Death Was in the Picture

by Linda L. Richards

  “More or less.”

  “Sure,” Mustard admitted, “probably one or the other. I’m just not sure yet which one. Anyway, from what I can tell, these guys put the Production Code together and then give it to the Hays Office.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” I said.

  “It’s not really called that. It’s the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America,” Mustard said. “Will Hays is the head of it. But, from my digging, I gather it’s kind of a shield. The studios formed this organization in the 1920s. They gave Hays a lot of money to quit his post office job and run it for them.”

  “He was a mailman?”

  “Kinda. He was Postmaster General.”

  “Of the United States?” I’ve never claimed to know much about either business or politics, but even I know that’s a pretty important job.

  “Yeah. And before that he’d been chairman of the Republican National Committee. But he’d only been Postmaster General for a year before the studio heads hired him to head up the Hays Office….”

  “Which wouldn’t have been called that then.”

  “… word is they offered him $100,000 a year.”

  I just looked at Mustard then, finally speechless. Mustard allowed the quiet, perhaps enjoying my stunned expression.

  “That’s a lot of mazuma,” I said. “And it would explain why he gave up the cushy postal thing.”

  Mustard nodded. “It would indeed. Anyway, they put the Production Code into action, but no one would listen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the studios figure they’ve done their part, you know, they’ve hired Hays and he can pay lip service to whoever and make the pesky government types who would inflict rules on things just go away. Only it’s not enough, right? It’s not enough for anyone: the government wants real censorship, not just lip service. And the church wants morality. So something’s gotta give.”

  “I have no idea where any of this could possibly be going,” I said.

  “Well, the Hays office brings in an enforcer. Someone whose job it will be to make everyone toe the line.”

  “Xander Dean?” I ventured.

  “Not even close,” Mustard said. “They bring in Joseph Breen.”

  “Who is also from Chicago?”

  “No,” Mustard admitted. “Pittsburgh. But there’s a Chicago connection.”

  “Of course there is,” I said dryly.

  I looked at Mustard for a full fifteen seconds without saying anything. Who would have expected that his long convoluted story would actually have a postscript that I’d be able to write?

  “What?” Mustard said. “You’re burnin’ a hole in me.”

  “I know him. I know Joseph Breen,” and all the bits I’d been inadvertently collecting on him came tumbling out. “I met him at the Masquers’ Ball. And I saw him yesterday. At the MGM commissary. He was there with Xander Dean. And he gave a girlfriend of mine a ride home and it turns out he hates Jews.”

  Just then the door opened and Dex came in. “You two look chummy,” he said. “There a reason for this party?”

  Mustard and I looked at each other, then we both looked down at the Production Code, still on my desk.

  “Yeah, there’s a reason. Let’s go in your office, buddy,”Mustard said, leading the way, but indicating I should follow. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  “A lot,” I chimed in.

  “And you’re gonna wanna drink. A big one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “WHAT THE HELL does any of this have to do with our guy?” It was a bellow. I could hear that it came from Dex’s heart. It was fueled by the bourbon he’d been topping his glass with every ten minutes or so for the last three quarters of an hour, but it hadn’t been born there. That place was a different one entirely.

  Mustard looked almost comically unconcerned about Dex’s outburst. He and Dex had been friends a long time and they’d been through a lot together. The trenches in Europe during the War, for starters. They’d watched each other’s backs. Lots more since, I guessed, and though neither of them ever talked about it, the bond they shared ran deep. They were connected in that strange distant-close way that only men who have faced bullets together ever are.

  “No, really, Mustard, you come in here with some cock and bull story about secret religious organizations—in Chicago of all places—and political leaders and the Holy Roman Empire …”

  Mustard shot me a look at that one and I shuffled my feet apologetically. I probably should have left Emperor Leopold out of things, since I could barely remember that lesson from Mrs. Beeson’s school myself and I was fairly certain that Dex had retained even less of the tale than I. Plus, strictly speaking—as I’m sure Mustard would have pointed out given the chance—the emperor’s position as a Sodalist didn’t have much to do with anything at all.

  “But don’t you see,” Mustard started to say, “it’s the Chicago connection…”

  “Don’t start that again.”

  “… and it comes through Xander Dean.”

  “Right. And Kitty saw Dean and Hays’ right-hand being all chummy at the studio yesterday,” Dex supplied. “And Breen told a girlfriend of Kitty’s that Xander was hired muscle. And all of this doesn’t prove anything at all.”

  “On the other hand,” Mustard said, “you have to admit it’s a little odd.”

  Dex nodded agreement. “You’re right. It’s certainly at least a little odd.”

  “What about you two,” I prompted. “I haven’t heard how your day at the studio went.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” Dex said, “they serve a very good grade of whiskey at MGM.”

  “The best,” Mustard agreed.

  “And the Cubans! I haven’t had a cigar so good since I don’t know when.”

  “No, really you guys. Did you find anything useful?”

  The two of them looked like small boys, caught in the act of something nasty … and delicious. They did not scuff their feet on the floor, but I caught an impression of that just the same.

  “Well, we discovered one thing,” Dex said. “You shouldn’t wear lead.”

  “That’s right,” Mustard chimed in. “The color doesn’t suit you. I’ve seen you move more elegantly, too.”

  I did my best to ignore their jocularity. It was hard. Sometimes when the two of them got going, it was difficult to get them back on course. And sometimes they were obviously having so much fun, you didn’t want to try. “Well,” I said, “I actually have still more to impart.”

  “No kiddin’?” Dex said.

  “One of the people I saw on set yesterday was Baron Sutherland.”

  “Your boyfriend,” Dex put in knowledgeably. Mustard’s ears perked right up when Dex said it, too.

  “Hardly that,” I said. “And he didn’t see me and we didn’t talk. But one of the things I learned yesterday was that it’s possible, though not definite, that Baron had his contract drawn up so that if anything happened to Laird Wyndham, he himself would step into Laird’s roles.”

  Dex sat back in his chair and seemed to contemplate this. For his part, Mustard said, “How good is your source?”

  “Not terribly,” I admitted. “Still, it might be worth looking into.”

  “Definitely, Kitty. Thanks. Anything else?”

  “Well, I already told Mustard: I saw Xander Dean at MGM yesterday. In the commissary with Joseph Breen. I got the feeling that Xander was working for Breen.”

  “And they’re both from Chicago,” Mustard said, sounding pleased with himself.

  “Working how?” Dex asked, completely ignoring his old friend.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Well, I did …” I shot a quick glance at Mustard, “I did hear the word ‘Chicago.’ Least, I’m pretty sure I did.”

  “Oh good God,” Dex said.

  Mustard beamed.

  “But a girl I was talking to, Rosalyn Steele? From the Masquers? S
he was an extra with me yesterday. And she got… well, she got Breen to give her a ride home.”

  “Wait: you got a girl to go home with Breen in order to get information?” Dex looked incredulous.

  “No,” I said. “No, never. She actually wanted a ride home—she lives out in Tar zana—and he was offering, so …”

  Dex didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at me piercingly. “Anything else?” he said after a while.

  “Well, it gets ugly.”

  “Go ahead, Kitty. I’m a big boy,” Dex said. “I can take it.”

  “He put the moves on her, before they got to her place.”

  “There’s a shock,” Mustard said.

  “Only when he found out she’s Jewish, he almost pushed her out of the moving car.”

  “That doesn’t sound very nice, Kitty, but it doesn’t have anything at all to do with our case, does it?”

  I shook my head. “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t think so. But I wanted to pass it on, anyway. Plus, in the course of all this he told her that Xander Dean is in his employ.”

  “Which may or may not be true.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just one thing. And it’s nothing I found, just a phone message from Samuel Marcus at the Courier.” I relayed the message and both men sipped their drinks while they contemplated what it might mean.

  “They think it’s a broad, huh?” Dex said.

  I shrugged. “I told him I didn’t think it was likely, but they have other ideas.”

  “Well, like I said a few days ago,” Dex said, “I think we need to find Rhoda Darrow.”

  “So much has been happening, Dex. That’s what I forgot to tell you. I found an address for her. In Santa Monica.” I hit the highlights of my sleuthing and was warmed by Dex’s approving smile.

  “That’s just swell, Kitty. Great work. That’ll save some steps. Course we won’t know until we get there if this is her current address. Still, it’s a better lead than we had before.”

  “But do you think Rhoda Darrow might have done it?”

  “Do I?” Dex said. “To be honest, I’m not sure I do. But I’d like to know what she knows, in any case. And we do know that Dean hired her so, if nothing else, it’s another connection to Dean. I’ll go out there in the morning and see if she’s still around there. Thanks, Kitty.”

  “I could do that part,” I said.

  “Do what part?”

  “Drive out to Santa Monica and see if that’s still her address.”

  Dex looked at me speculatively before answering. “I guess that’s not a bad idea,” he said. “Divide and conquer,” he tipped his glass. “We’ve got this Chicago thing to check up on. Xander Dean. The priest guy.”

  “And Joe Breen,” Mustard put in.

  “But you hafta promise you won’t actually do anything,” Dex said. “Just find out if that’s still where she lives.”

  “Sure, Dex.”

  “And don’t be disappointed if she doesn’t live there anymore. Chances are she doesn’t. You said she left the apartment, what? Six months ago? She seemed the type that might already have moved on.”

  “But if she did, there might be a new address for her, right?”

  “Right. And it’ll save me some steps. Me and Mustard have got things to work through around here, so take Mustard’s car.”

  “Hey!”

  “Why not?” Dex said. “You ain’t going far. We can’t have Kitty going all the way out to the beach on the streetcar when there’s a perfectly good heap sitting right outside.”

  “You can drive a car?” Mustard said, sounding astonished.

  I choked back a sigh and the impatience I felt creeping in. Dex had taught me to drive. Mustard had sat in cars while they were being driven by me. Yet both of them always forgot I could drive.

  “Sure,” I said, feigning innocence. “You just point it in the direction you want to go and push the pedals, right?”

  “It’s not a gun,” Dex said. “You can’t just aim it at a target and expect to get to where you’re going without hitting a few innocent bystanders.”

  “Dex, you taught me to drive. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Ah. Well then, I should definitely be able to vouch for you. If I taught you everything I know, then you should be better than Mustard here.”

  “Will you bring it back tonight?” Mustard asked.

  I shook my head. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “All rightee then,” he said jovially enough, “why not? But make sure when you bring it back, it’s still got all four wheels and the radio works.” He handed across the keys. “It’s parked on Spring.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I’D FORGOTTEN ABOUT the dark maroon Marmon Sixteen until I stood in front of it. When I did see it, I nearly lost my nerve. You didn’t need to be a mechanic or look under the hood to know that this was a more powerful kind of car than the ones I was used to driving. It was longer, lower and altogether meaner looking. Mustard had told Dex it was the world’s most advanced car. He hadn’t told me what he meant by that, but he and Dex had exchanged a look like they were sharing some secret only men would understand and I hadn’t bothered asking. Anyway, the Sixteen looked like the world’s most advanced car. You didn’t need to ask questions.

  What got me moving was turning the alternatives over in my head. Well, alternative really, because there was only one, and it ran on tracks. I swallowed my fear, got up my gumption and climbed behind the wheel.

  Once I got the car moving I spent a few minutes getting used to the sensitivity of the controls. The dashboard looked like it belonged in something you could fly to Pittsburgh. I thought the Marmon felt lighter than other cars. And more powerful. It was a distinctive car and I felt a weird and possessive pride to see heads turn as we drove past.

  Rhoda Darrow’s former landlady had written down an address on Palisades Beach Road and the information that the house was called Bella Luna. I couldn’t help but wonder how an out-of-work and apparently down-on-her-luck actress had ended up in such a swell neighborhood. Would that be another clue? Another hint toward Mustard’s much-ballyhooed Chicago connection? I pressed ahead.

  I found the place without much difficulty. The golden mile isn’t even a mile long and, what with Marion Davies’ huge and glistening beach house taking up five acres of that mile, it was simple enough to narrow down where the house was. Especially with a name like Bella Luna. I could only see one house that would fit that description and when I stopped the car and went in on foot for a closer inspection, I saw that I was right: a tiny mosaic sign announced to visitors that they had arrived at the house of the beautiful moon.

  Bella Luna was small, charming and walled like a tiny Mediterranean fortress right there on the beach at Santa Monica. A gate with a bell greeted visitors on the street side and the same high wall surrounded the whole place.

  For a while I pondered how to discover if Rhoda Darrow was still in residence. It was possible Dex had some highfalutin’ detective trick for this part of the investigation. The only thing I could think to do was approach the front door.

  A uniformed maid opened the gate not long after I rang.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m here to see Miss Darrow.”

  “Who shall I tell her is here?”

  “Miss Katherine Pangborn,” I said, drawing myself up to my full height and shifting my body so that the Marmon would be easily visible.

  “Please wait here,” the servant instructed. “I’ll see if Miss Darrow is receiving.”

  So that was that, I thought to myself as I stood there on the stoop. I had my confirmation. Rhoda Darrow did still live here. I could leave now, mission accomplished, and tell Dex what I’d discovered. I peered into the door the girl had left open. The garden the wall surrounded was beautiful—I could see it through a massive window—and a swimming pool glistened in an unreal but beckoning shade of blue
. Inexplicably, though, boxes were stacked neatly next to the front door.Someone was moving, though if it was in or out, I could not be sure. What if she was leaving? What if Dex came tomorrow and found nothing but dust bunnies? Then where would we be?

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said on her return. “Miss Darrow is indisposed this afternoon. Perhaps if you check in with us in the morning. By telephone,” she added pointedly, handing me a stiff piece of cardboard, on which there had been written a phone number in the Gladstone exchange.

  “Is Miss Darrow going on a trip?” I asked, indicating the boxes.

  The woman’s face might have shown surprise at the question, or maybe alarm. Whatever it was, I didn’t have the skill to read it properly and she didn’t answer my question. Just looked down her nose at me and shut the door.

  I went back to the car and drove a few blocks before I found a phone booth. When the office phone rang and rang and rang I cursed myself for my optimism. What had I been thinking? Of course Dex and Mustard wouldn’t be there. The two of them in the mood they’d been in, there were any number of downtown dives where they might have taken their self-satisfied joviality to kill the rest of the afternoon in mutual congratulations.

  While I drove back to the beach, I thought about what to do. I was all the way down here and, from what Dex had said, slightly taller and stronger and healthier-looking than Darrow, and no doubt several years younger. Mustard would have said something like, “In a clean fight, you could take her easy.” He would have been half-kidding, but he’d have meant it just the same. That was the place from which he viewed the world. Simple-like. Most of the time it didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

  Now that I was all the way out there, I had no doubt but that it ought to have been Dex there thinking about his next move. But it was not. It was me. This left me with a sort of sadness for my beautiful, broken boss, but it also sprang the steel in my spine. A thing had been thrust upon me. Was I big enough for it? I thought maybe I was.

  I decided that I owned enough of that steel to at least walk the perimeter of the property, keeping close to the wall at first, but just seeing what I could see. That proved to be pretty much nothing. The wall was taller than I with no openings. The sand was hard going in my medium-heeled pumps, but I didn’t dare take them off for fear of ruining my stockings. I negotiated the sand in my shoes as well as I could, hoping that Dex would appreciate the lengths to which I would go for the good of his business, even while I knew that there was no way he’d really be able to.