The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  “Sedatives?”

  “Strong sedatives.”

  Craine felt his insides sink. This wasn’t what he needed to hear. “You saying he was drugged?”

  “I’m saying there were drugs in his system. It’s not my place to say how or why. It’s perfectly plausible that it was for personal consumption.”

  “I understand. Does O’Neill know?”

  “Couldn’t lie to him. Seemed to get over his nausea pretty quick once I told him.”

  Not good news, Craine thought. It would hardly abate O’Neill’s doubts about the case. “Can you omit it from the report?”

  Collins spoke quietly. “If you deem it necessary.”

  “Thank you. I’ll let Russell Peterson know that you’ve been very efficient. I hope that in the past he’s shown his appreciation for the work that you do.”

  “Sometimes I think he needs reminding,” Collins muttered before ringing off.

  When the waiter brought him the check, his mind returned to the day ahead. An autopsy confirming suicide should bring an end to the press speculation over Stanley’s death but the sedatives were a concern, especially if O’Neill knew. The last thing he needed was that Irish upstart undermining his efforts to have the whole thing blow over by talking to the press about drugs, mysterious packages and unexplained phone calls. He took a deep breath, knowing he would have to go and talk to Campbell. Whoever he was—a friend, acquaintance or work associate—he needed to confirm his irrelevance to this case once and for all. After that, maybe he could persuade O’Neill to forget about the whole thing.

  Craine checked the address O’Neill had given him. He was on the fourth floor of a six-story apartment building off Main Street. He’d lived in a similar block when he’d first moved to L.A. himself. Fifty apartments filled with out-of-work writers and actors, each of them clinging onto the hope that their break was next.

  Campbell lived in apartment 409. The corridor was empty; no cracks of light coming from under the doorways he passed. It was quiet, almost silent but for the rattle of the Red Cars on the street below.

  Craine found the apartment at the end of the corridor and knocked at the door. There was no response, and he began brooding instead over his conversation with Gale Goodwin. Asked about Celia, he’d bared his most private thoughts to a woman he barely knew before panicking, suddenly overcome with an instinctive need to protect himself from all forms of intimacy.

  Craine knocked again but there was still no answer. He couldn’t break down the door without a warrant. That could take days. He turned to go downstairs to find the building manager, then hesitated. He might as well try the door in case it wasn’t locked. He turned the handle and the door opened.

  Inside a man in a long gray coat and shiny black shoes stood by a telephone. He was tall and thin. Short hair, no particular age. Forty maybe. Nothing about him was particularly remarkable.

  “Mr. Campbell?”

  A pause then: “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, I tried knocking.”

  “I was in the bedroom. Can I help you?”

  “My name is Detective Craine.” He showed Campbell his identification.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re a friend of Herbert Stanley?”

  A long pause, then, “Yes, we knew each other.”

  “You may have heard. It’s in the papers.” He always talked in elliptical sentences in these scenarios, told people only enough that they understood. Talking too much only made them more anxious. “I hate to be the one to tell you. Herbert Stanley was found dead yesterday morning. He hanged himself in his home.”

  Another long silence. Campbell’s face betrayed no emotion. Shock, perhaps. People take bad news differently. Craine had to do this a lot over the years. It became easier over time to tell people but it never got easier watching their reactions. He wondered how Simms had felt when he’d told him about Celia.

  “Yes, I was aware, thank you for coming by to tell me,” he said, a little too casually. “It really wasn’t necessary.”

  “We’re treating it as a suicide. There was nothing suspicious about his death that we’re aware of.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Yes, I was hoping you might be able to tell me the nature of your phone call with Stanley the morning of his death.”

  “My phone call?”

  “I have a record from the telephone company. You called Stanley’s home at approximately eleven thirty Wednesday morning.”

  “Wednesday?” he said tentatively, as if he was half asleep.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember now. Yes, it wasn’t important. A quick call. He’s an old acquaintance.”

  Campbell’s behavior was odd. Craine wasn’t a fool—he was clearly hiding something. He probed further. “Can you tell me what you spoke about?”

  “Oh, you know. Not much. Nothing in particular. I can’t really remember.”

  “Perhaps it would be easier if you came down to the precinct. We could take a formal statement.”

  Campbell took a moment to answer: “Is that necessary?”

  “I think in this case it would be for the best. It’s important we clear these things up. Stanley was a public figure, as is his wife. Questions will be asked at a later date if we don’t get all the details down on paper now.”

  “Right now?”

  “If possible.”

  “Not a problem,” Campbell said, smiling broadly. “Would you give me a minute? I need to go to the bathroom first.”

  Craine waited by the front door and surveyed the apartment. One bedroom, a dimly lit, open-planned living area with a small kitchenette in the corner. The apartment was small but well furnished: new furniture, European throw-rugs covering polished wood floors. Odd pieces of camera equipment were dotted around the room: lenses, tripods, flashbulbs—no cameras, though. There were books on the shelves alongside one wall and framed photographs on a rolltop bureau in the corner. More photos hung on the wall beside the bathroom door.

  He called out: “Would you mind if I made a quick phone call?”

  No reply.

  Craine crossed over to the bureau. There were two photographs standing in frames beside a candlestick telephone, a blotter and a notepad. One of the pictures was a sepia-toned albumen print of a middle-aged woman outside a farmhouse. His mother, he presumed. The other was a large monochrome black-and-white photograph of a young man in a suit sitting at a table in a restaurant. The man was tall and angular. Campbell, Craine thought. He looked closer. No, this wasn’t the same man as the one in the bathroom. His nose was wider, ears far bigger. Who was he? A friend, a brother? A lover, perhaps? That certainly wasn’t out of the question.

  He lifted up the phone receiver and asked the operator for the publicity department at M.G.M. There was a brief silence. He could hear trucks grumbling and Red Car bells jangling outside.

  “Publicity,” a girl’s voice said.

  “Hello, Russell Peterson, please.”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Detective Craine.”

  “One moment.”

  A long pause before the line crackled.

  “Craine, how are you?” Peterson’s unctuous voice was unmistakable.

  “I wanted to let you know you won’t be having any more problems with The Hollywood Enquirer. You should also find Wilson more amenable to your advertising expenses.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear indeed. Very impressive.”

  “And Gale Goodwin positively identified the body this morning.”

  “Ah, yes—of course. And the autopsy?”

  “Confirmed suicide.” He didn’t mention the drugs. There was no need to worry Peterson unnecessarily.

  “Splendid.” He sounded relieved.

  “I trust that Collins’ assistance in this matter will be rewarded.”

  “You don’t even have to ask. How about O’Neill?”

  “I’m not sure that would interest him. O’Neill is
less keen than we are to see this closed.”

  “Strange one, that boy. Well, perhaps he’ll be appeased by an invitation to M.G.M.’s party tomorrow evening. I hope we can expect to see you there?”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Peterson.”

  Craine put the receiver down. As he did so, he noticed a larger photograph on the wall beside the window. It was a picture of a woman in a black décolleté dress. She had her hands posed under her chin, a chain of pearls around her neck. It was the exact same picture he’d seen only two days before.

  It was a photograph of Florence Lloyd.

  Kamona stood in Campbell’s bathroom with his foot pressed against the bottom of the door. The deadlock was broken and there was no key in the keyhole. He stood at the door listening, the Mauser clenched in one hand. He could hear the detective moving around the living room. He felt foolish for leaving the Mauser in the bathroom as he searched the apartment, but at least being found unarmed confused the detective. For now, at least.

  Kamona had arrived at the apartment building an hour earlier. He’d picked the front door as he had the previous night and entered without alerting the neighbors. He searched the bedroom first, but there were no clothes on the hangers and nothing but a stolen hotel Bible in the bedside cabinet. He’d pulled up the flounced cover and looked under the bed but there was nothing there. From the chest of drawers he took out a deck of cards and a cardboard box but the box was empty except for a few loose coins.

  He’d gone through the bathroom next, leaving the Mauser in the sink so he could reach under the bath. Nothing there.

  The living room was exactly the same.

  After going through all the drawers and cupboards in the small kitchenette, he’d picked up the phone in the living room and asked the operator to connect him to the last call made.

  “I’ll have to put you through to the San Bernardino switchboard.”

  “Thank you,” he said. There was a brief pause before a male voice answered.

  “St. Louis Hotel, can I help you?”

  “Hello. My name is James Campbell. I’m calling to check my reservation.”

  “Campbell? That’s right, we have your reservation. In fact, we’re expecting you shortly.”

  Kamona rang off. That was all he needed to know. That was when he heard two firm knocks at the door.

  Kamona still had his ear to the bathroom door. The detective had stopped moving. He pushed himself away from the doorjamb and pulled back the hammer on the Mauser. He checked the suppressor was screwed on tight and flicked the safety off with his thumb. He had to get out.

  * * *

  Craine crossed the living room and tapped on the bathroom door.

  “Mr. Campbell? Mr. Campbell? Hello? Are you in there?”

  There no was reply.

  “Mr. Campbell? Mr. Campbell?” There was no sound from inside. Why would Campbell have photographs of Florence Lloyd? There had to be a logical explanation. They were friends, relatives perhaps. Campbell would provide a perfectly good reason, he was sure of it. But something half-buried in his mind told Craine he was lying to himself.

  He drew his service pistol, a Browning nine-millimeter unused since the day he bought it. Did it even work? He was nervous. He steadied his hands, racked back the top-slide to chamber a round and kicked open the bathroom door.

  The room was empty. The man was gone. Cool air blew through an open sash window. Craine stepped inside, his clammy hands gripping the Browning firm. The window led out onto a fire escape, a set of steel platforms and ladders mounted to the building’s exterior wall that led down to the ground four stories below. Innocent people don’t run, he thought. He pulled back the hammer on his pistol, leaned forward and peered down the fire ladder. Nothing. He leaned out further for a clearer line of sight. The fire escape below ended two flights down, over thirty feet from the street. Scrappers must have stolen it to sell. Had Campbell jumped?

  Craine felt the metal platform vibrate, heard movement from above. He looked up in time to see the gray figure twenty feet above him, hanging from a rung with one hand and leveling a long-barreled pistol down toward him with the other.

  Craine’s knees flinched; he dropped away from the window just as six muffled shots rained down on the window ledge, ricocheting off the platform and shattering the window glass. Jesus Christ. Craine fell to the floor, protecting his head with his arms until the firing stopped. He was covered in broken glass. His hands shaking, he aimed his pistol back at the window. He was lucky to be alive—he should have known Campbell would head to the floors above. It was a miracle he hadn’t been hit.

  Craine got to his feet. He struggled to keep hold of the Browning in his hand as he stepped toward the window. He hesitated. If he followed Campbell he’d be shot at. He’d been more than willing to fire on a police officer; he wouldn’t have any hesitation in killing him cold if he got the chance. Doubt seeded in his mind and rooted firm. No, he should stay put, call for police backup and wait until more officers arrived on the scene. That would be the safest option. People would understand. This didn’t make him a coward.

  With his gun trained on the window, he slowly backed into the living room. He left the bathroom door open and crossed over to the phone. Was he doing the right thing? As he picked up the receiver, he felt a late surge of adrenaline pump through his veins. He could feel the blood rushing back into his limbs. His legs steadied, biceps tightened. He felt more alert. Confidence replaced anxiety, reason replaced fear. He knew what he had to do. He couldn’t let him get away.

  A female switchboard operator held the line. “Operator. How may I connect your call. Hello? Hello?”

  But Craine was already out the door and sprinting for the stairs.

  Craine’s heart jolted when he reached the stairwell at the end of the hallway; he could feel his pulse twitching in his neck. He stopped to the right of the door and stood pressed against the wall, listening for movement on the stairs. Hearing distant footsteps echo through the stairwell, he inched the door open with his free hand until he could see the way ahead was clear.

  The stairwell was dark. A single bulb hung over the stairway on a seven-foot wire and the windows at each floor were boarded up. There were rapid footsteps coming from below—Campbell was already making his way down to street level. Craine leaned over the banister and trained his gun on the moving shadows.

  His arm was trembling. With little conviction, he called, “Don’t go any further. I’m armed—”

  Muzzle flash and suppressed gunfire snapped a reply. Craine dropped flat against the stairs as bullets ricocheted off the handrail and clanged overhead. His ribs cracked on the risers. Sweet Jesus, he thought. What am I doing? You’re not dying on these stairs—get up. He rolled onto his side and pointed his pistol down through the balusters. Gripping the butt tight, he thumbed back the hammer and squeezed off two rounds. The bullets rattled off the railings below. He fired again, straightening to his knees. His gun was loud, aggressive. It had been so long since he’d fired his pistol he’d forgotten that the trigger was stiff, a resistance you had to push past. He fired again and the stairwell lit up with fleeting muzzle flash. In the strobe light, he could see the gunman reloading, backing into a corridor doorway on the second floor before firing back. Craine dropped low as bullets whistled overhead and embedded themselves into the wall just above him.

  He waited for quiet then listened out for signs of movement: the door banged open two floors below. He heard screams from the lower corridors. Doors opened and slammed as anxious mothers pulled their children from the hallways and locked themselves in their apartments. He must be heading for another stairway down to the front entrance. If he managed to reach Main Street Craine would never find him—he’d be lost in the melee of afternoon traffic.

  Against all inclinations to stay put, Craine pushed off the steps and ran down after him.

  When he reached the second floor he stood with his back to the wall, the open door to his right. He closed his eyes for a sec
ond, swallowed thick phlegm and let the adrenaline wash through his blood. His heart was pounding. He took a long, deep breath then pivoted into the corridor.

  The gunman was running straight down, toward a window at the other end of the hallway. There were no other stairs. The corridor was a dead end.

  Craine shouted: “There’s no way down!”

  The man stopped running, turned and looked at him. He knew he was caught.

  Craine stared at him, his pistol outstreched.

  “Put the gun on the floor.”

  The man lowered his gun. His shoulders sank, defeated. Both he and Craine stood still for a long moment, their chests rising and falling as they gathered breath. Neither man moved an inch, neither man said a word.

  After almost a minute had passed in silence, Craine took a step forward, keeping his arm raised at the shoulder. He could still feel the vibrations in his arm from firing his pistol and struggled to keep it held out in front of him. Or was it the nerves?

  There were barely thirty feet between them. The man looked over his shoulder toward the window at the end of the corridor and then turned back. Craine spoke calmly through deep breaths:

  “Come on. Put the gun on the floor and raise your hands. Please. Don’t make me shoot you.”

  The man slowly raised his arms but the pistol was still held in his right hand. Craine took another step forward, lowered his Browning for a brief second as he reached for his handcuffs.

  His throat was so constricted he had to swallow twice to speak. “If you don’t drop the gun—”

  But before he could say anything more an apartment door in the space between them opened.

  Craine stammered, “Whoever you are, stay inside,” but the six-year-old who stepped out either didn’t hear or didn’t understand him.

  Both men looked at each other and then at the boy in turn. Craine realized with a rush of horror what was going to happen next. There was a moment where he should have pulled the trigger, but he couldn’t do it. Something—fear—held him back. His muscles locked and he watched impotently as the gunman lunged forward in a single darting movement and grabbed the boy by the waist before Craine could stop him.