It was the fourth day’s news that changed everything. The headline was two inches high, all capital letters: “STAR-LET’S NIGHTGOWN FOUND IN SLAIN DIRECTOR’S CLOSET!!!” And then, beneath it, in regular headline type: “Long-Rumored Affair between Tyler and Niles confirmed.” There was a photograph of Nora looking lovingly at Tyler, on the set of The Noble Servant. The story reported that a pink nightgown had been found which bore the monogrammed initials NMN, and there was even a picture of the garment in question. The nightgown was one of many items of women’s intimate clothing that had been found among Tyler’s things, all tagged with initials and dates. There were also, apparently, pornographic photographs of the director with several of Hollywood’s leading ladies, as well as dozens of “passionate” love letters from Nora and Elizabeth, “so intense they could not be reprinted.” Nora Niles had been brought in for questioning the day before, “a grueling, five-hour session,” and then her mother had been interrogated separately. Both claimed that they had been home at the time of the murder, reading in front of the fireplace. I wondered who the other items belonged to, and who might have been in the photographs. But the press, despite a statement from Detective Owen Hopkins that the police were pursuing several different leads, had clearly latched onto a new favorite suspect, because they spoke of nothing else for several days.
I was already concerned about how Nora was doing—I had thought of her a great deal in the previous weeks—and with this latest news, my worries only grew. Her devotion to Tyler was even deeper than Elizabeth’s, and this was probably the most devastating loss she had ever suffered. Now there was also the unpleasant complication of her own name being dragged into the papers. I wanted to write her about Tyler, but there was no secure way; a telegram wasn’t safe and Harriet would intercept a note. And I needed to talk to her for different reasons as well. I had been trying for some time to find a way to approach her, but now, with the death of Tyler, any efforts I made would undoubtedly be thwarted.
The newspaper stories that came out over the next several days were increasingly breathless. One revealed that Nora too had been secretly engaged to Tyler; another insinuated that she was pregnant. Each of the stories touched upon the nightgown, describing some new detail—the lace fringe along the bottom, the burgundy monogram. One of the stories described Nora’s life with her mother, painting Harriet Cole as a clutching presence who was capable of anything, even murder, to protect her daughter’s career. These stories ran for about a week, and then the reporters turned their interest back to Elizabeth, and then on to more peripheral suspects. Owen Hopkins was quoted as saying that the police had one witness—one of the neighbors saw a man leave Tyler’s apartment, or a woman dressed as a man—but no clues as to the individual’s identity. While they knew that the bullet was from a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver, the weapon itself had not been found. These details were dry, however, with no inherent drama, so the press focused once again on the famous suspects. After three or four weeks, when the papers were still full of insinuations but no hard facts, it was becoming apparent that there would be no arrest.
Tyler’s funeral was held five days after his death at St. Francis Cathedral in Hollywood. I had not planned to attend—I didn’t want to be seen—but on the morning of the service, there was a knock at my door. I opened it and was surprised to find Hanako Minatoya standing on my doorstep. It was highly unusual for her to appear at my home unannounced, but I had refused to take her calls.
“You must come, Nakayama-san,” she insisted in Japanese. “It is the proper thing to do.”
Of course she was right, so after a halfhearted protest, I dressed quickly and went outside. Her driver greeted me as he helped us into the car, but otherwise, to my relief, he did not engage us in conversation. Hanako spoke little on the way to the service, and while I could not bring myself to meet her eyes, I noted, when I glanced surreptitiously in her direction, how dignified she looked in her black dress and hat. When we arrived at the church, there was a tremendous crowd filling the sidewalk and spilling onto the street. The driver cursed as he inched through the people. At the curb, someone opened the car door for us, and I groaned involuntarily at the crush of curious faces. I kept my head down as I walked toward the front of the church, worried what people would say. But Hanako squeezed my arm tightly and whispered tersely in my ear, “Stand tall. Jun Nakayama does not cower.”
Once inside, ushers helped us to the front of the church. Hanako greeted our acquaintances and led me to my seat, and I tried to ignore all the whispers. Gloria Swanson was there, looking as beautiful and cold as ever. She was seated next to her great friend, young Rudolph Valentino, and his soon-to-be bride Natachka Rambova. Across the aisle sat Doug Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, her sober expression evoking the tough businesswoman she actually was rather than the young pixie that America hoped she would always remain. Chaplin was with them, as he often was, unusually still in this atmosphere of sadness. Bill Hart sat behind
