Detour to Murder jo-3

by Jeff Sherratt

  “Not even a bit part in a movie made by MGM?” I asked, thinking of the phone call again.

  “Not that I could find. But L.A. is a movie town, so they have a large collection of motion picture memorabilia, including fan magazines that go way back to the twenties. I figured if Sue got her foot in the door at a studio, maybe the promotion department planted a story about her. It was a long shot but I thought I’d give it a try. They did that for starlets back in those days, even before the girls were actually in a film.”

  I took a sip of coffee. “They still do it today. Testing the waters, I guess.”

  “That’s right, and I looked through a dozen or so movie magazines from 1945, Silver Screen, Motion Picture, Movie Star Parade, and so on. But look what I found in the July issue of Photoplay.”

  Rita leaned forward and handed me what appeared to a Xerox copy of a magazine article. A black and white photo took up a quarter of the first page.

  As I glanced at the document, she said, “They wouldn’t let me take the magazine out of the library, but they have a copy center. The article’s not important. But take a look at the picture and read the caption.”

  I stared at the photo of a man and a woman all decked out in evening clothes sitting at a table in Ciro’s, a high-end nightclub located on the Sunset Strip. Several glasses of partially consumed drinks, a small lamp with the nightclub’s logo on the shade, and two ashtrays rested on the linen-draped cocktail table.

  The man pinched a cigarette holder between his two fingers, the smoke from the cigarette wafting in front of his long face. He had dark wavy hair plastered back with a razor sharp crease on the left side of his head, and he had long slender hands, almost effeminate. Though rather small, he had the look of a distinguished gentleman. I guessed his age to be in the mid-forties. Other than the cigarette holder, he didn’t look like a movie star. He looked more like a guy who made a movie star’s funeral arrangements. The woman sitting next to him had her hands folded politely on the table. The picture was taken in 1945 and the couple’s clothes reflected the period. The man wore a formal tux and the woman, in her twenties, had on a dark evening gown, low cut with spaghetti straps. Some kind of big flower was pinned in her long blonde hair.

  I focused on the woman-beautiful face, full lips, and pencil-line eyelashes arching over her bright eyes. With her blonde hair, I imagined her eyes must have been blue.

  The caption under the photograph said the woman’s name was Sue Harvey. She was out on the town with the A-list movie star, Francis Q. Jerome, her fiance.

  No wonder Roberts spent all that time hitching rides across the country to be with her. Sue Harvey was stunning.

  I looked up at Rita. “Did this magazine happen to have Lauren Bacall’s face on the cover?”

  “Yeah, it did. How’d you know?”

  CHAPTER 13

  An hour later Rita and I were driving north on the Ventura Freeway, heading for the Motion Picture and Television Country House and Hospital in Woodland Hills.

  Rita had called a number of talent agencies until she reached an old guy who’d been involved “in the business since day one,” as he’d said. The octogenarian knew Francis Q. Jerome. He told her that the actor, now in his seventies, lived alone at one of the Country House cottages. Jerome hadn’t made a movie in years, he added, but in his heyday he’d been nominated for an Oscar as a result of his starring role in a big-budget swashbuckler from the late 1930s. But somewhere along the line “his ballet with the bottle” took over and he was now somewhat senile. Rita also found out that his marriage to Sue Harvey had lasted only six weeks.

  The Motion Picture and Television Fund, which controls the forty-acre facility, was established in the 1920s by the hallowed stars of the golden age of Hollywood. Mary Pickford and her husband Douglas Fairbanks, D.W Griffith, and Charlie Chaplin among others had realized the need for a retirement home for those who had labored in the entertainment industry and had fallen on hard times. The list of people who lived there included not only actors, but also producers and directors, and behind-the-scenes people-grips, electricians, and camera operators-as well. The monthly rental tab for a cottage on the campus, as the grounds were referred to, was based on one’s ability to pay.

  We entered the campus via an entrance off Mulholland Drive and drove up a curved driveway through lush grounds heading toward the administration building.

  “I doubt they let just anyone walk in and bother the residents, Rita. So follow my lead,” I said as we walked along a red tile pathway that went from the parking area to the entrance of the mission-style single-story building.

  We entered the lobby and approached a middle-aged woman seated behind a plain, rough-hewed antique desk. She stood to greet us.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Mrs. Wardley, the concierge, but you may call me Bess.” She extended her hand. “Now how can I help you?”

  After Rita and I shook her hand, I started to say, “Well. Bess, we’re here to see-”

  Rita jumped in: “We’re attorneys investigating a murder case.” She gave Mrs. Wardley her business card. “We have reason to believe one of your residents, a Mr. Francis Q. Jerome, has information pertaining to the case. Could you please ring his cottage and let him know we’d like to meet with him?”

  Mrs. Wardley looked at Rita, her card, and without saying a word she picked up the phone, dialed a number, and spoke in a quiet voice, then looked up at us. “He wants to talk to one of you.”

  Rita and I both reached out for the phone, but my arm was longer. “Mr. Jerome, my name is Jimmy O’Brien. My associate and I drove all the way out here to speak with you.”

  “Sorry, I don’t talk to lawyers. Had too many damn lawyers in my life, thieving bastards. I’ve been married five times, you know. But you can contact my agent, Warren Cowan at Rogers Cowan, Beverly Hills. What’s this all about anyway?”

  “Sue Harvey.”

  “I’ll meet you in the dining room in ten minutes. Bess will take you there.”

  We walked a short distance and entered a large airy room with high ceilings. Light came in from windows high in a clerestory wall. Bess went back to her tasks in the lobby. We waited for Jerome, sitting in pastel-colored Naugahyde chairs at one of the many tables scattered around the room. It was past lunchtime, but still about a dozen people sat at their tables, some in small groups, probably gossiping about “The Business.”

  “Isn’t that a movie star over there, Jimmy?” Rita asked, nodding in the direction of a woman sitting alone at a table a few feet away.

  Without being obvious, I shifted in my seat to get a better look. “Yeah, it sure is. That’s Mary Astor!” Astor played the temptress, Brigid O’Shaughnessy in one of my favorite detective movies, which was shown continually on the Late Late Show: The Maltese Falcon. I must’ve seen it a thousand times.

  I smiled and nodded at her when she noticed me staring. She smiled back and continued eating her meal, taking small bites. She was a knockout in her movies made back in the forties. She had a certain sexual allure that’s hard to describe. Today, in real life, she still looked terrific-older sure, but still beautiful.

  I turned to Rita. “How’d you recognize her? She was way before your time.”

  “I watch film noir on TV, too. I wonder how old she is.”

  “Ageless,” I answered, taking another quick glance at the woman whose advances Humphrey Bogart-as Sam Spade-rebuffed in the name of justice. “I hope they don't hang you, precious, by that sweet neck. Yes, angel, I'm gonna send you over,” I said softly in my best Bogey imitation.

  “What’d you say, Jimmy?”

  I did that Bogart thing with my mouth. “If you're a good girl, you'll be out in twenty years. I'll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I'll always remember you.”

  Rita tapped my arm. “Cut it out, Jimmy.” She laughed.

  We stood when Francis Q. Jerome rolled up to the table in a chrome wheelchair.

  “I don’t really need this damn chair, you know. But wha
t the hell, keeps the staff happy when I use it. Sit down. I’m Francis Jerome, now what’s this all about?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he glanced around the room. “Hey, can we get a little service over here?” he said to one of the attendants, snapping his fingers. “I’ve been coming here to Chasen’s for years. Where’s Dave? He knows how I like my martinis.”

  Francis Q. Jerome still had the air of a movie star. He wore a blue blazer with a scarf tied loosely about his neck. A red carnation was planted in his lapel and a sliver of white linen peeked out from his vest pocket. But the years had been hard. His hair was thin and what was left had turned an ashen grey. Liver spots dotted his wrinkled face, but it was the spider web-like veins covering his nose that exhibited a past penchant for alcohol. His once penetrating eyes were now dull and dark.

  An attendant, dressed in white, more like a nurse than a waitress, came to our table. “Good afternoon, Mr. Jerome. Now remember, this isn’t Chasen’s. You’re in the dining room at the Country Home.”

  “I know that, goddamn it. Just bring me some goddamn coffee.”

  The nurse looked at Rita and me and smiled. Can I bring you people something, as well?”

  “Thank you. Coffee would be fine,” I said. Rita seconded that.

  Jerome maneuvered his chair closer to the table and studied our faces. “Okay, little lady,” he said to Rita, “I suppose you want my autograph.”

  “That would be nice, Mr. Jerome.” Rita flashed one of her world-class smiles. She’d done her homework, and proceeded to soften up the old guy. “I’ve never met an Academy Award nominee before.”

  “Yeah, but that was a long time ago, my dear. That and a dime will get me a cup of coffee, today.” He scribbled his name with a flourish on a paper napkin and handed it to Rita.

  “Before we get started could you tell us a little about your life as a movie star? You’re such a great actor, and I think I’ve seen most of your movies.”

  I thought Rita was pouring it on a little thick, but he seemed to be eating it up.

  Jerome winked at her. The old bastard was actually flirting. “Of course, sweetheart.” His face seemed to brighten. “I was born in Connecticut into a privileged class. My old man owned a big industrial corporation, chemicals. After college, he wanted me to join the family business, but I said no. I held my ground. I wanted to be an actor, goddamn it. I stood up to him. Yes, I did.”

  He stopped talking and just glanced around the room.

  “Then what happened?” Rita asked.

  “What did you say, my dear?”

  “You wanted to be an actor and not go into the family business.”

  “Good thing I didn’t stay with the company. I’d have been a businessman, hell’s bells!”

  “What about your acting career?” Rita asked.

  “Oh, yes. Ah, what were we talking about?”

  “Acting.”

  “Back in the late twenties and early thirties I did a lot of Broadway. Then Hollywood came running with an open checkbook. I took a look at all the luscious blondes working at MGM and said, why not. I hated the producers, adored the women. Did you know I made love to Thelma Todd in the men’s room at her Sidewalk Cafe in Malibu three days before her mysterious death? I told her to stay away from those rotten gangsters. She won’t listen…” His voice trailed off.

  “I understand you also had a torrid affair with Joan Crawford,” Rita said.

  He smiled. “Yeah, sure. But who didn’t?”

  “What was she like?” I asked.

  “What was who like?” It was apparent that the years of hard drinking had killed a few billion of Jerome’s brain cells. He seemed a little confused when discussing the present, but when he recalled his time of glory and glamour he was as sharp as a tack.

  “What was Joan Crawford like?” I repeated.

  “Oh, Joanie, yeah! I loved her. My God, that woman had a sex drive that wouldn’t quit. And man, was she good in the sack. I mean, she was wild, a contortionist. She could bend herself into a pretzel. Half the time I didn’t know if I was in bed with Joanie or sleeping with Mankin the Frogman.”

  Rita chuckled, and I wondered who Mankin the Frogman was. Jerome kept talking.

  “Hell, I couldn’t keep her satisfied. I’d walk around in a daze. That was Joanie.” He shook his head. “She’d sleep with anyone who came within spitting distance. In those days, I had a personal bootlegger, a guy by the name of Jack Cruelle, used to deliver only the best, bring it right to the house-Ballantine’s, Johnny Walker, Chivas, you name it. He bottled the stuff somewhere out in the desert. But anyway, one day I came home early from the studio and my bootlegger and Joanie were going at it. They were out in the back by the pool, screwing like a couple of red-bellied lemurs, all assholes and elbows. They hadn’t noticed me standing there. So I just turned, went upstairs, and packed my bags.”

  “You never saw her after that?” Rita asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I saw her. But just to fuck her.”

  Rita turned red.

  “Excuse my French, angel face. But you’re a lawyer. I figured you heard it all before.”

  The nurse brought our coffee, Frank poured about a gallon of cream in his, stirred, then added a healthy dose of sugar and stirred some more. Rita and I sipped ours black.

  Francis Jerome remained quiet and took a sip of his coffee concoction. He set the cup down, raised his hand up and moved it slowly about, defining the dining room. “They call this room the Douglas Fairbanks Lounge. I made a picture with Doug late in his career. He was a worse drunk than I was. We called him the bad example.” He laughed. “As long as he stayed alive, nobody could point to me and say I drank too much, but then he died.”

  He took another sip and stared straight ahead. “Anyway, that was long ago.”

  “Can I ask you about Sue Harvey?” I said.

  “It’s been years since anyone asked me about her. Sad, such a waste.” He bowed his head.

  “You were married to her, weren’t you?”

  He looked up; his eyes were tired and bleary. “If you want to call it that.”

  Jerome had been engaged to Sue in 1945, the year Al Roberts’s story had been made into a movie. I figured I’d ask him about that. “Ever hear of a movie called Detour?”

  A big grin surfaced Jerome’s face. “I don’t think any prints still exist, but it was the worst picture ever made. Some kind of docudrama.” He chuckled. “It mentioned Sue, so naturally we got our hands on a copy. It was a joke and totally inaccurate. We ate popcorn and at first we laughed. But…”

  “But what?”

  “All that stuff about Al Roberts.”

  “What about Al Roberts?” I asked, pressing.

  “Who’s Al Roberts?”

  “The guy in the movie?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sue got a little teary eyed. But what the hell, it was only a movie.”

  “What about your marriage to Sue?” Rita asked, in a reverent tone.

  “Oh, goddamn it. Everyone said the marriage wouldn’t last. Even Joanie told me to stay away from her. Told me she was trouble with a capital T. Imagine Joanie saying something like that.” He frowned and shook his head. “But anyway, MGM threatened to put me on suspension if I went through with it. That tough little bastard, Eddie Mannix, a honcho at the studio, and his boys even tried to scare me off.”

  “But you still went through with the marriage?”

  “I couldn’t help myself.” His eyes rolled. “Sue was so hot. Long blonde hair, tits out to here. My God, she exuded sex.”

  “I saw her picture. She was very pretty,” I said, but Jerome didn’t hear me. He was back in his world.

  “A few romps in the hay with a goddess cost me a lot of dough. When we broke up, I gave her the house on Doheny. But it was worth it.”

  “You don’t happen to remember the phone number at the house, do you?” I asked.

  He looked up at me, confused. “Huh?”

  “Do you remember her phone number? Sue�
��s phone number?”

  “It’s funny, I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, but I remember the number: Crestview 6-5723.”

  He paused a moment and fiddled with his scarf. “Why in the hell wouldn’t I remember it?” he shouted.

  Rita wrote the number on her card, but I already knew it by heart. It was the other Beverly Hills phone number on my list that Sol had pointed out.

  “What happened to Sue after you two split up?” Rita asked, quietly.

  “I lost track of her for awhile, but I heard things. Bad things.” Jerome fell silent for a few seconds, then went on: “She fell on hard times. Lost the house and started a slow downhill slide, got in with a bad crowd, booze first; drugs followed, then prostitution. She’s dead now, you know.”

  I let out a breath. Sue was dead. Christ, there goes another lead. But the odds hadn’t been on my side to begin with. The trip out here wasn’t a total waste, however. I had a name to match another phone number on my list. Still, what good would that do, now that Sue was dead? But, hey, the coffee was great and I learned a little about Joan Crawford and I almost met Mary Astor.

  I was ready to leave, but Rita kept the conversation going. Maybe she liked the old guy. He was colorful. “Why’d your marriage break up?”

  “My sweet little wife couldn’t stay away from her ex-boyfriend. The son-of-a-bitch. I think he eventually killed her.”

  I perked up. What was he saying? Was he telling us that Roberts may have murdered Sue Harvey? He couldn’t have. “Alexander Roberts?” I asked.

  “No, not that jerk. John Barr.”

  “Who’s John Barr?”

  “You never heard of John Barr?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “A lousy cowboy actor, that’s who he was, a real asshole with a short fuse. Strictly B-movies. Sue was shacking with him when I met her. One day shortly after the marriage, Barr and I got into it, a real slugfest. He was a lot younger and before the movies he’d been a professional prizefighter. He put me in the hospital. Made all the papers. Hedda wouldn’t let the story die; embarrassing. I was shooting a high-toned weeper at the time. MGM had to close down the set for almost two weeks while I recuperated. The guy never worked a day in Hollywood after that.”