Valentino Will Die Read online

  Mary Pickford was “America’s Sweetheart,” with her wide, blue eyes and golden curls, an actress beloved by the public as well as her peers. But Mary was anything but innocent. Sharp and capable, one of the original founders of United Artists Studios, she had business sense to spare. She had helped Bianca learn to invest and manage her newly gained riches. Doug, on the other hand, was as flamboyant as his swashbuckling movie persona. He was eccentric and charming and a bit of a rogue, but he was good hearted and seemed devoted to Mary, which put him firmly in Bianca’s good graces.

  The guest list for the regular Tuesday night dinner for the Fairbankses’ close friends varied in size and composition, depending on who was available. They were often joined by their nearest neighbors, Charlie Chaplin and his child bride, Leta Grey, but on this evening Charlie was dealing with a disastrous fire at his studio and Leta was at home taking care of two infant sons and stewing with resentment for her spectacularly unfaithful husband.

  Tonight it was just Doug, Mary, and Bianca at dinner, so they forewent the dining room and the three of them enjoyed an informal meal of barbecued ribs and beer around a table in Doug’s reconstructed Old West–style saloon with its polished mahogany bar backed by a gilded mirror.

  Bianca had often expressed her particular delight at Doug’s whimsical saloon, which was why Mary had suggested it tonight. She had a motherly attitude toward Bianca, whom she had met at Alma Bolding’s house back in 1920, when Bianca was a green fifteen-year-old. Alma had been responsible for bringing young Blanche Tucker to California and had been a wonderful guardian and mentor to the girl at first. Now that Alma had gone off the rails with her drugs and boozing, Bianca found herself turning often to Mary for advice and help, and Mary was only too happy to oblige.

  Bianca did her best to be a good guest and engaging conversationalist, but Mary saw through her before dessert was served.

  “What’s troubling you tonight, darling? Are you still sad about Rudy?”

  Bianca put down her corn on the cob and sagged back into her seat with a sigh. “I suppose I am. His death hit me hard, I guess. But I don’t want to end such a lovely dinner on a sad note. It’s nice to talk about something pleasant for a change.”

  But Mary’s gaze sharpened as she looked at Bianca, taking stock. Even the ebullient Doug suddenly looked serious. He said, “Missy, my girl, I had a chat with George Fitzmaurice yesterday.”

  “It might do you good to talk about it, darling,” Mary said. “Maybe we can help you.”

  Bianca’s heart sank. So much for keeping her murder investigation a secret. She had sworn Pola Negri to silence after she told her that Rudy had been poisoned, but this was Hollywood. Everybody in town was going to be speculating about Valentino’s death now.

  She rubbed her eyes, suddenly tired and uncertain. Maybe they could help her. If nothing else, maybe they could convince her that she was on a fool’s errand. She dropped her hands into her lap and opened her eyes.

  Mary was gazing at her expectantly. Doug looked like he was going to leap over the table and do something heroic. Bianca took a deep breath and told them the whole story.

  When she was done, Mary reached across the tabletop and took her hand. “Oh, darling, there has been a lot of gossip about Rudy’s death, but I thought that was all it was, gossip. If you hadn’t told me that the doctor confirmed that he was poisoned, I’d have never believed it. What can we do?”

  “I don’t know. Help me make sense of all this. I saw Rudy’s checkbook. He wrote forty thousand dollars’ worth of checks to Tony Cornero. How could Rudy let himself get involved with a bootlegger? Rudy doesn’t…didn’t even drink that much.”

  But Doug was not surprised. “Well, Rudy liked to gamble, even though he wasn’t very good at it. He was one of the regulars at the Thursday night high-stakes poker game at Casa del Mar,” he said, naming an exclusive private club on Santa Monica Beach, within sight of the pier, “and he usually dropped a bundle. Cornero supplies the booze to the club at Casa del Mar and would occasionally sit in on the game. That’s probably how Rudy met him. Cornero’s a good-natured guy, for a mobster. I know Tony has been interested in getting into offshore gambling for ages. Rudy probably invested in Tony’s gambling ship idea. The Monaco has turned out to be quite the moneymaker. It’s a shame Rudy didn’t live to see a return on his investment. He could have paid off all his debts with the proceeds and had plenty to spare.”

  “There’s a regular poker game at the club?” Bianca was surprised. She had recently joined the Casa del Mar beach club herself. “Isn’t gambling illegal in California?”

  “So’s hootch, Missy. The police ignore what goes on at the club. The mayor of Los Angeles and the Santa Monica police chief are members. I sit in on the game a couple times a month. Mary doesn’t approve, but I manage to win about as much as I lose. But we don’t meet at the club anymore, not since Tony set us up in one of the private salons on the Monaco.”

  “Do you know who else invested in the Monaco?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I’d have to guess. Cornero pitched the scheme at the club a couple of times, so I expect some of the regulars got in on the action.”

  “I hope you’re not one of them, Douglas!” Mary had not offered an opinion on her husband’s less-than-legal activities until now.

  “Of course not, sweetheart.” Doug waited until Mary turned to reach for the ribs before he gave Bianca an exaggerated guilty look.

  Mary returned the platter to the center of the table. “I don’t see how any of this has to do with someone poisoning Rudy.”

  “I don’t know either,” Bianca admitted. “But it’s all too interconnected to not to mean something. Who are the regulars at your game, Doug?”

  “Mostly actors and businessmen. Chaplin, of course. Buster Keaton and Barrymore—John, not Lionel—are usually there. Harry Chandler and Miles Donahue never miss a game.” There were others on his list, but Bianca had heard the name that interested her most and interrupted his recitation.

  “Miles Donahue? Can you introduce me to Donahue?”

  Doug cast a questioning glance at his wife. “I don’t really know the man. I’ve never seen him anywhere but at the poker game. All I know about him is that he has money to blow and he’s not a good loser.”

  “But you say he never misses a game and the games are always on the Monaco?”

  “Yes to both. What are you thinking, young lady?”

  “Do women ever play in your poker game?”

  “Sure, sometimes, if they’ve got the dough. Gloria Swanson cleaned us all out a few months ago.”

  Mary was alarmed at the direction the conversation was taking. “Oh, now, Bianca…”

  “I was going out to that ship anyway, but now I’m determined to get into the game, Mary. I’ve got to talk to Miles Donahue.”

  Mary knew Bianca well enough to see that argument would be futile. “Well, you’re not going without Doug to protect you.”

  “Now, wait a minute.” Doug was looking befuddled by the turn in the conversation.

  As far as Bianca was concerned, the matter had been decided. “I hear you have to be invited. Who do I talk to to get an invitation?”

  Doug surrendered to the inevitable with his usual good humor. “I’ll get you one. You’re Bianca LaBelle. I don’t think you’ll have any problem.”

  ~ Ted Oliver Prepares to Spend an Evening on the High Seas, Rubbing Shoulders with the Elite ~

  Oliver expected he would have to take the train from Santa Monica to Long Beach, but Dix sent a car for him. He supposed that a car and driver suited his wealthy gambler persona better than did public transportation. Besides, he would have looked funny riding the milk train in a tuxedo. The touring car that pulled up in front of his building wasn’t a limousine, but it was still worth more than everything Oliver owned.

  Oliver slid into the back seat and sa
nk into the Moroccan leather upholstery. As the car pulled away from the curb, he patted the wad of bills in his inside breast pocket and adjusted his cuffs before he recognized the driver by the back of his block-like head. “Juan! What are you doing here? Who’s watching Her Nibs?”

  In the rearview mirror, he could see two bushy eyebrows draw together in annoyance. “I’m going with you,” Juan said. “I’m listed on the invitation as your valet. Mrs. Dix wants to protect her investment.” Oliver had never heard Juan speak before. His voice suited his physique, hard and gruff and scary.

  “How nice of her. But I work alone. You’ll just draw attention that I don’t need.”

  The bodyguard grunted his lack of interest in Oliver’s opinion, which made Oliver chuckle. He could just as well have expressed his concern to a rock for all the effect it had. But he really didn’t mind the big man’s presence. A “manservant” would lend credence to his disguise as Seattle lumber magnate Oliver Nash (his mother’s maiden name), and he knew from experience that Juan knew how to be invisible.

  Juan drove south along the coast highway, a spectacular, sometimes heart-stopping trip along beaches and little pastel towns and cliffside roads that dropped into the ocean, scenery that calmed Oliver’s nerves in spite of himself. It was dark by the time they pulled off the road onto a deserted stretch of sand south of Long Beach. A few yards from the highway, near the black slash of ocean, Oliver could see the dark figures of a dozen or so people milling around, laughing and talking. It sounded like a party.

  As he neared the group, he was approached by a tuxedoed young man with a thin build, thin lips, and thin hair who demanded to see “Mr. Nash’s” invitation. After inspecting it carefully, the thin man pointed at the hulking figure standing behind Oliver, a wordless question.

  Oliver said, “This is my man, Juan.”

  The thin man nodded. “My name is Elias, and I’ll be your escort tonight, Mr. Nash. Come with me and I’ll introduce you to the other guests. Only one water taxi is running to and from the Monaco tonight, every hour on the hour. The first run from shore to ship will be in about half an hour, so in the meantime, please enjoy the company and a complimentary cocktail. Your man can have a beer with the other servants, just over there.” Elias led Oliver to the group on the beach, where he was handed a martini and left to mingle. Without a word, Juan joined the hoi polloi in their little lower-class ghetto down the beach.

  Before he had been drafted into Dix’s service, Oliver had done quite a bit of investigative work for the wealthy around the Los Angeles area, so he knew the possibility existed that he would be recognized, especially if any of the gamblers had been involved in a nasty divorce or a homosexual affair. But Oliver was counting on the fact that even if someone did find his face familiar, they’d never connect the pomaded dandy of this evening with his usual rumpled self.

  Yet the first thing anyone said to him was, “Say, didn’t I see you at Valentino’s funeral?”

  The sun was long down, so the beach party was lit by torches stuck into the sand. Oliver peered at the tall middle-aged man, trying to put a name to the face. His heart leaped when he recognized James Quirk. “I just got into town from Seattle yesterday,” Oliver said, dodging the question. “Nash is the name and lumber is the game. I’m in Los Angeles to do some business, but I figured that a night of good booze, good company, and gorgeous dames would do me good.”

  “Quite right, Mr. Nash!” The man held out a hand and Oliver shook it. A firm grip and an honest, direct gaze. “James Quirk of Photoplay magazine. This is my fiancée, May.” He put an arm around an attractive blond woman in a white gown and white fox stole whom Oliver recognized immediately.

  “May Allison.” He grasped her hand with a little bow. “I saw you in Flapper Wives.”

  She emitted a tinkling laugh. “Fancy you remembering that. That was a while back.”

  “You made a big impression on me, Miss Allison. And speaking of Valentino’s funeral, Mr. Quirk, I believe you interviewed him for your magazine, didn’t you?”

  Quirk’s face fell. “Yes, while he was shooting his last picture, Grand Obsession, with Bianca LaBelle. That issue hasn’t been released yet. I also interviewed him for The Son of the Sheik. That particular interview had just gone to print when he died. A terrible loss.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I guess that’s why you have the funeral on your mind. I read about it in the paper. Sounds like everybody who’s anybody in Hollywood showed up.”

  “That is the truth. In fact, some of the people who were at the Hollywood funeral service are here tonight. I suppose everyone is eager for some distraction after such a sad week.”

  “I’m just a poor little rich boy from Washington state, so I’m feeling pretty starstruck here amongst all the famous faces. What would you say to introducing me around a bit before we hit the casino and I win all these people’s money?”

  Fortunately, Quirk thought Oliver’s sass was funny. “Certainly,” he said.

  Oliver followed the writer and May Allison to a group of beautifully dressed drunks who were gathered around a torchlit teakwood bar on the sand, loudly talking about the latest studio contract outrage. Quirk first introduced him to someone very famous. Oliver never remembered who it was, because he only had eyes for a tall, elegant brunette in a slinky red and gold evening gown covered with sequins that sparkled like stars in the torchlight. As she moved, Oliver couldn’t keep his eyes off of the slit in the skirt of her gown that bared one long leg from ankle to above her shapely knee.

  “Bianca LaBelle,” he said, interrupting his introduction to Very Famous Person. He may have insulted someone who was not used to being ignored by walking away from him as though he didn’t exist, but Oliver didn’t care. He expected that neither Quirk nor Very Famous Person were all that surprised at his rudeness, either. When Bianca LaBelle was present, this sort of thing probably happened a lot.

  He wanted to shake her. He wanted to hiss, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He wanted to hustle her out of here tout de suite. He could do none of these things without making a fuss and blowing his cover.

  “Miss LaBelle,” he said. “I’m Oliver Nash. I’m a fan.” Bianca gave him an insouciant grin over her highball glass and shook his proffered hand.

  “It’s always nice to meet a fan,” she said, and gestured to her right. “This is Douglas Fairbanks.”

  Oliver hadn’t noticed the sleek gentleman with the mustache who was standing next to Bianca. Fairbanks—actor, director, producer, and swashbuckler extraordinaire—hardly needed an introduction. He and his wife, Mary Pickford, had also been Bianca’s mentors and protectors since she was a teen, when she first ventured into the jungle that was Hollywood.

  Fairbanks favored him with his signature jaunty grin. “Good evening, Mr. Nash. What brings you out among the decadent hordes tonight?”

  Oliver repeated his Seattle lumber baron story while sizing up the star. Fairbanks was a trim, compact man, shorter than Oliver would have expected. In fact, he was about the same height as Bianca, who was a tall woman.

  When the introductions were done, a man beside the bar caught Fairbanks’s attention and he excused himself to wander off and discuss business. Oliver sidled up to Bianca to scold her while he had the chance.

  “How is it that Mary Pickford lets her husband squire you out for an evening of gambling and general debauchery?” He kept his voice low to thwart eavesdroppers.

  “It was Mary’s idea. She thinks he can keep me out of trouble. Besides, Doug still thinks of me as a little girl. As far as he’s concerned, he’s babysitting tonight. By the way, he knows who you are. I told him everything.”

  Oliver felt marginally better when he heard that, but he wasn’t going to let her know it. “And I told you not to get involved with these rumrunner mugs. I can take care of this investigation perfectly well without your help, and I don’t need to be worrying
about you while I’m dealing with a gaggle of criminals.”

  Her nostrils flared. She did not take well to being reproached, as well he knew. He couldn’t help himself.

  “I have no intention of ‘getting involved’ with Cornero or his cronies.” Her icy tone chilled him. “I’m paying you good money to do that for me. I’m on another errand altogether. I’m looking for a girl, someone who knew Rudy and may be able to fill in some blanks about the last few months of his life. I heard her father will be on the Monaco tonight. Doug knows him and has agreed to introduce me. So, mind your own business, Mr. Nash, and I’ll mind mine.”

  Before Oliver was able to continue his argument, Juan appeared. “The motorboats are coming, boss. Let’s go.”

  Oliver offered Bianca his arm. “May I escort you, Miss LaBelle?”

  She was still miffed. “No, thank you, Mr. Nash. I have my own escort tonight.”

  Bianca walked away from Oliver without a backward glance, her spangled dress flashing in the torchlight. He spat out a couple of words he had not used since he was in the army, then followed Juan to the floating pier to board the water taxi.

  ~ The Monaco ~

  ~ Glitz, Glitter, and Sin on the High Seas ~

  The taxi comfortably seated forty people in its covered cabin, and another ten or fifteen could be accommodated on deck. It was a star-filled, cool, calm night, so the fifteen-minute trip across the three miles of frighteningly black ocean expanse was smooth. The two-hundred-eighty-foot converted cargo ship Monaco loomed up out of the darkness, looking for all the world like a sea monster that had arisen from the ocean depths. As they grew closer, Oliver was comforted to see that the main deck was lined with lifeboats. Oliver counted three decks above the waterline, and thought the ship bore a slight resemblance to Noah’s ark. The ferry cut its engine and maneuvered up to the gangway steps to discharge its passengers.