by Donis Casey
Oliver’s expression must have conveyed sympathy, for Bianca abruptly stopped talking and stood up. She walked to the window and stood with her back to him for a moment, regaining her composure.
Oliver sighed. “I’ll start asking around about Valentino’s affairs, Bianca. Send the funeral invitation to me by messenger. I’ll see what I can dig up about any local Black Hand activity, and in the meantime, if you learn anything helpful at Falcon Lair, let me know.”
She turned around to face him, her marble facade restored. “Thank you, Mr. Oliver.”
~ High on the Mountain, Bianca alights on Falcon Lair ~
Bianca saddled her favorite mount, a little sorrel quarter horse mare with two white stockings on her front legs and a white muzzle that made her look like she had been drinking milk. The area above Beverly Hills was crisscrossed with bridle paths, and most of the wealthy estate owners kept thoroughbreds or tall American saddlebred horses. Bianca had one of each herself and loved them. But she was partial to her sturdy, brainy Peach. Peach reminded her of the horses she had first learned to ride when she was growing up in Oklahoma. She favored a Western saddle when she rode Peach. An aristocratic English saddle did not suit such a practical, no-nonsense creature.
Rudy’s caretaker, Luther Mahony, had warned Bianca that once she turned north off San Ysidro onto Benedict Canyon Drive, she would be passing a parade of sightseers on their way to Falcon Lair, some on foot, some in autos. Perhaps even an omnibus or two. She had no desire to become part of the show. The road was narrow, so there was no way she would be able to keep her distance from the mourners’ autos. The best she could do was disguise herself and keep moving as fast as she could, hoping the gawkers could not get a good look at her when she passed.
If anyone recognized her as she passed car after car inching up the hill, she did not stick around long enough to know about it. She turned off the long, winding road onto Bella Drive, past the gates of screenwriter Frances Marion’s mansion and on to the top of the knoll to Rudy’s white, rough-plastered house with its tall gate of Italian grillwork. A spectacular view of the city of Los Angeles spread out below.
Rudy and Natacha had bought the house together back in ’24 and named it Falcon Lair, after the historical epic they planned to make called The Hooded Falcon, based on the life of Rodrigo Diaz, the Spanish hero El Cid. Falcon Lair was a two-story Spanish Colonial villa with stucco walls, a central turret, and a red-tile roof. It sat on an eight-acre lot with stables, kennels, a multi-car garage, and a separate house for the servants.
The Hooded Falcon was never made. The production deal fell through, as did Rudy and Natacha’s marriage. Rudy moved into Falcon Lair alone and renovated it to suit himself. He had planned the landscaping and planting of the gardens, outlining the entire property with stately Italian cypress trees. A beautiful Spanish-style fountain sat in the courtyard, just in front of the oak entry doors decorated with carved Roman horsemen.
Luther was waiting for her at the back gate. He took charge of Peach and let Bianca into the house through a side door that couldn’t be seen from the road.
Rather than head directly into the master bedroom, she spent half an hour wandering through the empty house. So empty, now that Rudy was gone forever. She had always considered the decor too busy for her taste, but it suited Rudy to a tee. He had always been a collector of rare and beautiful artifacts, and had turned his home into a replica of a medieval castle, with grand fireplaces and a wood-beamed ceiling, the walls covered with ancient weaponry and renaissance portraits.
Where to start? She was impressed by the range of subjects on his bookshelf: rare first editions, classical and modern literature in one, two, three…she counted five separate languages. Rudy might have been a matinee idol, but he was no dummy. A photograph of Rudy as Ahmed ben Hassan, the character he played in The Sheik, sat in a gilt frame on a side table. The part that had made him famous. Well, not just famous. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had made him famous. The Sheik had vaulted him into the stratosphere. She picked up the photo and studied it for a moment. She was a mildly surprised that he kept it on display. He had never made a secret of the fact that he was not happy with his own acting in that picture. Still, he had told her that shooting the movie was a lot of fun, with plenty of action and horsemanship, which he loved. Oxnard and Santa Barbara had doubled for Arabia, and the crew had pitched tents and camped out on the dunes for weeks, gathering around campfires at night and singing to the accompaniment of Rudy’s guitar. He and Natacha were together by then, and the world was his oyster.
She perused the bookshelf carefully, looking for anomalies. She kept many of her own secrets on the bookshelf in her library, books and papers that she would rather no one else see, like her diary and financial statements, and a few other perhaps less-than-legal documents, hidden in plain sight. But Rudy apparently did not subscribe to her philosophy. As interesting as his library was, she found no clues to who would want to kill him.
On the wall beside the bookshelf hung a giant portrait of Rudy as Julio Desnoyers, his breakout role in The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, dressed in boots and gaucho pants, one hand upon his hip, his dark eyes gazing directly at the viewer. On a small table to the right of the portrait sat the hand. Several years earlier, an artist had carved a life-sized sculpture of one of Rudy’s hands out of alabaster. It was a fine, sensitive hand, Bianca thought, lying relaxed, palm open, on a block of black marble.
She touched it, slid her own hand into it, transported back to the day he had taught her to dance the tango.
That had been Alma’s idea.
Alma Bolding had engaged teachers of all kinds to help turn the naive teenaged refugee Blanche Tucker into elegant, sophisticated Bianca LaBelle—acting, French language, economics, art and music, elocution, even Eastern philosophy and Japanese self-defense. And dancing.
Bianca was still living at Alma’s Hollywood Hills mansion at the time and was in the middle of shooting The Golden Goblet, her very first Bianca Dangereuse picture, unaware that she was about to become a star. Alma had swept into the breakfast room one morning with her silk dressing gown billowing behind her and announced, “I know the perfect person to teach you the tango, darling. Remember that delicious, sloe-eyed young Italian who was here with Natacha Rambova last week? Well, I just saw his new flick. He plays an Argentine playboy, and he did the most sensual, dripping-with-sex-appeal tango…”
“You mean Rudolph Valentino?” Bianca was amused that Alma assumed she didn’t know who Rudy was. Alma was so self-absorbed that she barely knew anyone else existed. “His Four Horsemen movie is a big hit. I seriously doubt he’s looking to give dance lessons, Alma.”
Alma made a dismissive gesture with one hand while pouring coffee with the other. “Pooh, darling. I’m sure he’ll do it for me. Constance Talmadge tells me he used to give dance lessons when he first came to America, and she thinks he’s the best dancer she’s ever seen. After all, we want only the best instructors for you, or what’s the point of taking lessons?”
Bianca had shot a knowing glance at Alma’s friend, business manager, and housekeeper Mrs. Gilbert, who was sitting next to her at the table, quietly sipping orange juice and keeping her opinion to herself. Alma was an irresistible force, at least in her own mind, so there was no use arguing with her.
But much to Bianca’s amazement, Rudy had agreed. He had not yet begun shooting The Sheik, and she had not wrapped The Golden Goblet. They were both still trembling on the edge of celebrity. The first evening he came to Alma’s house, Bianca asked him why on earth he would agree to give dance lessons to an unknown, teenaged, aspiring actress. Surely he didn’t need the money. Did Alma have something on him?
He had laughed. “No, cara. I am not doing this for money. You and I had such a nice talk at Alma’s party, and I wanted to get to know you better. I think you will soon be a very great success.”
Bianca was
as enchanted by his dark good looks and his old-world charm as every other woman in the world, but his unexpected praise had immediately put her on her guard. She had been fooled by a smooth-talker once before and she had no intention of falling for it again.
They only had three sessions before their schedules intervened and put an end to his visits, but he was a wonderful teacher. He was warm and funny and respectful, but then the dance would begin, and he would pull her so close that their bodies melded before he swept her around the room. After the lesson he would kiss her hand and leave to walk down the hill to his own house, and she’d rush into Alma’s backyard and jump into the swimming pool to cool off. It took her a while to realize that she didn’t have to hold herself aloof from Rudy. He had no intention of seducing her. Years later, he admitted that he was as daunted by her as she had been by him. Neither had realized their own allure back in those days.
Bianca felt tears prickle as she relived the memory. What good friends they had become, and yet, now that he was gone, she was sorry that she had never let it become more than that.
Why do you never love? he had asked her. Ever since Graham Peyton, she had not allowed herself to get close to anybody. If she had expressed the slightest interest, would Rudy have responded? She would never know now.
His study proved more promising ground to search. She removed piles of papers from his desk drawers and leafed through them. Many of the papers were in Italian. The only ones she could figure out were letters from his sister in Italy. She had a smattering of Italian, but not enough. She’d have to have help translating them, if she could find an Italian-speaker she could trust to keep his mouth shut. There were letters from France, also, mostly from friends. She could manage those on her own. Some had letterheads from Parisian art dealers. But there were plenty in English, as well. Bills for jewelry, clothing from London, antique Spanish furniture, rare wines and liquor. Payments to and invoices from the contractors working on the house and grounds. Cars. Veterinary bills. She had known Rudy was a profligate spender, but yikes! She stuffed the more interesting papers into a knapsack to take home and peruse at her leisure.
She finally went into his bedroom and sat down on the yellow counterpane covering his king-sized bed. The silence was oppressive. She lay back with her head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Was this the side Rudy slept on, she wondered? Her bed was almost as big. She slept in the middle of hers.
She laid a hand on the bedside table and touched a scented oil lamp. Was there still oil in it? The room had been shut up for weeks and was stuffy. Some scent would be nice. She sighed. No use delaying any longer. She sat up and opened the drawer, expecting to see a small book with a blue cover, Rudy’s diary. The drawer was empty.
* * *
Dawn had barely tinged the horizon when Oliver was awakened by a pounding on his front door. He leaped out of bed and had his .38 in his hand before he was quite awake enough to realize what was happening. He opened the door to find a familiar cheeky lad in a Western Union uniform standing on the landing. He slipped the .38 behind his back. The boy grinned at his disheveled state and held out a telegram. “You’re pretty popular, Mister.”
Oliver growled and gave the boy another quarter before shutting the door in his face and ripping open the envelope.
COME SEE ME AS SOON AS YOU CAN STOP HAVE NEW LEADS STOP BL
~ Ted Oliver has the feeling that he is on an out-of-control sled, Hurtling Downhill ~
“I guess you found something up at Falcon Lair that you want me to look into,” Oliver said.
“My list of suspects has exploded. I don’t know where to begin.” Bianca had chosen the sunroom for her meeting with Oliver. A sunny, sultry, jungle-like room full of potted plants, this was the first place he had ever seen her in the flesh, and it gave him a peculiar feeling to be here again. She was sitting on the edge of the same chaise lounge with the little dog snuggled up next to her, petting him absently while she talked. She had invited Oliver to sit, but he had laid his hat on the chair and was standing at the open French door, looking out at the gardens while she filled him in.
“Before he died, Rudy told me I should read his diary, that it might give me a clue to who was poisoning him. But the diary wasn’t where he said it would be, and I hunted all over the house trying to find it. Before I left, I asked Luther, the groundskeeper, if anyone else had been in the house since Rudy died, and he told me that Pola Negri had spent an entire afternoon at Falcon Lair right before she got on the train to New York. I’ll bet any amount of money that she found the diary and took it. I’ve already telephoned her secretary and made arrangements to meet with her this afternoon. I may not have found the diary, but I found plenty of other papers in Rudy’s office. I had no idea how far in debt he actually was. He had written checks for five grand to the man who sold him his Arabian stallion, fifteen grand to the company renovating his house, and almost forty thousand to someone called Tony Cornero…” She hesitated at the expression of surprise on Oliver’s face when she said the name.
Oliver recovered quickly. “Whoa! That’s a chunk of change, all right.”
Bianca was not fooled. “You know who Tony Cornero is.”
“Yeah, Tony Cornero—Tony the Hat—is a bootlegger.” Was he also blackmailing movie stars? Oliver didn’t express the thought to Bianca. “But why was Valentino giving money to Tony? Did you find anything that told what the payments were for?”
“I don’t know why he was paying Cornero. I can’t imagine Rudy being involved in rum-running. But according to his books, he made several payments of thousands of dollars each to him over the past few months.”
“Was Valentino a gambler?”
Her eyes widened and she didn’t reply, which Oliver took for a yes.
He said, “Cornero has converted one of his ships, the Monaco, into a casino. It’s anchored three miles off the coast, west of Long Beach, beyond the reach of U.S. Customs. On the weekends Cornero ferries recreational gamblers out in a fleet of speedboats, and on Thursdays he hosts a special salon just for high rollers. Poker games, baccarat, 21, that sort of thing. I’m sure some of your movie star friends know all about it.”
“Rudy certainly never mentioned any such thing to me, but I know he gambled away a lot of money on the tables in Europe over the years. Poor Rudy, he never had a lick of sense.” She emitted a frustrated sigh, then straightened. “So, could this have anything to do with Rudy’s death?”
“I don’t know. Cornero wouldn’t want him dead, not if Valentino was dropping as much cash in his casino as you say. But doing business with mobsters isn’t healthy. He could have run afoul of some unscrupulous type. Who knows?”
“I know plenty of actors who like to gamble. I’m going to find a way to get myself invited onto the ship and talk to Cornero.”
Bianca looked so excited that Oliver was immediately sorry that he had put the notion of the casino into her head. “Now, wait a minute, Bianca. I don’t see any reason for you to start snooping around in a gangster’s business. That’s what you’ve hired me to do.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “Come with me. You can do the snooping while I distract Cornero.”
“No, you can’t!”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean I can’t? I certainly can and I will.”
Oliver quelled a feeling of alarm. He was going to have to tell her about Dix. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, Bianca, but K. D. Dix wants me to find out how Valentino and Cornero were connected. I don’t want her wondering how we know each other.”
“Dix?” Bianca repeated the name, just to make sure she hadn’t misheard. “Why? Why does she care about Rudy? What is she after?”
Oliver summed up his conversation with Dix for Bianca. “Anyway, she wants me to get onto the Monaco and find out who Tony’s backers are.”
“How is that connected to Rudy’s death?”
“I don’t think she cares a whit about Valentino. She’s looking to take over Cornero’s new gambling operation, and my guess is she thinks some other crook is trying to beat her to it, maybe by getting rid of his current backers. She’s believes that the Chicago mob wants a foothold here in California and wants to get in on the action before they do. You go talk to Pola Negri, like you planned, find out what she has to say about that diary. I’ll make my own arrangements to get onto the Monaco and see what I can find out about Tony the Hat.”
~ Pola Negri, tragedienne ~
Pola Negri’s house was located just south of Sunset on Beverly Drive, not far from Falcon Lair, or from Bianca’s own Orange Garden estate. Funny how we all live in each other’s pockets, Bianca thought, as she drove down San Ysidro Canyon to the flats. Bianca had driven past Pola’s big white house with its profusion of flowers in the front many times, but she had never been invited inside. Pola gave as many parties as anyone in Hollywood, but she seldom invited single women, unless they were producers or writers or could otherwise do something for her.
Pola’s secretary had not been able to hide her skepticism when Bianca telephoned in the morning and asked for a meeting that day. Bianca didn’t really expect to be accommodated so quickly, but she had promised Nils Fox that she would report to the studio to finish filming The Clutching Claw the next day, and she was desperate to find out if Pola had taken Rudy’s diary. She had to try.
She was as surprised as the secretary when Pola invited her to come down that very afternoon.
Pola’s sprawling two-story mansion reminded Bianca of an antebellum plantation house, with six white columns standing in an elegant row across the long front porch. Pink oleander bushes in glorious bloom stretched across the entire front of the house and yellow asters lined the curving drive. Several mature date palms scattered across the lawn broke the Deep South illusion, giving the place a distinctly California feel.