by Andrew Hunt
I raised my eyebrows as I scanned the headline. LOCAL PHYSICIAN HEIR TO BIG GERMAN ESTATE. Above it, somebody—likely Considine—had scribbled the date.
Considine waved his finger at another clipping. “The story was big enough to find its way into the New York Times. Apparently, this Pfalzgraf’s uncle had a hell of a lot of money. He was some sort of big-shot industrialist.”
I said, “Can I take these with me so I can read over them?”
Considine smiled, revealing horse teeth. “I’m not a lending library, Oveson.”
“Got anything else?” I asked, passing the police report and clippings back to Considine.
“Isn’t that enough for you?”
“I’d like to see more if you’ve got it. It would help with the investigation.”
He shook his head, his show of contempt for a novice deputy who couldn’t keep up with him. It annoyed me, but I didn’t show it. Considine was a valuable source of information. Alienating him would serve no purpose. “I’ll show you two more items and that’s it. Then you’re going to have to do your own dirty work.”
“Please.”
He handed me an obituary and an article, both from the Ogden Post. The article, from November 3, 1928, ran under the headline CONTROVERSIAL DOCTOR FOUND DEAD. The next was an obituary, same date, for Everett Alvin Wooley, an Ogden physician with a second-floor office on Washington Boulevard.
“Gunshot with a large-caliber weapon to the back of his head,” said Considine. “It was gruesome. The crime scene photos are available for viewing at the Ogden Police Department.”
“What does this have to do with Pfalzgraf?” I asked.
“Wooley was an abortionist, willing to operate on any woman for a hundred bucks. For years, he ran a clinic on Second South. Some of his patients ended up dying horrible deaths. They’d come down with infections, fevers, cold sweats, abdominal pains. You name it. The Salt Lake police believe at least seven local women died as a result of Wooley’s bad surgeries. And guess who waged a one-man crusade to get the state board to yank Wooley’s license?”
“Pfalzgraf?”
Considine nodded. “The very same. He submitted a complaint on July the first, 1926, on behalf of Harmony Tattershall of Salt Lake City. It was this complaint that led to the suspension of Wooley’s license by the Utah State Medical Board. A few weeks later, in late August, Wooley had an ugly confrontation with Pfalzgraf at a Mex joint. The police were called in. They dragged Wooley away hollering and left Pfalzgraf bruised and shaken. Wooley spent the night in city lockup and left town the next morning. At some point, he resurfaced in Ogden and reopened his clinic, only to end up with a bullet in his brain a year later.”
“Do you think Pfalzgraf had anything to do with Wooley’s death?”
“You tell me, junior,” he said. “You’re the deputy. I’m just a lowly pulp writer who spins yarns for five cents a word. I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve interviewed several people who paint a poor picture of Pfalzgraf. They say the kindly doctor was a hell of a miser. Wouldn’t even listen to your heartbeat if you couldn’t pay first.”
I ate as much of my banana split as I could—almost half—before nudging it aside to watch Considine sip his coffee. In my mind, I tried to connect all of this new information to what I already knew about the Pfalzgraf murder. I kept coming up blank, and I knew I would need more time to make sense of it all. Meantime, the evening crowd at Keeley’s was thinning out. Several patrons stood in line to settle their bills at the cash register. The clock on the wall said it was quarter to nine, which meant Keeley’s was closing in fifteen minutes.
“We don’t have much time,” I said. “You said there was something else.”
He reached inside his coat and pulled out a gray film canister and set it on the table between us. “It’s a reel of film. The clapboard at the start of the film bears the date December the ninth of last year.”
“What’s on it?”
“Helen Kent Pfalzgraf’s screen test. She was obviously trying out for a part in a talkie. Actually, she’s surprisingly good. They had a famous guy reading the man’s lines.” Considine snapped his fingers as he tried to remember. “What was his name?”
“Roland Lane?” I asked.
His eyes widened, and he pointed at me. “That’s it! Roland Lane. Famous actor. He lives in a white stucco castle at the top of the Hollywood Hills, where you can see L.A. on one side and the San Fernando Valley on the other. I drove up there and tried to talk to him, but the security guard wouldn’t let me inside. His number isn’t in the city directory, either. These movie stars are damn near impossible to get to, unless you have connections with studio big shots, and I’m afraid I don’t.”
“You mean you were in Los Angeles?”
He nodded. “Just got back on this morning’s Zephyr. It’s a lot nicer there than it is here. Sixty-eight degrees and sunny. Can you beat that?”
“May I borrow the film?”
He slid the canister across the table to me. “Go ahead. I’ve watched it already. Be careful with it, though. I want it back. Understand?”
“I understand.”
He stood and buttoned up his cardigan, then dropped two bits on the table near my banana split. He said, “Next time, I want something better out of you, Oveson. Or I’ll cancel our future chin-wags.”
“OK,” I said.
“Don’t forget your pint,” he said with a wink.
I ran the palm of my hand along the dented and scratched film canister. Then I carried it with me to the counter and ordered a pint of tutti-frutti to take home to Sarah Jane.
She was still up when I walked in the front door.
Ten
Every so often, it pays to have connections. I was on good terms with a man in my ward (when we Mormons say ward, we mean a local congregation) named Owen Vanderhoff, a portly fellow with no hair on the top of his head, a nose squared off at the end, and ruddy Santa Claus cheeks. He had a big belly and was partial to singing loudly. He loved to discuss all of the choirs he was in—four, to be exact—and I listened to him with a patience that would make Job envious. Now it was my time to collect. I knew Owen was a projectionist at the Isis Theater on 300 South, and he could show me what was in that film canister.
Roscoe and I stood out on the sidewalk in front of the Isis so he could finish smoking his hand-rolled cigarette. He asked me where I got the film. Much as I hated lying, I told him I lifted it out of evidence, that it had been confiscated with Helen Pfalzgraf’s other personal effects. Telling Roscoe about my meeting with Considine would only set him off. I tilted my head back to get a good look at the arch that towered above the front entrance of the movie theater. It wasn’t old—the year 1908 was carved into the foundation stone—yet it had that ancient quality to it, and when you walked inside, the cold air enveloped you, making you feel like you had reached the depths of some great Egyptian tomb. As we crossed the green lobby carpet in the direction of the ticket booth, Roscoe took out a bottle of gin, unscrewed the top, and took a hard swig, gasping as he pulled it away from his lips.
“I’d offer you some,” he said, tucking the bottle away, “but I’ve got a feeling you’d turn me down.”
“You never know. I might actually say yes.”
He took the bottle back out of his pocket and tilted it toward me. “Snort?”
“No thanks.”
“Your loss, choirboy.”
By now, his sullenness had taken on a joking quality. All bark, no bite. It was his shtick, as they say on the vaudeville circuit.
Owen stood behind the snack bar, preparing a batch of popcorn. When he saw me, he smiled with recognition and hobbled around from behind the glass counter and shook my hand.
“Howdy, Owen,” I said.
“Howdy, Artie,” he said. “How’s my favorite lawman?”
“Never better. It’s swell to see you, Owen, and it’s awfully kind of you to let us use your movie theater like this.”
“I’m honored to have
you fellas using it. You got lots of time before the matinee crowd shows up.” He faced Roscoe. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
He held out his hand, but Roscoe glared at it, so Owen dropped it and offered a smile instead. “I’m Owen Vanderhoff.”
“Roscoe Lund. I’m Oveson’s partner.”
Owen waved his thumb in my direction. “He’s a keen fellow, isn’t he?”
Roscoe nodded. “He’s a Grade-A peach, alright. It’s good of you to let us use your projector.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Owen. He gestured to a door on the other side of the lobby. “Right this way, fellows.”
We followed him, and he talked while we walked. “I don’t know what you fellows know about running a thirty-five millimeter projector. I figured it’d be best if I were to operate it.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “I operated one at a summer job I once had in Provo, but it’s been years. How about you, Roscoe?”
“No, but I once played piano in a joint that showed silent pictures on a hanging bedsheet,” he said.
I threw him a crooked smile. “Sometimes I actually learn something new about you.”
Roscoe smirked. “Let’s keep it to sometimes.”
“Why don’t you fellows go inside and find yourselves a seat,” Owen said when we reached a curtained door. “I’ll go up to the booth and get this set up.”
“That’s swell,” I said. “Thanks again, Owen.”
Roscoe and I entered the palatial theater. Ornamental flowery paintings covered its ceiling, and air-conditioning blew in our faces, despite frigid weather outside. We had five hundred seats to choose from, and we ended up smack-dab in the middle, close to the aisle. We both crossed our legs over our knees and waited for Owen to start the projector.
I leaned in close to Roscoe. “I didn’t know you played the piano.”
“What you don’t know about me could fill Fenway Park—and we might have to set aside part of Wrigley Field, too.”
I grinned as lights dimmed and a projector light flickered. Movie countdown numbers in the middle of circles started at 5 and worked down to 0. A production clapboard flashed on the screen, and the black-and-white bar clacked down. It happened fast, but I caught a glimpse of the date—12/09/29—and the words HELEN PFALZGRAF SCREEN TEST—FIRST NATIONAL PICTURES—VITAPHONE (SYNCHRONIZED SOUND). PRODUCER: EDGAR KING. DIRECTOR: CHARLES LEWIS.
The image of Helen Pfalzgraf flashed on the screen. She wore a light-colored jersey dress with a skirt that stopped at her knees. She had on a cloche hat, plenty of eye shadow and heavy lipstick. Her chin jutted out, and she had pretty teeth that gleamed in the light.
A male off-screen voice—so melodious it sounded like a bird’s trill—said, “The camera is rolling, Miss Pfalzgraf. You may begin anytime you wish.”
“Thank you, Roland.” She rolled her eyes, as if trying to think of something to say. “I shall be reading from The Greatest Gift of All, scenario written by G. S. Erwin.”
She dipped her head, and when she raised it again, her expression changed as she got into form. She clasped her fingers, as if praying, and held them over her chest. “You can’t go, Ralph. I won’t let you. Why should you join the army and go fight a war thousands of miles away? Stay here with me.”
She paused as Roland Lane read the man’s dialogue off-screen. “This is my war too, Gladys. You heard what President Wilson said. We are making the world safe for democracy.”
“Words! Just words,” she said. “But what do they really mean, especially when you’re in that terrible charnel house, surrounded by the dead, and all you wish to do is see another day? Those words mean precious little on the battlefield!”
Roscoe leaned near me and cupped his hand on the side of his mouth. “Talk about stilted dialogue. A monkey could write a better photoplay than this.”
I smiled and said, “She isn’t bad, though. She’s got some natural talent.”
The dramatic exchange lasted a few minutes longer, but the part that interested me most about the screen test was when Helen Pfalzgraf finally relaxed and the director began to quiz her.
“You say you’re from Salt Lake City?” asked a low voice from off-screen.
She smiled and nodded her head and showed off her perfect teeth. “Yes.”
“What is it like, Salt Lake City? I’ve never been.”
She laughed, and her eyes looked around. “It’s a hick town. I’m ready to leave. It has always been my dream to be in the pictures. I’ve wanted that ever since I was a little girl, when I used to watch the Biograph pictures at the nickelodeon.”
A long silence followed as the camera zoomed in on Helen looking around and smiling. Noises could be heard coming from other parts of the set—a buzzer going off, distant voices calling out to each other. By the end of the film, her radiant face took up most of the screen, her eyes gleaming, dark lips smiling, pearly teeth reflecting the light from above.
Then the film ended.
The theater lights went on, and we got up and walked into the lobby. Owen waited for us, reel in hand. He presented it to me, and we shook hands again.
“I didn’t mean to snoop, but I recognized the fellow reading the lines,” said Owen. “Roland Lane. I showed one of his pictures here two weeks ago. He played a big-shot Broadway producer who falls for a pretty showgirl. Wasn’t half bad. You should bring Clara back tonight for the picture show, Art. I’ll let you two lovebirds in free of charge.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, Owen.” I laughed. “Look, if there’s any way I can repay you—any way at all…”
He mentioned some old yard clippings that had to be taken out to the dump. Me and my big fat mouth, I thought.
* * *
I spent my lunch hour in the deserted common room placing a long-distance telephone call to Edgar King, a producer at First National Pictures in Burbank, California. It took a half hour for the operator to finally reach the studio because of all the interference on the cross-country lines. It took another forty-five minutes for the studio operator to find someone who knew where to locate King. His secretary asked if she could help me and I said no, unfortunately I had to talk to the head honcho. More waiting through a popping connection. More veering into party lines. “What time are you coming over tonight?” “Half past six. Will the supper still be warm?” “I’m not even sure it’ll be done by then.” I sighed. I hated hearing other people’s conversations, but such was the world of long-distance telephone calling. I had to keep the receiver pressed against my ear so I wouldn’t miss King if he came on, which made eavesdropping a necessary evil. “How hot is it out there?” “I think we broke fifty.” I rolled my eyes, opened my desk drawer, took out a freshly sharpened pencil, and began doodling on a pad of paper. Outhouses were my specialty.
The secretary’s high voice came on. “Deputy, are you still there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Sorry for the long wait. Here is Mr. King. I’m going to patch you through. You’ll hear a few clicks. Please do not hang up.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
Three clicks sounded, followed by a dial tone. I slammed the receiver on the cradle and pushed the telephone aside. I felt like saying Sonofabitch! and throwing the telephone against the nearest wall. Restraint won out.
It took another hour and fifteen minutes to get through to King. This telephone call ate up a goodly portion of my afternoon.
“This is Ed King,” said a gravelly voice at last.
“Hello, Mr. King. My name is Deputy Art Oveson, Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office. I’m calling about a woman who auditioned to be in one of your pictures. Her name was Helen Kent Pfalzgraf.”
“Ah, yes, Helen, I remember her,” he said, sounding more somber now. “I heard about what happened to her. Awful. Simply awful. Such a tragic end for one so promising.”
“Yes, it is. I just finished watching Miss Pfalzgraf’s screen test for First National—”
“Her sc
reen test?” he said, surprised. “How did you get hold of that? That’s studio property.”
“I know someone who knows someone.”
“Who?”
“I’d rather not say his name.”
“All screen tests are studio property, not meant to leave the grounds.”
“I see. She gave a good performance, Helen Pfalzgraf.”
“Remarkable,” said King. “I would very much like that screen test returned. You can send it to the studio, care of me. As for Miss Pfalzgraf, she acted like a pro. Roland Lane pushed for her audition—and pushed hard. I’m glad he did. I think Mr. Lewis, the director, wanted to offer her the part of Gladys, but I demanded he cast her as Gladys’s older sister, Sylvia. We needed a big name to play Gladys, like Anita Page. Plus, Helen was perfect for Sylvia. The character has this protective streak and…” He paused. “Never mind all that. You don’t want to know all the details. We drew up a standard studio contract for Miss Pfalzgraf, a five-picture deal, and I telephoned her at her house in Salt Lake City to tell her we were wiring her a train ticket to come to Burbank and sign the contract in person. We had a splendid conversation. She was thrilled—and I could hear someone else, a young lady, squealing for joy in the background. Less than a week later, Helen was dead.”
King’s revelation of Helen’s Hollywood coup caught me off guard, but I remained calm. “When did you talk to her?”
“On a Monday. Let me check my datebook…” He paused for a moment and then came back on the line. “February seventeenth. Yes, it was a Monday.”
“When were you planning to have her come out to First National for the contract signing?”
“A week later. The twenty-fourth. We were going to notify the trade press. Photoplay, Variety—you know, the usual suspects. A contract signing always makes for great publicity. She was going to change her name and everything.”
“To what?”
“Helen Hopkins.”
