Silent Murders (13 page)

15

The Pickfair evening concluded with everyone gathering in the living room to watch an unreleased picture. Jack Pickford and Marilyn Miller scooted out the door—“another dope party,” muttered Lubitsch under his breath—while the butler passed cigars and chocolate-covered cherries, Douglas’s favorite. Douglas and Mary held hands on the sofa. The Chaplins, who hadn’t exchanged a word the entire evening, sat in opposite corners of the room and walked home as soon as the film ended, missing the lively analysis of the acting, directing, lighting, and editing that followed. As the ten o’clock curfew loomed, Douglas came over to my chair.

“I’ll call the Rolls whenever you’re ready.”

David stood. “Let me save your driver the trip. I’m going back to town and would be honored to escort Miss Beckett home.”

Perversely, the offer both thrilled and dismayed me. There was no way to refuse gracefully, and anyway, half of me couldn’t wait to be alone with David. The other half needed time to think. But David’s gesture brought the group to its feet, everyone remarking on the lateness of the hour and their early obligations the next day.

I thanked Douglas profusely for the invitation. “You have no idea how much this evening meant to me,” I told him before turning to my hostess. Our eyes met and held, and I saw that words were unnecessary; Mary Pickford understood exactly how much this evening had meant to me. She had come up the way I had through the harsh, vagabond life of itinerant performers, passing straight from infancy to adulthood in her role as family breadwinner, forever terrified that this would be the day the applause died. Ironic, really, that both our careers hinged on portraying children when neither of us had any experience being a normal child. Those moments on stage and screen were as close as either of us would ever come to childhood.

We understood each other, Mary Pickford and I. We had taken the same road, and while she was miles ahead of me today, she knew the ruts and potholes all too well.
Look how far I’ve come,
she seemed to say in wonderment. But it was never far enough. The specter of poverty always hovered near, ready to snatch everything away the moment she relaxed, so she had to get to the studio at daybreak and drive herself hard and harder, acting, directing, and personally managing every aspect of her business, demanding perfection from herself and her crew because only the sound of applause could keep the specter at bay.

“Good night, Jessie, dear,” was all she said, but the way she said it made my heart soar.

David and I drove out of the Pickfair driveway in his brand-new Packard, past the Chaplins’ house, and down into the valley. A full moon hung in the night sky, raising a coyote chorus of mournful howls. Now that we were alone together, I felt self-conscious, and I silently vowed to keep the conversation as impersonal as I could.

“That was quick thinking at dinner,” I said. “You probably saved at least one of us from getting shot.”

“There was never much real danger,” he said modestly. “Those small pistols are wildly inaccurate. With a short barrel like that, even Annie Oakley would have trouble hitting her target. And Lottie’s a rank amateur.”

“I wasn’t worried about her aim. I was worried about a wild shot. She was pretty zozzled.”

“So was Jack Pickford. He just holds it better. And every time they get into trouble, they wave Mary like a flag. It’s a wonder Doug can stand those two.”

“He loves Mary too much to banish them.”

An awkward silence descended as David navigated the canyon road curves toward town. Finally he cleared his throat. “I’m glad to meet the real Jessie at last. I am meeting the real Jessie, aren’t I? I mean, this isn’t another role you’re playing in another swindle?”

“No, this is the real me. That stint in Oregon made me realize I didn’t want to go back to the vaudeville life of bad food, cheap hotels, and a different city every week. Some friends got me a job training to be a script girl at
Son of Zorro,
then understudy’s luck got me a couple weeks as Douglas’s assistant. You can say I’m no better than the hundreds of other silly girls coming to Hollywood every year trying to get into show business, and you’d be right, but I’ve got a steady job, and I’m feeling like I fit in here. Yeah, this is the real me. I know who I am now.”

“I hear you’re a detective in your spare time. You’ve only been here a couple months and already you’re mixed up in murder. Must be your perfume.”

“Well, I couldn’t help that I was at the party where the first murder happened. Or that I knew the woman who was killed later that night. I didn’t set out to find the killer. Douglas just asked for my help, and I came into it through the back door.”

“You’re smart. You notice things others miss. And you have a way of sensing things, almost like a mind reader.”

I thought about that. After a lifetime on stage watching for subtle cues, making decisions based on someone’s tone of voice, picking up on a raised eyebrow or the lift of a chin, and absorbing the audience’s mood through my skin, it was probably inevitable that I would become sensitive to details, especially the human kind. “I think maybe I read people, not minds.”

“You need to be careful. People who kill people don’t mind killing people, if you get my point.”

“I’m careful.”

“I cared a lot about the old Jessie back there in Oregon, even when I didn’t know who she really was, but I think—I’m sure I’m going to care even more for the real McCoy here in Hollywood. I look forward to getting to know you better.”

Truth was, I was afraid to get to know David better. He came from my former life, the deceitful life I’d left behind, and I didn’t want to get sucked back into the old ways. Besides, I was through with broken hearts, especially when it was my own.

“And what role are you playing in Hollywood, Mr. Carr? Just what is a collaborator, anyway?”

“In this case, it’s a fancy word for investor. United Artists hasn’t enough ready cash to finance all its films, so backers put up dough and come in for a cut of the profits, if there are any. Legal gambling, I call it, although with names like Pickford, Fairbanks, and Chaplin, the dice always come up seven or eleven. Even their worst clunker should break even. Douglas wants to make color pictures, and he’s very interested in sound, and all that new technology costs a lot of bucks.”

“Pictures with sound? You mean talkies? I heard about making a color feature next year but didn’t know he was thinking about sound, too.”

“Sure he is. So are Warner Brothers and Fox. So are a lot of people. But Douglas is real smart about it. He knows the motion picture business upside down and inside out, and he’s crazy about tinkering with the mechanics. Although he keeps it pretty quiet.”

“Why?”

“Before I got involved with Pickford-Fairbanks, I used to think everyone was on the edge of their seats waiting for talkies, that as soon as the right inventions came along, talkies would flood theaters all over the world. Now I know better. There’s serious resistance from every layer of the industry. Talkies will bring a revolution in filmmaking, and like any revolution, blood will run in the gutters.”

“Just adding sound wouldn’t cause—”

“Yes, ma’am, it would. You ask any actor what he thinks about sound. Most hate the very idea. For one thing, a lot of them are foreigners—you know that because you’re in the business, but the public doesn’t—and their accents won’t be accepted. Others have working-class accents or unappealing voices. Most don’t have theater training, and they don’t know how to project. Most think sound would ruin them. And they’re right.”

I couldn’t argue with him there. I had been surprised to see what a large percentage of the film industry, and not just actors, was foreign born. Sometimes it seemed like the world had come to Hollywood to make pictures. And off the top of my head, I could think of several famous actors whose voices were harsh or high-pitched or nasal sounding or too breathless to carry.

“Directors are against the change, too,” he continued. “You’ve been on sets when they’re filming. You’ve seen how noisy it is. Most scenes are shot outdoors where the sun is strong, but listen to the wind and other background sounds and think how they would be picked up on microphones. And those Mitchell cameras! They sound like machine guns.”

“I see what you mean. Directors couldn’t continue to direct by talking actors through each scene as it’s being shot. They’d have to do endless rehearsals and shoot in silence, like they do for the stage.”

“That would double or triple the production time for every picture. And the cost.”

“I guess so.”

“Douglas is afraid the fluid, natural quality of films will be lost when actors have to hover around a microphone to be heard. Studio producers are wary about the high cost of recording equipment and the loss of their best stars. And as far as theater owners are concerned, installing sound equipment will cost thousands of dollars for each theater, forcing up ticket prices when they’re already running more than twenty-five cents apiece in big cities. Those who couldn’t afford to upgrade would go belly-up.”

I was thinking about all the musicians who made their living playing in theaters who would lose their jobs. Then I wondered how talkies would be received internationally. Now it was easy to subtitle the original titles. How would foreign audiences understand dialogue spoken in another language?

“To put it bluntly,” said David, “most people are scared to death of talkies.”

But he wasn’t. I could see fire in his eyes as we talked. “So you’re going to collaborate with Douglas on making talkies and color?”

“Doug wants to be the first to star in a feature-length color film. He’s already chosen the story—something about pirates. There’s no holding back progress, Jessie. Color is here. Talkies are coming. They’ll ruin a lot of people, but those who can weather the storm stand to make a fortune. Both Doug and Mary have had years of experience on the stage—they’ll make the transition.”

“You’re not bootlegging anymore?”

“Hell, no, kid. I don’t have a death wish. There’s a nice, tight operation here in Los Angeles bringing Mexican liquor across the border, like the one I had in Portland with the Canadians, and no one muscles in on an established business unless he’s looking for a bullet. No siree, Bob. I’m in the picture business now. I put up half the money for
Little Annie Rooney.
”

It was a statement, not a boast, and it dropped my jaw. Making a major motion picture like that could cost two or three hundred thousand dollars.

“I guess you got out of town before the police caught up with you.”

“You’re looking at me, aren’t you? I got away with my cash and my toothbrush.”

He didn’t volunteer further details, but I knew enough to doubt his story. Everyone knows bootleggers do more than smuggle hooch. The business leaches naturally into speakeasies, protection rackets, and police bribery, and often into drugs, prostitution, numbers, and other gambling rings. I’d fallen for David’s aw-shucks honesty and boyish enthusiasm last fall before I knew he was mixed up in the underworld. Only once had I seen a glimpse of what lay beneath the guileless mask, and that was the night he had calmly promised to kill a man with his bare hands.

We pulled up in front of my house and stopped the car. He was about to ask if he could come up to my room. I spoke quickly.

“Look, David, I appreciate what you did for me back in Oregon. You saved my life and it cost you your, um, livelihood.”

“I’m not looking for gratitude.” His voice turned velvety hard. “Can I come in?”

“It’s late and … I’ve got to be at work early…”

A single nod told me he wasn’t buying a word of it. “Can I see you tomorrow for dinner?”

I turned to face him squarely. “Look, David, I don’t want to get mixed up with anyone right now. I’ve made a clean start here and—”

“And your future doesn’t include consorting with former criminals, is that it?” When I did not reply, he went on. “That’s rich, coming from one of the world’s great swindlers, or are you going to claim that little episode in Oregon was the only time you’ve ever run afoul of the law?” A split-second hesitation on my part brought a twist to his lips. “Just as I thought. Face facts, Jessie, you and I are scoundrels. We understand each other the way others never will. I’m not sure what you’re up to here in Hollywood, but you can trust me not to give it away.”

He was wrong. I wasn’t a real criminal. I had always meant to make my own way with honest work; it was just that honest work was sadly shy about introducing itself while shady opportunities came on bold as brass.

“What I’m up to,” I said tartly, “is a law-abiding way of life with friends who aren’t looking over their shoulders for the cops.”

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Goody Two-shoes! Sworn off the hooch, too, have you?”

“That doesn’t count! It used to be legal.”

“So did gambling. And a few years ago you could buy cocaine from the druggist, no questions asked. It was only the stroke of a pen that made those illegal.”

It wasn’t just that. I knew enough to recognize an onrushing train. Twice before I had been in love, and twice before the outcome had not been pretty. At least I had salvaged something from the wreckage: the realization that I was attracted to the wrong sort of man. When I let myself fall in love again, it was going to be with some decent, steady, upright citizen. A banker, maybe.

“David, I—”

“What a little hypocrite you are.” His soft, calm voice sounded more menacing than if he had shouted.

Stinging eyes made me fumble for the door handle, but I found it at last and yanked hard.

16

“A man with a droopy mouth? No, miss, can’t say as I do.” The ticket seller looked over the top of rimless glasses and shrugged helplessly. “With hundreds of people through this train station every day, no particular face is gonna stick in my head ’less he’s got antennas coming out his skull.”

“Was anyone else working the ticket booths last Sunday afternoon?” I pressed.

“Now, let me think. There’s usually two of us here early, then a third comes in at noon. Sammy Alvarez over there usually works the noon shift, but he wasn’t … Oh, right, Sunday. It was his daughter’s birthday and he switched with Stitch Owens. Stitch is in the back. If you want, knock on that door yonder and ask for him.”