On Sunday morning, the cast and crew began packing for the return trip to Hollywood. Mr Wrigley’s steamship was again placed at our disposal, providing a luxurious ride to Los Angeles where studio trucks would meet us on the dock. Seeking solitude, I found an out-of-the-way spot on deck where I stood at the rail, the wind in my face, watching the island recede to insignificance and thinking about David. I didn’t notice Douglas Fairbanks’s approach until he leaned his elbows against the rail beside me.
‘I saw the newspaper,’ he began, without looking at me.
‘They get a lot wrong in the newspapers,’ I replied. ‘As we both know from experience.’
We stood there for a while watching the seabirds swoop about the ship. A few people strolled past us, but it was as if someone had hung a big ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on our backs. No one interrupted us. Finally Douglas broke the silence.
‘The paper said “violations of the Volstead Act”. Why would they arrest him for that? His drug stores sell medicinal liquor. That’s legal.’
His use of the plural jolted me. Drug stores? I had been aware of only one: Hess’s Drugs at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Wilcox. I’d been in that one, and I’d taken note of its real purpose. It did a booming business in medical alcohol. Legal hooch, as long as you had a doctor’s prescription. But it seemed there was more than one. Evidently David had neglected to mention his growing retail collection.
‘It’s probably a misunderstanding,’ I said. ‘He’s got a good lawyer. The best money can buy. He’s probably been sprung by now.’
‘Probably he forgot to sign some form on the dotted line.’
‘Probably.’
I could feel Douglas retreating from David. Slowly, carefully. Nothing dramatic or sudden. But I could sense his withdrawal, like someone edging away from a too-hot campfire. He and Mary Pickford couldn’t afford an investor or a friend who was a felon. If everything smoothed out the way I hoped, they would inch back and pretend they’d never had any doubts. But for the time being, they would keep their distance. The knowledge hurt. I understood, but it still hurt.
Douglas remained beside me for another few minutes, then without further comment, he pushed back from the railing and disappeared below. The Wrigley boat docked half an hour later. By the time we’d unloaded the equipment, loaded it onto the trucks, and unloaded again at the studio, it was dark. I arrived home fagged out and empty – in spirit and in stomach.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but the thought of food made me nauseous. I needed a drink more than anything – my throat was as dry as stale bread – but I didn’t have anything stronger than orange juice. I poured myself a glass and made my way through the kitchen.
‘Jessie! You’re home!’ Myrna Loy danced her way down the stairs, twirled a pirouette in the hall, and greeted me with a quick hug. An aspiring actress, she’d had good luck since she changed her last name from Williams to Loy, getting bit parts at last in several MGM and Warner Bros. films, parts that paid better than the occasional seven dollars a day she’d been earning as an extra. Then, just two months ago, had come her big break: Jack Warner offered her a contract at seventy-five dollars a week.
‘I heard the screen door bang,’ she said. ‘How was it? I’ll bet being on location is the most exciting thing in the world. How did you like Catalina? I’ve heard it’s very, very beautiful. What was the hotel like? I know it’s very elegant and famous. Did you get any dinner? There isn’t much food in the kitchen – Helen’s going to the market tomorrow – but I could scramble you some eggs. And … oh, I almost forgot. You got a telegram.’ She rummaged through the mail on the hall table. ‘Here. It came yesterday.’
‘Thanks, Myrna. I’m awfully tired, but—’
She grabbed my valise out of my hand. ‘I’ll carry your bag upstairs. You sit and read your telegram. And how about those eggs?’
In truth, eggs sounded like something I could swallow. ‘Yes, please, Myrna.’
The telegram was from David’s lawyer, asking to see me the moment I came home. I took him at his word, so even though the clock said 9:00, I went to the telephone and asked the operator for his home number, Madison-7372, that he’d sent in the telegram. Mike Allenby picked up on the first ring and said he’d come right away to my house on Fernwood.
I lived in an old farmhouse that had a city grow up around it. I rented the place with Myrna, Lillian, Melva, and Helen – all great girls but I liked Myrna best. It had just three bedrooms upstairs, so we turned the first-floor parlor and the dining room into bedrooms so we each could enjoy the privacy of our own room. Since the weather was nice year-round, the front porch and back patio served as outdoor parlors, and we made do in the kitchen on those rare rainy days.
I’d never met David’s lawyer, and within minutes of showing him into the kitchen, I knew I did not share David’s high opinion of the man. Some call it women’s intuition; others call it psychic powers. Whatever it was, I sensed an unscrupulous core to Mr Allenby’s character that he covered with what he considered irresistible charm. To be fair, he’d probably been a pretty baby and a handsome enough little boy, but the once-attractive, youthful features had coarsened as he matured. He was not the ladykiller he thought he was. I reminded myself that my estimation mattered for nothing as long as he was a crackerjack lawyer.
‘Mr Allenby, please have a seat and tell me what has happened.’
‘Call me Mike.’
For all that he’d rushed over, Mr Allenby seemed in no hurry to enlighten me. He took a cigarette out of his silver case, fixed it into his Bakelite holder, and inhaled dramatically. Only then did he lean forward on his elbows and, fixing me with what I’m sure he thought were bedroom eyes, say, ‘My client requested I see you at once and let you know the score.’ He filled his lungs again, leaned back, and crossed his legs in a preening manner before exhaling. This routine could not possibly impress any female over the age of ten.
I’d reached the end of my patience. ‘What are the charges, Mr Allenby?’
‘Murder, robbery, insurance fraud, and tax evasion.’
I nearly fell out of my chair. Bootlegging, I expected. Failure to fill out the proper forms, I expected, or some slap-on-the-wrist charges that could be dismissed with a fine or a bribe. But murder? My throat closed. I couldn’t make a sound.
Satisfied that he’d knocked the wind out of me, Allenby continued. ‘It’s all about the incident in Arizona last July, of course. He said you were on that train that was hijacked with his liquor … ah, medicine … on board.’
‘I … uh … yes. Yes, I was.’ The word murder had filled my head with visions of a gallows and a hooded hangman, and I struggled to pull my attention back to Allenby. ‘But … well, it was his liquor, wasn’t it? So there should be no question of theft, and as for the men who were killed in the gunfight, even the local sheriff agreed that it had been self-defense. They were about to shoot us.’
‘We’re counting on you to testify accordingly. And we’ve already talked to that sheriff in Arizona. What’s his name? Barnett?’
‘Barnes. I can tell you the names of others on that train who could support my story.’ I spelled the names of the sisters and the waiter who’d been with me in the dining car when it was hijacked. ‘When’s the trial?’
‘In a few weeks. No date set yet. Considering the gravity of the charges, there’s no question of bail. I tried, but the donations weren’t greasing the skids like they usually do.’ He shook his head. ‘I wish to hell I knew why everybody suddenly got religion.’
‘When are visiting hours?’
Mr Allenby shook his head. ‘These are federal charges. He’s been moved to the downtown jail.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Near the courthouse at Main and Temple. But save yourself the trip. You won’t get in.’
‘What if I say I’m—’
‘Doesn’t matter if you’re his wife, his sister, or his mother dying of cancer, hon. They aren’t letting anybody see him but me, and they’re making it damn hard for me.’
But he agreed to take David a letter – one that would probably be read by the guards, he cautioned – so I sat down and began to write.