Silent Murders

by Mary Miley

  “She might.”

  That’s how, a few hours later, I found myself in the backseat of a Rolls-Royce with Mary Pickford heading to Faye Gordon’s apartment on the west side of Hollywood. I took the opportunity to ask her something that had been pestering me. “What was Faye’s relationship with Paul Corrigan?”

  Miss Pickford thought for a moment. “I suppose you’d call it the love/hate sort. They were lovers once, and she threw him over. He took it hard. Lately they had been friendly. I suspected they were back together again, which is why I invited them both to dinner last week.” She sighed and shook her head sadly.

  “Paul said some pretty harsh things about her at dinner.”

  “Paul … well, one hates to speak ill of the dead, but Paul had a way of saying cruel things quite unconsciously. I never held it against him.”

  Not sharing Miss Pickford’s generous nature, I believed Paul Corrigan’s remarks were quite deliberate, but I didn’t voice my thoughts. We had reached Faye Gordon’s apartment building.

  This time, I stood back and let Miss Pickford handle the maid. The maid oozed deference, returned promptly, simpered, and showed us into a fussy, red and white living room with large windows overlooking the gentle western hills.

  “Miss Gordon will be with you in a moment,” she said, and I pictured the actress hurriedly applying more makeup and changing her dress. “May I get you ladies some tea?”

  It was some time before Faye glided into the room, clad in a Chinese silk dressing gown that puddled on the floor when she paused. “Darling.” She greeted her friend with a kiss on both cheeks. I got a limp hand. She sat facing us with her back against the afternoon sun, taking care to position herself in the flattering backlight.

  I allowed the pleasantries to flow over me for a few minutes. Faye was delighted to see Mary, Mary was charmed to see Faye, the flowers were lovely, the weather was grand, and Douglas sent his regrets but wished her well. I had agreed with Miss Pickford on the drive over that she would steer the conversation to Faye’s health, at which point I would take over.

  “Well, I must say, my dear, you look divine after such a monstrous experience,” said Miss Pickford. “Douglas and I were very worried about you, and everyone is most grateful that you have had a complete recovery.”

  That was my cue. “I wonder, Miss Gordon, do you expect to return to the Cobra set soon?”

  She gave me a slightly startled glance as if she had just noticed I was sitting on her sofa. “Joe Henabery was kind enough to adjust the filming schedule to work around my … my illness,” she said delicately, facing Mary Pickford as she replied, as if Mary had asked the question and not her upstart little companion. “He won’t resume filming my scenes until next week, so I have plenty of time to recuperate.”

  I am not that easily deterred. “I—we were wondering if you might tell us about what happened last Tuesday morning.”

  She straightened her back and peered down her nose at me like an affronted duchess. “And what earthly business is that of yours?” she asked haughtily.

  “Now, Faye, you mustn’t take offense,” said Miss Pickford, trying to smooth the ruffled fur. “Jessie is helping Douglas with his own investigation of these tragic deaths, and she only wanted to ask you a few questions on his behalf. I told her you wouldn’t mind. It’s the least we can do, in Paul’s memory.”

  “Well, I don’t know … I mean, naturally, Mary dear, I’d do anything for you and Douglas, but, well, heavens…”

  I interpreted that as a green light. “Were you expecting Mr. Corrigan that morning?”

  “Of course not. He just dropped by the studio unannounced.”

  “I was wondering what his purpose was.”

  “His purpose? Why, to see me. What a ridiculous question.”

  “But didn’t it seem odd that he would come by the set when he had just seen you at Pickfair the night before?”

  “Really, you sound like those nasty policemen. What is the reason for all this? The murderer has been identified and the police have killed him.”

  “Oh, I know what the newspapers are saying,” said Miss Pickford, “but you and I know better than most how they make things up. That awful director Salazar was part of the shootout that left the two detectives dead, but we believe someone else—another gangster from Chicago—killed Bruno Heilmann and the waitress after his party.”

  Faye looked at me now. Really looked at me. Her eyes flashed angrily, and at that moment, she appeared quite capable of killing someone herself. “And what evidence do you have for this extraordinary conclusion?”

  “A good deal of evidence,” I said, “showing the movements of the gangster who killed them. The gangster left Hollywood a few hours after the killings on an early Sunday morning train.”

  “There is a serious lapse in your theory, my dear,” she said in a patronizing manner. “Lorna McCall wasn’t killed until Sunday afternoon. And your gangster was still around on Tuesday morning to poison Paramount’s coffee.”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “Someone else killed Lorna McCall and Paul … and would have killed you if you had swallowed more coffee. And the means used in those murders were entirely different. The man who murdered the first two was strong, violent, and good with a gun. The other murderer was more devious in his methods.”

  “Jessie and Douglas believe that Lorna’s and Paul’s murderer wanted us to think that the same person killed them all,” said Miss Pickford in her quiet way. “But it isn’t true. I know you’ll want to help us catch him before he strikes again.”

  “Oh, my. But surely that’s all over. No one has been killed in a week.”

  “It may be over, and it may not,” I said.

  “You mean to say I might still be in danger?” Finally we had Faye’s attention.

  “You might,” I said. “So might others.”

  Faye gave a long sigh and picked up a sandalwood fan lying on the table beside her. “Well, to tell you the truth … and I hope it won’t go any further,” she said, fanning herself gracefully, “Paul and I had a little spat at your dinner last week, and he had come by the studio to apologize.”

  “I see. What time did he arrive?”

  “Sylvie came by at about ten with a message that Mr. Corrigan had come to see me. I said show him into my dressing room, and we talked for about fifteen minutes. He was very sweet. Then we went down the hall for some coffee. The studio had set up coffee in an empty dressing room so we wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the commissary.”

  “Was anyone else in the room when you entered?”

  She looked scornful. “Naturally not, or there would have been another death. No, the room was empty. We sat and poured our coffee. Paul takes his—I mean, he took his with lots of cream and sugar; I drink mine black. While we talked, he drank two cups rather quickly. Mine was so hot without the cream to cool it, I drank just a little. I noticed a funny taste, but thought nothing of it.” She shivered at the memory, and for the first time, I felt sorry for her. It must have been a horrible experience.

  “Bad coffee is the bane of every studio,” said Miss Pickford. As if I hadn’t noticed. “All that cream and sugar probably covered up the taste and prevented Paul from noticing it as unusual.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked. “Did Mr. Corrigan collapse right away?”

  “He complained that his stomach hurt. We kept talking. Then it got worse, and he doubled up, then started writhing about on the floor. I thought it might be appendicitis, coming on so sudden like that, and I was going for help when I felt a stomach cramp myself, sharp as a knife, and I couldn’t move. I don’t know how much time passed, maybe seconds, maybe half an hour. I was in terrible pain. If Sylvie hadn’t come by, I’m sure I’d have died, too. She found us both on the floor. Paul wasn’t dead, and he tried to talk, but she couldn’t make out anything he said.”

  “Not a single word?”

  “That’s what she told me.”

  “Could you?”


  “No.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Sylvie called for help and the Paramount doctor came right over, but Paul was unconscious by then. I managed to warn them that I thought it might be the coffee. I could hardly breathe, but I forced myself to speak so that no one else would drink from that deadly pot.”

  “How very brave of you.” Miss Pickford sighed.

  Faye tilted her head modestly. “I couldn’t live with myself if I had failed to prevent an innocent person’s death.”

  “And then what happened?” I prompted again.

  “They rushed us both to the hospital and pumped my stomach just in the nick of time. I very nearly died. They told me Paul passed away several hours later, never regaining consciousness.” She reached for a lace handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, then took another tiny sip of tea.

  I reached for my cup and found I’d drained it. Miss Pickford’s cup was empty, too. Faye’s was almost full. As I watched, she lifted her cup and once again barely wet her lips with the tea. She looked at our empty cups and then directly at me. Her eyes glittered like ice.

  Panic seized me by the throat. The scene was being replayed. The tea was poisoned. Faye was hardly drinking any. Miss Pickford and I had drained our cups. My stomach ached. We were about to fall on the floor. She wouldn’t call the ambulance until it was too late. We were going to die.

  I squeezed my hands together to give my common sense time to rein in my galloping imagination and tell me how silly I was to even think such a thing. I took a deep, calming breath. We weren’t being poisoned. My stomach didn’t hurt. The maid, not Faye, had made our tea, and Faye was drinking it, too. A nasty look did not equate with murder. Faye may have thought me pushy and rude, but that was no reason for her to poison me and her longtime friend. All this intrigue was making me fanciful.

  To prove to my head that the rest of me was convinced, I poured myself a second cup, used the antique sugar tongs to pinch a lump of sugar, added a dollop of warm milk, and stirred the concoction with a silver teaspoon. Defiantly, I took a sip. There! See? No stomachache, no poison.

  What had set my imagination running like that? Did I really believe Faye capable of poisoning anyone? Just because I didn’t like her didn’t mean she had poisoned Paul Corrigan.

  But she could have, whispered a voice in my head.

  Don’t be ridiculous, I answered it. Why would Faye want to kill poor Paul Corrigan, her friend, who had come to apologize for some rift? She hadn’t even known he was going to come by the studio that morning. Did I seriously think she carried a vial of poison in her pocket in case someone she didn’t like dropped by?

  She didn’t like Lorna McCall, either. Remember that fierce argument at the party when Faye slapped Lorna?

  So what? Things like that happened all the time in Hollywood.

  Faye could have been the one at Lorna’s that Sunday. She could have gone to see her and … and … somehow …

  And what? Did she barge in, demand coffee and cake, force Lorna to go into the bathroom and throw up, then push her head in the toilet bowl? Come now … It sounded more plausible the other way around. Lorna McCall had more reason to be angry with Faye than vice versa. Besides, the person who killed Lorna had probably intended it to look like another Heilmann witness murder, like Esther’s. If so, that meant the killer had to have known that both Heilmann and Esther Frankel were dead. The newspapers didn’t carry that information until Tuesday.

  But Faye was at Pickfair Monday night. Everyone there knew the details.

  The person who killed Lorna had to have known about Heilmann’s and Esther’s murders before Monday’s dinner, in fact, before Sunday afternoon. The only people who knew about both at that point were me, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary and Lottie Pickford, Adolph Zukor, and the police.

  Doesn’t that mean one of those people killed Lorna? Or could one of them have told someone I didn’t know about?

  Miss Pickford’s voice intruded into my mental debate. “No, thank you, my dear,” she was saying, “you know I can’t allow myself to indulge in sweets. But I will have more tea, please.” Faye left off urging the teacake on her friend and poured her another cup of tea.

  “Do you remember when you first learned of Bruno Heilmann’s death?” I asked Faye.

  “Let me think … I believe it was from the newspaper. I can’t remember what day that was.”

  Miss Pickford corrected her gently. “No, Faye, the newspaper story came out on Tuesday, and you were at our house Monday night when we were all talking about it.”

  “That’s so. I forgot about that.”

  “No one told you before you arrived at Pickfair?” I asked.

  “No.”

  37

  “Jessie!” Melva called up the stairs to my room. “Jessie, there’s a policeman here to see you.”

  Geez Louise, now what? Hadn’t I answered all their questions at the train station? Was I headed for another prickly round of interrogation? It was almost seven and I’d just slipped into a dressing gown after the long day.

  “I’m not dressed,” I yelled. “I’ll be right down.”

  Step out of the dressing gown. Pull on an everyday skirt. Tuck in a simple blue blouse. Freshen the rouge and lipstick. Add a touch of kohl. Now I looked the part—an honest, sober citizen, ready for whatever the police threw at me.

  The effect was wasted on Officer Delaney, who was waiting for me on the front porch.

  “Why, Carl,” I said sweetly. “This is a surprise. What brings you here tonight?”

  Before I knew what he was doing, he’d taken hold of my wrists and snapped them together with a pair of clunky handcuffs.

  “What the hell—”

  “I’m sorry to have to place you under arrest, Miss Beckett.”

  “Arrest! For what?”

  “Withholding information, lying to the police. If you’ll just come with me, please…”

  Melva’s jaw dropped and she dithered helplessly, but Carl whisked me out of the house and into his police car before she could marshal her thoughts into any semblance of coherent speech. “I’ll … Should I … I’ll tell Myrna as soon as she gets home … What do you … Is there anything else I should—” But the car door slammed and I couldn’t hear the rest.

  I fumed. I seethed. I stared straight ahead and vowed not to utter another word, even if they tore out my fingernails. It was humiliating being trussed up like some common criminal for all the world to see. They’d be sorry they treated me like this! They wouldn’t get a peep out of me. I had already told them everything I was going to tell. I would stick to my story like glue. Come what may, I was going to protect David.

  I kept my head turned away from Carl, glaring out the window until I emerged from my self-absorbed sulk long enough to notice a couple of deer on the edge of the road, turned to stone by the headlights. We were beyond the edge of town.

  “Wait a minute,” I blurted. “You’ve turned the wrong way. The police station is—” Then it occurred to me that Officer Carl Delaney knew very well where the police station was located, and a watery chill trickled down the back of my neck. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To a nice quiet spot where we can talk.”

  “I’m not under arrest?”

  “Not really.”

  “What the hell are these for?” I shook my manacles.

  “Just making sure you don’t hurt yourself. Or me. I saw you light into that Salazar fella at the depot the other day. You’re a tough customer.”

  I hate men who patronize me. Then I realized Carl was missing his shadow. “Where’s Brickles?”

  “It’s his day off. Mine, too, for that matter.”

  “This is kidnapping!”

  He gave a patient sigh, as one would to humor an unruly child. “Simmer down, Jessie. You’re not in any danger, and you know it. You and I are going to have a nice, uninterrupted chat, that’s all. Then I’ll take you home.” He gave me his choirboy smile.

  “You bastard!
You’ll take me home right now—I’m not chatting with you!”

  The car continued north until Carl turned onto a narrow paved road that snaked into the hills of Hollywoodland. “You ever been to see that big sign on Mount Lee close up? It’s quite a sight, all lit up like that.”

  It was a lonely sight, that’s for sure. We passed no other cars, and while there were a few skeleton houses in various stages of construction scattered about the development, no one was working on them at night and no light shone from any windows. If I hadn’t been in such a fury, I would have enjoyed the panoramic valley view.

  It wasn’t long before we pulled off the road onto a dirt turnaround that ended near the giant H. Carl cut the motor. “This is as close as we can get with the car. We could walk up farther, but there’s a nice spot over there to sit and look over the city lights.”

  “I’m staying right here.”

  “Suit yourself. It can get pretty cold here without any covering,” he said, indicating that the gray blanket folded over his arm was going with him. “It’s warmer over there with the heat from the sign.”

  The sun was slipping below the horizon in a gorgeous display of orange and red that would normally have thrilled me. The western sky glowed as the shadows vanished, taking with them every drop of warmth that had heated the air. I sat in the motorcar until I nearly shivered off the front seat before I surrendered to reality and walked to the sheltered spot where Carl was sitting, puffing on a cigarette. The smoke drifted straight up in the still air. He stubbed it out on a rock as I approached.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Got tired of listening to lies.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Brickles, now he says you’re the problem here. I said no, she’s the answer.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Then we’ll be here a long time.”

  I sat near him on a warm, flat rock and felt on my back the heat that radiated from the Hollywoodland sign. Carl draped the blanket over my shoulders. Behind us loomed the fifty-foot H, lit up like a giant theater marquee spilling light as bright as day. I could wait the bastard out. I looked down on Hollywood spread out below like a toy village under a Christmas tree. Behind me the enormous white letters with their thousands of lightbulbs made sure this portion of Mount Lee never saw darkness, and I tried to decide whether they were a point of interest or an eyesore. It didn’t matter; either way, they’d be gone in a year or two. I sat so still a lizard crawled over my shoe. A half hour passed, maybe an hour; I didn’t have a wristwatch. I did have an idea.