A Death in Hollywood
The lights shone brightly and the jazz music played loudly throughout Pickfair, the famed Beverly Hills mansion, and although Prohibition was the law of the land at the time, champagne and other alcoholic beverages flowed freely. The owners of the grand house, actors Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, Hollywood's royal couple, were seated at a table with fellow luminaries Charlie Chaplin, John Barrymore and Brooks Chesterton.
Having exhausted the subjects of Fatty Arbuckle's decline after the Virginia Rappe murder scandal and Pola Negri's affair with Rudolph Valentino, the conversation began to lag. To break the silence, Barrymore asked his dinner companions their opinion of Barbara LaMarr's latest film.
"I thought she was simply marvelous," Pickford replied.
"I could have told you that. I knew she had talent when we acted together in The Nut," Fairbanks declared.
"And what a beautiful face!" Chaplin added. "Truly stunning."
"What about you, Brooks?" Barrymore pressed. "What's your appraisal of the fair Miss LaMarr's most recent performance?"
"Come now, John," the respected Hollywood director said. "You know I don't have a high opinion of actresses—present company excluded," he quickly added, lifting his champagne glass in Mary Pickford's direction.
"Why not?" Fairbanks, her husband, inquired. "We need actresses. Would you have us go back to Shakespearean custom and have men play both male and female roles?"
"I certainly hope not!" Pickford exclaimed. "I can't see you wearing an evening gown and pumps, darling!"
"What's wrong with actresses?" Chaplin asked, not letting the director off the hook.
"In most cases, they're little more than window dressing, pretty faces for the audience to admire."
"Isn't that just a tad unfair, old boy?" Barrymore goaded him.
"An actor brings character to a movie, whereas all too often moviegoers take more notice of an actress's figure or her costumes than they do of her performance."
"If that's the case, maybe I should do my next movie in the nude," Pickford joked, determined not to let her guest's crass, sexist comments annoy her. "That way the critics will be sure to take notice of my acting ability."
"Personally, I think women are just as talented on the screen as men," her husband contended. "With or without their clothing."
"The problem with Hollywood, as I see it, is that it's much more difficult for a man to get into motion pictures," Chesterton explained. "When was the last time an actor auditioned on the casting couch? With few exceptions, men get roles based on talent, not on sexual prowess. Hence, the cream of the profession comes to the top. A woman—even if she doesn't sleep with someone to get a part—usually receives a helping hand from a patron who gives her career a boost. It's often been said that behind every great man there is a woman. Well, I say that behind every great actress there is a man who's helping her career. Want an example? Would Marion Davis be the star she is without Hearst's backing? DeMille made Gloria Swanson a star. Clara Bow had Ben Schulberg. Theda Bara had William Fox. D.W. Griffith discovered Lillian Gish, Mabel Normand, Norma Talmadge and even you, Mary."
"And what about you?" Pickford countered. "As I recall you've had your share of pretty, young protégés."
"Precisely. I've been a Professor Henry Higgins to several Eliza Doolittles over the course of my career, all of whom are now Hollywood stars."
"In the true spirit of Pygmalion, are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?" Barrymore asked.
"A bet?" Pickford cried playfully. "What a divine idea!"
"Yes, a friendly wager," Barrymore proposed. "Let's see if you can take a woman without any acting experience and make her a star. How does a thousand dollars sound to you, Brooks?"
"If you want to give your money away, John, why not?" Chesterton confidently replied, losing none of his smug arrogance. "Provided, of course, that you let someone impartial choose the girl. I don't want you to select a gorgon and expect me to turn her into a goddess. "
"We'll let our lovely Mary choose the girl," Barrymore suggested, winking at his hostess.
"It's a bet, Pickering. In one year's time from the day Mary introduces me to my next Eliza, we'll meet back here at Pickfair. Oh, and you won't be able to miss me. I'll be the one with Hollywood's newest star on my arm."
* * *
Three weeks later, as Brooks Chesterton was wrapping up a romantic comedy for Louis B. Mayer, Mary Pickford stopped by his office with her choice of Eliza Doolittle.
"Is this some kind of a joke?" the director asked sarcastically when he first saw the androgynous young woman.
"No. Brooks, I'd like you to meet your next protégé, Colleen McCall."
"I thought you were going to bring me a woman, not Lon Chaney."
"Don't be so rude! Colleen is a lovely girl, and I'm sure you won't have any difficulty making her a moving picture star."
"Lovely? How can you tell if she has a body under those hideous clothes? She's wearing trousers, for Chrissake. What woman wears trousers? And that hat!"
All Brooks saw was a flash of silver, and the next moment, Colleen had a switchblade knife to his jugular vein.
"Keep talking trash to me, and I'll slit your throat from ear to ear."
"There's one little thing I forgot to tell you: Colleen is on parole for attempted murder. So you might want to watch what you say in front of her."
Perspiration beaded on Chesterton's forehead, and he trembled with fear.
"Please don't kill me," he begged in a quivering voice. "I apologize for what I said."
The young woman released the director, and then she and Pickford burst out laughing.
"Oh, Brooks! You should have seen the look on your face!" the curly haired actress known as America's Sweetheart said, her famous curls bouncing as she laughed.
"So who is this young lady?"
"She's a cocktail waitress that Doug and I met at the Cocoanut Grove."
Colleen removed the ill-fitting men's trousers and jacket, revealing a shapely figure in a woman's bathing costume, and when she took off the fedora hat, a short red bob emerged. Brooks saw definite possibilities.
"Well? Will she do?" Mary asked as the director stared critically at the waitress. "Shall I tell John the bet is on?"
"Yes, and while you're at it, you can begin making plans for that party because in exactly one year, this duckling will be a swan."
* * *
The following day Colleen McCall moved into one of the guest rooms at Brooks Chesterton's Beverly Hills mansion. With the Louis B. Mayer picture completed, the director was free to turn his attention to molding the twenty-two-year-old cocktail waitress into a leading lady.
"Let me have a good look at you," the director said and made the girl stand beneath a Kleig light. "Your cheekbones aren't too bad, neither are your eyes. I'll get Max Factor to do your makeup. And your hair; it's too short. I want you to grow it out. Nothing as long as Mary's, though. Shoulder length will do just fine. And I'll have Coco Chanel and Jeanne Lanvin design some clothes for you. If you're going to be window dressing, you might as well be worthy of Tiffany's window."
"Isn't this going to cost a lot of money?"
"Yes, but it's a wise investment. I'll get every cent back and then some. Not only will I win the bet with John Barrymore, but I have no doubt you'll be one of Hollywood's biggest box office draws. I need put you in only one or two pictures, and I'll have made a fair profit."
"When do I start my acting lessons?" Colleen asked.
"We'll get around to that," Brooks replied. "Don't worry," he added when he saw the anxious look on the young woman's face. "There's nothing to performing in front of a camera. Besides, you ought to catch on quickly; you were pretty convincing as a paroled convict."
In the months that followed, Chesterton shaped his protégé with the dexterity of a skilled sculptor molding clay. Max Factor and his assistants transformed her look. Her eyebrows were plucked and then drawn in with a pencil. Facial masks and mud treatments were applied to her skin, and depilatories were used on her upper lip to remove all facial hair. One of L.A.'s finest dentists capped her teeth, and a top Hollywood hair stylist gave her shoulder-length red hair a permanent wave.
Once Colleen's appearance suited the director, she was taught how to walk, how to sit, how to descend a flight of stairs, how to hold a cigarette and how to drink a martini. Then she was taught how to simulate emotions with her facial muscles: love, grief, anger, jealousy and fear.
Finally, one year from the day Mary Pickford brought the Cocoanut Grove cocktail waitress to see him, Brooks, donned in his best tuxedo, waited in the foyer of his mansion for his date to appear. When Colleen came out of the guest room and descended the main staircase, even he was impressed by the change in her.
"Do you know what I find most fascinating about you?" he asked.
"No. What?"
"Your look is unique. Hollywood is full of hopefuls trying to copy Mary Pickford's and Lillian Gish's pipe curls or Theda Bara's and Pola Negri's dark sultriness. But you're different from them all. Poor Barrymore doesn't stand a chance of winning the bet."
Colleen beamed with a sense of accomplishment and pride, and basked in the attention of the famous director.
* * *
After winning the bet with Barrymore, Brooks thrived on the praise he received from fellow directors, actors, agents, studio heads and the press. It seemed to be the consensus that the director certainly knew talent when he saw it, and Colleen was proof positive. Her first role made her a star, and her second made her a household name. When her photograph appeared on the cover of Motion Picture magazine, women across the country dyed their hair red and copied her permanent wave.
Unlike many actresses of the day, she was not typecast into a specific role. She was not a vamp, a femme fatale, a madcap comic or a flapper. With her versatility, she was equally good in historic epics, romantic melodramas and slapstick comedies. In the two years after she was paraded before the guests at Pickfair, she starred in eight films, all of which were directed by Brooks Chesterton, who predictably became not just her mentor but also her lover.
Having created such a beautiful, desirable, accomplished woman, Brooks fell in love with his creation. Regrettably, the artist in him was not content with having produced a masterpiece. Although he and Colleen remained good friends, Brooks soon moved on to his next challenge: an adorable, seventeen-year-old blonde he believed would be the next Mary Pickford.
"April Knight has the face of an angel," he told Colleen as they sat in his living room drinking gin and tonics and discussing his upcoming project: a film adaptation of Charles Dickens' classic A Tale of Two Cities. "I think she's perfect for the role of Lucie Manette."
"I thought that was my role," Colleen said with an exaggerated pout.
"No, my dear," Brooks replied. "I think you're a bit old for Lucy."
"Don't tell me I'm to play the dreadful Madame Defarge! Or should I dig out my trousers and play Sydney Carton?"
The director laughed.
"Actually, I advise you to take that role Chaplin offered you. By the time you're done filming, I should have A Tale of Two Cities wrapped up. Then we'll decide where we will go from there."
"Sounds like a good idea," Colleen agreed. "I've always wanted to work with Charlie."
The actress suddenly looked at her watch, downed the last of her gin and tonic and grabbed her fur coat even though it was more than seventy degrees outside.
"Leaving so soon? You just got here. Why don't you stay and have another drink with me?"
"Sorry, darling. I've really got to go. I'm meeting an absolutely gorgeous man for dinner."
* * *
The following morning was an unusually cold one for Southern California. Mrs. Erma Clemens, Brooks Chesterton's long-time housekeeper, held her collar up around her neck in an attempt to fight off the chilly February wind. She took out her key and let herself into the kitchen. When she heard music coming from the living room, Erma was surprised that her employer was up so early.
"Mr. Chesterton?" she called and walked into the living room.
At first the housekeeper assumed Brooks was passed out drunk on the floor. The she saw the red blood stain on the Oriental rug and changed her mind. When she realized the director had been brutally murdered, she ran outside the house, screaming for help.
* * *
Detective Hollis VanHorn slammed his car door and walked up the driveway, wondering why there were so many people going in and out of the house, contaminating the crime scene.
"Who are you?" he asked a man in an expensive suit who was standing in the doorway.
"I'm a close friend of Brooks Chesterton."
Hollis raised his eyebrows.
"A friend, you say? You look like a studio lawyer to me. How did you find out about the murder so quickly?"
"One of Mr. Chesterton's neighbors phoned the studio."
"I'd like to question this neighbor. I don't suppose you got the name."
"Sorry, no."
Hollis was not surprised. The major motion picture studios had people on their payrolls to circumvent potential scandals. Sex, drugs, alcohol, suicide, extramarital affairs and mental illness were common in the movie capital and were routinely hushed up in the press. Murder, however, was another matter. The man in the expensive suit was no doubt sent for damage control.
The detective stepped inside the mansion, took his pen and notebook out of his jacket pocket and called, "Who found the body?"
It was time to get to work.
At the end of the day, the divorced detective stopped at a local diner for something to eat. As he waited for his meatloaf special and Coca-Cola, he went over his notes to try to piece the information together. At the top of a clean sheet of notebook paper he wrote the word TIMELINE and underlined it. Directly beneath that he wrote EARLY EVENING B.C.—referring to the victim by his initials—HAD DRINKS WITH COLLEEN MCCALL.
According to the actress, she left at roughly seven for a dinner date. Brooks had walked her to her car and then went back into his house as she drove away. Her chauffeur confirmed the time. Hollis wrote down 7:00 P.M. MCCALL LEAVES. B.C. IS ALONE IN HOUSE.
Two neighbors both reported hearing what they believed was an automobile backfiring sometime between 8:00 and 8:30. One neighbor went to the window and saw someone walking away from the house shortly thereafter.
When asked to describe the person, she said, "I can't give you much of a description because it was dark, and the man had a hat pulled down over his face."
"But you could see his build, couldn't you? Was he tall? short? heavy? thin?"
The woman gave the question some thought before answering.
"He was on the short side, I think. You must realize that I was looking down at him from a second story window. But I think he was rather short and thin. My impression was that he was a ...." The woman hesitated, and she blushed with embarrassment as she continued, "well, what my father in England used to refer to as a poof."
"A poof?"
Hollis was unfamiliar with the term.
"Yes. He walked more like a woman than a man."
Hollis was not at all surprised by this fact since Hollywood had a large homosexual population.
As the waitress brought out VanHorn's meatloaf, he wrote down B.C. SHOT BETWEEN 8:00 AND 8:30 P.M. EFFEMINATE MAN SEEN WALKING DOWN STREET IN VICINITY OF MANSION.
Hollis took several bites of his meatloaf, washed them down with Coke and wrote 7:00 A.M. NEXT MORNING HOUSEKEEPER DISCOVERS BODY on his timeline. 8:15 A.M. POLICE CALLED. STUDIO LAWYER NOTIFIED BY NEIGHBOR SOMETIME EARLIER.
The detective took several more bites of his dinner and sips from his soda, and then he flipped a page in his notebook and wrote SUSPECTS on top and underlined the word. At that point, he drew a blank.
* * *
In the course of his investigation, Detective VanHorn interviewed a cross-section of Hollywood society. On one end were the movie people: the actors, stuntmen, directors, and studio bosses. On the other were the darker elements attracted to the wealth generated by the motion picture industry: mobsters, bootleggers, prostitutes, drug dealers and bookies. The picture of Brooks Chesterton that emerged revealed a man of few vices. There was no hint of substance abuse or gambling. He drank occasionally but not to excess, and he was discreet in his sexual affairs. His only passion was for his work.
"The victim was a man without any apparent enemies," the police captain concluded after reading his underling's report.
"The man had two bullets in his back. Somebody out there didn't like him," VanHorn pointed out.
The captain referred to the report again. "What about April Knight? Do you think she had something to do with Chesterton's death?"
"It's possible, but not likely. Unless I'm mistaken, she's just a sweet, innocent kid. My bet is on her mother. She was a former Broadway actress—nothing major, just a few minor supporting roles. She came out to Hollywood to break into the movies but had no luck. When her looks went, she decided to make her daughter a star instead."
"Ah, one of those," the captain said, knowing full well that many a Hollywood starlet had her mother's handprints all over her back. "What about this studio lawyer who was at the house on the morning after the murder?"
"He was there to protect the studio's interest, no doubt. I noticed there were glowing embers in the fireplace and bits of charred paper. My guess is he disposed of a letter or letters of some kind."
"Blackmail? Love letters?"
"Could be either. We'll never know. But our victim had a history of falling in love with his protégés. April Knight is only seventeen, and Brooks Chesterton was thirty years her senior."
"There could be a motive somewhere there," the captain suggested. "Make sure you double check the mother's alibi again."
"That would explain the burned letters. It could be the mother, the studio or April herself wanted to cover up the affair. We could be wrong about the daughter, though. The mother was Chesterton's age, and she probably still had aspirations for her own career. What if she wanted the director herself? What if Chesterton spurned her? What if she was jealous of her own daughter? What if ...?"
In the end, after an exhaustive investigation into the director's death, that was all Hollis VanHorn had: a long string of what if's.
Eventually, the murder of Brooks Chesterton took backstage to more crucial matters, mainly the advent of talking pictures. Although most studio heads believed "talkies" would never replace silent films, the new technology would take hold, and many of the established stars of the silent era would see their careers destroyed.
* * *
The lights shone brightly and the jazz music played loudly throughout Pickfair, the famed Beverly Hills mansion, and although Prohibition would remain the law of the land for several more years, champagne and other alcoholic beverages flowed freely. The owners of the grand house, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, Hollywood's reigning royal couple, were seated at a table with fellow luminaries Charlie Chaplin, John Barrymore and Colleen McCall.
The conversation shifted from the success of Al Jolson's The Jazz Singer to fond memories of lost friends. Rudolph Valentino, the Great Latin Lover, had died of peritonitis. Barbara LaMarr, whom the press dubbed "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World," had died from tuberculosis and nephritis after battling a heroin addiction. Matinee idol Wallace Reid, his health deteriorating due to a morphine addiction he acquired after a train accident, had contracted the flu and died.
"And then there was poor Brooks Chesterton," Barrymore reminisced.
"What a great loss to our industry," Fairbanks declared. "Pity the police never found out who murdered him."
His wife, Mary Pickford, couldn't help glancing at the young woman sitting across the table from her. It seemed like only yesterday that she had taken Colleen to Chesterton's office. It was hard to believe that in just a few short years, Brooks was gone and Colleen was an acclaimed star.
Funny how things worked out, the actress thought.
It was true that Colleen had been a cocktail waitress at the Cocoanut Grove, but it was also true that she once went to prison for the attempted murder of her boyfriend who had the audacity to leave her for another woman. Pickford knew of Colleen's past and selected her for that very reason. After all, Brooks was insufferably arrogant the night he made the Pygmalion bet with John Barrymore, and Mary hoped to take him down a peg or two. But to give the devil his due, Brooks did succeed in making the proverbial silk purse out of a sow's ear.
Colleen noticed Pickford's brown eyes watching her. A look passed between the two women, but not a word was spoken. As the conversation shifted from dead friends to Walt Disney's animated short films, Pickford turned her attention to her husband.
"Walt has a new character, doesn't he? A mouse, I believe. His face looks a lot like Oswald, the Lucky Rabbit's."
Colleen McCall was not interested in rabbits, mice or Walt Disney. She was disturbed by the look she had seen in Mary Pickford's eyes.
Mary knows I did it. She knows I killed Brooks Chesterton. She probably guessed that I put on the men's trousers I wore when I first met him, and then went back to his house later that night and shot him.
But would America's Sweetheart convey her suspicions to the police? Colleen hoped not.
Maybe she understands why I did it. Maybe deep down inside she wonders if she would do the same if her husband, Doug, decided to throw her over for a seventeen-year-old girl.
The cocktail-waitress-turned-actress then firmly pushed the unpleasant thought of murder and retribution from her mind. It was Hollywood, after all, where reality bowed to fantasy. There were stories to be told and dreams to be captured on film.
This story is loosely based on the murder of silent film director William Desmond Taylor. Although many of the characters in the story are real people, the situations and conversations described here are purely fictional.
The image in the upper left corner is of silent film star Clara Bow. The photograph below (minus the cat) is from the 1922 movie Nosferatu.
Back in 1922, Salem co-starred in the silent film Nosferatu, playing Count Orlock's first victim.
