The Hollywood Murders-The Gretch Bayonne Action Adventure Series-Book 3

by Steven M. Thomas

  “Or graves in Hollywood,” he joked. “Now that would be the worst!”

  “Time for me to go to sleep,” I said. “I have a movie of my own to make tomorrow.”

  “But you haven't told me about your date with Patty yet,” Bela said.

  “All in good time, my friend,” I replied. “All in good time.”

  I wasn't sure when I would call Patty again. I figured I would give it a few days. So I threw myself into my work and tried to put her out of my mind. Three days later, out of the blue, she showed up on the set of Dinner At Eight.

  “My god, Patty!” I said, hugging her. “I was planning to call you tonight! What brings you here?”

  “I am an extra,” she replied. “It's a bit embarrassing, but I can use the money.”

  “There's nothing wrong with being an extra,” I said. “It is honest work. But if you have a speaking line, you will be paid more. I will see what I can do.”

  I managed to convince Director George Cukor to let me add a couple of lines of dialogue in the restaurant scene we were shooting that day. In the end, Patty had a part as a waitress and would deliver a single comedic sentence that would add greatly to the scene.

  Jean: “Is the chocolate mousse fattening?”

  Waitress (Patty): “Yes, but it will look good on you.”

  Everyone thought it was a great idea to improvise on the set. Cukor was thrilled about the additional dialogue and Patty managed to disguise her Brooklyn accent. It would mean she would be paid $28 instead of $7. And she would have a medium close up shot in the movie for five seconds.

  Patty and I went straight from the set to a Chinese restaurant where a number of other cast members were going to meet for dinner. Marie Dressler, John Barrymore, and Jean Harlow were there, along with several others.

  We were all having a great time, and Patty seemed to be enjoying herself. She was with her peers again, and everyone was congratulating her on how well she'd delivered the line I'd written for her.

  “I would be happy with one line for the rest of my life,” Patty said. “But I don't think I could do more than that.”

  “It was brilliant,” Jean said. “You did a wonderful job, dear!”

  “With a little work,” John Barrymore chimed in, “you could make the transition. One line at a time.”

  It was obvious that everyone had a tremendous amount of respect for Patty as an actress. It was just that damned Brooklyn accent of hers. It was a curse.

  On the way home that night, I agreed to pay for a vocal coach for Patty.

  “You don't have to do that, Bay,” she said.

  “I insist,” I replied. “You can get work again. Today proved that. When people see you delivering that one line in Dinner At Eight, they are going to want to see more. I know that.”

  Patty stepped out of the car in tears.

  “Don't cry,” I said. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  “These are tears of appreciation,” she replied, as I walked her to her door.

  On my way back to Bela's house, the driver had big news for me.

  “I didn't want to interrupt,” the driver said, “but I thought you would like to know. There's been another murder.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Agnes Ayres,” he replied. “She was found stabbed to death in her house. They said she'd been lying there for two days.”

  “Good god,” I replied. “Why didn't anyone tell us?”

  “They just found her about an hour ago,” the driver said. “I heard it on the radio just before you got in the car.”

  Chapter Five

  I woke Bela up when I arrived at his home to tell him the news. I felt bad about doing that, but I thought he would want to know right away.

  “My god!” Bela said. “What happened?”

  “All I know is she was found stabbed to death in her house,” I said. “Apparently it happened a couple of days ago but they just now found her.”

  We went into the living room and turned on the radio. It didn't take us long to find a program talking about the death of Agnes Ayres.

  “She had lost her fortune in the stock market crash four years ago,” the announcer said. “And now, she has lost her very life.”

  Bela turned the radio off. He had heard enough.

  “They are going to have a field day with this,” Lugosi said.

  “Like they did when Valentino died,” I replied.

  “Yes,” he answered. “She was brilliant with him. She will always be remembered as Lady Diana Mayo. This is just awful.”

  “Two murders in three days,” I said. “Unbelievable.”

  “She got out of movies while she was on top,” Bela said. “No one forced her out. It was her decision. She made her own rules.”

  “Did you know her?” I asked.

  “I'd met her a few times,” Lugosi answered. “She was a very nice lady. And she wasn't really interested in being famous or making motion pictures once she'd reached the top.”

  “Is it true what they say?” I asked. “That she lost all of her money in the stock market crash?”

  “It happened,” Lugosi replied. “The last I'd heard of Agnes Ayres was she was considering the idea of making a come back in motion pictures, but no one seemed to be particularly interested. This is going to make a lot of people feel terribly guilty.”

  “Why would someone want to kill her?” I asked.

  “I don't know,” Bela said. “But that is the detectives’ jobs. We are just actors. We have to leave it up to them to find the answers.”

  That was the first time Lugosi referred to me as an actor. Until then, I was a writer. And before the Graf book, I was a hack writer who barely made a living at it.

  “This will be all over the news,” Lugosi told me. “I would advise you not to comment on it if you are asked by reporters.”

  “No one is going to ask me,” I said. “I'm not that famous.”

  “They will be asking everyone,” Lugosi replied. “And you still haven't accepted the fact that you are famous, have you?”

  “No,” I answered. “Reporters don't chase me down like they do you and Star Child. I don't want to be that famous.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” he asked. “Why make motion pictures?”

  “I enjoy it,” I said. “And it pays well.”

  Bela stared off for a moment before replying. It was the middle of the night and we both were dogged tired.

  “This is a business,” he said, “not unlike any other. You are a fine actor, but you are also a writer. You always have that occupation to return to. For me, however, I am getting too old to dig ditches.”

  “You won't have to dig ditches,” I said.

  “I will if I don't get some sleep,” Lugosi said. “I have to be on the set early tomorrow. Thank you for telling me what happened to Agnes, but I should retire now.”

  The next morning I was back on the set of Dinner At Eight. Most of the cast and crew seemed oblivious of the Agnes Ayres murder. I don't think they knew what had happened yet. That changed when Patty showed up crying on the set hysterically.

  “My god!” Patty sobbed. “It is just awful!”

  “Yes,” I answered, hugging her tightly. It wasn't long before everyone knew why Patty was there.

  All hell broke lose as one by one, the stars learned of the horrific murder. Director George Cukor was visibly shaken and cancelled filming for the day.

  As Patty and I left the MGM lot, lines of reporters gathered to get reactions from the stars. We were able to get by them without any fanfare. Jean Harlow and John Barrymore were not so fortunate. They were swarmed by news hounds as they tried to enter their automobiles.

  Patty composed herself and looked out the back window as we fled the insanity.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I just had to see you. I didn't mean to make you all stop working.”

  “It's okay,” I replied. “They were going to find out what happened to Agnes soon enough.”
r />   “It's not just Agnes,” Patty replied. “It is Mae Murray, too!”

  “What?” I asked. “What do you mean Mae Murray, too?”

  “She's dead!” Patty said, as she broke out into hysterics again.

  I couldn't make out what she said after that. It was all sobbing and screaming.

  The driver pulled over as I tried to calm Patty down. He turned around and clarified the awful news.

  “It's true, sir,” he said. “They found her body late last night. Mae Murray is dead.”

  Chapter Six

  I tucked Patty into my bed at Bela's house and assured her that everything was going to be all right. She looked like she needed the sleep. And I damned well did too, but that wasn't in the cards for me.

  “You have a visitor,” Bela's housekeep, Yioko said.

  “I am not accepting visitors,” I replied. “Tell him to go away.”

  “But this is a detective,” she answered. “He wants to see you right away.”

  Before I could reply, a tall man in sunglasses and an overcoat came into the living room where I was sitting.

  “I am sorry to bother you,” he said. “But I could use your help.”

  “And you are?” I asked.

  “I am Los Angeles Detective Dan Bannon,” he replied, sticking his hand out. I didn't bother shaking it.

  “And what can I do for you today?” I asked.

  “I want you to take a look at the murder scenes,” Bannon said as he sat down.

  “Why on earth would you want me to do that?” I asked.

  “I will level with you, Bay,” he answered. “I am under a great deal of scrutiny in these cases, and I could use your help. I just don't want to miss anything. I could use a second set of eyes.”

  “I am not a detective,” I said. “Why are you asking me?”

  “Everyone knows your book, The Investigation of the Graf Disaster,” Bannon answered.

  “I didn't do any investigating,” I replied. “That was Wolf. I was just along for the ride.”

  Bannon pulled a notebook out of his pocket and stared at it intently. “We've had three murders in Hollywood in the last week,” he said. “The victims were all famous movie actresses. I believe it is the same man who committed all three of these heinous crimes. And I fear there will be more.”

  “Your assessment of me as an investigator is greatly exaggerated,” I said. “I don't know anything about that.”

  “A second set of eyes,” Bannon said. “You may catch something we've missed. All I am asking of you is to take a look.”

  I wasn't doing anything else, so I reluctantly agreed to go along.

  First stop was the second victim, Agnes Ayres' little apartment. It was still roped off with crime scene tape.

  “How many people have been in here since the murder?” I asked.

  “Just a few of us detectives,” Bannon said. “I learned something from the Lindberg kidnapping case. It's best not to let too many people mess around at the scene of a major crime.”

  “You were involved in that case?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” he replied. “But I read a lot about it.”

  I didn't have a clue what to look for. There was a great deal of blood all over the kitchen. It was everywhere. On the floor, the table, and splattered on one of the walls.

  “My god,” I said, feeling a bit squeamish. “The killer must have been covered in blood. How could someone not notice him?”

  I walked into the tiny bathroom just off of the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until I pulled the shower curtain back. There were a few small blood stains on the edge of the bathtub and several more on the plastic curtain.

  “Did you see this?” I asked Bannon.

  “No, I don't think anyone bothered to look in the bathtub,” he replied. “How would blood have gotten all the way in here?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “Unless the killer decided to take a shower.”

  “That doesn't seem likely,” Bannon said. “No one would stay at the scene of a murder like this long enough to shower.”

  “He probably changed clothes, too,” I said.

  “Agnes might have cut herself shaving her legs or something,” the detective said.

  Bannon followed me out of the back door of the house. At the bottom of the porch steps was a metal trash can. I pulled the lid off, and sure enough, there was a plastic bag inside full of blood soaked clothes.

  “So, no one bothered to check the trash can?” I asked.

  “Son of a bitch!” Bannon exclaimed.

  He followed me back inside to the living room.

  There were several strange patterns of blood on the carpet spaced about two feet apart from the kitchen to the front door.

  “You saw these tracks I am sure,” I said.

  “Yes,” he answered. “But they don't look like any shoe prints I've seen before.” The markings were about four inches long by two inches wide and identical.

  “That's because they aren't shoe prints,” I answered.

  “Then what are they?” he asked.

  “I told you I am no investigator,” I answered. “But I think they were made by a bicycle tire. I rode a bicycle through the mud many times as a child. These marks look like that. Some blood must have gotten on just a small part of one of the tires. That is why they look the same and are spaced out so far.”

  “Why would anyone bring a bicycle into the house?” Bannon asked.

  “I don't know,” I said. “He probably didn't want anyone to see it parked out front. He may have told Agnes that he didn't want it to be stolen, so naturally, she would let him bring it in.”

  “So what you're saying is our murderer stuck around long enough to take a shower, change clothes, then got away on a bicycle?” Bannon asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or they could have been made by the wheels on the stretcher they used to take the body out, but that's not likely.”

  “Why's that?” he asked.

  “Stretchers don't have wheels that are two feet high,” I replied.

  Chapter Seven

  Our next stop was Mae Murray's residence, or Victim Number Three, as Bannon referred to her.

  The first thing I noticed before we even set foot inside was that there was a trash can sitting on the street in front of the house. It was completely empty.

  “I am guessing the trash was already picked up,” I told Bannon as we headed to the front door of the nice, little Victorian style house.

  The scene inside was even more gruesome than Agnes' place. There was no blood in the living room, but the kitchen was virtually covered in it.

  Bannon made a bee line for the bathroom. He quickly found a few small bloodstains on the shower curtain. The towels hanging over the shower rail were still damp.

  “He's a clever bastard,” I said. “He kills and then tidies himself up. I am sure he brought a change of clothes like he did at Agnes' house.”

  I walked back through the blood splattered kitchen and into the living room and sat on the couch. My head was spinning and I was feeling sick to my stomach.

  As I held my head in my hands, I noticed a tiny object by the front door that caught my attention. It was a pack of matches. But not just any pack of matches. It was a white pack of matches with red spots on it.

  I pointed out the evidence to Bannon when he joined me a few moments later.

  He bent down and picked the matchbook up carefully with his thumb and index finger.

  “Is it blood?” I asked.

  “It sure looks like it,” he replied.

  Bannon read the advertisement on the book of matches aloud.

  “The Red Carpet Room,” he said.

  “How did your boys miss that?” I asked.

  Bannon shook his head and placed the matches in a small plastic bag.

  “That's why I asked you to come,” he replied. “A second set of eyes. We were looking for the obvious. That's when you miss things that can be important.”

>   “You've got a real problem on your hands here,” I said. “This guy is smart, but he will slip up eventually.”

  “We've got to find him before it happens again,” Bannon said.

  “What about Alma Rubens?” I asked. “The first victim. Are you taking me there next?”

  “There's nothing to see there,” he answered. “She was staying in a cheap motel and they've since cleaned it up, even though I had it taped off as a crime scene.”

  “Then would you mind taking me back to Lugosi's?” I asked. “I don't feel too well.”

  Surprisingly, Bela was waiting for me at the front door. I thought he would be working.

  “The director sent us all home,” Lugosi said. “Everyone is up in arms about these murders. I've never seen motion pictures come to a halt like this since the Graf disaster.”

  “I just came from two of the three murder scenes,” I explained. “And Bela, this is very scary. Hollywood should be worried.”

  “What did you learn?” he asked.

  “That the detectives working on the case missed a few things,” I answered. “Hell, Bela, I found a bag of bloody clothes and tire tracks that they somehow missed. It was very troubling to say the least.”

  “This killer,” Bela said, “is preying on the forgotten. I've thought about it all day, and I have a theory.”

  Bela explained in detail how each of the three victims had once been major motion picture stars but could not find work in present day Hollywood.

  “They all starred in films with Rudolph Valentino,” Lugosi explained. “When Valentino passed away very unexpectedly, millions of people mourned and some even took their own lives, they were so saddened.”

  “Why would that drive anyone to kill his female costars?” I asked.

  “Let's say, for example, that someone idolized Rudolph to the point of wanting to be him,” Bela hypothesized. “Maybe they are jealous of his former female costars.”

  “I know that a lot of people worshipped him,” I said, “but that sounds pretty crazy to me.”

  “That's just it,” Bela answered. “When you are looking for a crazy person, you have to think like one.”

  Bela was right. You can't reason with crazy. It's hard to wrap your brain around it. The fact was Alma Rubens, Agnes Ayers and Mae Murray had all been in movies with Rudolph Valentino. And all three didn't make the cross over into talkies. And now, within a weeks' time, all three of them were dead.