Nineteen

It took me more than an hour via train and streetcar to return to the Selig studios that morning. A black horse-drawn hearse stood just outside the gates. I knew what that meant. It pulled away, bearing the body, as I approached the uniformed officer to let me through. There was a crowd of reporters being held at bay. They shouted questions about whether wild animals were on the rampage inside and whether well-known film stars like Kathlyn Williams or Babe Greer or Alonzo Swift were hurt.

After one look to verify that Alden was not among them, I slipped past the guard. I wondered vaguely whether the story of the crimes at the Selig studios could be used to get my brother back into the newspaper business, given that he’d have the ultimate inside scoop, then was shocked by my own imaginings. A man had died, yet I was already thinking of how that might help Alden get his job back. I was becoming as cynical as the yellow press and the film industry.

Inside, most film people were restricted to the main building and I could see many of them pressed against the glass of the third floor trying to see what was going on in the backlot. In the corner, by the jungle set, were the cages where we’d seen Olga and her leopards the day before. The velvet of the chaise lounge was ripped and the blood had turned rust brown, staining the cloth and the ground. As far as I could see, the leopards were missing. As I approached, I heard Olga and Big Otto arguing with Whitbread that the lives of the big cats should be spared.

“It is not the fault of the leopards,” the broad-chested bald man protested, spreading his beefy arms.

“They were locked in,” Olga said. “That man had to unlock the cage. It was no affair of the cats. They mind their own business.”

“Yes,” Big Otto added. “What do you do if someone comes into your home? You defend yourself, no? The cats, they defend themselves, that is all.”

Whitbread held up his hands. “It’s not for me to decide what happens to the animals. I’m here to find out what happened to the man who was killed. Go talk to Fitzgibbons over there. Maybe he can help you.”

Big Otto and Olga took off, following his pointing finger to Fitz, who stood talking to Col. Selig. Whitbread noticed me. “All they’re worried about are their confounded leopards. A man is dead, torn apart by those animals, and all they’re worried about is saving the creatures.”

“What happened?” I asked. The scene of the carnage still smelled of blood and I noticed some tufts of hair on the floor of the cage that made me turn my back on it all and swallow hard. It wouldn’t do to start imagining what it had looked like with Leeder still in there.

“Last night—after he left the roadhouse, completely drunk, from what people say—Leeder returned here. Then, for some reason, he went into the leopard cage. Or he was put there. The animals attacked. The results were gruesome. He must have made noise, but no one heard anything, and it was not until Olga and Big Otto arrived this morning that he was found. She went in and got the leopards out and moved them somewhere else before they called us. Leeder was long gone, so they left him there. The coroner just left with his remains.”

“I saw the hearse outside.”

“Just as well it’s gone. There’d be no point in your seeing such a sight.”

I clutched one of the black iron bars and looked into the cage. It almost turned my stomach but I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again, determined to remain calm. “A second death in the studios. I don’t suppose this was a suicide.” I couldn’t help thinking of the superstition about how things come in threes. It wasn’t helpful, but I instinctively wondered who would be next.

“There are many ways to take one’s own life. You were talking to Leeder last night. What was his mood?” Whitbread asked.

“I don’t know. He was mostly busy irritating people.”

“Your brother had words with him?”

“Yes, they insulted each other, but Kathlyn Williams came between them and insisted they stop. Apparently, it was not unusual for them to be at odds. But they regularly worked together despite that,” I said.

Whitbread examined the padlock for the cages. “The key was used…to unlock and then relock it. It seems he was most likely lured or forced into the cage, then locked in. According to Miss Celeste and Mr. Breitkreutz, such an intrusion would be seen by the leopards as an attack, so they reacted in self-defense. Those people moved the leopards before we arrived, they’re that afraid we might shoot them on sight. It seems anyone who knows Olga would know where the key is kept. There’s a shack over there where they hang it. The key’s still there.”

“Would you have shot them on sight?”

He patted the pistol strapped at his waist. “Of course, if they were loose. If they’re caged, then not immediately. As to whether they’ll be gotten rid of for their actions, that’s not my decision. Not sure if a judge or a bureaucrat will decide, but it won’t be me.”

“What a horrible thing to do to someone,” I said. “Do you really think someone deliberately locked him in with those leopards and left him to die? Wasn’t anyone else around?”

“They say not. Emily, this is a very peculiar group of people. It is hard to believe anything they say. They seem to be able to believe any nonsense that suits them. Col. Selig has already tried to suggest that Mr. Leeder locked himself in as some kind of joke, or the kind of demonstration that Houdini might do, and that his inability to get out alive was merely the failure of some trick. I find that impossible to believe, but he insists. This place is nothing short of a madhouse.”

I turned away from the cage and looked back at the studio building. Col. Selig was standing on the steps listening to Olga and Big Otto. I saw a group including Alden, Kathlyn Williams, Babe Greer, and Alonzo Swift huddled near the door. O’Neill and some other cameramen sat on a low wall with their cameras on the ground in front of them, tripods resting against the wall or a shoulder. Two men with megaphones by their sides stood in front of them. Other film people lined the windows of the building behind. Had one of them really lured Mr. Leeder into that cage and locked him in? If someone had done that, would they stand around waiting to be arrested? I wouldn’t. I would get as far away as possible.

Whitbread marched over to the bystanders. “We’ll want to speak to each of you. We need to know when you last saw Mr. Leeder and an account of where you were last night. Col. Selig, may we use your office?”

I went upstairs with them and found paper and pencil with the help of Col. Selig. There was a uniformed officer taking notes as well, but I wrote faster. Many times in the past, I’d provided Detective Whitbread with legible notes that captured what he wanted. We’d worked together for many years and we thought in a similar manner. Also, he had certain little signs—the lift of a finger, the raising of an eyebrow, even an expressive silence—that I translated into underlines or overstrikes to remind us of the moment. It was one of the reasons I’d long ago persuaded him to allow me to sit in on interviews if he chose to include me in a case. Other reasons included my sex, which often allowed me to go to restricted areas and overhear female gossip for him. And then there was the issue of class. He was well aware that some of the members of society would talk to an educated young woman from a good family when they would spurn a mere policeman. Rather than resent such attitudes, Whitbread would spare no scruple to get around them.

Olga was the first to be interviewed. She repeated that she’d arrived with Big Otto and found the dead man. She refused to divulge the current location of the leopards. I later learned that she had rooms in a neighborhood near the studios and I wondered if Whitbread would raid the place in search of the leopards. I suspected he wouldn’t risk his men in such an endeavor, unless he was forced to it. He grunted when she left and commented that the press would undoubtedly report the death in all its gory details, and that the public might demand leopard skins.

From Big Otto, we learned that he came from Munich but had lived in this country for more than twenty years. His original arrangement with Selig had been in the form of a loan but, when he was unable to repay it, Selig took over the circus and allowed Otto to stay on as trainer, with room and board as well as a salary. Otto was looking forward to moving the animals to California. Whitbread frowned at that. He would not allow such a move until the studio deaths had been explained. Big Otto also roomed in the area.

The night before, he brought Olga home from the roadhouse late and then met her for breakfast in the morning. He denied knowledge of the whereabouts of the leopards and had no useful suggestions for how Leeder had come to be in the cage. He didn’t recall when Leeder left the roadhouse and he, himself, would never have entered the cage with more than one animal prowling about. He explained that it was possible to lure a single animal to an end of the cage where a panel could be lowered to cut it off from the others before the keeper dealt with the single animal. Not an attractive sounding job, at least to me.

Next, Col. Selig expressed his utter desolation at the loss of Mr. Leeder, especially in such a manner. “I assure you, Detective, we try our utmost to protect all of our staff. Why, this is my family. It hurts me when one of them is hurt. I saw Arnold last night at the roadhouse. He was drinking heavily. You know he was due to film a scene with Kathlyn Williams and the leopards today, don’t you? That’s why Kathlyn was working with Olga yesterday.” He was looking at me when he said that, aware that I’d talked to the women. I thought of the bloody scratch Kathlyn Williams had received, and Olga’s comment that leopards liked to “mark their toys.”

“Are you trying to suggest that Mr. Leeder was inebriated and let himself into the leopard cage?” Whitbread asked.

“Well, I don’t know, but it’s possible. He got awfully involved with the scenes he shot. You know, there’s some small competition going on for shooting the jungle scenes. You see, our pictures with the real animals are becoming quite famous. No one else has anything like it. And I’ve told my people I’m going to take the animals and a group of them out to Los Angeles to specialize in adventure stories with real animals. So, our Hunting Big Game in Africa and The Leopard Queen films are just the beginning. I’m a bit concerned that Mr. Leeder might have become overly enthusiastic about that proposal. He wouldn’t be my first choice as producer for those films. As a matter of fact, Mr. Boggs, who’s already out in Los Angeles, will most likely take charge, but Mr. Leeder wanted to be in the running. That’s why he really wanted to direct the two films here, before we move out West. I just hope that didn’t lead him to take foolish risks while under the influence of alcohol.” Poor Col. Selig looked quite sick at the thought.

“That’s a possibility,” Whitbread said. “We’ll keep it in mind. Thank you for the information. By the way, do you know where the leopards are now?”

“I have no idea. I’d have to ask Miss Celeste.”

“Right. We’ve done that. Thanks. You can go.”

“Before I go, Detective, when do you think we can resume shooting?”

Whitbread rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“Oh, thank you.” Selig looked relieved. “It’s just that we’ve got to get started on the Oz film and it’s slated for tomorrow.”

When he was gone, Whitbread grumbled. “Oz. A man is mauled to death on his premises and he’s worried about Oz.”