City of Saints

by Andrew Hunt

  His voice trailed off, and he shifted his gaze to the ground.

  “Why did you change your mind?” asked Roscoe.

  “Helen did not want to stay married to me. That much was obvious. I did not wish to force her to live a life she did not want to live. I knew she was pregnant, but the baby wasn’t mine. We had not been intimate for over a year.”

  “Who was the father?” I asked.

  “I think C. W. Alexander, but I don’t know that for a fact. The two of them had been sleeping with each other for months, as you probably know.”

  “What about this Persian prince everybody was talking about after the murder?” asked Roscoe. “How does he fit into it?”

  Dr. Pfalzgraf bowed his head and wrinkled his forehead thoughtfully. “The fellow took her out on the town a few times in Paris and London. I thought it nice that she was having a delightful time with a man closer to her age. The newspapers exaggerated the extent of the relationship.”

  “Do you think he had anything to do with her murder?” asked Roscoe.

  He blinked through his bifocals at Roscoe and shook his head. “Theirs was a surface relationship, no depth to it at all. Purely superficial. Helen boasted about him to anyone who would listen. She liked that a real prince liked her. She was always very conspicuous when it came to status symbols, no doubt because she was raised in such modest circumstances. That is one of the reasons she auditioned at that movie studio. She wanted the fame and fortune, but she also wanted to be able to say she accomplished great things on her own, without anyone’s help.”

  “She did have help, though,” said Roscoe. “Roland Lane, the actor, helped her land an audition at First National. Lane also brought his wife to you for an abortion last year.”

  “That was not his wife,” said Pfalzgraf in a testy way. “She was his sister. She wanted to be in motion pictures, too, like her older brother, but she had had a relationship with a young Mexican fellow who got her pregnant. Roland knew this could destroy any hope she had of being in the movies. So he brought her here for surgery, out of the spotlight, and sure enough, after I performed it, she was cast in her first movie.”

  Roscoe seemed unimpressed. “I’m guessing C. W. strong-armed Lane into landing Helen that audition last year with First National. Probably using the film you shot of Lane’s sister.”

  I thought Dr. Pfalzgraf was a pale man who could not have possibly gotten any paler. I was wrong. He got paler when Roscoe said that. “How did you know…”

  I said, “We’ve been to your clinic at the Brooks Arcade, and we know your office and operating room have been rigged with two-way mirrors and synchronized sound cameras, the kind the studios use to shoot talkies.”

  Roscoe said, “Helen knew where you were hiding the films, and she knew how to get her hands on them. She helped C. W. get ahold of them, or at the very least she told him where they could be found. The films fell into his hands and became the basis of his blackmail racket.”

  The doctor did not utter a word but instead sat speechless, looking from Roscoe to me. I said, “Your clients are mostly prosperous and educated people who know that in exchange for two hundred and fifty dollars, you’ll perform the safest operation available in the country. Those movies protected you. They kept you out of hot water with the authorities, shielding you against lawsuits, preventing the medical board from stripping you of your license the way they did with Wooley.”

  Roscoe cut in like a dancer, nudging me aside to trip the light fantastic with a beautiful woman. “C. W. Alexander used those films to threaten the people in them, and his scheme paid off, for a while at least. The money flowed into bank accounts opened under Helen Pfalzgraf’s name, so nobody would ask any questions. The bankers probably figured the rich doctor’s wife was just making another deposit. No big deal. Nothing unusual. But at some point, C. W. blackmailed the wrong man. Maybe he was an industrialist. Maybe he was a mobster. Maybe he was a Hollywood actor or a Persian prince. Who the hell knows? Whoever this big shot was, C. W. wasn’t expecting the man to dispatch a torpedo to run over Helen with her own car and then turn around and knock him off at his cabin in Park City.”

  The doctor inspected the silver head of his cane for a moment, frowning and inhaling deeply through his nose. “I have no comment on your little theory, but I do have a business proposition for the two of you. Return those films to me—all of them—and I’ll give each of you fifty thousand dollars as a reward. Nobody need know of it. We will transact our business quietly and put the matter behind us.”

  “How many films are we talking about exactly?” I asked.

  “Over the past ten years, I’ve shot close to two thousand films,” he said. “I keep them in a secure room in my basement—or what I thought was a secure room. They’re short, and they’re in small canisters. I keep them on shelves in alphabetical order. The films shot before May of 1929 are accompanied by sound disk recordings, which are kept in paper sleeves. Whoever took the films did not take all of them. Eighty-two of my films have vanished. At first I didn’t even know they were missing, but then I noticed gaps between some of the canisters. I counted eighty-two such gaps. I am afraid Mr. Alexander knew precisely what he was doing. He chose films of some of my most affluent patients, including the wives of many prominent local figures.”

  I said, “Describe a typical one of these movies.”

  “Most of the footage consists of the initial meeting between the patient and me, followed by preparations for the surgery—me administering anesthesia, the patient falling asleep. The films were shot in such a way as to document the process and show it was consensual at every step along the way. Nobody was coerced into having the surgery.”

  “Did the patients know you were filming them?” I asked.

  “God, no,” he said. “This was for my protection. I must take steps to guarantee my safety. I am sure you gentlemen understand. So. What do you fellows say to my business proposition?”

  “That’s not good enough, Doc,” said Roscoe.

  “Okay. If you insist, I’ll pay you more,” said Pfalzgraf. “What do you think is a fair—”

  “This isn’t about the money or your movies,” I said. “Three people ended up in the morgue before they should have. We’re going to find out who put them there and why.”

  Roscoe rested his elbows on the marble table, clasped his fingers together, and stared skeptically at the doctor. “Tell me, Doc. What was to stop you from getting behind the wheel of her Cadillac and running her over? Hell, we’re all human. If my wife had a mattress tied to her back the way yours apparently did, I’d probably turn her into mashed potatoes with my car.”

  Pfalzgraf shook his head and said, “I loved her with every little atom of my heart, Officer Lund, and I would never do something so horrible to her. When I found out how she died, I felt the same terrible sense of loss that I did when I lost my dear, beloved Nellie. Now that Helen is gone, I plan to retire, and all I want is my daughter, my films, and my friendships so I can leave this business and spend my remaining years living in peace and quiet.”

  I said, “Why did you file that complaint against Dr. Wooley?”

  “He was inept, and his surgeries were killing his patients,” said the doctor. He looked at Roscoe. “You’re a policeman, Officer Lund. I suggest you ask someone in the missing persons bureau to let you look at the files of all the young ladies who’ve gone missing in the state of Utah over the past ten years. I am certain at least half of them were victims of Wooley’s dreadful work.”

  “Do you know a man named Sam Louis?” I asked.

  His eyes wandered a moment as he considered the question, but they returned my way as he shook his head. “No. I do not know anybody by that name. I have an uncanny memory for names.”

  Roscoe scowled, with arms folded. “Never met him? Never heard of him?”

  “No. I have not. I am sorry, Officer Lund.”

  My behind was getting uncomfortable on this marble bench, and I squirmed to find a b
etter position. “I can’t say I approve of this line of work you’re in, Doctor.”

  “Mr. Oveson,” he said, turning up his palms, “I’ve gotten where I am today by being the very best at what I do. The top obstetricians across the country send their patients to me for my surgeries. I get telegrams from women pleading with me not to leave on trips abroad so that they won’t have to wait for an operation. I have performed surgeries on patients from as far away as Japan and Austria. The daughter of one of the vice presidents of the United States paid me to travel to Washington, D.C., to provide my services. These women trust me, because they know I am the ablest practitioner in America. Maybe the world.” He leaned forward to get closer to me, so he could speak low. “Ask yourself this, Mr. Oveson. What if someone you loved insisted on having one of these surgeries and refused to tell you she was going to do it? Who would you want to be her physician? Me? Or a Dr. Everett Wooley?”

  A twig snapped. Roscoe and I turned to see Anna Pfalzgraf standing nearby, smiling at us. Rays of sunlight broke through the tree branches above her and illuminated her face and shoulders. There was something ethereal about her in that turquoise dress and matching cloche hat.

  “Hello, gentlemen. I remember you,” she said. She looked at Pfalzgraf. “Father, the fellow from the travel agency telephoned. He wishes to finalize the dates of our trip to Germany with you.”

  “I’ll be along shortly, my dear,” said Pfalzgraf.

  She gave us a tiny wave, turned, and walked back in the direction of the mansion. Roscoe and I turned around at the same time and faced the doctor.

  “When are you leaving?” I asked.

  “Next week,” he said.

  “I see. Do you have relatives in Germany?”

  He nodded. “A brother. He’s a dentist. We received a rather large inheritance some years ago, and he used his share to purchase a castle. Anna and I are going to stay there for a month. I thought it would do Anna good to get away from here. Helen’s murder hit her hard—harder than anybody else. Harder than me, even.”

  I held out my hand, and he shook it. This time, Roscoe extended his as well. The doctor smiled, and they clasped hands together and shook rigorously.

  “I hope you find Helen’s killer,” he said, rising to his feet. He leaned on his cane and started on a slow walk toward his mansion. Partway up the path, he half-turned to us. “Remember—if you deliver those films to me, I shall be true to my word and present each of you with a check for fifty thousand dollars. On top of the ten-thousand-dollar reward you’ve already received, Mr. Oveson, you may very well be able to afford a house in this part of the city.”

  He hobbled away toward his daughter, waiting in the sun.

  Twenty

  SEE ME AT ONCE.

  I stared at that note on my desk. Dread filled me on my brief journey from my office to Cannon’s office, akin to a man on his final walk from a jail cell to the gallows. I knew why he wanted to see me, although how he found out was beyond me. I had been performing most of my investigation after hours and never discussed it with my co-workers. Still, that writing on the paper told me he was angry and knew exactly what I was doing. His door was ajar, so I knocked gently and stepped inside under the withering stares of the duo I expected to find inside—Cannon and Sykes—in their usual spots. I loosened my necktie as I entered and let my shoulders slump, a sign of humility.

  “Come in, Oveson,” said Sykes. “Please, close the door behind you.”

  I did as asked. Gone was Cannon’s trademark smile, replaced by one of the surliest frowns I’d ever witnessed. I pinched my pants at the thighs and raised them slightly as I planted my rear in the chair.

  Cannon was silent. If it weren’t for the slight movements of his chest rising up and down from breathing, I would probably have begun to wonder whether he had passed away in his favorite place. His fingers were clasped together, and both of his index fingers touched his lips. The look on his face spelled ferocity, and his neck had turned red the way it did when he was exceptionally enraged.

  “I found a note out on my desk,” I said. “Did you wish to see me, sir?”

  “I did.” He pushed a piece of paper across his desk, with his favorite tortoiseshell fountain pen lying across it. “Sign this if you want to keep your job.”

  I craned my neck to see a the typewriting on the paper, packed with as much legalese and boilerplate as one can squeeze onto a single piece of paper and still have room for a signature line at the bottom.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s an oath, stating you’ll obey the orders of your superiors and carry them out to the best of your abilities, or you’ll lose your job. I’ve decided to make all of my men sign one, starting with you.”

  “What if I don’t—”

  “I’ll fire you. Look, I know you paid a visit to Dr. Pfalzgraf yesterday. There’s no point in denying it.”

  “If you’ll give me two minutes to explain, sir, I’m convinced that—”

  He smacked his palm against the desk, and the sound echoed across his office like a firecracker. “Did I ask you what you think?”

  “No.”

  Rage glowed in his eyes. “I know you’ve been investigating that case. Your actions are an embarrassment to this office and to me personally. I’ve warned you, Oveson … Didn’t I warn him, Sykes?”

  “You gave him ample warning,” said Sykes, glowering at me.

  “Darn right,” said Cannon. “This case has been a political hot potato from the get-go. If it’s reopened, I can guarantee you Blackham is going to use it against me for his campaign. Would you say so, Sykes?”

  “Utterly.”

  Cannon showed his gratitude to Sykes with an exaggerated nod. “You found Helen Pfalzgraf’s killer, Oveson. Notice I’m giving you full credit, because I believe in giving credit where credit is due. The public feels safe once again. With this case solved and put to bed, my second term will be handed to me in November. Now you’re getting funny ideas about flushing all that down the toilet. Why? What the heck are you thinking? Let me ask you something, Oveson. In the scheme of things, do you think it matters the world is short a chiseler and a nympho? Do you really lose sleep at night wondering about all this? I sure as frick don’t.”

  He was quiet for a moment, studying my face, perhaps waiting for me to say something. Sitting there in stunned silence, I wondered how this man, who shared my faith, could be so callous and indifferent. I thought it wise to stay quiet.

  He took a deep breath. “Now, I think you’ll find I’m a forgiving man, Oveson. I’m willing to give you one last chance.”

  He pushed the paper and fountain pen forward. “Sign at the bottom. I’ll sign as a witness, and Sykes here will notarize it. By the way, I’ve booked you for a noon-hour speaking engagement at the salt sellers convention at the Hotel Utah. I’d like you to talk about why Utah is the perfect place to do business from a law-and-order standpoint. Emphasize the low crime rate, the cleanliness of our city, the charm of our natural scenery, that sorta stuff. You’ll get a free chicken lunch out of the deal.”

  I looked at the paper, at Sykes, at Cannon. “No.”

  Cannon didn’t hesitate. “You’re fired, Oveson.”

  Those words, harsh as they were, filled me with relief bordering on euphoria, as if a pair of hands strangling me had just let go.

  I exited Cannon’s office, and this time there were no parting shots about what a “stand-up guy” I was.

  * * *

  Roscoe devoured a hamburger later that day at Grant’s Luncheonette, a busy eatery on the first floor of W. T. Grant Co. Grant’s, as the locals called it, was a popular department store on Main where you could buy just about everything, from console radios to family silverware sets to cheap men’s suits. Roscoe hummed contentedly while he ate, stopping to glance at me and wonder why I had no appetite. He took another enormous bite—probably a fourth of the burger at once—sending ketchup, pieces of lettuce and onion, and sesame seeds raining dow
n on the plate, next to a pile of french-fried potatoes. Before he even swallowed all the food in his mouth, and there was a lot of it, he washed it down with piping hot coffee, drinking it as fast as I might down a glass of lemonade on a hot day.

  I ordered a banana split, but what on earth was I thinking? My appetite had flown south, along with my job, and there was no way I was going to consume that mountain of banana, three flavors of ice cream, topped with a whipped cream Matterhorn, crushed nuts, and a maraschino cherry. Not even a Grant’s banana split—the best banana split in the Intermountain West, possibly the best banana split on this side of the Mississippi—held much appeal for me at that particular moment.

  Roscoe lifted a pad of paper off the seat next to him, slapped it on the table, near his plate, and scanned his notes. “I’ve placed telephone calls to the widows of Considine and Alexander. Neither knew a thing about Pfalzgraf’s home movies. Who knows if Alexander even had them? It’s possible Helen Pfalzgraf held on to them for safekeeping.”

  Roscoe bit into his hamburger again, raised his head, and saw that I was preoccupied with other matters.

  “Did you call him a bastard to his face?” asked Roscoe, his mouth full of food. “Or better yet, a good-for-nothing yellow sonofabitch?”

  I smirked. “I don’t talk that way to anybody.”

  “What a waste,” he said, lifting his coffee mug high so the waitress would give him a refill. She came over and topped it off. Roscoe winked and said, “You’re getting an extralarge tip, sweetie.”

  The young waitress, blond and no more than twenty, blushed and giggled on her way back to the kitchen.

  Roscoe sipped coffee and said, “So what’s next?”