Death Was in the Picture

by Linda L. Richards

  She looked sheepish for a second, but only just. “Joe’s gonna give me a ride home. Since I live out in Tarzana, it’ll save me about three years on the streetcar.”

  I handed the number across to her. “Do call me. I’ve enjoyed your company,” I said. She took it, but I stopped her when she would have been on her way. “And Rosalyn, please. Be careful. I think … well, I’m not sure but I think he might be dangerous.”

  “Honey,” she said with a smile, “all men are dangerous. I’m always careful. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Let you know what’s what.”

  Then she picked up her bag of bones and was gone, and they were gone, too. I sat in the commissary feeling oddly bereft. As though I’d allowed something to happen. Allowed something to swing out of control.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  WHEN I BACKTRACKED my way past the office where I’d seen Dex, he was gone. Mustard and the car were gone, too. I had no way of knowing if they were still on the lot somewhere or if they’d headed on their way. I regretted that; I would have liked to have caught up with them. After the day I’d had, it would have been nice to hitch a ride.

  By the time I found the right streetcar, it was after seven and quite dark. I thought about going back to the office and seeing if the guys were there or if they’d left any notes but once I was underway I realized I was bone tired and just wanted to go home. If anything exciting was happening, it could keep until the morning. I needed my bed and a bath and a bowl of Marjorie’s good soup.

  The following morning, there was something nice about being in the office. Something pleasant and reassuring. It seemed that, lately, everything had been so very busy, I’d barely had a moment to myself. So it was satisfying to spend half an hour alone in the office’s morning quiet, straightening the already tidy rooms, making coffee and trying not to listen through the open window to Hartounian’s secretary on the phone with her boyfriend.

  When the phone rang, I answered it cheerfully. “Good morning, Dexter Theroux’s office. How can I help you?”

  “Help me, sheesh! But do I need help.” I hadn’t known her long, but I recognized her voice right away.

  “Hey, Rosalyn, I’m glad to hear you got home safely.”

  “Boy, but barely. Your man Breen is quite the piece of work.”

  “Breen?”

  “Yeah. Joe. I thought you knew him.”

  “I’ve met him. I barely know him. And don’t call him ‘mine.’ I was avoiding him yesterday, remember?”

  “I can see why.”

  “You can? Why? What happened?”

  “You know, it’s a pretty long drive out to Tarzana.”

  “I’ll say,” I told her. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to live out there.”

  “It’s pretty. And I have a dog. And family, you know. But, yeah: it takes plenty long on the streetcar. That’s why I was glad of the offer of the ride.”

  “I worried about that, though,” I admitted. “Busy guy wears a suit like that, he’s important. He doesn’t just give rides for nothing. Especially out to the moon.”

  “Tarzana is not the moon but, yeah, I know. There was something about him, all right?”

  “Well, it wasn’t his looks.”

  “No,” she agreed, “it wasn’t his looks. But I got the feeling he was someone with some weight to throw around, you know? And I could tell right away that he liked the looks of me just fine.”

  What was there not to like? Rosalyn Steele was the very picture of a starlet. She even had that extra dash of something. She was slender and tall and blond and beautiful. Funny and smart, too. It didn’t take much imagination to work out why a man like Breen would be quickly smitten. Rosalyn was the whole package. I figured it was possible that one day she’d be a star.

  “Yeah,” I said wryly, “I could see that part wasn’t going to be a problem.”

  “So we’re driving out there and we’re chatting, you know, like people do when they’re in a car and they’re getting to know each other.”

  “Sure.”

  “And he sez to me, he sez,” here she pitched her voice low in a terrible approximation of Breen’s way of speaking,” ‘So, you’re an actress, huh? Have I seen you in anything?’ And I tell him yeah and I tell him what in, but I also tell him they were small parts, right? And I’m waiting for my big break. And he nods like he knows a thing or two about that and he puts his hand on my knee while he says, ‘Well, maybe that’s something I can help you with.’”

  “He did not,” I said.

  “He did! And, I’ll be honest with you, Kitty: that’s what I was there for. You know that, right? I mean, I figured he was someone could do me some good and now he was telling me that was so. Everything was just fine. And a girl can always close her eyes.”

  “But you said.

  “Wait. I’m getting to it. So we’re driving along. We’re getting pretty close to home by now. And his hand is inching up my thigh. And I’m letting it, right? I know where this is going. I’m a big girl. Only he’s a talker, right? And he starts making conversation.”

  “What do you mean? A talker?”

  “You don’t get out much, do you? Never mind. A talker is a guy what likes to hear his own voice. Breen was like that. It wasn’t enough he’s got his hand moving ever closer to my place of business, now he’s gotta yak.”

  “About what?” I said, still inwardly shuddering over the ‘place of business’ remark.

  “Empty yakking. Just to fill up the space with the sound of his voice. Breen seems to like his voice just fine. So he sez at one point, he sez, ‘Well, Rosalyn Steele. That’s a real pretty name. A blueblood name. Where do you hail from?’ Something like that. And I laughed, of course, and I tell him my real name and tell him I was born on the Lower East Side but my family moved out here when I was a kid. And, Kitty, I tell him this and his hand drops right off my lap. And he says, ‘You’re a kike?’”

  “He did not!”

  “He did. And not like he’s asking, you know, but like he can’t believe he sullied his hand. And came close to sullying other things.”

  “What did you say?”

  “What could I say? I drew myself up and I said, ‘I am a daughter of Israel.’ I wish my mother would have been there to see it. Well, not the hand in lap part. But the part where I said that with pride. It would have surprised her, I think.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Not too much, let me tell you. He pulled the car over to the side of the road—pitch black it is, out in the middle of nowhere, someplace on Ventura. He pulls over and he sez, ‘Get out.’ All cold like. And just that. ‘Get out.’“ She made the impression sound dark and ominous now, though it still didn’t sound much like Breen.

  “So what did you do?”

  “What do you think I did? I got out. Slammed the car door as hard as I could—not that he cared. And he hurtled off into the night, leaving me out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Hurtled?”

  “Absolutely. I left Steve’s bones in the car, too.”

  “Steve?”

  “My dog.”

  “Your dog is named Steve? Sorry. Never mind. So, then what?”

  “Then what? What do you think? I ankled it off toward Tarzana. Not a lot of traffic heading out that way that time of night, but I stuck my thumb out and I got a lift before long. Some nice couple coming back from the city. I was lucky they came along: you saw my shoes. They weren’t meant for hiking.”

  I thanked Rosalyn for calling with the update and we said we’d get together for coffee soon. I meant it, too. Even though we were geared pretty differently, I genuinely liked her and figured we could be friends. We were about to hang up, when she interrupted our good-byes.

  “Oh geez, I nearly forgot something. That guy he was with yesterday. The big one?”

  “Xander Dean.”

  “Yeah. When we first got going, I asked how they knew each other. Were they friends or whatever. I figured you’d want to know.”<
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  “You’re right. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Anyway, he didn’t say much, just said the guy was nobody. ‘Just hired muscle,’ was what he said. Now I’m no dope, Kitty. I know a guy can lie about a thing like that to a dame to make himself look bigger. But you pretty much figured that anyway, didn’t you? So I kinda thought that confirms it.”

  She was right, it did. After we hung up on another promise of coffee or perhaps lunch, I thought about it. The fact that Xander worked for Breen came as no surprise. But, as Rosalyn had said, it confirmed things. I tucked the information away to tell Dex when he came in.

  I had just given my attention back to my now nearly cold coffee when the phone rang again. Ours is not generally a busy office, so two phone calls back to back were cause for a raised eyebrow.

  “Dexter Theroux’s office,” I said. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi there, is Dex in?” A masculine voice.

  “I’m sorry. No. Can I take a message?”

  “Yes. OK. Yes. Thank you. This is Samuel Marcus from the Courier. Dex and I spoke a few days ago.”

  “Mr. Theroux mentioned the conversation to me.”

  “He did? Ah, well. In that case, please tell him that he probably won’t be able to get me on the phone all day.”

  “All right, I’ll tell him.”

  “And that, near as I can tell, there’s nothing to that theory of his. That mean anything to you?”

  “Yes, actually, it does.”

  “Good, good. Well then, also tell him this: for what it’s worth, the people in my office are taking bets that it ain’t Wyndham at all.”

  “‘Not Wyndham,’” I repeated as I wrote it down. “All right. Go on.”

  “Yeah. The smart money here is on a broad.”

  “What? But there hasn’t been even a hint of that. Where does that come from?”

  “Well, the figuring is this: the killing was coldly calculated, yet wouldn’t have taken a lot of strength.”

  “I don’t know …” I said.

  “We’ve talked it all around. Here’s the thing though: your boss is on the case, right? If he finds anything, he has to call me up and give me the straight dope. I mean, he knows that. We talked about it. But that was our deal and that’s why I’m calling. You got all that down, sugar?”

  “Sure, sure,” I said, looking down at my notes. “No newspaper conspiracy. Not Wyndham. Money’s on a broad. I got it all.”

  “Great, well that’s just jake. Tell him to call and leave a message any time. I’ll get back to him fast.”

  Mustard arrived noisily just as I was hanging up the phone. Two telephone calls and now a personal visit?

  “It’s like a train station around here today,” I said by way of greeting.

  “Huh,” Mustard said, looking over both shoulders theatrically. “I don’t see any rattlers around here, do you?”

  “No, Mustard, I didn’t mean there were actual trains around here. It’s just that… never mind. What can I do for you?”

  “Ask not what you can do for me …” he said mysteriously,then plunked a folder the color of clotted cream onto my desk. It was about an inch thick, held together with an elastic band. The package looked as though it had seen some miles. The corners of the folder were dog-eared and I could see what appeared to be a coffee stain on the side facing me.

  “What’s this?” I said, inexplicably reluctant to touch the thing.

  “Open it up and see. Is he in?” he said, moving toward Dex’s closed office door.

  “No. Haven’t seen him. Haven’t heard a peep. And I wanted to hear how it went at the studio yesterday.”

  “Well, it went.”

  “I know that, wise guy. But specifics. And I’ve got some of my own.”

  Mustard looked interested but would not be diverted. “We’ll get to all that when he shows up. Meanwhile …” and he poked the folder another inch or two closer to me on the desk.

  “All right already,” I said, before doing what he suggested, opening the folder and looking at the first page of a thick sheaf of mimeographed paper.

  “The Motion Picture Production Code of 1930,” I read. “Wait, the name is familiar. Why?”

  “Read on, just a bit,” Mustard said. “I think you’ll see.”

  “‘If motion pictures present stories that will affect lives for the better,’” I read, “‘they can become the most powerful force for the improvement of mankind.’” I looked at Mustard again. “I don’t understand.”

  “Skip to here,” he said, indicating a section a bit farther down the page. And then, “Out loud,” when I would have read it silently.

  I complied, treading lightly over it until I got to this part: “‘Motion picture producers recognize the high trust and confidence which have been placed in them by the people of the world and which have made motion pictures a universal form of entertainment.’ Mustard?”

  “Keep going.”

  I sighed, but did as he asked. “‘They recognize their responsibility to the public because of this trust and because entertainment and art are important influences in the life of a nation. Hence, though regarding motion pictures primarily as entertainment without any explicit purpose of teaching or propaganda, they know that the motion picture within its own field of entertainment may be directly responsible for spiritual or moral progress, for higher types of social life, and for much correct thinking….’ Wait. Why are you having me read this?”

  “Who do you figure wrote this document?”

  “These people,” I skimmed back to what I’d already read, looking for the salient bit, “these ‘motion picture producers.’ I know something about that. I was talking to this guy at the Masquers’ party …”

  “Yeah, but you’re wrong,” Mustard interrupted me.

  “Wrong about what? I haven’t told you anything yet.”

  Mustard grinned. A bit sheepishly, I thought, but he grinned nonetheless. “No. You haven’t. But I know you’re wrong anyway. It was written for the motion picture producers. But it was not written by them.”

  “Oh-kay …” I said. I could tell there was something Mustard wanted to say, but he was getting to it in his own sweet time. I let him amble.

  “The actual writing was done by a Catholic priest.”

  “A Catholic priest.”

  “Right,” he hesitated a beat. I waited things out. “A Catholic priest,” he repeated, “named Daniel Lord. From … Chicago.”

  I sat there for a minute, waiting for the import of what Mustard was telling me to sink in. Obviously, there was something here he wanted me to see. Something he’d already gotten loud and clear, but it just wasn’t coming through.

  “Listen, Mustard, I don’t wanna say ‘big deal’ but…”

  “Don’t you see it?”

  I shook my head while still scouring my brain. “I’m sorry, Mustard. Maybe there’s something here I’m missing. We’ve got… what? Some kind of rules written by a priest who wants movies to be moral. And you’re acting like it’s some big missing piece.”

  “Well, it’s the Chicago thing, for starters.”

  “It’s a big place, Mustard. Chicago is a city. There are a lot of people there. I’m pretty sure they don’t all know each other.”

  “Sure, I know that,” he said impatiently. “But, see, I told you: a guy I know in Chicago—a horse racing guy—gave Xander Dean my name. But Dean, who does he work for? Did he ever tell you?” Mustard watched my face for a second, then looked slightly triumphant. “See, he never told you, did he?”

  “Are you asking me if he told me? Or are you asking me if I know?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  I nodded.

  “OK then, I’m asking did he tell you.”

  “In that case, no.”

  “There you go,” he said triumphantly.

  “Are you kidding me?” I said, feeling the end of my rope drawing near. “What are you talking about, Mustard? I’m completely lost.”
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  “I’ll draw you a picture.”

  “Do that.”

  “We’ll just play pretend. Let’s say that, back in Chicago, Daniel Lord hires Xander Dean …”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “A Catholic priest hires local muscle? Already that’s a stretch.”

  “Just pipe down and listen up, will you? And, anyway, it’s not as much of a stretch as you might think. See, Father Daniel Lord has spent most of his career in St. Louis.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “And things with him seem pretty quiet up to 1926.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “He was made a director of the Sodality of Our Lady.”

  “The Sodality of Our Lady,” I said the words. Tried them on. “What’s that?”

  “OK: I’m still working on that,” Mustard admitted. “They don’t seem to go around publishing manuals on what they do.”

  “No,” I said wryly, indicating the copy of the Production Code on my desk, “just on what others should do.”

  “I do know that it’s not just priests what are members though. Peter Paul Rubens …”

  “The artist?”

  “Yeah. And Leopold of Austria …”

  “Ummm … is he the one they called the Holy Roman Emperor? Maybe that’s not such a leap.”

  “Maybe even Cecil B. DeMille.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe. Anyway, you get the idea: not just people you’d think of as belonging to religious organizations.”

  “Let me say it again: Holy Roman Emperor.”

  Mustard ignored both the crack and my tone. “So, like I said, this Daniel Lord was made national director of the Sodalists in 1926. In 1927, he consulted on The King of Kings for DeMille.”

  “Who was also a Sodalist.”

  “Maybe. But, see, that’s Lord’s first Hollywood connection. And maybe, from his perspective, the first time he finds himself thinking about how he could affect the morals of the nation.”

  “But that’s conjecture, right?” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “All right. Then what?

  “In 1929, Lord starts work on the Production Code more or less under the direction of Cardinal Mundelein of the Archdiocese of Chicago.”