‘Have you any questions, gentlemen?’
To a man, the jurors looked horrified that they should be expected to intrude on such sorrow. Unable to muster a ‘no’ between them, they shook their downcast heads.
‘That is all, then; you may be excused.’
As Normand rose, the court broke into another rush of whispering and half a dozen reporters made a break for the door. But what came next stopped everyone in their tracks, as the coroner rapped his gavel and spoke up above the noise.
‘That is all the evidence we will take in this case. All but the jury will be excused.’
Tom, already half out of his seat, just had time to whip round and catch the look of confusion on the faces of Sullivan and his fellow detectives. Surely that couldn’t be it? The proceedings had lasted barely forty minutes. Not even half those subpoenaed had given evidence. The room was swept up in pandemonium, everyone jumping to their feet. Over their heads, Tom could see a green velour fedora bobbing towards the main door amid a clamor of reporters. Struggling against the tide of people surging for the door, he saw DA Woolwine and his deputy, William Doran, push through the press to Miss Normand, take her by the arm and whisk her through the small side exit, an officer barring access to the following mob. Meanwhile, Tom was swept out into the lobby. He shouldered his way to the edge of the crowd, and through a service door that promised access to the interior of the building. The corridor behind was wide and curved round, skirting the inquest chamber. Doors led off on one side, the smell of embalming fluid harsh enough to make him glad they were all shut. Ahead, he saw a passage leading to the left. Reaching it, he caught the last eclipsing light of a door closing at the far end – and ran towards it.
TWENTY
The glare of daylight dazzled him momentarily. Then he saw them, standing atop the steps leading down to the service yard behind the mortuary, black hearses parked all round. DA Woolwine could have passed for an undertaker, his suit a severe black, buttoned-up three-piece with starched wing collar and black bow tie. Doran, his deputy, was more modern, his suit slate-gray, his shirt collar snap-down, his copper-colored tie silk and perfectly centered in the V of his vest. The two men stared at him, daring him to approach. Between them, Mabel Normand stood, turning uncertainly at Tom’s sudden appearance, then away again, uninterested.
‘Miss Normand is not giving interviews,’ Woolwine said, an impressive rumble of authority in his strong Southern accent.
‘I’m not press.’ Tom sidestepped to his left, and addressed his next words directly to her. ‘Please, Miss Normand, may I have a word? Mr Sennett wants you—’
At this, Doran stepped between Tom and the actress. ‘What in heaven are you doing, man? Can’t you see this lady is upset? Leave us now, before I call an officer and have you removed.’
But Sennett’s name had done the trick.
‘No, wait, please,’ Normand said, placing a restraining hand on Doran’s arm, turning to face Tom. There was a hauntedness in her expression, a quaver in her voice. Her jaw seemed to fight against the effort of speaking. She took a step closer, and in the harsh light Tom could see her huge eyes were ringed by dark circles under the caked-on make-up. ‘Mr Sennett sent you?’
‘Thank you, yes,’ Tom said, disconcerted by the feverishness of her manner. ‘Mr Sennett wanted to be sure you’re well. You haven’t been home. He was worried.’
She put a hand up, cutting him off. ‘You tell him he shouldn’t worry, not one bit.’ Her voice was shrill with anxiety, the muscles in her neck taut with the unrepaid effort of keeping a level tone. ‘Tell him that I’m just dandy, thank you. Just dandy. And I … I need some time to be alone now.’
Her eyes were no longer meeting his, no longer fixing on anything. It was as if she were retreating inside the shell of herself for protection. All he could do was try to call her back. ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Sennett is genuinely very concerned. He needs to see you. Can I at least tell him where you can be reached?’
She stiffened as though she’d been struck across the back, but her eyes remained strangely blank. ‘I don’t want to be reached,’ she spat back at him. ‘Not by him. Not by anybody. But especially not by him. You be sure and tell him that. Especially not him.’
Before he could say any more, Normand began making her way awkwardly down the steps towards a black limousine reversing into the yard and drawing to a halt. Tom went to follow her but was stopped by Doran, his arm barring the way. A moment later, the chauffeur Davis dismounted the automobile, pointing up at Tom, angry. ‘He’s the one, Miss. He’s the one I told you about.’
She turned, her face empty of everything but fear as she glanced a last time at Tom before disappearing into the limousine’s curtained interior.
Woolwine strode over to Tom and poked him on the chest with an elongated forefinger. He wasn’t a big man, but the finger carried a surprising weight, and his cheeks were puce with anger.
‘Would you like to tell me what in tarnation’s going on here?’ he roared, the Tennessee in his voice coming out now. Tom watched the auto speed away before pushing off Doran’s restraining arm.
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing’s going on. I wanted to talk to her, that’s all.’
‘Well, she very clearly did not want to talk to you, now, did she?’
Receiving no reply, Woolwine barked again at Tom, demanding his name.
‘And you are in the employ of Mr Sennett, are you, Mr Collins?’
Tom said nothing. He wasn’t getting himself in any more trouble.
‘Very well, Collins, you stay silent. But heed this: if you go near Miss Normand again, I’ll have you behind bars quicker than you can blink. You may depend on that. And when you see Mr Sennett, tell him the same goes for him, too. Direct from me. He has many questions to answer in this affair, and I won’t have him intimidating my witnesses. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Why would he want to intimidate her?’ Tom said. ‘All I was aiming to do was help.’
Woolwine regarded him with open contempt. ‘I assure you she needs no help of yours. My office has the situation in hand. Now remove yourself before I lose patience.’
Woolwine wheeled on his heel and headed back into the building, followed smartly by Doran, who pulled the door shut behind him. Alone now in the yard, Tom cursed volubly, bitterly, with no one and nothing but the empty hearses to hear him. He’d had it up to his neck with this stupid affair. But Normand’s anguish and Woolwine’s words were already itching away at him. He said Mack Sennett would have questions to answer before this was finished. No surprise there. But what had he meant when he insisted his office had everything in hand? Tom hadn’t even mentioned the murder investigation. Was he talking about Normand, too?
TWENTY-ONE
‘Hey, Collins? Tom Collins, wait up a minute, brother.’
Hearing his name called, Tom looked back up Hill Street towards Overholtzer’s. The crowd outside had swollen. Pushing against the wall of spectators, hailing him with a raised notebook, was the scrawny figure of Phil Olsen. Tom waited while Olsen wriggled free and scuttled up beside him. The wire-framed spectacles perched on a hawk nose and the constant curl of knowingness on his lips marked him out as a newsman as effectively as the police press badge pinned to the frayed silk band of his boater. The hat had seen a skirmish or two too many, but Olsen’s navy-blue suit was clean and pressed, a detail Tom noted not only for its rarity but also its contrast with his own. Even the red bow tie Olsen sported looked new.
‘They must be paying well at the Herald these days, Olsen. You’re looking flush.’ Tom held out a hand in greeting.
‘Aw, you Irish, always with the charm.’ Olsen grinned and pumped his hand enthusiastically. His eyes roved Tom’s face, checking out the bruises and the split lip. ‘I wish I could say the same for you, brother. Jeez, you’ve been through the wringer. I thought I might run into you at the fights in Vernon last night, but I never thought to look for you in the ring.’
Tom laughed. He always
found it hard to resist Olsen’s line in patter. ‘No, business isn’t that bad – yet.’
‘So how’d you come by the thick lip? And don’t tell me you slipped on some orange peel. I’ve tried it, it don’t work.’
Tom looked away, back up the street. ‘Questions, questions. Don’t you ever stop, Olsen? I would’ve thought the big story was back up there with the movies. Isn’t that supposed to be your beat?’
Olsen flapped a hand at him. ‘I saw as much as I needed of that. What a farce, brother.’
‘I didn’t see you in there.’
‘Sure I was there. And very fascinating it was too, especially the contributions of your former boss. I thought him in splendid form – one of the best performances I’ve seen in years. Pity so much of it deviated from the truth. I mean, they didn’t even get the name right. Don’t these guys ever read the papers?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Didn’t you see it either? Jeez, why do we even try?’ Olsen threw his hands up in only partially mock horror. ‘Actually, it was the Times got this one, but it’s a beauty all the same. Turns out Bill Taylor’s name isn’t Taylor at all but Tanner. And the Desmond was fake, too. So he wasn’t William Desmond Taylor; he was William Deane Tanner. Yeah, Mr Deane Tanner, late of New York, where he abandoned a wife and daughter fifteen years ago. The guy was a total phoney.’
It was news to Tom, but hardly a surprise. Name changers were a dime a dozen in the colony. Lots of folk did it, to sound more euphonious or attractive. Or maybe to turn their back on an undesired past. It was a non-starter and he said so to Olsen.
‘It’s still a good story,’ Olsen said. ‘Eyton must have known. And I don’t care what you say; Nance should’ve picked up on it. Still, could be it’s a minor sin compared with the rest he missed out on. And with all those movie stars on hand, too. What a waste.’
‘No doubt that’s exactly what you’ll be saying in your news report,’ Tom laughed.
‘Yeah, right. As you know, I’m contractually obliged to embroider the truth and salivate suggestively wherever possible in my reporting. So I’ll be leading in great detail on what Hollywood’s foremost comedienne Miss Normand was wearing, and how sorrow was consuming her already frail figure. And pondering whether her uncharacteristic aversion to being photographed today had less to do with grief than guilt. Over her allowing the intruder an opportunity to enter the house, of course. Nothing else implied.’ He rolled his eyes before continuing. ‘If I toe the line with that, I might get to slip a few inches in about what a fine upstanding character our investigating coroner is and how admirable it was that he could dispose of the most controversial inquest ever to come his way in under forty-five minutes.’
‘But you’ll lead on Normand,’ Tom said, feeling duty-bound to defend her. ‘What did that woman ever do to you guys? Sounds to me like somebody has it in for Hollywood’s foremost comedienne.’
Olsen tipped his boater back, scratched his forehead and gave Tom a penetrating stare. ‘You might have something there, you know. Look, I’ve got a bit of time before I file my story. Join me for a coffee? You look like you could do with one.’
They walked around the corner to Van De Kamp’s, a bakery with a Dutch-style windmill above the door and an enormous display case in the window with stacked trays of plaited breads and pretzels, candy-colored cakes and pastries of all kinds. It had a new, modern feel indoors – all scrubbed tiles and no tables, only neat padded swivel stools lined against brushed steel counters – apart from the waitresses, who were decked out in Dutch maids’ uniforms.
Tom and Olsen sat at the counter and a strikingly pretty girl took their order, a sharp Texan twang at odds with her Hollandish cap and plaits.
‘Everyone’s an actress in this town.’ Olsen licked his lips as she walked away.
‘Still helping young hopefuls get that first foot on the ladder?’ Tom asked.
Olsen grinned. ‘One of the benefits of a city that attracts a multitude of good-looking gals seeking fortune through fame, not marriage. So many are content to start at the bottom.’
‘And that’d be you, Olsen, would it?’
‘You got it in one, friend. You’d be amazed how thirsty some of these lovelies are for a drop of ink.’
‘Sure, or a taste of the camera,’ Tom grunted. He’d seen enough of that for a lifetime.
Olsen nodded, then narrowed his eyes. ‘Speaking of which, Tom, have those gentlemen at Lasky’s realized the error of their ways and asked you to rejoin their ranks?’
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ There was a slick of disingenuousness to Olsen’s reply. ‘Only I saw you sitting in on the inquest and I was, you know, wondering what you were doing there if you didn’t have nothing to do with Lasky no more. That’s all.’
‘Just a casual observer,’ Tom said. The invitation to coffee was always going to have an ulterior motive.
‘Yeah,’ Olsen said. ‘But I had to sell my grandmother to get a pass for that inquest, and I had every reason to be there.’
‘So maybe I knew somebody who got me in. You press guys can’t have all the perks, you know. I was interested, that’s all.’
‘So you knew Taylor? You being Irish and all. You were part of his circle?’
‘No, not at all. Barely knew him. Other than his reputation as a decent guy and a capable director. And seeing him around the studio, from time to time. Spoke to him on a couple of jobs I did over at Realart, but I wasn’t there very often. He played in a different league. Seemed a nice fella, though.’
‘What about Mabel Normand?’
‘What about her?’ Tom said, letting a note of irritation flavor his reply. ‘Christ, don’t you ever give up? Quit giving me the shakedown, will you.’
‘OK, OK. You can’t blame a fellow for trying. I was just fishing. Kind of hoping you might be able to give me the inside track on something.’
‘You must be hard up, coming to me. What track?’
‘Just something I heard happened round at Taylor’s, Thursday afternoon. Thought you might have been there. That being your line of work, or used to be. You live out that way too, no?’
Tom frowned without meaning to. How the hell did Olsen know where he lived? ‘I wasn’t anywhere near Taylor’s on Thursday.’
Olsen pushed on regardless. ‘Well, somebody told me a certain starlet paid a visit to the death house, and created quite a scene while she was there. Word is, she claimed Mr Taylor and her were engaged to be married.’
‘That’s hardly news. Miss Normand’s already made a statement denying it.’
‘Sure she did. And you should listen more carefully, Collins. I said starlet, not star. I’m talking about the young lady your Mr Zukor says will be the next big thing. I’m talking about that erstwhile Anne of Green Gables, the one and only Mary Miles Minter. You ever hear anything about her and Taylor swapping rings?’
He kept his eyes on Olsen, recalling now the inscribed photo of Minter in Taylor’s front room and Sullivan pulling himself up when referring to Taylor’s age. Had he known more than he said? Tom prayed his expression gave nothing away. ‘I thought the press line was he was engaged to Normand?’
‘My point exactly. It’s what makes it a good story, no?’ Olsen’s grin was feral. He leaned in towards Tom and dropped his voice. ‘That’s not all. I heard also that, upon leaving the house, the lovely Miss Minter sped straight down here to Overholtzer’s and bribed a staff member to leave her alone with Taylor’s cold dead bones for a half-hour.’
Tom’s jaw didn’t quite drop, but Olsen was delighted with the reaction. ‘Put it another way, here’s the sell: “Well-known youthful movie actress of flawless complexion and national renown, distraught at the death of a much admired senior director, requested and was granted a private audience with the lifeless remains at Los Angeles’ premier funeral parlor Thursday evening last.”’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Oh, but I am.’ Olsen swept h
is left hand across and made a ‘ding’ before continuing. ‘New paragraph. “The golden-ringleted actress was heard to weep copiously and make numerous – sadly muffled but manifestly passionate – declarations of undying love on said director’s unbeating breast. She was further observed draping her lithe and much admired young figure all over his, uh, too-solid flesh. Such was the ardency of her grief, it was said, she had to be detached forcibly from the late director’s remains by members of the mortuary staff.”’
‘Jesus, Olsen. You can’t put that into print?’
The reporter gestured disconsolately. ‘That’s the god-awful problem. It won’t get halfway to the typesetters if I can’t find something solid to back it up. The morticians are all keeping schtum – or staying off the record, anyhow. As an erstwhile oil-the-wheels man yourself, you’ll appreciate what tidy sums Eyton and his cronies must’ve paid out for their discretion. Nothing I can match, that’s for sure. I thought you might …’ He paused only to turn his palms up. ‘Well, obviously not. I got most of this straight from one of Overholtzer’s embalmers in exchange for a steak supper last night. Then she got scared of losing her position and denied it just as straight.’
Tom hardly knew whether to be disgusted or annoyed. ‘See, that’s what I don’t get. How come you guys can splash any trash you like over the front pages about Normand, but when it comes to Minter you’ve got to give it the velvet glove? Why is that?’
Olsen grunted in disbelief. ‘Oh, now, brother. You ain’t that dumb. How long did you work for Eyton? You’ve seen enough of this stuff to know how it works. Only the right rumors ever get into print in this town. I’ve done my damnedest to get this Minter story past my editor and he put it straight on the spike. Worried about his annual pension contribution from Adolph Zukor and Jesse Lasky. He told me to my face: Minter is off limits for now, unless it’s copper-fastened. ’Course, everybody out at Lasky is clammed up tighter than a pigmy’s ass about it. All they’re interested in is Mabel Normand. But I’ll be damned if I’m not going to get something in about Minter.’
The Long Silence Page 12
