“Marilyn’s first husband-Jim Dougherty. He’s a cop on the LAPD, y’know. We’re old friends. He said two things that both got to me. I think they’ve been keeping me awake more than anything else.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, first he said he was surprised. And then he said, ‘There’s no way Norma Jeane killed herself.’ No elaboration. Just those two things.”
Traffic sounds from Sunset Boulevard provided a dissonant reminder of the city surrounding.
“I appreciate you telling me this,” I said.
“It has to stay off the record,” he said.
“I know.”
“I could lose my job, this gets out. They’ve clamped down tight on this, Mr. Heller.”
“Then why talk to me?”
“Because that woman was murdered.”
We shook hands, and he headed home. Maybe he could catch a nap before he went on at midnight.
Maybe.
I didn’t have an appointment with the boss at the Arthur P. Jacobs agency on the Sunset Strip, not caring to risk one. Instead I waltzed into the posh, modern offices, and told the attractive brunette at the amoeba-shaped reception desk that I was Nathan Heller, had no appointment, and was here to see Mr. Jacobs.
She of course asked if she could tell him what it was about, and I told her Norma Jeane Baker.
I had barely got nestled in my curved space-age chair, preparing to read the front page of Daily Variety, when another attractive girl (this one blonde) appeared, and walked me up some winding, exposed stairs out of a science-fiction movie to Mr. Jacobs’ private office. She delivered me to his receptionist, a redhead (all bases covered), and buzzed me on through.
His office wasn’t ostentatiously large, no more than twice mine back in Chicago, but it had a modern, empty look that made it seem bigger. One wall was all windows onto the strip, though the view was obscured by black vertical blinds. The other walls were bone-colored, with sleekly framed black-and-white portraits of stars he represented, Marilyn prominent among them; several framed one-sheet posters (including Bus Stop and Let’s Make Love) hung opposite the window wall.
Jacobs sat in the recession of a kidney-shaped, black-topped, metal-legged desk arrayed with phones and stacks of paperwork and a scattering of pens, a black enamel ashtray, a black enamel box or two, and no family photos. Behind him was a big built-in black wall cabinet with doors below and shelves stacked with books, screenplays, and piles of magazines, a working library at odds with the sterile modernity of the rest of the office.
He looked small for so important a man, and in the publicity game, Arthur Jacobs was among Hollywood’s most powerful. This former MGM mail-room clerk now ruled an agency with New York, Hollywood, and London offices.
His suit was dark gray and tailored, his tie black, narrow, and silk, his hair dark, just starting to gray, and cut in Caesar bangs. His oval face had intelligence despite simian grooves, and he might have been handsome if the nose had been shorter and the ears smaller.
He gave me a practiced smile and stood behind the desk and held out his hand for me to shake, saying, “Nate Heller. You’re lucky-you caught me toward the end of my day.”
His handshake was just firm enough-it was practiced, too-and I said, “Arthur, I don’t need much of your time,” and sat down in one of the two leather director’s chairs opposite him.
We were on a first-name basis, it seemed, though we knew more of each other than actually knew each other. He’d been to Sherry’s with clients a couple times when I was on hand, and I’d seen him at this event and that one, exchanging a few friendly social words, mostly because of shared friends and acquaintances. Like Marilyn.
Anyway, I was here to run a bluff, so I got started.
“Listen, Arthur, I guess you know I was helping Marilyn with security at her home. She had me wiretap her place, but by the time I got there Sunday morning, the tapes were gone and so were the gimmicks in her two phones.”
“Really,” he said, his longish face trying to decide whether to stop smiling or not.
“And I’m glad of that, as far as it goes… but I wondered if you knew what had become of them? The tapes, I mean. Pat Newcomb said I’d just missed you at the house.”
“She did? Well, I don’t know anything about those tapes, Nate. Or the phone ‘gimmicks.’ Sorry.”
I shrugged, crossed a leg. “Well, I don’t know what’s on the tapes, so whether it’s a problem for anybody, who can say? I’m just trying to do right by Marilyn. And you know, I wouldn’t mind helping Bobby and Peter out. Wouldn’t want to see them get pulled into this.”
His mouth kept smiling but his forehead frowned. Then he shot a finger like a gun at me and said, “That’s right-you’re a friend of Bobby’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Go way back. We played Untouchables together in the fifties.” I raised my hands in surrender mode. “I’m not working for him, understand. Quite the contrary-when I offered to help out, he just said I should stay out of it as much as possible.”
“Not bad advice.”
“I do feel I have a responsibility to Marilyn in this. As I’m sure you do.”
Jacobs opened a black enamel box on the desk. It contained cigars, and they smelled fine-Havanas, I would wager. He slid it over by way of offering me one and I didn’t decline. Then I slid the box back, and he selected a plump specimen and lighted it up. I got mine going. It took a while. It does, with Havanas.
I drew in the thick, rich smoke and tried not to choke. Then said, “If I’m not overstepping, I’m assuming you’re walking point on this-I’m sort of on the fringes, but I’d like to know the party line.”
He nodded, let out some smoke he’d been holding in. “We were all upset when this suicide story got out.”
“Yeah. Hell, I heard it called that on the radio on my way to Fifth Helena!”
The publicist frowned, shook his head in irritation. “Stupid. Very stupid. How can we market Marilyn, if she’s a tragic suicide? Now-an accidental death. That’s a tragedy we can work with.”
“Right. Are you planning a press conference?”
“Hell no! No press releases. Everything oral. We’re working hand in hand with Fox on this thing. Very delicate. Very controlled.”
I sat forward, rested the cigar in the ashtray. Thing tasted great but was so strong I thought I might pass out.
“Arthur, I’ve managed to duck the cops so far. I had a lucky break of sorts when that Captain Hamilton showed up. He and I have a love/hate relationship-he loves to hate me. So instead of questioning me, he threw my ass out.”
Jacobs chuckled. “Well, the good captain has his uses.”
“So what is the story line? What do we say… I mean, what do we think… happened to Marilyn?”
He gestured with an open palm. “Simple. Marilyn took a normal dose of sleeping pills and dozed off. Then she woke up a half hour later and took another dose. Then a half hour later, she did the same, and so on, until it all added up. To tragedy.”
“Okay.” I showed him an open palm. “You know, I hear the autopsy tells a different story. She’d have needed to take a wheelbarrow full of pills.”
Jacobs smiled patiently, putting his cigar next to mine in the tray; we were sharing. “Nate, that doesn’t matter. I don’t know what happened to Marilyn. What does it matter what happened to Marilyn, really? What counts now is her legacy. Suicide is sad and weak. An overdose is accidental and tragic. Like James Dean in that smash- up. Look how big Dean still is. They re-release his three pictures every few years.”
“Ah. So what’s the full story, then? The official story?”
He leaned back in his swivel chair; tented his fingers, looked at the ceiling, which was high above us. “Three thirty, Eunice Murray notices that Marilyn’s bedroom light is still on, and knocks. Marilyn doesn’t answer. Murray
