by Mary Miley
‘Fort Knox?’
‘That’s what they call their warehouse where they keep all their hooch and dope. I looked up Fort Knox in the encyclopedia. The real Fort Knox is where they keep all the gold.’
‘You, ahhh, you wouldn’t happen to know where this Fort Knox is, would you?’
‘Kentucky.’
‘I mean, Ardizzone’s Fort Knox.’
She smiled at her own joke. ‘I’m just razzing you! But no, I never went there, sorry. But I saw them talk about a warehouse, and I know it has a blue door, because sometimes Danny Boy or Joe would tell someone to come to the blue door at Fort Knox.’
I couldn’t remain silent any longer. ‘Carl, this scares me. If this is a great secret and you raid that warehouse, they’ll know the information came from inside, and they may think of Kit and come looking for her. She wouldn’t be hard to find – there aren’t many deaf girls her age around. They may already know Rose Ann dropped her off here …’
‘Give me some credit—’
‘They won’t think of me,’ Kit interrupted. ‘No one knew I could read lips, and they all thought I was a simp. But you can’t raid Fort Knox. The stool pigeon will just warn Joe, and he’ll move the stuff or figure out how to stop the raid.’
‘Not if I don’t tell anyone at headquarters – not a blessed soul. I can arrange to meet federal agents and cops somewhere without revealing where we’re going until the last minute. And afterwards, when I write up the report, I’ll say I heard the information from an informant who can’t be named.’
‘And even if the police chief or someone really important asks you who gave you the information, you mustn’t ever tell!’ I said. ‘Even if they fire you! We can’t know who’s on Ardizzone’s payroll. It could be the police chief himself, for all we know. We can’t trust anyone!’
‘Hell, half the force is on Ardizzone’s payroll. That’s the problem. But the stool pigeon at headquarters … that’s one name I’d like to have.’
‘I think Fort Knox is a good name for a secret warehouse,’ said Kit with a cherubic smile, ‘don’t you? Be sure to write that name in your report.’
Inside the house, the telephone bell rang. A moment later, Myrna came onto the porch. ‘Jessie,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘It’s Douglas Fairbanks.’
My heart pounded as I went to the back of the hall and reached for the receiver. What on earth could he want? Was he going to explain why he had to let me go? Apologize, maybe?
‘Hello?’ I said in a tone I hoped sounded like a self-confident girl who was unfazed about being fired because she had so many other prospects beating down her door.
‘Jessie! Douglas here. Take a bow, my girl! Just heard the news from the chief of police. Another feather for your cap. I know Barbara Petrovitch will be comforted to know her husband’s killer is dead. And a woman! Who would’ve thought it? Good work, good work. So when can we expect you back at the studio?’
THIRTY-SIX
Turns out it was all a misunderstanding – Douglas was just trying to throw the newspapermen off my trail. He hadn’t meant me to take those newspaper articles seriously, and he wanted me back at work as soon as I could get there. ‘The pirates need you,’ he said. He thought a name change would be in order, so I returned under my mother’s stage name, Randall. And my new address at David’s house would play into that quite well. Jessie Beckett on Fernwood who had testified at David Carr’s trial would effectively disappear. Jessie Randall worked for Pickford-Fairbanks and lived at a fashionable Whitley Heights address.
I wanted to believe him. I pretended to believe him. But deep down, I pretty much knew that he’d shifted gears because of my sleuthing success and because the studio was no longer on the hot seat as regards David’s trial. Scandals had short lives in Hollywood. David’s was ancient history. So ancient that Douglas could afford to be magnanimous and have me back. So two and a half weeks after I read in the newspaper that I’d been fired, I was back at work.
The next day was Sunday, a good day to move. Now that I was a Pickford-Fairbanks employee again, I was allowed to borrow the studio flivver. With that, I drove my and Myrna’s meager belongings to David’s house. My house. It was half mine, David had said when he first bought it, and from now on, I would remember that.
‘Are you very, very sure that furniture isn’t too much money?’ Myrna asked as we lugged our boxes up the steps. ‘I wouldn’t want David to be unhappy with me.’
‘Nonsense, Myrna. He’ll be thrilled when I tell him. He wants us to furnish the empty rooms in the house, and twenty-five dollars for a nice iron bed is perfectly reasonable, especially since it includes the mattress. I’m glad they delivered on a Sunday. You’ll have a bed to sleep in tonight, but you’ll need to pick out a dresser and vanity and night tables as soon as possible. Find something you like and have it delivered one evening when we’re home.’
Monday morning found me almost giddy to be walking through the Pickford-Fairbanks arch. I understood that, with my own Fort Knox residing cozily under David’s bed, I need never work another day in my life, but I loved my job at Pickford-Fairbanks and couldn’t imagine staying home … doing exactly what? I had never for an instant contemplated not working.
With a wave to the guard, I returned to my desk where someone had placed the biggest bouquet of roses I’d ever seen in my life. ‘Welcome home,’ the card read, signed Mary and Douglas. I nearly skipped to the pirate set on the back lot where we were filming one of the complicated scenes on the pirate ship, a scene that involved scores of extras. The set was swarming with light men, make-up girls, cameramen, set managers, grips galore, assistants, and assistant assistants. Script girl Julia Girone wasted no time bringing her assistant – me – up to speed.
‘Good morning, Jessie,’ she said, her voice crisp with tension. ‘Handle wardrobes for these extras, please.’ She handed me a long list. I needed no further direction. The extras were arriving as we spoke, and their costumes had to be made ready, costumes that matched the ones they wore last week. Extras wouldn’t be seen that clearly in the final film version, so we could have gotten away with some variation, but Douglas was a perfectionist in all aspects of his films. No detail was too small.
‘Barbara!’ I called as I caught a glimpse of her in the hall between Make-up and Wardrobe.
‘Oh, Jessie! I heard the news yesterday from Mr Fairbanks. He says it will be in all the newspapers tomorrow. I’m eager to hear the details from you as soon as you can spare an evening to come to my house for dinner. I want to know everything. I knew you could do it! I knew you would find Joe’s killer.’
‘Did Douglas tell you—’
‘That it was a woman? Yes! So shocking! Who would think a woman could do such violent, horrid things?’
‘Did he tell you the woman was posing as Julia Shala?’
Barbara’s shocked expression told me better than words that Douglas had not shared that. She stopped cold in the middle of the hall, speechless, her arms full of wigs.
‘Yes, her name was Vesa Leka, but she pretended to be Mr Shala at Joe’s funeral, and later she came to your house as his wife, Julia Shala. She was masquerading in order to learn more about other friends of Joe’s that she wanted to kill. I’ll tell you all about it later.’
And I would, too. But I would leave out the part about Joe’s former life as a Serbian army deserter, rapist, and murderer. That information would do Barbara no good at all. I would say that Vesa Leka had a grudge against five men she believed had swindled her family back in the Old Country. If Barbara pressed for details, I would say that was all I knew. And Vesa Leka, being dead, could not gainsay my version.
After Director Parker dismissed us that night, I went straight to a Ford dealer and bought a motorcar. The under-the-bed stash meant I could have bought anything, foreign or domestic, but I’d been driving the studio’s Ford for the past few months and was comfortable with that. However, the more I thought about a Ford Runabout, the more I realized the limi
tations of having only the one seat, so I’d set my cap for a touring car because of its spacious rear seat. The salesman was rather flummoxed at having to deal with a female customer and kept asking was I certain I didn’t have a father or husband to help me?
‘I’m certain. I am sorry, you will just have to deal with me.’
‘No brother? An uncle perhaps?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m an orphan.’
‘Oh my, oh dear, I’m very sorry. Is there not even a beau?’
I shook my head sadly. ‘But I can go over to the Oldsmobile dealer if you don’t want to—’
‘No, no! We’ll handle everything for you right here.’
And cheat me, if he could. But he couldn’t, because Carl had told me not to go over $325 for the Ford touring car. I got it for $314 and two dollars worth of gasoline, which filled its ten-gallon tank.
‘Are you sure you aren’t interested in the weekly purchase plan, miss?’
‘I’m sure.’ I exchanged David’s cash for the key and steered toward home.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Douglas Fairbanks was an unhappy man. He stood, arms akimbo, decked out in full pirate garb, glaring at the lights through narrowed eyes. The crowded scene with all the pirates on deck had not gone the way he wanted, and he and Director Parker had their heads together as they discussed possible solutions to the lighting problem. Technicolor filming was so untested. Wringing the maximum value from it involved a good deal of experimentation. Filming in color required more light than filming in black and white, but no one knew how much was enough. Fortunately, Douglas regarded this as another challenge to overcome, one he attacked as vigorously as he did the dastardly pirates. Parker showed less enthusiasm.
‘All right, everyone,’ Parker called through his megaphone. ‘Take an hour. We’re bringing up some additional lights.’
It was late – after two o’clock – and I was as hungry as the Starving Chinese, but I had something more important to do than eat. Mike Allenby’s law office was not far from the studio, and I wanted news of David. In my new touring car, I whisked over in half the time it would have taken had I hopped a Red Car. Luckily, his secretary indicated her boss was in. She waved me into his office, a cave-like corner room with dark leather furniture and open windows that drew in a fresh cross breeze.
‘I’ve been out of town,’ I began, ‘but I’m home now, and I wanted to know how David was doing.’
‘I haven’t seen him since we last spoke,’ he told me without inviting me to sit. I sat anyway.
‘When will you be visiting him next?’
He sighed. ‘Probably not until after the first of the new year. There’s just no reason to. Nothing to talk about.’
‘You could deliver my letter.’ I placed the long letter I’d written last night on his desk. In it, I told him all about Vesa Leka and how she’d avenged her family at the cost of her own life. I told him Myrna and I had moved into his house and bought some furniture with his funds. And a motorcar. He’d know which funds I meant. I told him he should send future letters to Jessie Randall at the Whitley Heights address. I never told him I’d lost my job on account of his trial, but he’d probably figure out that bad publicity had brought about the name change.
‘I’m no mailman. I can’t spend half a day going all the way to the prison to deliver a letter.’ I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t burst out with something I would regret later. It wouldn’t help David to antagonize his lawyer. ‘Look,’ he said, taking in my pained expression, ‘it’ll get there just as quick if you put it in the mail. The guards are gonna read it either way.’
‘I wasn’t concerned about the guards reading it, I just wanted to hear from you how he looked. How he was doing. He hasn’t written …’
‘Lotta times they don’t write. Hell, what have they got to say? Their days are all the same.’
The telephone on his desk burst forth with such a loud, harsh jangle, I jumped. The lawyer picked up the receiver and identified himself. ‘Allenby. Yeah … yeah … yeah? No kidding? Yeah. Well, thanks.’
He looked at me, his lips stretched in a wide grin, as he replaced the receiver in the cradle.
‘Well, this is good timing, you being here. You’ll like this. Remember that Joe Ardizzone fella who set your boy up for a fall? Well, listen to this: cops raided a big warehouse this morning down on East First and seized thousands of cases of liquor and more dope than you could imagine. They’re still counting. Evidently it was his gang’s main hoard. Wooo-eee!’ he said, slapping his hand on the desk. ‘That’ll knock old Iron Man off his gold-plated throne.’
‘Has he been arrested?’
Allenby shook his head. ‘No chance of that,’ he said. ‘His lawyers will have shielded him from the warehouse. He’ll claim he knows nothing about it, and there will be nothing to tie him to the liquor or the dope. But he’ll suffer, that’s for sure. Thank God I just laid in a couple bottles of whiskey last weekend. This’ll bring on a scramble and prices’ll shoot sky high, at least until the gang restocks. Could take weeks. Hell, that’s news Carr will want to hear! Better add a P.S. to your letter.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
When I got back to the house at eight o’clock that evening, exhausted and hungry, I found Myrna upstairs in her bedroom, arranging her clothes in her sawdust-smelling dresser drawers ‘so new they were trees last week’, she’d said. I had only just taken off my sweater when the telephone bell rang.
‘I’ll pick up,’ I called. I sat on the bench and lifted the receiver. It was Helen.
‘Helen! How lovely to hear from you! How was the beach?’
‘We had a fine time. Jessie—’
‘Bet you’re both busy as bees packing for the trip tomorrow. How long a drive is it?’
‘About three days, depending on how we go. Jessie, is—’
‘And is your mother there?’
‘Well, no, we’re going to Riverside tomorrow and say goodbye.’
‘And drop off Kit.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m calling about. Is Kit there?’
‘Here? No! Why – is she missing?’
‘When Larry and I got home, the house was empty. Of course, Melva and Lillian were at work, but I thought Kit would be here.’
‘She’s probably gone on a walk somewhere. She goes to the pictures sometimes.’
‘That’s what we thought at first, but it’s been several hours, and it’s getting dark.’
‘Geez, I haven’t seen her since Myrna and I moved out on Sunday.’
Hearing my end of the conversation brought Myrna to the head of the stairs. ‘Kit’s missing?’ she asked.
I pressed my lips together and gave a grim nod. ‘You don’t know where she might be, do you?’ I mouthed. Myrna shook her head. ‘Myrna says she doesn’t know where she is either,’ I told Helen.
‘Lillian said she was here this morning when they left for work.’
‘Have you checked the library?’ I asked.
‘Yes. She wasn’t there, and they hadn’t seen her today.’
‘What about that woman down the street who has the puppy?’
‘I’ve walked the street twice. No one’s seen her today.’
Myrna had gone to the closet and was putting on her jacket. ‘Myrna and I are on our way, Helen. We’ll spread out to the other streets in the neighborhood. I’ve got my own motorcar now, so we can cover a lot of territory quickly. Someone will have seen her. Have you called the police?’
‘Not yet. I was just about to.’
‘Let me do that. I’ll call Carl Delaney. He found her walking along the sidewalks one day a few weeks ago and brought her home on his motorcycle. He might have an idea where she’s gone. And he can alert the cops on patrol to keep an eye out for her.’
Myrna handed me my jacket as I dialed Carl’s desk at the police station. Luck was with me: he picked up on the second ring.
‘Evening, Jessie. Did you see the newspapers?’
‘I did. I heard
about the raid yesterday, just after it happened. I want to hear all about it, but not right now. We’ve got a problem. Kit has gone missing.’
‘When?’ His voice took on a tense tone.
‘Not sure. Helen just called me. She and Larry arrived home from their honeymoon at about five o’clock, and Kit wasn’t there. Melva and Lillian saw her this morning before they left for work. They usually leave around eight.’
‘What you don’t know from the newspapers is that the button man, the one they call Danny Boy, was found dead this afternoon and, uh, mutilated in, uh, his private areas. They think he was murdered early this morning.’
My heart started pounding like I’d been running a footrace.
‘Carl, I’m scared. What if … what if Ardizzone figured out who it was who squealed about his warehouse and somehow tracked Kit to the Fernwood house? What if he knew she was there all along? What if he kidnapped her?’
That was illogical. Ardizzone wouldn’t kidnap Kit. There was no reason for him to do so. She had no value to him – no family money to extort, no task he needed accomplished in return for her safe keeping. If he’d grabbed her, it could only be because he’d figured out that she knew too much about his operation, and he needed to get her out of the way before she spilled anything more. And if so, he had no reason to delay – he’d kill her at once. Maybe she’d been dead for hours.
Carl’s voice pulled me back from the cliff edge of despair. ‘No need to jump to conclusions. Kit’s wandered off before, remember, and that’s probably all this is. Still, I’ll put the word out on the street and start looking myself.’
‘I have my own motorcar now. Myrna and I will start looking too. And Helen and them are scouring the neighborhood.’
‘She probably got cold and went into some store. I’ll get the boys to pay attention to the commercial streets. Maybe she’s lost and can’t find her way home.’
‘She’d ask. She isn’t that helpless.’