The Long Silence

by Gerard O'Donovan

  ← Casa Duende ½ mile

  Five minutes later, he crested a rise and below saw the white walls and terracotta rooftiles of a lone old hacienda situated in an oasis of lush green land nestled in the head of the canyon below.

  He pulled up in a wide and shady stone-paved courtyard. The cool air hit his skin as soon as he stepped down, a welcome relief. Large-leaved trees and palms cast great gouts of shadow randomly across the rough-hewn slabs. Sprays of purple, pink, red and orange blossoms beckoned and blushed from beds laid out at the back of narrow strips of well-watered grass. Even the ivy looked carefully arranged, straggling up the rough white stucco facade towards a pretty second-floor balcony, the dark wood rail overrun by honeysuckle.

  Tom approached the iron-studded oak door, but before he got a hand on the black bell-pull, it opened and a short, gray-haired woman emerged. Close up, she was not as old as he remembered. In her late fifties at most, a face youthful other than a wide, thin-lipped mouth that wrinkled at the corners. She had shears in one hand, a watering can in the other, and beneath a soiled canvas apron that covered most of her clothing, she wore a well-worn dress. Once it would have matched exactly the pale blue of the eyes staring intently up at him.

  ‘Mrs Ivers?’

  She nodded, more formal than friendly. ‘Mr Collins?’ Not so much a question as an assertion of fact. Her clear, confident voice again threw doubt on his assessment of her age.

  ‘Yes, like I said on the telephone, I need some information about Mr Taylor. I know you and he were good friends, and—’

  ‘Just a moment, Mr Collins,’ Mrs Ivers cut across him. A note of agitation in her voice did not bode well. ‘Before you proceed further, I would like to get something straight. When you telephoned, you led me to believe you were an associate of Mr Charles Eyton’s and that you were making your investigations on his behalf. Which, I can assure you, is the only reason I agreed to let you come out here to my home. But I have spoken with Mr Eyton since, and he informs me that you are certainly no employee of his, that he dismissed you six months ago, and that I should have nothing whatsoever to do with you. So unless you have a very good explanation why you lied to me, I will have to ask you to turn around and remove yourself from my property.’

  Wrong-footed, Tom scrambled to remember exactly what he had said to Mrs Ivers on the telephone but couldn’t see where he had gone wrong. That Bushmills of Sullivan’s was still working on him when he had called but, even so, he would never have been dumb enough to lie to her about working for Eyton.

  ‘I–I really don’t understand, Mrs Ivers. If I misled you in any way, I apologize. That wasn’t my intention. I know you work with Mr Eyton over at Lasky. I mentioned the connection only to introduce myself. I never meant to imply that I work for him now, and I’m sorry if I gave you that impression because we really haven’t been on good terms since he let me go. But please believe me, I have sound reasons for wanting to talk to you about Mr Taylor.’

  ‘Are you working for a newspaper, Mr Collins? Is it some salacious story that you are after?’ Her voice was harsh and superior now, and together with the pain he already had in his behind from the dirt-road drive, the suggestion that he was here under false pretences began to nettle him.

  ‘Certainly not. Look, Mrs Ivers, I don’t know how you got the wrong end of the stick, and, like I said, I’m sorry if you got it from me. The truth is I’m a private investigator working for an associate of Mr Taylor’s, in pursuit of which I have stupidly succeeded in putting my own life at risk. The reason I’m standing here right now is that I’m real keen to stay alive. Now, I know that is no concern of yours, but someone told me yesterday that you knew Mr Taylor better than anyone, and I just thought you could help me clear up a couple of things. That’s the honest-to-God reason I’ve dragged myself all the way out here on this fine Sunday afternoon. If you don’t believe me, or don’t want to help me, then I’ll turn around and take myself out of here just as soon as you say. But that is the truth of it, and I would be very grateful, and relieved, if you would talk to me.’

  She stood in the doorway, making no move to close it. ‘That’s most intriguing, Mr Collins. I’m not sure I could come up with a more enthralling movie scenario myself.’

  ‘That’s real nice of you, Mrs Ivers, but, believe me, nobody could wish more than me that this was not real life. Apart from Mr Taylor, maybe.’

  It was a low blow, he knew, but it struck home. She flushed to her high hairline and immediately dropped her gaze to the floor, blinking rapidly. He stood there, staring at her, wanting her to feel it keenly. It took her a good half-minute to regain her composure.

  ‘You do an impressive line in truth-telling, Mr Collins.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Awaiting another insult, he didn’t recognize her compliment for what it was.

  ‘You’re the one Charlie sacked over Roscoe Arbuckle, aren’t you? I thought I recognized your name.’

  Tom felt the confidence drain out of him. There was no way she would let him in now.

  ‘There was a little more to it than just Mr Arbuckle, ma’am. But yes, it was around that time Mr Eyton let me go.’

  She looked him in the eye, steadily, the blue of her gaze as piercing and authoritative as a searchlight. ‘I don’t require details, Mr Collins. But I do recall Bill saying he thought you were shabbily treated. So, in his memory alone, I suppose I should give you a hearing.’

  That was the second time in two days that his name and Taylor’s had been connected. He never thought, as gossip-ridden as all studios were, that his sacking would have been noticed, let alone a cause for comment by the likes of this woman and Taylor. But he wasn’t going to let that get in his way, so he kept his mouth shut and waited.

  ‘And now you’ve taken an interest in Bill’s death,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think we should leave the investigating to the police department?’

  ‘They haven’t done a great job of it so far, have they?’

  Somehow it was enough. She smiled weakly at him and patted the back of her hair, still unable fully to meet his gaze.

  ‘Very well, Mr Collins.’

  She turned and entered the house, making no further invitation. Inside was a high, airy vestibule that rose two floors to a dark wood ceiling supported by carved beams. From the centermost an ancient, black iron chandelier hung on thick chains, its cartwheel fitment a good eight feet across, its outer rim bearing a garland of electric light bulbs. The room was sparsely but gracefully decorated, the walls of rough white plaster interrupted by a vast framed portrait of a proud old Californio striking a military pose. Mrs Ivers was a woman of taste as well as substance.

  ‘You’ve certainly got a beautiful place here, Mrs Ivers. Driving that final stretch, I wondered how you get the water here to keep everything so green. You can’t have it pumped all the way out here?’

  She turned to him, smiling again, her defensiveness banished.

  ‘No, indeed. We are blessed in having a subterranean watercourse running beneath this hill on which we sit. We take water from it year round. Otherwise, it would be quite impossible. It is a gift from the Lord for someone with a passion for growing and tending plants, as I have. It was why I fell in love with the house, which was rather dilapidated when I took it on. But the prospect of all that life-giving water in the barrenness around, it was irresistible. Do you like to garden, Mr Collins?’

  ‘I think I would, Mrs Ivers. But in my scrap of yard over in West Lake, weeds are all that’re dumb enough to survive.’

  He got the smile he expected for that and was considering how to turn it to his advantage when Mrs Ivers’s thoughts converged with his own.

  ‘I’m sure you want to get down to business, Mr Collins. I had thought to conduct it here, but perhaps it would be more pleasant to go out on the terrace, where you can enjoy more of my gardens.’

  She led him through a wide doorway that opened on to a courtyard bordered on three sides by wide, shady arcades, cooled by a three-tier fountai
n tinkling at its center and crowded with the same profusion of pots and flowers as out front. But it was the open fourth side that took his breath away, framing a magnificent view of a green canyon running down to the glittering Pacific a mile or so in the distance. He had not realized the journey had taken him so high into the hills, or so far west.

  ‘Bill loved it here,’ Mrs Ivers said, wistful. ‘He would sit for hours, working, talking, sipping tea and staring out. He said it was like being gifted a glimpse of eternity. He had such an appreciation of subtlety. But then, I think you Irish have a more emotional response to the ocean than most.’

  ‘Maybe because the sea only ever brought us enemies or exile, Mrs Ivers.’

  She liked that, and he felt she was warming to him. Maybe it wouldn’t be a wasted journey after all.

  ‘Will you sit down, Mr Collins, and take some tea?’

  He sat and stared out across the ocean, struggling to wrest his mind back from the enchantment of his surroundings. Mrs Ivers struck a small gong on the table before them and a Chinese houseboy, done up in immaculate starched whites, appeared from nowhere, running, to take her very precise instruction on the tea he was to bring to them. The boy ran off again.

  ‘I might as well tell you, Mrs Ivers, I am truly desperate to find someone who can help me out. As I said, I’m pretty sure Mr Taylor’s death is connected to another matter I’m investigating. But so many people say so many different things about him, I feel I’m going round in circles. I thought maybe you might set me back on the right track.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, Mr Collins, but I’m sure you won’t expect me to break any confidences.’

  They parried like this, falling over each other with politeness, laying out the rules for a while, until Tom got tired of it and went in for it straight.

  ‘Look, Mrs Ivers, I wouldn’t want to shock you, but …’ He paused to get his words right, and she mistook it for a continuation of the game.

  ‘Please go on, Mr Collins, and you needn’t worry about shocking me. Nothing could shock me more than the sight of my dear friend Bill lying white as a sheet on the floor of his apartment last Thursday morning. It was an effort to make myself believe he was dead. He might as well have been asleep.’

  He wondered if he hadn’t misheard her and had to bite his tongue as the houseboy arrived with the tea on a bamboo tray and silence reigned while Mrs Ivers fussed over warming the cups before pouring the tea. But eventually it was done, and he put the question to her. ‘You mean to say you were present when Mr Taylor was discovered?’

  She nodded, seemingly unaware of the import of what she was saying. ‘Well, not exactly then, of course. It was his boy, Peavey, who found him, and Doug and Faith MacLean and others from the court. But we arrived soon afterwards, before any police. You see, I was staying over with my son, Jimmy, in his apartment around the corner from Alvarado – I sometimes do that if my work at the studio keeps me late. Well, it seems Mr MacLean telephoned Charlie Eyton, and Charlie telephoned Jimmy and asked us to hurry round to Bill’s, to ensure there was nothing embarrassing or compromising lying around. Like liquor, letters – anything the newspapers might whip up scandal with. I suppose Charlie knew the MacLeans would be required to stay on by the police. You must understand, Mr Collins, at that stage we all thought Bill had died of heart failure, or some other natural cause. That’s certainly how it appeared. There was no sign whatsoever of a disturbance. He looked so peaceful, lying there on the carpet.’

  She paused, brushed a hand across the tip of her nose, before continuing. ‘It sounds so shocking now we know he was murdered. But ever since Mr Arbuckle was arrested, that’s how it is in the movie business. Everyone is simply obsessed with scandal. Even the police department cannot be trusted. They sell everything they find to the newspapers, with no regard for how it might be interpreted or whom it will hurt. So, you see, upset as we were, all we wanted was to protect Bill’s reputation. Jimmy went upstairs to see what he could find while I gathered what letters and bottles of spirits were downstairs. We were leaving with them as the first policeman pulled up on Alvarado.’

  ‘And he didn’t see you? They never found out about this?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, exactly. Later, when we saw in the paper that Bill had been murdered, I became concerned. I contacted Charlie again and he spoke to the District Attorney’s office and had everything we removed from the house delivered to them. Charlie said he begged them to be discreet, and I suppose they must have been because I have heard nothing about it since.’

  Tom cursed to himself and recalled what Sullivan had said about the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing. Eyton must have got to Woolwine and called in a few favors. One thing was for sure: the DA’s office wasn’t passing all the info down to the cops on the ground. Looking up, he noticed Mrs Ivers wipe a tear from her eye, and wondered what else she knew but wasn’t telling.

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Mr Taylor, ma’am? A lot of folk are saying it was Mabel Normand. Would she have had reason, that you know of?’

  Mrs Ivers stiffened visibly, and the look of skepticism came galloping back across her features. ‘That’s all newspaper trash. Why would you even repeat it?’

  ‘Well, I would hardly be the first. One of the reasons I came here was to clear up a doubt over Miss Normand.’

  ‘What doubt?’ she snapped. ‘What possible reason could Miss Normand have had for wanting to hurt Bill? He was entirely devoted to her.’

  Tom, surprised by the ferocity of her conviction, saw how to use it.

  ‘That was the impression I got, too, Mrs Ivers. But there are so many shocking stories coming out. Most of them contradictory. I mean, can you believe someone told me yesterday that Miss Normand had got herself with child. And that she turned to dope afterwards, because she was forced to get rid of it. The suggestion was it had been Mr Taylor’s child.’

  Mrs Ivers paled, regarding Tom with a cold anger crackling in her eyes. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who told me. The question is whether it’s true or not.’

  ‘I have never heard anything so preposterous in my life.’

  Her voice faltered slightly and he searched her face for signs of doubt.

  ‘Haven’t you, Mrs Ivers? That’s a real shame. Because I was also told that you were the source of this story and more about how Miss Normand acquired her hop habit.’

  Tom gave her his hardest, most disappointed stare, and in return saw the first flicker of uncertainty in her eyes before she turned away from him.

  ‘Look, my position is very simple, Mrs Ivers. I don’t believe Miss Normand had anything to do with Mr Taylor’s murder. Leastways, not intentionally. In fact, I’m convinced she had nothing to do with it. But so long as she could have had any motive whatsoever, such as having her life or career ruined by Mr Taylor, she can’t be ruled out. Certainly, that’s the view the cops are taking, and if the only way I can get to the truth is by passing this information on to them, then I will have no choice but to do that.’

  He let it sink in a moment, watched her chew her bottom lip as she glared out towards the ocean, tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘The reason I came here was to avoid that, Mrs Ivers, because if it is not true, that line of inquiry will be a big waste of police time. And it would be an even bigger shame to draw Miss Normand further under suspicion, and to have such a delicate part of her life exposed to public scrutiny. It wouldn’t surprise me if you found a troop of detectives on your doorstep too, asking awkward questions of you and your son. I’m sure Mr Taylor would not have wanted that.’

  He knew he had taken it to the limit, but he didn’t want to leave with nothing. He could smell the truth hanging like the scent of lilacs in the air. It was here, he was sure of it.

  In the event, he hadn’t even got halfway out of his chair before she put out an arm to stop him. Her thoughts were way back behind her eyes now. He’d seen it often in precinct h
ouses, the blankness of deep decision-making that presages a confession. He waited a beat, two, and then it came, heralded by a deep exhalation of breath.

  ‘Very well, Mr Collins, perhaps you are right. Perhaps, I should help you. For Bill’s sake, if not my own. But, please, promise me that none of this will reach the newspapers. You must assure me of that, at least.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  For years, Mrs Ivers said, she had acted as confidante to Taylor, working with him closely ever since the movie company her late husband founded for her was taken over by Adolph Zukor and absorbed into Famous Players-Lasky. As an experienced scenario writer, she had recognized in Taylor a true nobility of character and the potential for creative vigor. With her help, he gained his first job as a director in 1915, and she had worked with him ever since, forming a bond that, she admitted, went beyond the role of mentor – caring for him when he was unwell, as he often was with nervous exhaustion, and talking, always talking, loving him as a spiritual, artistic soulmate.

  ‘Such a rarity this side of the continent,’ she sighed.

  As far as Tom could tell, hers had not been a romantic love. She expressed nothing but admiration for the women Taylor had been involved with. The suggestion that he had relations with men, she said, was risible. Of course, he knew such men – who in Hollywood does not? – yet it was entirely characteristic of him to befriend them as he would any others. At the same time, she was convinced no woman would have shot him. He had such a keen understanding of the female psyche, she said. And Mary Miles Minter had, indeed, become hopelessly infatuated with him.

  ‘The poor child confused Bill’s paternal, professional interest for some grand amour fantasy of her own invention,’ Mrs Ivers explained. ‘Mary could not be blamed – brought up by that witch of a mother only to work, never to know anything remotely like love, fed an unvarying diet of crude ambition and moving-picture fantasy. No wonder she mistook what Bill was offering. He was a fifty-year-old man for heaven’s sake, and she barely nineteen. What could she seriously hope would happen? No, Bill felt sympathy for her, but that was all.’