by Mary Miley
Officer Rowe returned with a short, middle-aged man who used too much shoe polish on his hair. He’d been eating.
“I’m Captain Stanley,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Ida Overstreet, L.A. Times,” I said, thrusting my hand out for a firm shake—a mannish gesture I thought suited my Girl Reporter character to a T. He was so surprised at the gesture, he actually took my hand and shook it. “This won’t take long; I just need to ask you a few questions. Shall we go into your office?”
“Here’s good enough.” He hitched his pants up over his belly.
“Fine and dandy. I want to know about stolen cars. Has there—”
“I never heard of you.”
“No reason you should, unless you read the Times.” I flipped today’s paper to the fashion story with the Overstreet byline, and held it out. He looked down his nose at the story, then brought his squinty eyes back to my face. I chewed hard on my gum and examined my fingernails, praying he wouldn’t ask for real credentials.
“I thought you dames worked the society beat.”
“This dame also does the news when she’s told to. And the boss told me to dig up some information on recent car thefts. Have you had any cars reported stolen in the past week? Or don’t you know, Captain Stanley? And what was your first name?” I took my pencil from behind my ear and held it poised over my notebook while I waited.
That got him. “Rowe, get the log.” We stood glaring at each other without blinking as the younger cop went behind the counter and fished up a large bound ledger. The captain ran his finger down the page until he came to what he was looking for. “Friday night we had a couple tough kids steal a Packard Single Eight. They were picked up near the river a few hours later. Same night a woman on Hunter Street reported her Hudson Essex stolen but it turned out her son took it and she didn’t want to press charges. Saturday noon someone pinched a Cadillac Phaeton … that one’s probably in Mexico by now. Saturday night a man reported his Dodge stolen from the La Grande lot; turned out it was there on Sunday.”
Officer Rowe sniggered. “I remember him. He just forgot where he parked it. Swore he left it in the first row on Thursday, and it wasn’t there when he got home Saturday. We sent a man over Sunday morning and he found it in the back corner.”
Bingo.
The captain continued. “Two cars reported stolen Sunday—a Buick and a Franklin. No trace. Nothing since.” He snapped the book closed, silently daring me to continue.
Never having known a real reporter, I had no idea how they talked during an interview, but I imagined they asked a slew of snappy questions. I improvised as convincingly as I could. “Has there been an increase in car theft in this part of Los Angeles recently?”
“No. It’s been about the same as usual.”
“About the same as usual,” I repeated, recording his words in my notebook. “And what do you recommend the public do to prevent car theft?”
“Keep their cars at home locked up in the garage.” The Master of Sarcasm sneered.
I sensed my audience had reached the limits of its patience. Time to bring down the curtain. “Thank you, Captain Stanley. And you, too, Officer Rowe. You’ve been a great help. You can look for your comments in my article in this Sunday’s Times.”
“I can’t wait.”
Returning to La Grande, I visited the newsstand a third time. “You’re getting to be a regular here, young lady,” joked the vendor. Smiling my response, I handed him the money for a copy of Variety. Eagerly I flipped through its pages until I reached the section that listed which acts were playing in which Midwest theaters this week.
Chicago is an important vaudeville town, second only to New York City in number of theaters, so the list in Variety was long. I had heard of perhaps half the acts playing there this week and counted many as friends. But when my eye fell on the Cat Circus, I let out a cry of joy. Pay dirt. Angie was in Chicago.
For about four years, I had played in a family song-and-dance troupe called the Little Darlings—Jock and Francine Darling (yes, that was their real name) and their three children, plus four of us who played the older kids. We were like the Seven Little Foys, except they were all real Foys. I played Janie Darling, the second oldest, although I was in my twenties. Angie played my older sister because she was taller. In kiddie acts, height trumps age. She was seventeen when she left the Little Darlings for Walter, the love of her life and the man who managed the Cat Circus act. Angie and I had palled around a lot during the time she was with the Little Darlings, and I missed her. I hadn’t seen her in about a year. But the Cat Circus was playing Chicago this week, and all I had to do was contact Angie for help.
According to Variety, they were booked at the Majestic on West Monroe, a theater I knew from my Little Darlings years. I could send a telegram to Angie in care of the Majestic, but chances were she wouldn’t receive it until right before the first performance, and that would be too late. Walter and the Cat Circus would have rehearsed as usual on Monday morning, and there would be no reason for them to be at the theater on Tuesday morning. Experienced acts seldom showed up more than thirty minutes before showtime. But when Angie and I were with the Little Darlings, our act stayed at a gem of a hotel each time we played Chicago. Not far from the lake, cheap, clean, and serving decent food, the Riordin Hotel was a find that Angie would not forget. And knowing her take-charge frugality, I was sure that she, and not Walter, was handling domestic finances these days. I would eat my red cloche hat if Angie and Walter were not staying at the Riordin.
With my eye on the clock, I scurried into the Western Union office located in a corner of the train station. Two men were ahead of me in line. I tapped my toes while I composed the message in my head, making every word work for its pay. When I got to the window, I was ready to write it out.
HUGE FAVOR VERY IMPORTANT GO DEARBORN STATION TODAY MEET CHICAGOAN DUE AROUND FIVE NEED TO KNOW IF LONE MAN WITH DROOPY MOUTH GETS OFF DON’T SPEAK JUST LOOK OVER PASSENGERS LOVE YOU WALTER & CATS.
The operator counted up the words. “Two dollar forty,” he said without looking up.
I gulped. Never mind the cost. “I need rapid delivery for this one, please.”
“Two dollar sixty.”
“And a backup address in case the first one doesn’t connect.”
“Two dollar ninety.”
I paid as the man handed the paper to the clerk behind him. It would go out over the wire in minutes. A few seconds later, it would come out on the Chicago end printed on a sticky strip that another clerk would press on a yellow form. With any luck, it would be placed at the top of a stack and a boy would be waiting to snatch it up and head out on his bicycle; with really good luck, his route would take him by the Riordin first and Angie would be in their room when the desk clerk called. Angie might have this message in hand in thirty minutes. If I were wrong about the hotel, it would go to the Majestic Theater next but that would be too late … I shook my head. I couldn’t be wrong.
Even without Fortune’s favor, Angie would receive the message in a few hours, hopefully in time for her to get down State Street to the Dearborn Station to meet the Chicagoan. There was nothing more I could do but wait.
And I had a train to meet myself.
18
“You’ll love it here, Miss Young,” I said cheerily as I wedged the last of Mildred Young’s seven suitcases into the backseat of the company flivver, then held the front door for her. “It’s one of the most beautiful places on earth and the weather’s always divine. I hope your trip was pleasant?”
“Long, but tolerable,” she replied, removing her hat and smoothing her straight brown hair with her fingers. “Thank you for meeting my train.”
“Our director, Frank Richardson, didn’t want you to fuss with a taxi. He sent me—I’m his script girl in training—to bring you straight to the studio so he can welcome you himself. Then I’ll take you to the Hollywood Hotel—it’s not far from the studio—and you can settle
in before you start work tomorrow.”
The makeup department had been short staffed ever since the assistant had been lured away by Warner Brothers. Miss Young had been hired, sight unseen, to fill the important slot. Good makeup was crucial to a film’s success, and it involved far more than making stars look glamorous. There were old actors to be made up younger, young actors to be made up older, and Caucasians to be made up Chinese, not to mention the Indian warriors, werewolves, ghosts, circus clowns, witches, and men from outer space that needed creating from scratch.
I stole another look at Miss Mildred Young. She was plain, dangerously thin, and middle-aged. No doubt she came highly recommended from the theater world, but she was not what one expected in a makeup artist. Her own appearance—hair that looked like it had been bobbed with a dull knife and a face unadorned with even the faintest dab of rouge—was a poor recommendation for her skills. I hoped Frank Richardson would not be disappointed.
She told me to call her Mildred and asked some polite questions about the Don Q, Son of Zorro cast as we motored out of the parking lot. On my way to the station I had taken Santa Monica east to Sunset Boulevard and jockeyed over to First Street, but going home I was too busy talking and missed a turn.
“Damnation! I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve only lived here a couple of months, and I’m not very familiar with the downtown part of Los Angeles.” I thought it prudent to avoid mentioning that I had learned to drive only recently. I was heading generally west when I noticed I was on Beverly Boulevard, a street I recognized. Now I knew where we were.
“What is a script girl?” asked Mildred, who was busy taking in the scenery on both sides of the road.
“A script girl is the director’s right hand, a liaison between him and the film editor. She monitors the script during shooting to avoid errors in continuity—you know, like having someone wear a dirty shirt in one scene that inexplicably turns into a clean, fresh shirt in the next shot. She tracks wardrobe and makeup, keeps notes on each scene, and takes each day’s film and notes to the editor. Pauline Cox is Frank Richardson’s script girl, but she’s leaving to get married in a month, so I’m training to take her place.”
“I see. So we’ll be working together.”
“At Pickford-Fairbanks, we all work together. Mary Pickford likes to say that no one works for her, we all work with her. I just wanted you to know that I’m new here, too, still learning the ropes, so if you need any help settling in, I’ll understand. Any questions you have, I probably had myself a few weeks ago.”
“That’s very kind of you. You are probably wondering how I was hired in the first place. Theater requirements are so different from film.”
“Well, I … to be honest, it did occur to me. I’ve been in vaudeville so I know something about stage makeup, and it’s a lot heavier and more exaggerated than what people wear in the pictures.”
She gave a somber nod. “It has to be, to be seen from the balcony. But now that film directors are favoring close-up scenes, makeup requires a more subtle hand. I’ve made a study of film makeup, watching how the kohl eye shadow and dark lips have given way to a gentler palette. I’ve learned a good deal from Miss Pickford’s pictures. The natural look gives her characters a more realistic appearance. I believe I can achieve that. Of course, I’m only the assistant…”
“Like me.”
“… but I’ll learn.”
“My plan precisely. At least, that’s what I tell myself.”
“What’s it like, living here?”
I gave the question some thought. “Hollywood is kind of like a fancy casino full of flashy gamblers and ruthless cheats. No one has a past and the present is already over because everyone’s busy living for the future—the next dollar, the next deal, the next love. A throw of the dice turns shopgirls into stars and princes into paupers. But here the jackpot isn’t money—it’s fame.”
“And I suppose, like in all gambling dens, losers outnumber winners?”
I smiled my assent. “And that’s why I’m holding back and watching the crowd to learn which games are honest before I go rushing in to place my bets. Oh, look! Up ahead on your right. Going this way wasn’t such a mistake after all. It gives you the chance to see Paramount Studios. They’re the largest in Hollywood, really, the largest in the whole world.” I pointed to one of the entrances as we chugged along Melrose and turned right at Gower.
There we came to a complete stop.
A hundred people or more had spilled out of the Gower Street entrance into the road, blocking traffic. We crept forward a few yards until I could make out several men in police uniforms who were not behaving like madcap Keystone Cops—they were real policemen. I chewed my bottom lip nervously. As we waited, two ambulances inched through the studio gates and sped north toward the hospital. By then I’d guessed what had happened. I just didn’t know who.
Someone else was dead. And it had been no accident.
I pulled the car over to the curb and leaped out, leaving it idling. “Wait here. I won’t be a moment,” I cried to Mildred, and before she could protest, I was hurrying toward the entrance, past cowboys, a princess, several women in bathrobes, a couple knights in armor, dozens of technicians, one director—you can always tell directors by their tall boots and riding breeches—and a handful of cops. Finally I spied a familiar face. Standing apart from the crowd in the shade of an orange tree with his hat on backward was a young cameraman I knew from a couple of parties.
“What’s happened, Bob?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. It was something over at the Cobra set. They’re saying two people are dead.” He looked above my head at someone inside the gate. “Look, there’s Sylvie Baxter. She’s Henabery’s script girl.” Bob didn’t have to tell me that Henabery was the director of Cobra. We all knew who was directing every film at every major studio in Hollywood.
Bob and I pushed toward her through the crush and, in the confusion, I got past the Paramount guards. Sylvie looked dazed. Tears had streaked her cheeks with kohl. Bob patted her shoulder in a brotherly way. “There, there, Sylvie. Buck up, girl. What is all this about? Who has died?”
At that moment, a black car rolled by us and I could see Rudolph Valentino and his wife, Natacha Rambova, in the backseat. The chauffeur tooted his horn until the guards at the gate parted the crowd enough to let them pass through it. Bob didn’t have to tell me that Valentino was starring in Cobra. We all knew who was starring in every film at every major studio in Hollywood.
The sight of Valentino uncorked Sylvie’s tears, and Bob let her sob a moment on his shoulder. When she regained her voice she said, “I told the police, I just walked in to get another cup of coffee for Mr. Valentino, and I saw them on the floor. I thought they were both dead.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Faye Gordon. Paul Corrigan.” She swallowed hard.
My hand flew to my mouth in dismay. I’d been eating dinner with them just last night! And both had attended Bruno Heilmann’s party last weekend. I remembered that Faye had spoken about having a small part in Cobra, not the starring role she wanted—that had gone to twenty-seven-year-old Nita Naldi—but a part nonetheless. I wasn’t aware that Paul Corrigan had had a role at all. At least, he hadn’t mentioned it last night.
Sylvie claimed my attention again. “I screamed and everyone came running. The Paramount doctor rushed over and said Corrigan was dead, but Miss Gordon was still alive. She was able to tell them that the coffee tasted odd. The police took the coffee. It must’ve been poisoned. And I almost … I mean, I almost filled a cup for Mr. Valentino. Dear God, I almost poisoned Rudolph Valentino!” She swayed on her feet until Bob pulled her up against his chest. “I should have known!” she wailed. “I saw a woman wearing a hat with a peacock feather in it just this morning!”
Peacock feathers. The unluckiest of omens for theater folk. Worse than wild birds flying into windows. No actress would have worn a hat with a peacock feather into the studio; it ha
d to have been a visitor. Why the gate guard hadn’t stopped her, I couldn’t imagine. Someone would lose his job over that.
Outside the gate, policemen and directors were urging everyone to return to their sets. I made my way back to the car where Mildred Young was waiting.
“Has someone been hurt?” she asked.
“Dead.”
“Another Hollywood murder?” she said primly. “I’ve been reading the newspapers. No need to distress yourself telling me about it. Doubtless I’ll hear more than I want to know soon enough.”
I flashed her a grateful smile and steered the car left on Santa Monica toward the green gates of Pickford-Fairbanks Studios, my mind churning faster than the engine gears.
The moment I had delivered Mildred Young to Frank, I went searching for Douglas Fairbanks. He was not filming this morning, and I found him in his office in the long, low building that fronted on Santa Monica.
“I need to see Mr. Fairbanks at once,” I said to his secretary, a capable matron who knew me well after my stint as Douglas’s assistant.
“He’s on the telephone, and he’s expecting some—” she began, then, taking stock of my agitation, changed her mind. “Go on in.”
Douglas set down the receiver and stared at me like a defendant waiting for a jury verdict. I blurted out the news. He paled. “As far as I know,” I finished, “Paul Corrigan is dead. I’m not sure about Faye Gordon.”
Calmly he picked up the receiver and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Get me the hospital.” In three minutes he had his answer. “Someone poisoned the coffee. Corrigan died. Faye is hanging on.”
