The Long Silence

by Gerard O'Donovan

  ‘Some people are saying the mother shot Taylor to prevent him from taking the girl away,’ Tom said.

  ‘No, that is impossible. Her mother was far more concerned about that young director fellow, James Kirkwell. You must know him.’

  ‘Jimmy Kirkwood?’

  ‘Yes, Kirkwood, that’s it,’ Mrs Ivers corrected herself. ‘And rightly so, to my mind, because not so long ago Mary did actually threaten to run off and marry him. Until her mother got wind of the plan and put a stop to it. Not with a pistol either, Mr Collins, but with a telegram to Mr Zukor threatening a suit if he didn’t act promptly to protect Mary from the young hound. Naturally, one word from Zukor was more effective in damping his ardor than any gun blast. Poor Mary, abandoned, found Mr Taylor a consoling presence and clutched at him instead. Bill, understandably, was horrified.’

  She stopped and flushed a little at that, not quite sure whether she’d said the right thing. Tom took a surreptitious look at his wristwatch. This was sounding more like movieland gossip than he had hoped for. He felt Mrs Ivers’s gaze shift on to him again and met it. She smiled apologetically.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Collins. I’m rambling. You must forgive me.’ She swept her arm past the panorama laid out before them. ‘For all its beauty, this house can get lonely sometimes. You desired to know about Miss Normand.’

  ‘Yes, that in particular.’

  ‘Well, with Miss Normand I’m certain Bill was convinced he had found contentment. They made an unlikely couple, but I believe he loved her. What she felt for him, I cannot say. But he had hopes that his feelings were returned. The difficulty was the poison she insisted on running through her veins.’

  ‘He told you about that?’

  ‘Oh yes. According to Bill, she could be a fiery inferno of passion one day, then cold as ice the next.’

  ‘Because of the dope? He told you about her problems with it?’

  ‘Well, it is hardly a secret, Mr Collins. Everyone in the business knows it, do they not?’ There was an edge to her voice again now.

  ‘Well, I guess it was strongly rumored. But did Mr Taylor tell you why she had the problem in the first place. Is it true about the baby?’

  Mrs Ivers flinched perceptibly but seemed determined to go on. ‘Please, you must not tell a soul, but yes, according to what Bill confided to me, Miss Normand did have trouble of that kind. But it was some time ago and the child most certainly was not his. He said it occurred two or three years before they met, when she was working back East, and that she had been destroyed by it. Body and soul. It seems the man who performed the operation was more butcher than doctor, and she suffered horribly in the months succeeding. For a woman whose life was all for laughter, it must have been intolerable. Apparently, a theatrical acquaintance told her that cocaine would take the pain away. And it did. But it threatened to take her soul away, too.’

  Mrs Ivers pressed the back of her hand to her lips briefly before continuing. ‘Bill confided in me that Miss Normand confessed her dependency on this narcotic shortly after they became intimate, and begged him to try everything in his power to save her from its grip. Naturally, he did all he could. He believed that helping her overcome it was the only chance they had for happiness together. For a time he even believed that she had conquered it. Until he found evidence that she had lapsed and was more in thrall to it than ever. He was greatly downcast by the discovery. But Bill was such a very generous, loyal, courageous man. He would have paid any price to bring about her cure. And it appears he paid the highest. The dear man lost his life because of it.’

  A tear spilled down her cheek, and Tom reached out and placed a hand lightly on the back of hers. ‘You’re not suggesting she shot him?’

  ‘No, as I said before—’

  ‘But you are saying you think his murder had something to do with the dope?’

  She sniffled, searching in her shirt cuff for a handkerchief with which she politely dabbed her nose. ‘Surely it must be entirely likely. He had a number of confrontations with her wretched supplier, and though I understand violence was exchanged between them at one point, I also know Bill believed he was getting somewhere with the man. But then someone else became involved.’

  ‘Someone else?’ Tom hardly dared draw a breath, willing her to go on.

  She nodded, then dabbed at her nose again. ‘Someone higher up. Some more powerful peddler. A bootlegger. Don’t ask me who or how, because Bill never shared that information with me. He said that events had moved on. That it had got somehow bigger, but I never heard in what way. That was a week ago, ten days at most. All I know is that he was very excited when I last spoke to him on the telephone. Triumphant almost, saying something about ridding the studio of “parasites”, but how, exactly, he didn’t say.’

  ‘The studio?’

  ‘Yes, that is what he said. Next I heard of him, he was dead.’

  She plucked at her shirt cuff again, and her tears began to flow, this time in earnest. Tom found no words to comfort her, but her sobbing did not last. Her dignity quickly reasserted itself. His attempts to probe further about what Taylor meant regarding the studio were unsuccessful.

  ‘Didn’t you think the police should know about this?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘But of course,’ she replied, embarrassment turning to chagrin. ‘Charlie Eyton offered to see to it, as he had with the letters and liquor. But this time I insisted on going to the District Attorney’s office in person, and so he came with me. I repeated everything Bill had said regarding the narcotics peddlers, but I felt they didn’t lend me much credence. I was assured the information would be passed to the investigating officers, but they sent me away feeling like a silly old woman making a fuss over nothing. Even after I told them about Leon Mazaroff.’

  ‘Mazaroff, you say?’ Tom looked up. That was the man Chuck Havers had so gleefully maligned the night before in the lobby at the Alexandria.

  ‘Yes, do you know Leon?’ Mrs Ivers delivered this inquiry with the same soft smile she had adopted when reminiscing about Taylor.

  ‘Only by reputation,’ Tom replied. ‘How does he come into it?’

  ‘Well, Leon had a most troubling encounter with Bill, not so long ago.’

  ‘Troubling, how?’ Tom’s head was beginning to spin. He’d been talking to Mrs Ivers for over an hour, and now she was hitting him with all the good stuff in the space of a couple of minutes. ‘I’m not sure I follow. Was this to do with narcotics?’

  She spread her hands, her expression one of genteel mystification. ‘Well, I don’t know it exactly myself. Leon said a man behaved in a most threatening manner towards Bill. Out in Griffith Park. He was disturbed by it at the time, I know. Then when Leon heard poor Bill was dead, he was very shaken indeed. He is still not quite recovered.’

  ‘Really?’ Tom could barely contain himself, wondering if and why Sullivan might have held out on him over this information. Or whether, as seemed more likely, none of it had been passed on to detectives. ‘Did Mr Mazaroff get a good look at this guy, then?’

  ‘Well, yes, I assume so. He was right there in front of them. But why not ask him yourself? Come, I will call him and you can speak with him.’

  She was up and out of her seat before he could say anything further, retreating indoors. Tom would want to talk to this Mazaroff all right. He might be the only man able to point a finger at the killer. But not over the telephone. Face to face was the best way with this kind of thing. He rose and followed Mrs Ivers into the house, but she was nowhere to be seen. He searched one room after another until he finally found her clutching the telephone in a well-stocked library – the sort that looks as if the books were bought by the yard. Mrs Ivers had already cranked the machine and was speaking into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Leon, darling, yes, did you succeed in getting some rest? … Excellent, that must be a relief. My dear, do you think you could come up to the house, please? Yes, to me. There is a gentleman visiting me whom I believe you should meet. Don’t go wo
rrying now, it is quite safe.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mr Leon Mazaroff, actor, dancer, formerly of somewhere deep in the frozen wastes of Russia, was indeed right on hand. He being the current occupant of Casa Duende’s ‘little cabana’, as Mrs Ivers described it while pointing a bony finger out the library window at a guesthouse, half hidden amid exotic foliage further down the gardens, that looked twice the size of his own small home.

  While they waited for him to walk up to the house, Mrs Ivers informed Tom that ever since the news broke of Taylor’s murder, Mazaroff, a regular visitor, had been nervous of returning to his own quarters, an apartment he rented in Echo Park. Appreciating that, as a dancer and player of rare artistry, Mr Mazaroff was not one for the rough and tumble of life, she had insisted he stay under her roof for as long as he considered necessary.

  ‘Leonid Mazaroff, allow me to introduce you to Mr Tom Collins,’ Mrs Ivers said grandly as he walked into the room. He was a smallish man, mid-height but short on flesh, with a long nose that flared wide at the base on a face so thin it could haunt. His black hair was worn longer than was fashionable, and his clothes – a tweed suit and plain white shirt with some kind of neckerchief underneath – were cut rather looser than was usual. Tom could believe he was a dancer. Every step he took looked like it was individually weighed.

  ‘Mr Collins is a private investigator looking into poor Bill’s murder, Leon. I thought it might help for you to speak with him. He seems to think it possible that Bill was shot by dope fiends, as we suspected.’

  Tom stuck out his hand and Mazaroff, looking none too certain of the safety of this gesture, extended his for a surprisingly firm shake.

  ‘Mrs Ivers tells me you witnessed someone making threats to Mr Taylor out in Griffith Park. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that is correct.’ The voice was thick with the land of his birth and Tom had to lean in nearer to understand. ‘We work in Griffith Park last month, re-filming scenes for one of Mr Taylor’s productions. We took a break, to talk about Chekov.’

  ‘Chekov?’

  ‘A great Russian writer,’ Mazaroff said impatiently, wafting a withering sideways glance to Mrs Ivers. ‘No matter. For some minutes we walk away from others along a trail, not so far, when a man jumped out from behind bushes. So sudden, you know, it was frightening. Yes. And he stands there and says nothing, does nothing, but looks hard at Mr Taylor. Like I say, frightening.’

  Tom got the picture, but it wasn’t making much sense to him. ‘He didn’t make any threat or gesture?’

  Mazaroff shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘And you never saw him before? Not at the studio, or hanging round the shoot?’

  ‘No, I never saw him before. He was not a movie type. But Mr Taylor, he knows him, for sure. I know from the eyes, the way they look at each other, they are thinking bad things, dangerous things. You know how I mean?’

  ‘Sure, I think so,’ Tom said, picturing the scene entirely. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Nothing more. It is most exceptional. One minute – less – they stand, stare, no speaking. Then this man, he turns and walks away, back towards town. Mr Taylor takes my arm and turns me quickly, you know, and we go back to the camp, hurry, hurry. I ask Mr Taylor what is happening, but he does not explain. I worry, so later, when we finish, I ask him again. But he tells me, don’t be concerned. “We will not be deterred by dirty dope peddlers.” His exact words. Then, when I hear Mr Taylor was killed, I think of this again, and worry again.’

  Mazaroff threw up his arms for emphasis, but Tom had already figured from his expressions during the story that he wasn’t using them for empty dramatic effect. The Russian was telling the truth as far as he could tell.

  He pushed himself off the desk and paced out a step or two, thinking hard. Mrs Ivers, meanwhile, gave Mazaroff’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

  ‘Do you think it could be relevant, Mr Collins?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Mrs Ivers. I certainly do. But I think it’s too big for me to handle, so here’s what I can do. I have a good friend on the detective squad who I’m certain will be very keen to hear this. If Mr Mazaroff will come downtown with me now, I will—’

  But Mazaroff was already saying no, getting excited, and Mrs Ivers was shushing him and calming him and assuring him he wouldn’t have to go anywhere he didn’t want to. Finally seeing him settled in a chair, Mrs Ivers turned and looked at Tom with pleading eyes.

  ‘You will not force him if he does not want to.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mrs Ivers, but the cops really need to be told this. It is irresponsible to keep such important information from them, for any reason, even fear. There is a murderer on the loose.’

  Mrs Ivers and Mazaroff gave Tom the combined force of two blank stares before exchanging glance between themselves. It was she who spoke up.

  ‘But Mr Mazaroff has already informed the authorities, only to be accorded the same response that I received.’

  Tom looked at her, unable to believe his ears.

  ‘The DA’s office again?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course. I thought Leon’s evidence might make them think again about what I had told them. But they dismissed it. Said there had been no threat, and that it was most likely some hobo or tramp who stumbled across their path by accident. Leon was most offended. Weren’t you, my dear?’

  Tom wasn’t sure Mazaroff entirely understood, but he got the gist of it.

  ‘I know difference between tramp and threat, between drunk man and dangerous man. This man was very frightening. Even how he walk is bad.’

  Tom froze. ‘What was unusual about how he walked?’

  ‘One of the legs did not work good. It pulled on the ground, you know?’

  ‘Like a wounded animal,’ Mrs Ivers ventured. ‘That’s how Leon described it to me, Mr Collins.’

  ‘Wait, I show.’ Mazaroff jumped up from his seat again and mimed the distinctive perambulatory action of the assailant.

  ‘You’re one hell of an actor, Mr Mazaroff,’ Tom said, his mind spinning. ‘You’ve got that off to a tee.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  Night was full down by the time he left, but the moon was bright and Tom had no trouble making his way quickly back to the canyon road. Fifteen minutes later, he was on San Vicente, heading towards the city at a clip, thoughts turning over fast as the engine now. Had Sullivan been trying to protect him again? Their conversation earlier about Devlin’s old ally Mikey Ross had seemed confined to the realm of dreams and banter. But Leon Mazaroff’s vivid little mime had changed all that. So chillingly precise, it hadn’t so much persuaded him as knocked him off his feet.

  Ross really could be in Los Angeles.

  The more thought he gave it, the more it made sense. Sullivan had even put it into words earlier. Devlin and Ross. Rubbing together like two limbs of the same beast. Ross always worked under Devlin’s protection and instructions. A machine, a meat grinder. Because Devlin was the smarter, the stronger, you could see him moving away. Moving on. And where better than Los Angeles, booming bigger than any other city in America thanks to oil, land speculation and the movies? Compared with New York, mired in layer upon layer of competing corruption, this was virgin territory, ripe for the plucking. Devlin would never be dumb enough to think he could do it alone.

  But what could be their link to Taylor?

  The streets were no more than a blur now, his foot on the gas, the sparse late-Sunday traffic yielding to his urgency. Lights and streetlamps were liquid trails of color as San Vicente melted into Wilshire and the built-up boulevards and avenues of downtown beckoned. Tom’s thoughts surged, too. Mrs Ivers said Taylor told her he thought he was getting somewhere with Normand’s supplier, until someone bigger got involved. A bootlegger, she’d said. Tom assumed that was Cornero, and the man himself had seemed to suggest it out on the pier. Said he’d been forced to take matters in hand. But he also said there was a whole lot more to it, too.

  What if Taylor had been talking about s
omeone else entirely? Someone new on the scene, who had already stolen Normand’s custom away? Maybe she found herself a new supplier, even kept it from her driver, Davis, who she must have known was in Taylor’s pay already? Sure, it was a heck of a leap from there to a terrifying encounter with Mikey Ross in Griffith Park. But how many other explanations were there?

  No more than a million or so, Tom reckoned, pushing the idea away. Ahead, he spotted the yellow swag-like chains of electric bulbs picking out the block-deep driveway leading in to the Ambassador Hotel. He checked his wristwatch and decided to drive on. He had thirty minutes to get back home and telephone Sullivan to tell him what he’d uncovered. Plenty of time left to freshen up and grab the note he took from J.J. Fine’s office, then double back to the Ambassador to meet with Sennett. Last time for a while, with any luck.

  The thought of Sullivan’s jaw dropping to the floor on hearing Mazaroff’s story made Tom smile as he turned the Dodge on to Coronado. A grin wiped away in a trice when he spotted a Big Six parked outside his house.

  What now?

  He pulled in to the curb a couple of houses back, let his headlamps linger on the machine in front. Not one he knew – a shiny new Studebaker, canopy down, empty. He cut his engine, anger mounting as he became aware of a crack of light seeping through the drapes in his front window.

  Someone was in his house. That auto was too good for a housebreaker. Not for the mob, though. Which could only mean Cornero had sent his trouble boys round for an update. Damn their eyes if they thought they could march into his home any time they liked.

  Tom jumped down, ready to go in swinging. A touch of the Studebaker’s hot hood told him his visitor was recently arrived. Inside, there was nothing to give a clue to its ownership, but a heavy hickory ball bat in the rear footwell did not bode well. Tom stepped through the gate as quietly as he could, a colder kind of rage gripping his stomach when he saw the front door all stove-in and hanging from its hinges. Why the hell did they go and do that?