by Mary Miley
The sound of a door closing drew me back down to the projectionist’s booth. A boy with thick cheaters and a bad complexion answered my knock. He looked about seventeen.
‘Hello,’ I said, offering my hand to shake. ‘I’m Jessie Beckett, and I’m investigating the Petrovitch murder. I know you’re busy getting ready for the 11 o’clock, but I wonder if you could answer a couple of quick questions for me about the day Joe Petrovitch was shot?’
‘Well, I don’t—’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t hold you up – you can go ahead and load the first reel while we talk.’ Taking advantage of his youth, I stepped past him and into the small booth before he could think of a polite way to refuse. ‘It must have been shocking for you – how did you react when a stranger burst through the door? Or was that how it happened?’
He removed his cheaters and polished the lenses on his shirttail. ‘That’s just how it happened, miss. Like I told the police – you’re not from the police, are you?’
‘No, I work for Douglas Fairbanks and so does Mrs Petrovitch.’
That seemed to be better credentials than the police. ‘Oh, I see. Sure, like I told the cops, this man came in without knocking. He wore a red coat. He was holding a gun. He said something I couldn’t understand, then he fired three shots right into Joe.’ The memory made him wince.
‘What else did you notice about him … ah, what did you say your name was?’
‘Ben Salinas.’ He held out his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Beckett. And the other thing I noticed was he wore eyeglasses.’
‘Like yours?’ His had dark, thick rims.
‘Rounder than mine, but pretty much the same.’
‘I see. Anything else? Was he tall?’
‘No, average.’
‘Fat?’
‘No, average. He had a beard.’
‘What color?’
‘Dark.’
‘Big and bushy? Or cut close to the skin?’
‘Not so big. Not like a mountain man or anything like that.’
‘A mustache?’
‘Yes, a thin mustache. Like Mr Fairbanks has.’
‘Did you notice anything else about him? Like was his skin pale or reddish, or were his eyes small or bug-eyed?’
He gave this due consideration before shaking his head. ‘No, he was just regular looking.’
‘What was he wearing besides the red coat?’
‘A cap. I didn’t notice his trousers or shoes.’
‘Was his hair under the cap dark like his beard?’
‘I couldn’t say. The cap covered it up, I expect.’
‘What did you mean when you said he shouted something you didn’t understand?’
‘It was some foreign talk.’
‘Oh? Did you recognize the language?’
‘Naw. It didn’t sound like Spanish. I don’t know any Spanish, but I hear a lot of it around here, so I kinda know what it sounds like. And it didn’t sound like Latin – I go to church every Sunday and the priest talks Latin. But those are the only two languages I ever heard.’
‘But Joe seemed to understand it?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess so. Maybe it was Joe’s language.’
‘Joe was foreign?’ No one had mentioned that.
‘I guess so. He had a funny accent anyway.’
‘Where was he from?’
‘I don’t know. But he was from somewhere else. His English wasn’t that good.’
It was an interesting picture I was assembling, a picture of a killer who spoke a mysterious foreign language and sounded suspiciously average. No memorable features except a beard, mustache, and eyeglasses – all of which could be removed in one second flat. I had a strong hunch that these accessories were part of a disguise.
‘Did you know anyone who disliked Mr Petrovitch?’
‘Not enough to kill him.’
‘What did you think of him?’
Ben looked around nervously, as if someone might be standing close enough to overhear us. No one was anywhere near. ‘He never said much. He taught me to do this job.’
‘That was good of him.’
‘Well, yeah. But it was so he could leave during the film.’
‘Leave to go where?’
‘He never said. He didn’t talk much, and I didn’t like to ask questions.’
I released Ben Salinas to his film reels and made my way back to the lobby where I waited unobtrusively until the film had begun. Once the lobby cleared, I approached the ushers, who by then had gathered at the open door where a fragrant breeze cooled the air. There were six of them, all young and bored. No doubt they’d seen the film a dozen times. I picked out the oldest-looking one, a freckled lad of about sixteen, and gave him a flirty smile as I held out my hand.
‘Hey, boys. I’m Jessie Beckett, and I’m here on behalf of Mrs Petrovitch to ask a few questions about Joe Petrovitch’s murder. Were any of you fellas here when he was killed?’
‘Sure,’ said the target boy, who no doubt pegged me at his own age. ‘I was here. I told the cops everything. Sam and Marty were too,’ he said, pointing with his thumb to two younger boys. ‘Jake wasn’t.’ He gestured toward Jake, who looked glum to have missed this exciting day in history.
‘I was here too,’ offered another boy, not to be outdone. ‘I helped the cops search the audience as they left. The people didn’t know there had been a murder, not then they didn’t. No one heard the gunshots over the noise of the music.’
‘Tell me what happened after the gunshots.’
Proud to be asked, the boys jockeyed to be first. The oldest lad won out. ‘I heard the three shots, but I thought they were just some popping noise from the projector. I didn’t think anything about it. Then a minute later, the assistant Ben, he comes running downstairs like he’s seen a ghost and he yells, “Someone shot Joe!” And I thought … well, we all laughed ’cause we thought he was joking. Then we knew he wasn’t. “Call the cops!” he shouted.’
‘Who called the cops?’
‘I did,’ piped up a younger boy with pride. ‘I ran into the street and saw a cop at the corner, so I ran over and got him here right away.’
‘And no one left the theater then?’
They shook their heads.
‘And what other doors are there in this theater that someone might have used?’ The boys pointed to several lobby doors. ‘No, I mean, what about doors behind the screen or in the back?’
‘No door behind the screen, but there’s a door that goes to the back alley. You get there from the side aisle in front of the screen.’
I’d seen that one during my earlier tour of the place. ‘So someone could have run downstairs from the balcony and into the orchestra, and then out that side door?’ I asked.
‘Sure they could of, but one of us would of seen him and people in the audience would have noticed when the door opened and all the light came in, and no one did.’
‘Tell me what happened when the police arrived.’
The older boy resumed his tale. ‘The first copper went up to the projection booth and saw the mess. He said Joe was dead. All bloody and very dead. He ran to the call box to get help and soon five more coppers showed up. Two went to that side door, the rest stayed right here –’ he pointed to the lobby exits – ‘and waited for the picture to end. It was Chaplin’s The Gold Rush, and it didn’t have long to go. No one left the theater during that time. Then, when the picture was over, people started coming out. The coppers knew who they were looking for – red coat, beard, specs – and they knew he hadn’t left the theater yet, so they waited at each exit and let people leave slowly, one by one. That was a stupid killer, to wear a bright red coat that would be so recognizable. They stopped every man who even came close. No one complained, once they knew a murder had been done.’
‘And no red coat or gun was ever found?’
‘Nope.’
‘Did they search people carefully or just look at them? And what about women’s
handbags?’
‘They searched pretty good. And every handbag too, looking for a gun. I helped with that.’
Either the coat and gun had made it past the cops, which seemed unlikely given their search of the exiting audience, or they’d been abandoned in the theater. The ‘stupid killer’ seemed fiendishly clever to me. I’d learned enough from my stint with vaudeville magic acts to know that obvious details like a red coat were meant to distract. Could the killer have been a magician? ‘Was the theater thoroughly searched afterward?’
‘Three times!’ declared the shortest boy. ‘The cops went over it with whisk brooms and found nothing.’
‘Under the seats? Inside the commode tanks?’
They nodded.
I was marshalling my thoughts at this point, wondering if the police had searched the women as closely as the men and thinking that if I were the killer, I’d have positioned a female confederate in the audience who would hide my pistol and red coat beneath her skirt. Then another safe place to stash a gun in a theater occurred to me.
‘How much time between the end of this show and the start of the next?’ I asked.
‘About half an hour.’
‘How would you boys like to help me find the murder weapon? If it didn’t leave the theater, I bet I know where it is.’
SIX
Barbara Petrovitch was delighted to see me. ‘Welcome, Jessie, come in! Can I bring you some lemonade?’ The popcorn had made only a dent in my appetite, so I dug into the cake she set in front of me. ‘Eat, please. I have so much food … people have been so kind. Mr Shala, a friend of Joe’s who came to the funeral, brought this walnut cake over just this morning. It’s called a torta. He said it was made from a traditional Albanian recipe. His wife made it – isn’t that dear? Now, tell me, you’ve been working on the murder already, haven’t you? I can tell!’
‘I visited Joe’s theater a little while ago. And I wanted to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind.’
‘Ask, ask. I’m ready. But eat up, first, then let’s move out onto the front porch. The beautiful day lifts my spirits.’
I soon polished off the delicious torta, and we settled into the wicker chairs. ‘I only just learned that Joe spoke English with an accent. He wasn’t born here?’
‘No, but he lived in America for many years. I don’t know how many. Maybe ten. Yeah, ten at least. Maybe fifteen. I don’t really know. He came from Serbia when he was young and changed his first name to Joe. He said it made him feel more American.’
I had heard of Serbia. I didn’t know where it was, but it had something to do with the start of the Great War back in 1914. ‘So his native language was Serbian?’ She nodded. ‘Do you speak Serbian?’
‘Gracious, no.’
‘Well, it seems the killer did. A few words at least. Did the police know that?’
‘I think so … I’m not sure.’
‘I don’t remember meeting any of Joe’s relatives at the funeral.’
‘He didn’t have any. He told me that when he came to America, a distant cousin in New York gave him a job and put him up until he got his feet on the ground, but that’s all. He never spoke about any family in Serbia. He didn’t talk about the past at all. I think it was too painful. I asked once and it upset him so much, I didn’t dare bring it up again.’
‘I understand.’ And I did. Asking the wrong questions in this house got you a fat lip. I thought of young Salinas back at the theater, also reluctant to question Joe.
‘That New York cousin wrote him a letter just a few weeks ago. The only time he ever wrote was whilst we were married. I wanted to write back and tell him about Joe’s passing, but …’ Her lower lip trembled. ‘But I didn’t have a return address. The police brought the letter back yesterday.’
I frowned. ‘What did the police want with the letter?’
‘They wanted to get someone to read it. It was written in Serbian, but I didn’t know that for sure then because I’d never seen Serbian written down. They found someone who could read it.’
‘What did it say?’
‘Nothing much. Do you want to see it?’ She rose from the chair before I could respond and disappeared into the house.
I let my eyes wander up and down and across the tree-lined street. It was a friendly neighborhood with small houses neatly painted and yards kept tidy. Children sped past on bicycles, a man was washing a roadster, and barefoot youngsters splashed in and out of a tin tub. Joe Petrovitch was proving stubbornly unknowable. My investigation wasn’t going anywhere until I could learn more about him and why someone would want to kill him. A cousin would surely know some history.
Barbara returned in a minute with the letter. A postmark from September 20, four weeks ago, canceled its two-cent stamp. There was no return address.
I removed the single sheet of paper and glanced at the writing. It wasn’t like Spanish with letters like ours, nor was it like Chinese with no alphabet a regular person could make out. It was something in between, with some normal letters and some symbols. It looked to be only a few sentences. It was signed with a single, short name, a name that started with what looked like a P. I wondered if it was his first name and whether his last name might be Petrovitch, like Joe’s. ‘Did the police tell you what it said?’
She nodded. ‘They found a man – a policeman, as a matter of fact – right here in Los Angeles, who was born in Greece or Macedonia or somewhere like that and who knew some Serbian. He said the languages were similar and he could make out what it said. The cousin was writing to tell Joe that a friend of his who lived in New York had died. He was a cook in a restaurant.’
‘Does it give his name?’
‘I think so, but I don’t remember.’ I examined the letter again. There seemed to be some words that might have been a name, but the odd alphabet made it impossible for me to tell. I handed the letter back to her. ‘Joe must have been pretty upset when he got this.’
‘He didn’t say anything about it to me, but I never saw him sad. He kept his feelings locked up tight.’
‘Did Joe have a group of friends he liked to go around with? You know, men who would get together for drinks, cards, pool, or anything like that?’
‘Well, Joe was kind of a loner, but sure, there were some friends. He used to go downtown on Saturday nights.’
‘Were any of them Serbian?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. I never met them. They didn’t come over here. Joe liked to keep his private life private.’
Even from his wife, it seemed. ‘Did you see any men at the funeral who might have been friends of his? Men you didn’t know, but who introduced themselves as Joe’s friends?’
‘N-no, I don’t think so, but I don’t remember that day too well. Maybe my brother Simon could answer you better.’
‘It would help to find this cousin and a few of Joe’s friends.’
‘Why?’
I couldn’t say what I was thinking, that it was strange that no one, including his wife, seemed to know much about this man’s past. Surely there was someone, somewhere, who did. ‘I’d like to talk to someone who knew Joe. Outside of the home, I mean. Maybe then we’d learn if he had any enemies or was involved in any activities that might have gotten him killed.’
‘Gracious, my Joe would never do anything illegal like bootlegging or gambling!’
Unless he was like David, using a respectable job to hide his criminal goings-on. Funny how blind women could be when it came to their men.
‘I’m sure that’s true, but it would be good to talk with a friend or two. I understand your brother didn’t get along with Joe.’
‘Oh, no! Where did you hear that? You’re mistaken. Everyone liked Joe. He and Simon were fast friends. Joe was such a dear. Never touched a drop, not like some I could name.’ Her voice took on a wistful note and a faraway look came into her eyes. I braced for the flood of tears that never came.
‘But they fought once.’
She waved her hand as if
shooing away flies. ‘They were like brothers. Brothers quarrel sometimes. Simon misunderstood some things that he blamed on Joe when they were really my fault.’
‘What was that?’
‘I don’t see that it matters …’
‘I believe it does, Barbara.’
‘Oh, of course, if you say so, of course. Well, I’m ashamed to say that I wasn’t always the best of wives,’ she said, smoothing her skirt with her hands in a nervous sort of way. ‘I’d do things – silly things – that would provoke Joe. Dinner wouldn’t be on time, or his shirts wouldn’t be ironed properly – things that were easy to do right. He was particular and liked things just so. I’m so stupid sometimes. He had good reason to be angry with me.’ She gave a little-girl giggle that grated. ‘He only corrected me because he loved me so much and wanted me to be perfect, but sometimes he didn’t know his own strength. Some men don’t, you know? Afterward, he was very, very sorry and would be so sweet, begging my forgiveness and bringing me flowers to make up for his moment of weakness. He never intended to hurt me. I knew that. Of course, I forgave him. I understood. I’m sure you know how it is with men, they can’t always control their passionate natures, and Joe was a passionate man.’
The first time a passionate man knocked me around would be the last time he’d get the chance, but I nodded through clenched teeth and told Barbara I’d see her at the studio tomorrow. As I rode the Red Car home, I wondered if the police had tracked down any of Joe’s Los Angeles friends for questioning – if, indeed, there were any. It seemed none had come to his funeral – none that Barbara remembered anyway, and considering the amount of publicity surrounding his death, it was inconceivable that his friends would not be aware of it. I turned my thoughts toward finding the New York cousin.
The sight of Officer Carl Delaney perched on the front porch of our old Fernwood farmhouse brought me up short. He was sitting on a rickety wooden chair with peeling paint and a broken stretcher, his legs extended straight out before him and his face hidden behind the Sunday paper, but I knew who it was. His uniform and his nerve gave him away. No other cop in all of Los Angeles would have made himself as much at home on my front porch. I stopped on the sidewalk, still as a stalking cat, while I tried to figure out what he was up to and how to play it.
