Murder by Magic

by Rex Baron

  He stared at her quizzically for a moment before he spoke.

  “Yes?” he saluted with a single word.

  It was clear to Helen that he did not recognize her from their meeting at the Coconut Grove ballroom only a few weeks before. Maybe he had too much to drink that night, and now he could not place her face, Helen rationalized to herself. Or maybe, he had been too distracted by the violent scene thrust upon him by Mary Minter’s mother, Charlotte, to even vaguely remember any of the extraneous details of what went on that night.

  “It’s Helen Liluth,” she said, trying to jog his memory. “Phil Claxton introduced us at the Ambassador Hotel a week or so ago,” she reminded him with an encouraging smile.

  “Oh yes,” he replied, as he half rose from his breakfast table and then sat back down, having fulfilled the most half-hearted gesture of etiquette. “I’d ask you to join me, but I’m expecting someone.”

  His comment was intended as a polite dismissal, but Helen ungraciously refused to entertain the idea. Instead, she continued trying to create a common ground between herself and the famous man.

  “I suppose you know about the premiere of our new film, this evening,” she said. “Jesse Lasky thinks it will be a big hit.”

  “So he tells me,” Taylor replied, as he ignored the conventions of courtesy and popped a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

  Helen remained standing as she struggled to make conversation.

  “We just finished shooting some of the retake scenes a few days ago and it’s already premiering tonight. I’m very excited,” Helen added, trying to appear like an ingénue to the older man.

  “Isn’t that the film with that new German girl in it… the singer they brought in from the opera… lovely girl. I met her the other night at a dance at the Ambassador Hotel. She was with young Cordoba.”

  “Yes, that was where you met me as well.” Helen replied.

  William showed no sign of recollecting what for Helen had been a monumental event.

  “Yes, Paulo and I are scheduled to share a car to the premiere tonight,” Helen informed him with an easy familiarity. “I think you’ll be seeing quite a bit of Paulo and me together in the future. Who knows, we might even become an item.”

  Taylor eyed her with an inscrutable look, and let out a barely audible grunt of contempt.

  “That’s odd,” he replied, as he bit down on a triangle of toast. “I spoke to Paulo this morning on the telephone, and he said that he and the German girl… Lucy, yes, that’s it, Lucy… that they were sharing a car together.”

  “Oh, well, there must have been a change sometime this morning,” Helen replied weakly, backing off slightly in her campaign to align herself with Taylor. “I’m sure when I get home, my maid will have taken a message from the studio.”

  Taylor looked up at her suspiciously from where he sat, knowing very well that this girl was not at a stage in her career to have a full-time maid.

  “Is that right,” he said, as he took a sip of his coffee. “As a matter of fact, Miss Liluth, Jesse consulted me about the premiere and I happen to know which of the stars is riding with whom… and as far as I know, you are not riding with any of them.”

  “Like I said, there must have been a change made at some point,” Helen persisted in her fabrication.

  “Well, as I’ve already pointed out… I’m waiting for someone… so, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Is it Paulo?” Helen asked, totally ignoring his request for solitude. “He’d be able to clear up this unfortunate mystery of who rides with whom.”

  “No, it isn’t… if you must know, it’s D.W.”

  “I know Mister Griffith,” Helen said enthusiastically, as she slipped, uninvited, into the empty seat across from Taylor. “He’s such a nice man… I mean, I can scarcely believe the rumor that he threw poor Bobby Harron over for Richard Barthelmess and it caused him to shoot himself. He had been so loyal to D.W. and he really should have been cast as the Chinaman in Broken Blossom. I think it simply broke his heart to be passed over for that part.”

  Taylor glared at the young actress who sat across from him at his table. He mildly resented her familiarity, as if working in a few second-rate photoplays could make her a colleague on the same level as Paulo or Bobby, or any of the other seasoned actors of whom she spoke. She was a lovely girl, but she was an interloper and had overstepped her boundaries.

  “Let me give you a piece of advice, young lady,” Taylor said soberly, as he removed the napkin from his lap and tossed it onto the starched white tablecloth in front of him. “If you are trying to convey the impression that you have any kind of a relationship with any of the people you have just mentioned, other than the kind that one might have from reading about them in fan magazines, I suggest that you refrain from gossip and speak of the people with whom you work with a bit more respect. I realize, you are new in this business and want to make good, but don’t try to convince any of us that you are in our acquaintance when you’re not. Fellows like me know everyone in this town… and if I might be so bold as to warn you… you are getting ahead of yourself, stepping outside your station, as it were, and you’ll find it won’t be tolerated.”

  Helen’s face reddened with humiliation. She wanted to jump to her feet and shout at him… to ask him who the hell he thought he was. She was angry and indignant at his condescension and she wanted to slap his face, but she didn’t. That would scarcely do her career any good. Instead, she let her shoulders drop in a theatrical gesture of contrition and turned her lovely face toward the light from the window, so that Taylor might get the full benefit of her studied expression of despair.

  “It’s just that I’ve worked so hard to get here,” she said with a heaving sigh. “I came here from New York, where I worked in a kitchen, cooking for orphans,” Helen lied. “A cousin lent me the money for a train ticket out here and I’ve worked as an extra since I got here, being shot at by cannon fire, drowned in the Red Sea and herded with a cast of thousands,” she stated, paraphrasing what she had heard Claxton say only a week or so ago, at lunch under the V.I.P. tent. “It just means so much to me to make a good impression… to be a part of things and be accepted,” she added with a demure little smile.

  In the middle of her impromptu performance, Helen noticed that Taylor glanced impatiently at his watch, and she realized that if she wanted to make any impression on this man, she would have to do what she did best. She took a deep breath and let it out, drawing Taylor’s attention back to her.

  “You have to understand, Mister Taylor,” Helen continued with a mockery of respect in the low tenor of her voice. “You were so terribly nice to me when we met at the Coconut Grove, when I was out with Mister Claxton and the others, that I just wanted you to like me.”

  “I’m sure you are a perfectly agreeable girl,” Taylor replied in a fatherly tone.

  Helen continued her pitch.

  “Everyone says that you are always helping young people who are just starting out… listening to their problems and giving them advice. You always seem to be giving to everyone, but what are you getting in return?” Helen asked, as she leaned across the table, intruding into the comfort of his space. “I too would like you to help me, as you help those others… but I’d like to be your friend. Who knows, there might even be something that you might want from me,” Helen whispered almost suggestively, as she leaned forward to display a hint of cleavage.

  William Desmond Taylor sighed with frustration before he spoke.

  “Miss Liluth… since you ask, I’ll help you now... and offer another small bit of advice. You have to decide which role you’re playing. You’re either the hard working, innocent girl, escaping the toil of the big city, feeding the orphans and mending her own cotton stockings, or you’re the temptress, the femme fatale who befuddles her man with a piercing gaze and a well-powdered bosom. You can be one or the other… but you cannot be both. The best way to succeed in this town is to get typecast right from the start. I was a co
wboy before I was a director. It was easy to be remembered that way. Wallace Reid is the All American boy, Mary Pickford, the perpetual virgin and Gloria Swanson, the eternal bitch. You decide what suits you best. But if you want my opinion, you’re not the virginal type, so don’t waste your efforts on me with a sad story and a salty tear. You are a beautiful girl… but if you’ll pardon my saying, you’ve got the look of someone who’s been around and knows the score. Make that work for you. The men will want you and the women will emulate you. If you confuse them and get your wires crossed, they’ll simply think of you as a cheap whore. Remember, there is a fine line between a successful seduction and simply being too available.”

  Helen sat across from this man dumbfounded. She did not know whether to regard his commentary and appraisal of her as a valuable tutorial in the ways of Hollywood, and be grateful… or hear it as a base insult and slap his face. But before she could make a decision, Taylor tapped the table with the tips of his fingers, to get her attention, and informed her that his breakfast companion was approaching.

  “I see Griffith coming down the street. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave me, if you don’t mind. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable with someone else here when he arrives.”

  Helen rose to her feet and took the hand he extended to her from across the table.

  “Goodbye, my dear, and good luck. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

  As she was making her way to the door, Helen heard Taylor call her back.

  “Oh Miss Liluth,” he said brightly, “You forgot your parcel from Bullock’s. And by the way… in my opinion, that hat does nothing for you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lucy’s villa, Los Angeles

  By late morning, Miss Auriel had completed the alterations on the heavy beaded dress that the studio had sent for Lucy to wear to the premiere. Jesse Lasky had telephoned to tell his star that she must spend the day resting and that he would be sorely disappointed with her if she were seen about town shopping or having lunch.

  She stood on the balcony of the house, overlooking the expanse of marble floor and marveled at how cold and lifeless it could be, when just outside the window the unseasonable warmth of the sun, under the Prussian blue sky, promised so much. She sang a few bars of a jarringly cheerful song, then, noting what little effect it had on the stillness around her, retreated to her room to rest.

  Hours before the car was scheduled to pick her up, Ellen came tapping at the door of the bedroom to tell Lucy that it was half past five. She had spent the entire afternoon in fitful sleep, awakening with the excitement of the premiere mere hours away. She sat for an hour before the dressing table mirror, whitening her face and painting on the dark eyes and doll's mouth, as she had been instructed by the makeup man. She appraised the image in the glass. It was pale and beautiful. Next, she stepped into the beaded dress and pulled its weight up onto her powdered shoulders. It was an updated version of a costume she wore in the film, tighter in the bodice, with long sleeves that nearly covered her hands.

  She stood with the patience of a Ziegfeld girl, her arms stretched out at her sides, while Miss Auriel sewed her into the heavy dress. The waist was pulled so tight she could scarcely breathe, and her legs were so constricted by the tightness of the skirt that she was forced to walk with tiny Geisha-like steps.

  The final torture was a beaded skullcap made of peacock feathers that pulled down tightly over her hair, framing her clown-like face. In the center of her forehead, a large diamond brooch dangled annoyingly between her eyes. The long beaded train of the dress was cumbersome and the golden tassels at its end were more than ridiculous.

  She gracefully draped the tassels over her arm, creating a studied gesture that finished with the upturning of her perfectly fanned hand, complete with gold-lacquered nails.

  “I certainly look rested,” she said to the reflection in the mirror… “rested and ridiculous.”

  Without hesitation, she snatched the seamstress's scissors from the dressing table and slashed the train off at the waistline. A shower of tiny red beads sent Ellen to her knees, scrambling to retrieve them.

  “Let them go,” Lucy said. “We'll worry about that later.”

  She tore the skullcap from her head and wiped the dark paint from her mouth. She leveled her eyes at the reflection of the face she now recognized in the mirror and smiled.

  “If they're coming to see me,” she said, “then, by God, let them see me.”

  Miss Auriel stood back and surveyed the final impression with satisfaction.

  “You look wonderful, Miss Lucy,” she said. She watched the opera singer fasten on earrings and slide two heavily jeweled rings on her hand. The small action galvanized her to speak.

  “Excuse me for saying so, Miss Lucy,” she ventured timidly, “but I was wondering if Helen Liluth was going to be at the opening tonight.”

  Lucy looked up from her jewel case to the reflection of the young woman in the mirror. “Yes,” she answered with vague interest. “Why do you ask?”

  The little dresser held the severed tassels tight in her grasp as she spoke.

  “It's only that I remembered something I had read in a book. Your rings reminded me of it.”

  Lucy nodded for the girl to continue.

  “That day, a while back, when we went to the studio and the girl fell, the day you met Miss Liluth… when we were in the tent with Mr. Claxton, she was wearing a silver ring. It triggered something in my mind. I know I had seen it before or read about it in one of my books. Now I remembered where I read it.” The young woman lowered her head and fell silent.

  “Well, go on,” Lucy insisted.

  “I know, you'll think me mad, and please don't be angry with me for saying it, but I remember reading about a ring that was described to be just like hers, with a star on it, in a book on Witchcraft. It was a magic ring, a witch's ring.”

  Ellen stated the fact with a mystery and certainty in her voice that caused a shiver to run up Lucy's spine.

  “Nonsense,” she answered with a wave of her lacquered nails. “Helen is an ambitious girl, that and little else. I have nothing to fear from her.”

  The dresser nodded and bowed her head in agreement. She stooped to the floor and busied herself with collecting the elusive beads as Lucy gathered up her scarlet velvet wrap and headed toward the hallway. Before reaching the door, she turned to the young woman, still on her hands and knees.

  “Thank you for all your help,” she said.

  •••

  As Ellen diligently collected the tiny red beads and placed them in an empty button box, she remembered exactly where she had read about a ring like Helen’s. It was back in her school days at the convent. She had been sitting on an austere wooden bench in the library, surrounded by a stack of books, reading, when Sister Margaret Theresa entered, looking for a book for herself. When the young nun smiled at her, Ellen ventured a question.

  “Excuse me Sister, but I am puzzled about the nature of magic and magical things in relation to our religion,” she said, prefacing the question. “What I’d like to know is… why does God allow the presence of black magic, and magic in general? I know it’s the work of the Devil and all of that, but I don’t understand why some people can perform magic to do evil things in our world, and yet, almost all of the good things are done through prayer and we, as supplicants, can do nothing except wait for God to hear us and grant his protection. What I’m saying is that bad people can do magic to create evil, and yet, good people can do nothing to combat that except pray.”

  Sister Theresa smiled at the question.

  “I think we have a budding Jesuit on our hands here,” she said. “What you must understand, Ellen, is that our religion is nothing but magic. Since, as you say, most of what we do to combat evil is done on an unseen realm, based on faith, it is important to know what the energies of the unseen feel like.”

  Ellen stared back at the young nun with a look of bewilderment.

  “You
know when you are in a place that feels dangerous or is filled with low energy… don’t you? It feels bad and unsafe.”

  Young Ellen nodded her head.

  “Good and evil are like that,” the nun continued the lesson. “They are both energies that are tangible in that we can feel them. Most of the time, people base their judgment of what is good and what is evil on what they’ve been taught or what they think they believe. Even the Church tries to influence what it thinks we should feel and believe. That is called dogma… and to my way of thinking, it is not useful, because it does not promote the understanding of what is good and what is evil for each of us individually.”

  “Excuse me Sister,” Ellen interrupted, “but where does the magic come in?”

  Sister Theresa thought for a moment, then answered.

  “The Holy Eucharist, or Communion, is the church’s greatest form of magic, because within the act of transforming the wafer into the body of Christ and the wine into his blood, we are performing a ritual of magic that conjures the Holy Spirit, just like any sorcerer might conjure the demons of Hell to do their bidding. I think it might be unwise to mention to the Reverend Mother that I made the comparison in just that way, but I think you get my point. The magic of the Holy Church is just as powerful as any that might be done by witches or evildoers. Where they call forth their demons, we make supplications to the Saints. Where they set up elaborate rituals filled with incantations and secret symbolism, we have our mystical rites, based on our beliefs and filled with the correct sequence of lighting candles, ringing bells and the smoke of a hundred different kinds of incense… one for every occasion.”