by Mary Miley
‘I like my job. Especially on days like today. You should have seen Douglas walk that plank … hey, why don’t you come over to Catalina for the day and watch the filming? Catch one of the ferries.’
‘You miss me, kid?’
‘Desperately. Come over. Follow your money and make sure it’s working for you.’
‘I’d just be in the way.’
‘Nonsense. There are always some locals standing around and a few movie-mad tourists too. You could help carry equipment and earn your lunch.’
‘I may just do that.’
So all the next morning, I kept an eager eye out for David, hoping he’d catch the earliest ferry. As the sun climbed higher, my hopes sank. I was standing in front of the rope that held back spectators when Donald Crisp ambled over. He’d become almost friendly now that he was no longer directing. As if to prove it, he offered me a cigarette.
‘No, thank you, Mr Crisp. But tell me, what time do you have?’
He pulled a watch out of his pocket and snapped it open. ‘Eleven thirty-two.’
The morning ferry was due to dock shortly. Surely David would be on this one.
Behind us, two lanky boys in their early teens were arguing. ‘Jake said it was going to be in color,’ said one.
‘He’s a champion liar,’ said the other. ‘You can’t believe a word outta his mouth. My dad says nobody knows how to make color film work yet.’
I couldn’t resist. I turned around and took a step closer to the rope. ‘It is going to be color. Technicolor, they call it.’
‘Golly. How do they do that, miss?’
‘Well, I don’t know much about that,’ I hesitated, hoping Donald Crisp would weigh in, but he stared straight ahead as if the cries of the birds and the rhythm of the sea prevented him from hearing the boys. ‘But they make two separate prints, one dyed red-orange and the other blue-green and cement them together. Yellows and blues don’t come out too well, I’m afraid.’
‘Corking! I can’t wait to see it. When will it come out?’
I shrugged. ‘That’s hard to say exactly. It takes two or three months to shoot a regular black-and-white picture, and color takes longer. I don’t think you’ll see this before early ’26.’
‘Gosh, I didn’t know it took so long to make them,’ breathed the awestruck lad.
‘We’re aiming to film two or three minutes’ worth a day.’
My attention shifted to the tourists just off the ferry who were trailing up the hill, joining the townspeople behind the rope until hunger drove them into the little village of Avalon for lunch. To my dismay, David wasn’t among them. Nor was he on the midday ferry. As the afternoon wore on, I gave up hope that he would appear today.
Late that evening, I asked the front desk clerk to place a telephone call to David’s house. In a few minutes, the switchboard operator notified me the call had been put through, but there had been no answer. I tried again before breakfast the next morning, but there was no one home then either. He didn’t come Friday, and his telephone rang in an empty house Friday evening.
I slept fitfully as I tried to think of reasons why David would not be home late at night and early in the morning. Any reasons at all. But my thoughts would not break free from the one most likely.
Saturday’s early ferry brought the morning papers. They’d all been snapped up by the time I arrived at breakfast, so I looked over the shoulder of one of the grips as he scanned the front page. A story about Barbara’s husband’s death above the fold got my attention. No need to read the article; the headline said it all: ‘No arrest yet in projectionist’s murder.’ The grip handed me that piece as he moved on to the sports section, and as my eyes fell to the bottom of the page, left-hand corner, I learned why David had not been at home.
The headline read: ‘Film investor jailed on liquor charges.’
FOUR
On Sunday morning, the cast and crew began packing for the return trip to Hollywood. Mr Wrigley’s steamship was again placed at our disposal, providing a luxurious ride to Los Angeles where studio trucks would meet us on the dock. Seeking solitude, I found an out-of-the-way spot on deck where I stood at the rail, the wind in my face, watching the island recede to insignificance and thinking about David. I didn’t notice Douglas Fairbanks’s approach until he leaned his elbows against the rail beside me.
‘I saw the newspaper,’ he began, without looking at me.
‘They get a lot wrong in the newspapers,’ I replied. ‘As we both know from experience.’
We stood there for a while watching the seabirds swoop about the ship. A few people strolled past us, but it was as if someone had hung a big ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on our backs. No one interrupted us. Finally Douglas broke the silence.
‘The paper said “violations of the Volstead Act”. Why would they arrest him for that? His drug stores sell medicinal liquor. That’s legal.’
His use of the plural jolted me. Drug stores? I had been aware of only one: Hess’s Drugs at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Wilcox. I’d been in that one, and I’d taken note of its real purpose. It did a booming business in medical alcohol. Legal hooch, as long as you had a doctor’s prescription. But it seemed there was more than one. Evidently David had neglected to mention his growing retail collection.
‘It’s probably a misunderstanding,’ I said. ‘He’s got a good lawyer. The best money can buy. He’s probably been sprung by now.’
‘Probably he forgot to sign some form on the dotted line.’
‘Probably.’
I could feel Douglas retreating from David. Slowly, carefully. Nothing dramatic or sudden. But I could sense his withdrawal, like someone edging away from a too-hot campfire. He and Mary Pickford couldn’t afford an investor or a friend who was a felon. If everything smoothed out the way I hoped, they would inch back and pretend they’d never had any doubts. But for the time being, they would keep their distance. The knowledge hurt. I understood, but it still hurt.
Douglas remained beside me for another few minutes, then without further comment, he pushed back from the railing and disappeared below. The Wrigley boat docked half an hour later. By the time we’d unloaded the equipment, loaded it onto the trucks, and unloaded again at the studio, it was dark. I arrived home fagged out and empty – in spirit and in stomach.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but the thought of food made me nauseous. I needed a drink more than anything – my throat was as dry as stale bread – but I didn’t have anything stronger than orange juice. I poured myself a glass and made my way through the kitchen.
‘Jessie! You’re home!’ Myrna Loy danced her way down the stairs, twirled a pirouette in the hall, and greeted me with a quick hug. An aspiring actress, she’d had good luck since she changed her last name from Williams to Loy, getting bit parts at last in several MGM and Warner Bros. films, parts that paid better than the occasional seven dollars a day she’d been earning as an extra. Then, just two months ago, had come her big break: Jack Warner offered her a contract at seventy-five dollars a week.
‘I heard the screen door bang,’ she said. ‘How was it? I’ll bet being on location is the most exciting thing in the world. How did you like Catalina? I’ve heard it’s very, very beautiful. What was the hotel like? I know it’s very elegant and famous. Did you get any dinner? There isn’t much food in the kitchen – Helen’s going to the market tomorrow – but I could scramble you some eggs. And … oh, I almost forgot. You got a telegram.’ She rummaged through the mail on the hall table. ‘Here. It came yesterday.’
‘Thanks, Myrna. I’m awfully tired, but—’
She grabbed my valise out of my hand. ‘I’ll carry your bag upstairs. You sit and read your telegram. And how about those eggs?’
In truth, eggs sounded like something I could swallow. ‘Yes, please, Myrna.’
The telegram was from David’s lawyer, asking to see me the moment I came home. I took him at his word, so even though the clock said 9:00, I went to the telephone and aske
d the operator for his home number, Madison-7372, that he’d sent in the telegram. Mike Allenby picked up on the first ring and said he’d come right away to my house on Fernwood.
I lived in an old farmhouse that had a city grow up around it. I rented the place with Myrna, Lillian, Melva, and Helen – all great girls but I liked Myrna best. It had just three bedrooms upstairs, so we turned the first-floor parlor and the dining room into bedrooms so we each could enjoy the privacy of our own room. Since the weather was nice year-round, the front porch and back patio served as outdoor parlors, and we made do in the kitchen on those rare rainy days.
I’d never met David’s lawyer, and within minutes of showing him into the kitchen, I knew I did not share David’s high opinion of the man. Some call it women’s intuition; others call it psychic powers. Whatever it was, I sensed an unscrupulous core to Mr Allenby’s character that he covered with what he considered irresistible charm. To be fair, he’d probably been a pretty baby and a handsome enough little boy, but the once-attractive, youthful features had coarsened as he matured. He was not the ladykiller he thought he was. I reminded myself that my estimation mattered for nothing as long as he was a crackerjack lawyer.
‘Mr Allenby, please have a seat and tell me what has happened.’
‘Call me Mike.’
For all that he’d rushed over, Mr Allenby seemed in no hurry to enlighten me. He took a cigarette out of his silver case, fixed it into his Bakelite holder, and inhaled dramatically. Only then did he lean forward on his elbows and, fixing me with what I’m sure he thought were bedroom eyes, say, ‘My client requested I see you at once and let you know the score.’ He filled his lungs again, leaned back, and crossed his legs in a preening manner before exhaling. This routine could not possibly impress any female over the age of ten.
I’d reached the end of my patience. ‘What are the charges, Mr Allenby?’
‘Murder, robbery, insurance fraud, and tax evasion.’
I nearly fell out of my chair. Bootlegging, I expected. Failure to fill out the proper forms, I expected, or some slap-on-the-wrist charges that could be dismissed with a fine or a bribe. But murder? My throat closed. I couldn’t make a sound.
Satisfied that he’d knocked the wind out of me, Allenby continued. ‘It’s all about the incident in Arizona last July, of course. He said you were on that train that was hijacked with his liquor … ah, medicine … on board.’
‘I … uh … yes. Yes, I was.’ The word murder had filled my head with visions of a gallows and a hooded hangman, and I struggled to pull my attention back to Allenby. ‘But … well, it was his liquor, wasn’t it? So there should be no question of theft, and as for the men who were killed in the gunfight, even the local sheriff agreed that it had been self-defense. They were about to shoot us.’
‘We’re counting on you to testify accordingly. And we’ve already talked to that sheriff in Arizona. What’s his name? Barnett?’
‘Barnes. I can tell you the names of others on that train who could support my story.’ I spelled the names of the sisters and the waiter who’d been with me in the dining car when it was hijacked. ‘When’s the trial?’
‘In a few weeks. No date set yet. Considering the gravity of the charges, there’s no question of bail. I tried, but the donations weren’t greasing the skids like they usually do.’ He shook his head. ‘I wish to hell I knew why everybody suddenly got religion.’
‘When are visiting hours?’
Mr Allenby shook his head. ‘These are federal charges. He’s been moved to the downtown jail.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Near the courthouse at Main and Temple. But save yourself the trip. You won’t get in.’
‘What if I say I’m—’
‘Doesn’t matter if you’re his wife, his sister, or his mother dying of cancer, hon. They aren’t letting anybody see him but me, and they’re making it damn hard for me.’
But he agreed to take David a letter – one that would probably be read by the guards, he cautioned – so I sat down and began to write.
FIVE
It was early days for The Black Pirate, but we spent the next week filming some of the final scenes with Billie Dove, the actress who played the captive princess. The general public would be surprised to learn – as I had been – that scenes weren’t filmed in order from beginning to end; it would have been easier for the actors to work that way but harder for everyone else, however the real reason was cost. Sequential filming took longer, so we skipped around, grouping scenes according to their sets and which extras were involved.
Technicolor brought new challenges. For one thing, it brought a complete change of camera equipment, which cost a king’s ransom. Which is why the studio needed David’s money. Colors filmed indoors looked different when filmed outdoors, meaning we needed twice the costumes so that the princess’s dress wouldn’t change shades of blue when she moved from the captain’s quarters to the deck, which is why I was dashing back and forth from the set to Wardrobe and Make-up a hundred times a day.
‘Jessie, we’ve got the indoor shawl. Miss Dove thinks she left the other one in Make-up. And tell Roy we’ll need him in thirty minutes.’
That’s why I was in Make-up on Saturday when Barbara Petrovitch caught sight of me. I hadn’t seen her since she’d returned to work.
‘Oh, Jessie!’ she called. ‘Do you have a minute?’
I didn’t, but I skidded to a halt. ‘Barbara! I’m so glad to see you back at the job! We all missed you on location.’
‘Yes, yes. I’m glad to be back. It’s so very hard to concentrate … but it’s worse at home alone. I’m lonesome for Joe.’ Her eyes grew misty. I understood. I was lonesome too, but my own situation was nothing compared to hers. David would be back soon; Joe would never come home. Feeling guilty, I gave her a hug.
‘Jessie,’ she said with a tremor in her voice, ‘there’s been no news on Joe’s killer. The police don’t care about finding him any longer.’
‘Oh, Barbara, I’m sure that’s not the case. These things take time. I know they’re doing their best.’
She shook her head. ‘I called yesterday and talked to that detective in charge. He sounded impatient, like I was bothering him. Told me he’d call as soon as they knew anything, but I know a cold shoulder when I get one.’
‘I’m sure he’ll let you know as soon as they have any solid information.’
‘They’ve given up. I could hear it in his voice. I mean, the murderer just vanished into thin air, so what can they do? And so, well, I wondered … everyone knows how good you are at solving murders, would you … I mean, could you solve this one too?’
‘Gosh, I don’t think I could do better than the police.’ That was false modesty on my part. Truth was, I did think I could do better than the police, because I had done just that in the recent past. Why, was anybody’s guess – my take was that the honest few on the police force lacked imagination and the dishonest ones were so busy taking bribes from bootleggers, they couldn’t be bothered with solving crimes. I didn’t have any special talent, but I seemed to notice things others didn’t. And my knack for impersonation didn’t hurt my ability to collect information.
‘That’s not so!’ Barbara protested. ‘Everyone at the studio talks about how you figured out who killed Lila Walker when the police never even investigated her death.’ Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes as she fished in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘I know nothing will bring Joe back. I just want justice for him. He was such a good man. It’s not right that his killer would get away with murder. Why, he might kill somebody else!’
Tears conquer all. Besides, if truth be known, I’d been burning with curiosity since I’d first heard about the weird circumstances surrounding Joe’s murder and the vanishing killer. I pushed any worries about danger to the back of my mind. Think of poor Barbara, I told myself. I’d just dig around a little and see what turned up. This investigation wouldn’t be dangerous.
I patted her a
rm. ‘Sure, Barbara, sure. Don’t cry. I’ll give it a try.’
‘Oh, thank you, Jessie!’ She grasped my hand and kissed it, embarrassing me so much I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching. ‘Thank you, thank you! I know you’ll succeed. You’re so clever.’
Assuring her I’d do my best, I extricated myself from the awkward scene and fled to the safety of the pirates.
The next day was Sunday, and I figured no harm would come from visiting the scene of the crime to ask a few questions. And the investigation would take my mind off David. Hopping a Red Car downtown, I arrived at the Lyceum Theater on South Spring Street in plenty of time for Sunday afternoon’s opening matinee. Back in its heyday, the Lyceum had been a theater for vaudeville and legit, but changing times had caused its owner to embrace the pictures exclusively. As I approached, I saw an old man selling popcorn on the sidewalk. Food was never allowed inside theaters, but it smelled so good that I promised him I’d buy a bag if he were still there when I came out.
The feature film wasn’t due to start for half an hour, and I had work to do. I bought a dime ducat for a Buster Keaton picture I’d already seen and explored the lobby and the orchestra floor, noting the position of the exits and the lavatories before climbing the stairs to the balcony. Halfway up, I reached the unmarked door to the projectionist’s booth. It was closed, and my knock was met with silence. I tried the handle. Locked tight.
The theater was large with a balcony that held more than two hundred red-plush seats. One glance over the railing to the floor below was enough to tell me that no man, even an acrobatic wonder like Douglas Fairbanks, could jump down safely since he would have landed on seat backs and not on a flat floor. I thought it unlikely anyone could have survived without a broken leg at the very least. No handholds below the railing would have permitted a man to shorten the drop, no closets or alcoves or water closets offered a hiding place, and the single staircase was the one I’d used coming up, the one that passed the projectionist’s booth. The only place a man might have concealed himself was under the seats, and to do that, he would have to have been as small and thin as a child.