of Artie Lewis’ dance band, maybe? Let the cops and the papers wonder. Well, it won’t wash with me; I was with her for her last month. She had no new serious love in her life, from San Francisco or elsewhere. Your ‘swarthy man’ is the little Latin lover who wasn’t there.”
“Miranda
“No. Miranda didn’t see anything. She told the story you wanted her to tell; she went along with you, and you treated her right in the divorce settlement. You can afford to. You’re sole owner of Thelma Todd’s Sidewalk Cafe, now. Lock, stock and barrel, with no messy interference from the star on the marquee. And now you’re free to accept Lucky Luciano’s offer, aren’t you?”
That rocked him, like a physical blow. “What?”
“That’s why you killed Thelma. She was standing in your way. You wanted to put a casino in upstairs; it would mean big money, ver big money.”
“I have money.”
“Yes, and you spend it. You live very lavishly. I’ve been checking up on you. I know you intimately already, and I’m going to know you even better.”
His eyes quivered in the diamond mask of his face. “What are you talking about?”
“You tried to scare her at first-extortion notes, having her followed; maybe you did this with Luciano’s help, maybe you did it on your own. I don’t know. But then she hired me, and you scurried off into the darkness to think up something new.”
He sneered and gestured archly with his cigarette holder, the cigarette in which he was about to light up. “I’m breathlessly awaiting just what evil thing it was I conjured up next.”
“You decided to commit the perfect crime. Just like in the movies. You would kill Thelma one cold night, knocking her out, shoving booze down her, leaving her to die in that garage with the car running. Then you would set out to make it seem that she was still alive-during a day when you were very handsomely, unquestionably alibied.”
“You’re not making any sense. The verdict at the inquest was accidental death…”
“Yes. But the time of death is assumed to have been the night
“Did I really,” he said dryly. It wasn’t a question.
“Your scenario needed one more rewrite. First you told the cops you slept at the apartment over the cafe Saturday night, bolting the door around midnight, accidentally locking Thelma out. But later you admitted seeing Thelma the next morning, around breakfast time-at the
His smile quivered. “Perhaps I slept at the apartment, and went up for breakfast at the bungalow.”
“I don’t think so. I think you killed her.”
“No charges have been brought against me. And none will.”
I looked at him hard, like a hanging judge passing sentence. “I’m bringing a charge against you now. I’m charging you with murder in the first degree.”
His smile was crinkly; he stared into the redness of his drink. Smoke from his cigarette-in-holder curled upward like a wreath. “Ha. A citizen’s arrest, is it?”
“No. Heller’s law. I’m going to kill you myself.”
He looked at me sharply. “What? Are you mad…”
“Yes, I’m mad. In sense of being angry, that is. Sometime, within the next year, or two, I’m going to kill you. Just how, I’m not just sure. Might be me who does it, might be one of my Chicago pals. Just when, well…perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps a month from tomorrow. Maybe next Christmas. I haven’t decided yet.”
“You can’t be serious…”
“I’m deadly serious. Right now I’m heading home to Chicago, to mull it over. But don’t worry-I’ll be seeing you.”
And I left him there at the bar, the glass of bloody Mary mixing itself in his hand.
Here’s what I did to Warren Eastman: I hired Fred Rubinski to spend two weeks shadowing him. Letting him see he was being tailed by an ugly intimidating-looking bastard, which Fred was. Letting him extrapolate from this that I was, through my surrogate, watching his every move. Making him jump at that shadow, and all the other shadows, too.
Then I pulled Fred off Eastman’s case. Home in Chicago, I slept with my gun under my pillow for a while, in case the director got ambitious. But I didn’t bother him any further.
The word in Hollywood was that Eastman was somehow-no one knew exactly how, but somehow-dirty in the Todd murder. And nobody in town thought it was anything but a murder. Eastman never got another picture. He went from one of the hottest directors in town, to the coldest. As cold as the weekend Thelma Todd died.
The Sidewalk Cafe stopped drawing a monied, celebrity crowd, but it did all right from regular-folks curiosity seekers. Eastman made some dough there, all right; but the casino never happened. A combination of the wrong kind of publicity, and the drifting away of the high-class clientele, must have changed Lucky Luciano’s mind.
Within a year of Thelma Todd’s death, Eastman was committed to a rest home, which is a polite way of saying insane asylum or madhouse. He was in and out of such places for the next four years, and then, one very cold, windy night, he died of a heart attack.
Did I keep my promise? Did I kill him?
I like to think I did, indirectly. I like to think that Thelma Todd got her money’s worth from her chauffeur/bodyguard, who had not been there when she took that last long drive, on the night her sad blue eyes closed forever.
I like to think, in my imperfect way, that I committed the perfect crime.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I have taken liberties in this story based on the probable murder of actress Thelma Todd, changing some names and fictionalizing extensively. A number of books dealing with the death of Thelma Todd were consulted, but I wish in particular to cite Marvin J. Wolf and Katherine Mader, authors of
HOUSE CALL
Nineteen-thirty-six began for me with a missing persons case. It didn’t stay a missing persons case long, but on that bitterly cold Chicago morning of January 3rd, all Mrs. Peacock knew was that her doctor husband had failed to come home after making a house call the night before.
It was Saturday, just a little past ten, and I was filling out an insurance adjustment form when she knocked. I said come in, and she did, an attractive woman of about ive in an expensive fur coat. She didn’t look high-hat, though: she’d gone out today without any make-up on, which, added to her generally haggard look, told me she was at wit’s end.
“Mr. Heller? Nathan Heller?”
I said I was, standing, gesturing to a chair across from my desk. My office at the time was a large single room on the fourth floor of a less than fashionable building on the corner of Van Buren and Plymouth, in the shadow of the El. She seemed a little posh to be coming to my little one-man agency for help.
“Your name was given to me by Tom Courtney,” she said. “He’s a friend of the family.”
State’s Attorney Thomas J. Courtney and I had crossed paths several times, without any particular mishap; this explained why she’d chosen the A-1 Detective Agency, but not why she needed a detective in the first place.
“My husband is missing,” she said.
“I assume you’ve filed a missing person’s report.”
“Yes I have. But I’ve been told until twenty-four hours elapse, my husband will not be considered missing.
