. With nothing to do but think, I thought.

  Johnnie Salazar was the Heilmann link to liquor. Probably supplied the French champagne I had so cheerfully downed at last Saturday’s party. But that raised the question: the link to what? Who else dealt in bootleg liquor but the local gangsters? The same bunch who smuggled drugs from Mexico. Surely they were the ones who’d hired the assassin from Chicago to eliminate the Heilmann competition. David had said as much. And Johnnie Salazar was tied into all of this. Johnnie Salazar had gotten hurt Thursday afternoon. He’d missed his appointment with Myrna. Five other people had gotten hurt Thursday afternoon, so hurt they died. Was that where Johnnie Salazar had been? Had he been shot in the arm during the gunfight in the desert? At first, it seemed improbable, but the more I considered it, the likelier it became. I began to get nervous about Myrna.

  Half an hour later, she burst through the door. Her eyes were bright and her lips pressed together in a bloodless line, but her head was high, and I knew she had done it.

  “Well, I’m through with Western Compass. Johnnie was furious, but I stuck to my guns.”

  “Good girl.”

  “He threatened me again. Said he’d ruin me. Said the only way I’d ever get into the pictures is to buy a ticket.”

  I shook my head. “What else?”

  “Now that I think about it, he wasn’t as angry as he was yesterday. He said to get off his property, he never wanted to see me again, that he had more important things to worry about than a stupid little girl who was throwing away the only chance she’d ever get.”

  “Don’t believe a word of it. You’re going to be a star.”

  She gave me a big hug. “Thanks. I mean, for coming. I’ve made you late to work.”

  Together we rode the bus back to Hollywood, then went our separate ways. By the time I had arrived at the Pickford-Fairbanks gate, I’d formed my plan. I needed to know if my suspicions about Johnnie Salazar were more than imagination run amok, and I’d figured out how to do it.

  Bypassing the Son of Zorro set, I went straight to the wardrobe mistress at Little Annie Rooney and told her what I needed. She eyed me suspiciously. “You want to borrow some children’s clothing?”

  “And a wig.”

  “This isn’t a lending library, Miss Beckett,” she said and sniffed.

  “It’s for a special assignment Mr. Fairbanks wants me to handle. I need to look as young as possible, right away.”

  I’d dropped the wrong name. “This is Miss Pickford’s set,” she reminded me coldly.

  “I’ll bring everything back in a couple hours. Look, you can call Miss Pickford; she’ll vouch for my request.”

  She looked me up and down, twisting the black velvet pincushion on her wrist while she considered my suggestion, then went to the telephone on her desk. I sat in the nearest chair. While she made the call, I reached for the telephone directory and looked up the home address fo
r John Salazar. Yes, he did live in Hollywood. It stood to reason that he’d have gone to the nearest hospital if he’d been badly hurt. Hollywood had two that were close by.

  “Miss Pickford’s office, please,” I heard her say. After a minute, she said, “Thank you,” and hung up. “Miss Pickford isn’t in yet, but I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She gave me a thin smile. “I assumed you had approval when you didn’t object to my call. Come look at what we have. What age did you want?”

  Thirty minutes later, a pert fifteen-year-old girl left Wardrobe. She wore a blue and white sailor dress with white stockings, shiny patent-leather shoes, and a matching straw hat. Her golden curls bounced against her back when she walked. Her cheeks were sprinkled with freckles, courtesy of Miss Mildred Young, who didn’t ask a single question when she heard my request. I was really beginning to warm to that woman. I scooted between buildings, taking a shortcut to the front gate, and when I came out in an open area that held Thief of Bagdad bazaar remnants, I was surprised to see David Carr crossing the middle of the plaza. I was hugging the adobe walls, and our paths were not going to intersect. There were several other people in sight: two men pulling a handcart loaded with boxes, a woman with a tray, and several Annie Rooney kids arguing in loud voices, and none of those gave my young self the briefest glance. Before I could call out to David and razz him about my disguise, a female voice turned my head.

  “Oh, David! Just the man I wanted to see.” A peek over my shoulder told me I didn’t know the attractive young woman heading in his direction, but the warmth of his reply told me that he certainly did.

  “Mornin’, doll.” He slowed. She slowed. He gave her cheek a kiss. Neither noticed the invisible girl who bent over to adjust her shoe buckle.

  “Me and some of the girls are going sailing again this afternoon. A big strong man would sure be a welcome addition to the crew,” she teased. Her voice was sultry, her hair was dark, and my mood followed. “The galley’s stocked with lunch and liquor. Wanna come along?”

  “Gosh, thanks, Ruby. Sounds swell, and I’d love nothing better. But I’m booked this afternoon.”

  Her lips pouted prettily. “What could be more important than an afternoon on a sailboat? Your friend Stella will be there, and I know all the girls would be thrilled for ‘Stella’s fella’ to join us again.”

  “Stella’s fella” gave a hearty laugh and chucked Ruby under her pointy little chin. “Sorry, hon. Another time for sure. I have to meet a friend at the train station.”

  “Bring him along! You can’t have too many sexy fellas on a sailboat, that’s my motto.”

  “My friend’s train doesn’t come in until two, and we’ve got some business to take care of, but what about tonight—whoops, no.” He snapped his fingers. “Almost forgot. I’ve got another obligation tonight. How about a Sunday picnic?”

  A shoemaker could have stitched an entire shoe by now, and if I heard any more of this drivel, I’d rip off my wig and shout to “Stella’s fella” that he needn’t bother with tonight’s tedious obligation. Neither of them paid the slightest attention to me as I seethed my way around the corner, scheming about the blistering set-down I’d deliver tonight when the two-timing bum came calling.

  I should have known. I damn well should have expected this. What in heaven’s name made me think David was any different from the rest of them? I hoped the Oregon police caught up with him, and he ended up doing forty years in the pen. I’d even help put him there if I could. I was disgusted with my own gullibility for believing his snake-oil-salesman lies. Never again was my heart going to rule my head.

  The girl in the sailor suit left the studio, stopped briefly at the Sunrise Bakery to buy a small cake, then hopped the eastbound Santa Monica Red Car, sitting demurely with ankles crossed and the box on her lap. She got off at North Vermont and walked the few remaining blocks to the new Clara Barton Memorial Hospital.

  “What can I help you with, my dear?” The nurse at Reception looked up and smiled big beaver teeth as I approached.

  “If you please, my mother sent me with this.” I placed the cake box on the counter. “She said I should give it to the nurse who was so kind to my father when he hurt his arm Thursday. But we don’t know her name.”

  “I can tell you that.” She reached for a roster of some sort.

  “My father’s name is John Salazar. He was here in the afternoon, with a broken arm.”

  She ran her finger down a list of names and frowned. “What was the name again?”

  “Salazar.” I spelled it out.

  “I’m sorry, dear. No one by that name was admitted Thursday or yesterday.”

  I had half expected that response. Nonetheless, I put my hand on my mouth in confusion. “Oh, no. Are you sure? I know Mama said to go to the Hollywood hospital and ask who was the nice nurse who helped Papa—”

  “She must have meant Community Hospital, a little farther down Sunset, dear. Could you have mixed them up?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said with mock relief. “That’s it! I’m at the wrong hospital.”

  “People have been making that mistake ever since we opened last year. We have flowers delivered here that are meant for someone over there, and visitors who come to the wrong place. Luckily, it’s not far away. Do you know where to go? Just continue along Sunset to Vine…”

  I told her I knew the way, and thanked her. It was a short ride to Vine where I repeated my performance for a similar audience. Hospitals are wary about saying too much about their patients, so my little act brought the desired result—I got more information than I would have had I made a direct inquiry. It was just as I thought: Johnnie Salazar had visited neither hospital on Thursday. Not for a broken arm and certainly not for a bullet wound. Of course it was possible that an injured man would drive past the two closest hospitals and go to another one in Los Angeles a long distance away, but I judged it unlikely.

  No, Johnnie Salazar had not been treated at either Hollywood hospital yesterday. He had not fallen at home and broken his arm. He had been wounded in the gunfight with detectives Tuttle and Rios miles from the city. Hospitals had a way of asking annoying questions about gunshot wounds, especially right after a deadly gun battle with the police. Johnnie Salazar must have gone to a private doctor, then made up the broken-arm story for Myrna and everyone else.

  32

  I returned my costume to Wardrobe and myself to work. Not long afterward, a boy came by the Zorro set with a note for me.

  “A band of horrid reporters has taken over the porch, demanding to see you,” it read. “They are very, very rude. Call before coming home.”

  The nearest telephone was at the front office. I called Myrna back at once.

  “They’re still here,” she wailed. I didn’t need to ask what they were doing. I could hear fists pounding on the front door and muffled shouts. “They say they want to talk to you. We told them you weren’t home, but they don’t believe us. They’ve discovered you had something to do with the first two murders, and gosh, I’m afraid you’re the latest suspect.”

  “Hell, I’ve been a police suspect; I guess I can handle a bunch of reporters. I’ll come home now and get rid of them.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Jessie. I’d stay away. They’ll get discouraged and leave in a while.”

  The legendary stubbornness of the press made me think otherwise. Those reporters would stay until I showed up, frightening the girls and bothering the entire neighborhood. I excused myself to patient Pauline Cox and got ready to return home. Bless her, she didn’t bat an eye. “Just do what you need to do, Jessie. Nothing is more important to all of us than getting to the bottom of these murders.”

  Minutes later, I was standing at the curb with some of the neighbors taking stock of the commotion in my front yard. A dozen newspapermen in loud suits were milling about like a pack of hounds that treed a coon. Several pounded on the front door, others trampled the bushes, press
ing noses against windowpanes. Shouts of “Jessie Beckett! Come out and talk!” rang loud. While I watched, one man threw handfuls of gravel at upstairs windows; some circled around back and began rattling the kitchen doorknob. They made me angry, but I wasn’t afraid. I’d dealt with audiences rowdier than this at burlesque houses.

  Drawing a deep breath, I approached a knot of men on the sidewalk. “Excuse me, gentlemen. You needn’t tear down the house. I’ll be happy to answer your questions.”

  “Yeah?” One of them looked down his nose at me and snapped his gum. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Jessie Beckett.”

  “Yeah, and I’m the Easter Bunny. Beat it, kid.” The men smirked and elbowed one another, then turned back to the house just as the gravel thrower pitched one rock too large and shattered the glass. “Jesus Q. Christ, Schaeffer, lookit what you’ve done now,” someone said.

  “Hey, stop that! Look here, I really am Jessie Beckett.” I felt like the first act of a vaudeville lineup, doomed to be ignored by an audience waiting for the headliners to appear.

  Finally one man said, a little more kindly, “Forget it, kid. Nice try, but she’s inside. We’ve seen her. She’s got dark hair.” And he moved away.

  I guessed they had caught sight of Lillian, who had probably taken to her bed by now with one of her towering headaches. I headed next door to ask old Mrs. Pritchard if I could telephone the police when, like magic, a police car pulled up to the curb. Two blue uniforms got out. The Widow Pritchard must have had enough.

  The cops sauntered up the walk as a second car turned the corner. I hardly thought this altercation would require reinforcements. Then I recognized the newcomers: Carl Delaney and his partner, Officer Brickles. As the reporters caught sight of them, the catcalls diminished.

  “Okay, boys. Break it up,” said the first cop. “You’re disturbing the peace. Time to go home.”

  “Hey, we aren’t causing any trouble,” protested the gum chewer. “We’re just waiting for an interview. As soon as she comes out and talks to us, we’ll leave.”