He shot a glance back through the doorway before turning to Tom with the same anxious expression as before.
‘Bill Taylor’s been killed.’ His voice cracked in trying to say it low. So low Tom couldn’t be sure he was hearing right.
‘Who’s been … What?’
‘Taylor. Bill Taylor for Chrissakes,’ Sennett hissed. So close now Tom felt spittle spray hot on his ear. ‘He’s been murdered. Shot dead in his own parlor.’
Even spelled out, it took a moment to comprehend. Bill Taylor – or William Desmond Taylor as he was known to the world – was one of the top directors in town, and among the most respected. A tall, handsome guy with a commanding presence, he’d been president of the Motion Picture Directors Association and was under contract to the studio Tom had come out to Hollywood to work security for, Famous Players-Lasky. He had run across him plenty, inevitably, and always found him a bit remote, a bit cool. Tom the muscle, Taylor very much the artist. They didn’t exactly run with the same crowd. Apart from being Irish, they had nothing in common. And even that Taylor preferred to play down, preferring to put himself across as some kind of English gent about town. Still, you could be whoever you wanted to be in the colony. That was the deal. And if Taylor’s reputation was to be believed, you couldn’t meet a nicer, more refined guy. Or imagine anyone wanting to hurt him.
With one glaring exception: Mack Sennett.
Something in Tom’s expression must have betrayed the thought because Sennett took a step back, wiped a look that bordered on satisfaction off his face, and grabbed a copy of the Los Angeles Evening Herald from the table.
‘See for yourself.’ Sennett thrust the paper at him, front page first. ‘Found dead in his place over on South Alvarado this morning, shot in the back. Whole place’s in a flap about it.’
An oversize headline blared from beneath the Herald’s spread-eagle masthead: Mystery Gunman Kills Film Director Taylor.
Tom stared at the first two words, their significance wrestling all other thoughts out of the way. ‘They don’t know who did it?’
‘Not a clue,’ Sennett said emphatically. His countenance was changing now, as if telling Tom was a relief somehow. ‘Maybe it was the butler,’ he said, snickering and jabbing a finger at the bottom of the page. ‘The ex-butler, I mean – this guy Sands. But nobody believes that.’
Tom’s swimming vision followed the fingertip to a report claiming that a valet the director sacked six months before had been named as a possible suspect. It was too much to take in.
‘They’re getting nasty about it, Tom, trying to draw innocent people into the net.’
The note of self-pity in Sennett’s voice rang like an alarm bell, and Tom’s brain shifted into gear and caught up with the reality of the situation.
‘What’re you talking about, Mack? Who’s getting nasty?’
‘The papers, the stupid papers. They’re jumping all over it. The evening editions were bad enough, but God knows what they’ll print tomorrow morning. I ain’t kidding. It’s like Arbuckle all over again. Their blood is up. I had J.A. over in Mabel’s place all day fighting off calls. All the news boys want is to dig up dirt.’
J.A. Waldron was Sennett’s studio manager, Mabel Normand his top star – the biggest box-office comedienne in the movies and worth millions. As the pieces fell into place, Tom cursed himself for being so slow. For the past six months, all the gossip columns and movie magazines had been clamoring to get Normand to announce her engagement to Taylor, the two had been seen going about together so much. At the same time whispering about whether her employer, and former fiancé, Mr Mack Sennett, would give the match his blessing.
‘You’re not telling me Miss Normand had something to do with this?’
‘Of course not,’ Sennett snapped. Catching the skeptical look in Tom’s eye, he shook his head emphatically. ‘She didn’t, I tell you. But she did have the misfortune to be the last person to see him alive. Now they’re all jumping on her like she’s the killer.’
‘That’s one heck of a misfortune, Mack. Did she have the misfortune to be alone in the room with him when he was shot, as well, maybe?’
‘Goddamn it, how can you even ask that?’ Sennett shot him a look sharp enough to stick in his neck. ‘She was miles away, in her own bed, when it happened. You know as well as I do, Mabel wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Tom knew no such thing. He never had much to do with Mabel Normand either personally or professionally, but he had ears to hear rumors the same as anyone else. And he heard plenty about her being one very troubled lady. But for all that, he had to think she made an unlikely murder suspect. Not that it would make a difference to the press boys. All they lived for was to build folk up in order to tear them down again twice as hard.
‘What do the cops say?’
‘They went round and questioned her earlier,’ Sennett sighed. ‘One advantage of being a major star. They come to you. Can’t drag you away in chains on a suspicion.’
‘They go heavy on her?’
‘Naw, I got that attorney Zweiss to sit in with her. They had to be nice.’
‘What about you? They call you, too?’
‘Me? No, why would they?’
There was nothing to do but laugh in Sennett’s face. ‘Oh come on, Mack, get real. It’s not like every gossip on the West Coast hasn’t been trading on your feelings about her and Taylor.’
And they had, even if a good eighty percent of the stories had been planted by Sennett’s own publicity department.
‘You know there’s nothing between me and Mabel anymore.’
‘Yeah, sure. Apart from that great big hole in your heart you’re so fond of telling us about.’
‘That’s just baloney for the fans, and you know it.’
Tom did a double take on that one and was totally unprepared for the big man’s response.
Sennett bared his teeth, snarled like a dog and poked him in the chest. ‘Now, you listen, Tom. You just shut up about that. That’s between me and Mabel, nobody else. And that’s how it’s going to stay. OK?’
There was much to dispute in that assertion. But with the agitated state Sennett was in, Tom could see now was not the time to argue. He took another tack. ‘You’ll still have to deal with the papers. Has anybody been in touch? Anyone connect your name to it yet?’
Sennett glared at him again, as though he was going to contest that too, but then seemed to change his mind. He heaved a laugh out of his big barrel chest. ‘Oh, you know. Some guy from the Times called me at the studio but all he wanted was a quote. I gave him the usual spiel, about what a great artist and a fine fellow my good friend Mr William Desmond Taylor was, what a tragedy for the movie world that a director of his celestial caliber should be taken from us so untimely and all. Seemed happy with that. Didn’t ask for more.’
A small miracle, but Tom knew it was only a matter of time before they would return, probably to fling those fine words back in Sennett’s face. The tiredness of the long day began to swamp him and, despite the tension, his concentration began to drift. Sennett wasn’t helping, yammering on now like a clockwork toy let loose.
‘Half a million bucks I put into Mollie O,’ Sennett was saying. ‘I can’t take a wallop like that, Tom. If they withdraw it from the theaters, I’m finished. The banks are tightening up. Even looking at the fifty grand I’ve already laid out on filming Suzanna, we’re in trouble – that’s sure to be held up by weeks now. We got to have something to throw back at them when they come at us.’
‘What are you proposing?’ It was a question he instantly regretted.
‘Ain’t it obvious?’ Sennett said, exasperated. ‘You’ve got to get out there and find something to prove Mabel had nothing to do with it.’
‘Me?’ Tom laughed. ‘You’re better off putting some lawyers on it, and fast. What do you think I could do?’
‘More than any chickenshit lawyer, that’s for sure,’ Sennett insisted. ‘I don’t see any other way. If the papers come do
wn hard, Mabel’s name will be box-office poison. We’ll all be going down the chute if that happens. It’s no good saying she didn’t do it; we gotta show she absolutely couldn’t have done it. Beyond doubt.’
Tom knew very well how dangerous it was to go sniffing at holes the cops already had their noses in. ‘That’s crazy, Mack. You said yourself this thing could be dynamite. You’re better off sitting back, waiting to see what happens. If she’s innocent, she’s innocent. No argument. But if anyone spots me out there asking questions, the finger will point straight back at you. And you know you don’t want that.’
Sennett put his hands up. ‘I got nothing to hide. Anyhow, there’ll be so many cops and hacks out there rooting around, no one’s going to notice you. If they do, you got friends in City Hall, no? And I’m paying you, ain’t I? You know I’ll make it worth your while. I’m telling you, Tom, you’re the man for the job.’ He said it sweet, but with a layer of vinegar on top. ‘And if you can’t see your way to helping me, I might be obliged to call in the note on that rent you owe me. I got to have some way to recoup my losses. Every drop in the ocean and all that.’
Tom gave him a long stare. It was all he had. ‘That’s low, Mack.’
‘That’s life, Tommy boy.’
A shuffle from the doorway made them turn sharply. It was the girl, looking more womanly now in a green cotton dress and a silk tailor-waist jacket that might have been made for her. Taller, too, in heels, and she’d found the means to make up her face. There was a strained silence as the two men tried to figure how much she might have overheard – until Sennett stepped in to fill it.
‘Ah, there you are. And very lovely you look, too, my dear. Better than Tom’s old beaver, no?’
She smiled, embarrassed. ‘Thanks. I will get them back to you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, just, you know, uh …’ Sennett trailed off, not interested enough to say any more.
It was as good an opportunity as any to get gone. Tom led her back under the light in the parlor. ‘I said he’d fit you out. And how. Let’s get you home now.’
Sennett followed them out from the kitchen. The matter was obviously settled in his mind, all his attention switched back to the davenport as if he had forgotten Swann was even there.
‘You be sure to put a blanket over him.’ Tom said. ‘You wouldn’t want him catching his death. Not tonight.’
THREE
The street outside was quiet as a Sunday stockyard and the rain had eased to a soft drizzle. When they reached the Dodge, he felt a tug on his elbow.
‘You’ll be wanting this.’ She offered up his car coat.
He shook his head but took it anyway, held it open for her to put on. ‘You have it. I’m already wet as I’m going to get. You got those nice fresh clothes on. Leastways, I hope they’re fresh.’
She smiled weakly and slipped her arms in the sleeves without protest. As she bent her gaze to do up the buttons, he let his eyes roam her face, the curve of her cheekbones high and childish, and wondered how long that smooth complexion would survive Hollywood.
‘So, where we going?’
If she gave an answer, the motor’s roar drowned it out as he stepped on the starter. He waited for it to settle to an idling clatter and asked again. But it wasn’t the subject foremost in her mind.
‘I can’t believe I just met Mack Sennett and I didn’t ask him for a tryout. I didn’t even tell him how much I love his movies.’ She barely got the sentence out for the sob she was trying to suppress.
He had seen people react strangely to Sennett before. The man was as coarse as a ranch hand yet had the power to make millionaires of wage clerks and shop girls. That colored everybody’s view of him. But it was after one in the morning now, and Tom was running short on sympathy.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure he’d have been receptive tonight, anyway. He’s got a lot on his mind. You’re better off saving it for next time.’
‘Next time?’ She gazed up at him. Much the same look she gave him when she begged him for help at the fun palace. What could it hurt to give her a crumb of hope?
‘Sure, why not? He knows who you are now. You can lay on the charm when you take this stuff back to him.’
He plucked at the collar of the borrowed blouse and her face lit up like a child’s. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said, and bounced right up in the seat, touching his arm momentarily.
He slipped the machine into gear. ‘Right. So where to, kid?’
‘Can’t I come with you?’
His foot slid off the clutch and the machine jerked forward, crunching to a stop. He slapped the steering wheel hard in frustration. ‘Taking you home means what it says. Your home, not mine.’
‘I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t mean to cause you any more trouble, but at my rooming house they lock the door at ten every evening. Landlady says no decent girl stays out later than that.’
‘Don’t you have a pal – somebody who’ll let you in? That’s how folk usually manage it.’
‘Sure, but it’s a small place. Just me and one other girl, and she’s away working just now. I didn’t think it would matter when I went to that place …’ Her face clouded over at the memory, but she quickly collected her thoughts. ‘Please, I’ll sleep in a chair, on the floor, any–anywhere you like.’
Her meaning was painfully clear, but instead of being angry, he found himself praying he would never be so hard up for a place to lay his head.
‘If I had any sense, I’d dump you here in the street right now.’
‘But you’re too nice for that.’ Smiling now that she saw his resolve crumbling.
‘How do you know I don’t have a wife waiting at home?’
‘It wasn’t the first thing you said when I asked.’ She said it low, beneath her breath. ‘And you don’t have the look of it.’
He cocked an eyebrow at her, amused. Too fatigued to argue further. Who would it hurt? It was his place. He could do as he liked. And Fay was out of town, so no need for awkward explanations. Why shouldn’t the kid have the parlor couch for a night? Who would know?
‘Just one night.’
‘Sure,’ she laughed, her relief conspicuous. ‘Why would I stay any longer?’
FOUR
Had the sun not roused him, he might have slept another two, three hours. He was so attuned to it still. After days of cloud and rain, the immaculate blue sky and strong clear light would have movie studios across Los Angeles twitching, coughing, convulsing into life. Even as he rubbed his eyes, canvas was being stripped from cameras and scenery, backlots and glass-roofed stages were blooming with activity, ready to be transmuted into entertainment for millions by the alchemy of sunlight, glass and celluloid.
Already, crews would be on the road, caravans of trucks piled high with props and players, setting out for Griffith Park, the canyons and arroyos surrounding Hollywood, the beaches of Malibu and Santa Monica. Or simply setting out to see what opportunities the streets and suburbs of the city might provide. Directors barking, cameramen cranking, carpenters sawing and hammering. Scene-painters transforming flats, screens and scaffolds into sleek Manhattan apartments or the catacombs of ancient Rome. In long runs of studio bungalows and scattered offices, roofs would be steaming in the heat, artists would be sketching set-ups, writers scribbling scenes, producers wheeling, dealing, lying through their teeth on telephones. And ruling them all, the money men supplicating the great lord Mammon to grant the eternal cycle of outgoings and incomings, receipts and expenditure, prosperity and continuance.
Christ, how he missed being at the heart of it. For five years, this had been the life blood that ran through Tom Collins’s veins. And every morning for the six months since he was sacked, he woke and stuffed his face deeper in the pillow, allowing himself a drift of fantasy that he might reawake and have his old job at Lasky’s back, and for things to be exactly as they were before. But that could never be. So instead he reconciled himself to the likelihoo
d that what lay ahead might be another unsatisfying day. But as good a day as he could make it.
He shook his head, shuffled on a robe and went out to the kitchen. The place was a mess. Eating out was wearing a hole in his pocket. Evidence of his unskilled efforts to feed himself lay in a trail from stove to sink. He drew off a glass of water, and thought again about what he needed to do. Not that he had much choice. He clicked the wall phone’s cradle arm twice, and over the crackle and hiss of an open line got the operator to repeat the number he wanted and put him through.
The voice that answered was unmistakable, its soft Munster lilt and high pitch as familiar as a brother’s.
‘Hello, yes?’
‘Thad, how’re you doing? It’s me.’
A pause, followed by a gasp of surprise. ‘Jesus, Tom. Are you all right, lad? I didn’t recognize you there for a minute.’
‘I’m OK. A catch in my throat, I guess. Hour of the morning.’
‘Or the late hour last night, knowing you,’ Thad Sullivan chuckled. Then, as if remembering himself, lapsed into chiding seriousness. ‘Eleanor and me were beginning to think you’d been run out of town, you know. Especially when we didn’t hear from you over the holidays. Where’ve you been all this time?’
Tom felt a stab of guilt, apologized and said he’d been busy getting the new business up and running. That wasn’t the whole of it, but now was not the time for explanations. A late night and a bottle of whiskey would take care of that.
‘Listen, Thad, are you downtown today? Can we meet?’
‘Sure, if you want. I’m on from ten today. If it’s urgent, I—’
‘Before you go in would be good. Are you working the Taylor murder by any chance?’
Sullivan’s intake of breath echoed down the line. ‘Sure I am. The whole detective squad’s been called in on it. All hands to the pump. Woolwine is going crazy. Why? Do you have something for us?’ His half-suspicious, half-hopeful tone was pure cop.
‘No,’ Tom laughed, embarrassed now. ‘It’s kinda the opposite.’
The Long Silence Page 2
