Silent Murders (17 page)

“Well, it’s kind of hard to explain. I was staying with my grandmother in San Francisco last fall, recovering from a broken leg. San Francisco is a big vaudeville town, you know, with lots of theaters, so getting a job with another act was just a matter of time. With a roof over my head and three squares a day, I could afford to wait for the right act to come along. But something in my head kept urging me to give up the stage and go to Hollywood.”

“You mean you heard voices?”

I shook my head. “Not real voices. Not even real words. It wasn’t like my mother talking to me or a vision. More like a thought that someone kept putting inside my head again and again. You know how it is when a piece of a song won’t leave you alone for days at a time?”

“Sure.”

“It was like that. I couldn’t get away from Hollywood. A friend of my grandmother’s would come to tea and she’d mention something about Hollywood. My grandmother’s cook would say something about Hollywood. I’d open a newspaper and my eye would fall on the word ‘Hollywood.’”

“That sounds kind of spooky.”

“Sometimes I’d wake up in the morning thinking about Hollywood because I’d been dreaming about Hollywood all night long. I finally started asking my vaudeville friends if they had any contacts in the motion picture business. Several of them did, and that’s how I heard about the job at Pickford-Fairbanks. I figured it was a sign that I was meant to go. Mary Pickford had been my inspiration for years. And once I’d made up my mind to go, the music stopped.”

“Gosh. Are you glad you came?”

“Very.”

“Me, too. I was telling my mother about you and—oh, I almost forgot. Mother saw the newspapers. I told her you and I had gone to Bruno Heilmann’s party. She was horrified.”

“Everyone’s horrified,” I said, showing her the afternoon paper I had picked up and giving her the latest about Paul Corrigan’s and Faye Gordon’s poisoning. “I expect we’ll see that in tomorrow morning’s papers.”

The afternoon editions tucked into the mounting scandal with the enthusiasm of a hungry man at a feast.
WAMPAS BABY STAR DEAD
shouted one headline, followed in smaller, quieter letters,
Lorna McCall, 22, Drowns in Toilet.
SECOND MURDER SHOCKS FILM WORLD
said another, and
DRUG-CRAZED FILM QUEEN IS MURDER SUSPECT
.

The reporters had tracked down the Hungarian maid, Magda Szabo, and pumped the poor woman for all she was worth. Evidently no one in Hollywood really knew Lorna McCall, but that only gave the reporters more room for creativity. Lorna had appeared in bit parts in a few films, landed a couple good roles and the
WAMPAS
Baby Star designation, and died “on the cusp of the heavens as she reached for the stars,” according to one enraptured inky wretch. A few of Lorna’s girlfriends provided salacious detail about her recent social life. Her family remained unknown. Obviously her name, like most Hollywood names, was a recent fabrication, and no one knew where she came from or anything else about her past. The story of her last day on earth began at Bruno Heilmann’s party where she consumed massive amounts of alcohol and dope and took a dip in the fountain. The dress she wore that night was described in detail … except she hadn’t been wearing that one when I saw her in the fountain. An anonymous tipster confided that Lorna returned later that night and shot her former lover, Bruno Heilmann. Despondent, she then swallowed a bottle of pills and passed out in the toilet where she drowned.

I could almost hear Adolph Zukor saying, “Cut! Okay, now, let’s move on to the next scene.”

20

As it happened, Esther Frankel had a brother in Fredericksburg, Texas, who hopped the first train to Los Angeles as soon as he was notified of her death. I know because Augustus Frankel telephoned me Tuesday night and said he wanted to meet me while he was in town.

“The police gave me your name, Miss Beckett,” he said. “I hope I don’t impose on your time, but I would so much appreciate a few moments. They say you found poor Esther and I, well, I’d like to know whatever you can tell me.”

So first thing Wednesday morning I went to Esther’s. I hated going back into that apartment, but I figured her brother had a right to have his questions answered, at least as far as I could answer them.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Beckett,” he said, meeting me at the door with a short bow.

An odder-looking man than Augustus Frankel would be hard to invent. He was in his fifties, I guessed, with a head of thick, wild, snow-white hair that sat like a crown on top of a face crowded with bushy eyebrows and an enormous handlebar moustache, all black as soot. It would have been a great gimmick for the stage, but I knew in an instant that this man had not the slightest bit of fakery in him. A trace of a German accent lingered about his speech, and his courtly manners betrayed an old-world upbringing I always find endearing. I liked him at once.

“My sincerest condolences, Mr. Frankel. This must be a very sad time for you and your family.”

“Ach, yes. Such a shock. Little Esther … yes, it was a shock. She was always so full of life. Please come in. I hope it doesn’t distress you?”

“A little, but I’ll be fine,” I murmured.

The apartment showed signs of disarray. Mr. Frankel had already begun sorting through Esther’s belongings.

“Please sit,” he said, indicating the sofa. “May I get you some coffee?”

I declined. Coffee had lost its appeal, at least temporarily. He poured himself a cup and occupied the chair opposite me. “Please. Tell me what happened. The police have so little to say.”

So I told him about the party where Esther had spotted me, how excited we both had been to connect again after all those years, and how she invited me to come over on Sunday morning. Only three days ago? It seemed like a year.

There was a knock at the door and we rose.

“Excuse us,” said a man’s voice. “We’re the Zimmers from across the hall. We heard Esther’s brother had come and wanted to pay our respects.”

Mrs. Zimmer had brought a chicken dish. They stepped inside, saw me, and declined to sit. “We didn’t realize you had company,” she apologized. “I just thought you’d like some home cooking for dinner.” They stayed a few minutes and spoke kindly of Esther until Mr. Frankel’s eyes brimmed full.

“We weren’t too close,” he admitted with a regretful shake of his head. “We sent cards at Christmas, and once, when her act came through Austin, oh, twenty years ago it was, Mother and Father and I went to see it. We were very proud of her. I wish now I had made more effort to keep in touch, but I thought … well, I guess we always think there’s plenty of time for such things.”

“Will there be a funeral?” asked Mrs. Zimmer. It was something I had intended to ask myself.

“Yes, but just for the family, back home in Fredericksburg. Little Esther belongs at home, in the family plot, with Mama and Papa.”

The Zimmers offered to help in any way they could, and then excused themselves. I picked up my story where I had left off.

“I found her in the bedroom. She’d been dead several hours. I located someone downstairs with a telephone who called the police.”

“And what do you think happened?”

“At the moment, this is what I think—I think she was returning to the Heilmann kitchen with the last few ashtrays, and she saw the killer coming through the front door. He must have figured the place was empty of guests, but hadn’t realized the caterers were still there. Esther probably smiled at him, maybe thinking he was a guest who had forgotten something. But he knew she had seen him, and would have been able to describe him once the murder became known. Heilmann was in the living room, looking out toward the patio, his back to the entrance hall, and evidently unaware of the man. The killer took out a gun and shot Heilmann from across the room. At least, that’s what the doctor said. Even if Esther hadn’t been hard of hearing, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the gunshot, because I think he used a silencer. No one in the nearby houses heard it and neither did the caterers. I’ve never heard a silencer myself, but I’m told it has a sound of its own, nothing like the bang of a gun. Then he probably went into the kitchen to shoot Esther, but she had gone out the back. The Cisneros truck was leaving by then, so he ran back to his car, which must have been parked nearby, and followed them. There wouldn’t have been many cars on the road that late at night, so following would have been pretty easy. The Cisneros brothers hadn’t seen him, only Esther, so when they dropped her off here, he followed her.”

“How would this evil man know what apartment Esther lived in? There are more than a dozen in this building.”

I nodded. “Eighteen. And he didn’t know her name so he couldn’t look on the mailboxes, like I did when I came the next morning. No, he probably watched from outside to see which window lit up. That’s what I would have done.”

He stared for some minutes at a spot on the wall behind me before heaving a sigh. “What a terrible way to die. I hate to think of her, alone and frightened, dying like that.”

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Frankel—”

“Call me Gus, please.”

“To tell you the truth, Gus, I don’t think she ever knew what killed her. And I don’t think she suffered. From the looks of it, she was standing by her bed, looking through the playbills that she was going to show me the next day, with her back to the door. I figure she didn’t hear the man break in—he had some sort of skeleton key that snapped off in the lock—and she never saw him come up behind her. I think he didn’t shoot her because of the noise. Even silencers make some noise, and you may have noticed how thin the walls are in this building. And her horse statue was right there. I think he picked it up and hit her over the head, and that she never saw it coming. I don’t think she suffered one second.”

Another knock at the door. Another neighbor. From where I sat, I could see her, a young woman in a plaid dress holding a hot casserole dish with quilted mitts.

“You must be Mr. Frankel. I’m so sorry for your loss. I liked Esther. We all did. Why anyone would want to kill her, I don’t know. It just doesn’t make sense to any of us.”

Gus invited the young woman inside. He introduced me as the person who had found Esther’s body.

“Oh, yes, we all know that. We all saw you on Sunday when the police came. They weren’t very nice to you, were they? I wish I could have been more help. I’m sure I nearly saw the man who did it.”

“Really?”

She nodded importantly. “I told the police I probably missed seeing him by minutes. You see, I was in the hall after about three o’clock in the morning, talking to my fiancé. We just got engaged”—she held out her left hand as proof—“and Steve came straight here with this ring after his boat docked. He’s in the navy.”

Someone needed to say something, so I did. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Why were you in the hall?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, we didn’t want to keep my sister and my mother up. And well, it was more private.”

“The hall?”

“That time of night, there’s no one around. This is a pretty quiet floor.”

“So you didn’t see anyone come out of this apartment?”

“We were sitting right there”—she pointed—“so we couldn’t have missed him if he’d come out. But he had already sneaked off by then.”

Maybe not.

“Tell me something. Did you notice the door cracked open?”

She frowned. “No, I didn’t. I wasn’t really looking at the door or thinking about that sort of thing, but I think I’d’ve noticed if Esther’s door had been open, sitting right across from it like we were, you know.”

I knew. “It’s just as well you didn’t see him. The killer was a man who didn’t want to be seen. I think Esther saw him and that’s what cost her her life.”

“Gosh, you’re right. I didn’t think of that. It’s scary living next to a murdered person.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I reassured her. “You didn’t see anyone, and the killer is probably far away by now.”

“Well, Mr. Frankel, I hope you enjoy the goulash, and just leave the dish beside the door across the hall whenever you’re done with it. Mother will be over as soon as she gets home from work, to tell you how much we … well, you know. We’re all pretty shocked, I don’t mind telling you.”

21

The mortal remains of Bruno S. Heilmann were laid to rest at the Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery on Wednesday afternoon, April 15, 1925. A garden of funerary sprays and floral wreaths ringed the gravesite, and a flowery obituary appeared in the
Times.
Anticipating a large turnout of mourners and reporters, police cordoned off the area to keep the latter from pestering the former. Officers Delaney and Brickles were among those on duty, minding the reporters’ manners. Carl Delaney gave a nod when he saw me.

“Myrna,” I began softly. “I have an acting job for you. See that policeman by the rope?”

“The handsome one?”

“No, the older one. I need you to distract him for a moment while I speak to his partner. Ask him how the investigation is going. Act young and scared.”

“That shouldn’t be hard.”

If I ever had doubts about Myrna making it in the pictures, they would have evaporated with her show that morning. Her lower lip trembling, she engaged Officer Brickles with a masterful performance, planting herself so he had to turn away from me to face her. I don’t know what she was saying, but it did the trick.

“Good morning, Officer Delaney,” I said, my back toward Brickles.

He touched his cap. “Miss Beckett.”

“Getting any closer to finding the murderer?”

“I think so,” he said cautiously. “Good news is there haven’t been any more murders in the last twenty-four hours. Bad news is the newspapers’ War of Words is scaring folks. We’re flooded with calls about suspicious characters sneaking through the shrubbery.”

“The papers are full of suspects.”

“That’s because reporters have nothing else to do but speculate. No one will talk to them. We have orders not to say anything. Same is true for the movie people.”

I nodded. He was right; the studio bosses had threatened to fire anyone who spoke to the newspapers. With no reputable sources, reporters were going wild turning fantasy into fact.