The Hollywood Murders-The Gretch Bayonne Action Adventure Series-Book 3 Read online

  Jean Harlow and Clark Gable stood at a table surrounded by the director, Sam Wood and the entire cast. They were all smiles and full of well wishes for me.

  “What is this all about?” I asked.

  “Oh!” Wood said. “Like you don't know! It's your book of course!”

  I thought they were congratulating me on purchasing the house, but I was wrong. It was all about the Graf book again. Everything seemed to hinge on the damned Graf book.

  Gable ceremoniously read a statement.

  “Chase The Rabbit has officially broken all previous sales records for any book that has ever been published,” Clark announced.

  It was the same letter I'd received with my check. Hearst Publications obviously made the letter public. I found out later it was reported in every newspaper in the world.

  “We would like to congratulate our fellow costar on this stunning accomplishment,” Clark said.

  The room erupted in applause. It made me feel very uncomfortable. Hell, I didn't want to deal with being the center of attention in a roomful of people. It made me nervous.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Everyone was watching me, hanging on my words, expecting some notable acceptance speech I suppose. I couldn't think of anything else to say. After a few minutes of awkward silence, the director announced that we would be setting up for the next scene.

  Everyone stood in line to shake my hand at the table as the party dissipated. I'd never felt so out of place in my life.

  The Star Child was at my side the whole time and picked up on how I was feeling.

  “I hope you never win an Academy Award,” she whispered to me. “It would kill you.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  After a long day of shooting, I went straight from the set of Hold Your Man to Bela's house to gather up some of my belongings. I was determined to start living at my own house even though there was no furniture there. Patty wasn't thrilled about the idea of sleeping on the floor, so she opted to stay at Lugosi's.

  It was dark by the time and I arrived, but all the lights were on, and a big truck was pulling out of the driveway.

  I flagged them down and asked what the hell they were doing there.

  “Delivering furniture,” one of the men said. “A lot of very old furniture! It took us four trips!”

  “I am the owner of this house,” I said, “and I didn't order any furniture!”

  “This came from the Hearst Castle,” the driver replied. “On the old man's direct orders. You'll have to take it up with him!”

  I nearly fell over when I stepped into the living room. The place was decked out in sixteenth century furniture and paintings. And there was a stuffed polar bear in the corner. Every room in the house was filled with antiques and amazing art from every origin you could think of. It looked like a damned museum. And I loved it!

  I walked around from room to room in total shock. Finally, I sat down in the library to catch my breath. There was a hand written letter sitting in the middle of the desk.

  Congratulations on your new home. I took the liberty of storing a few of my things there. I hope you don't mind. William Randolph Hearst.

  If Wolf and I made fifty-thousand dollars apiece from the Graf book, I figured the old man must have made a million, at least. That kind of bothered me. But you can never figure out what Hearst is going to do next. There had to be well over a million dollars worth of furnishings that belonged to the old man, sitting in my house. I knew that by storing, he meant he was giving them to me.

  I spent most of the night roaming from room to room looking at each piece of furniture, each painting. I had expected to sleep on a blanket on the floor. Instead, I finally passed out on a huge bed that could have once been owned by King Henry the VIII.

  “Gretch!” a voice said, waking me.

  “Yes, sir?” I asked. “Who is it? No one calls me Gretch anymore.”

  “You are still Gretch Bayonne to me,” the voice said.

  The room was dark and I felt myself starting to float off the massive bed.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “What is going on?”

  “You don't recognize my voice?” he asked.

  “Mr. Peebles,” I said.

  “Yes,” my old mentor answered. “You have done very well, I see. This is a very nice house you have.”

  I floated back down gently and realized I was dreaming.

  “This is my house,” I answered, “but everything in it came from Hearst. I think we were wrong about him, Mr. Peebles. He has been very fair and generous to me.”

  I could hear the rushing sound of wind but felt no breeze. “What is that noise?” I asked.

  Mr. Peebles did not answer and as quickly as the sound of the wind came, the room fell dead silent.

  “Mr. Peebles?” I asked. “Are you there?”

  I was awake in a dark room and Mr. Peebles was gone. It felt like our conversation was real, but I knew it was just a dream. When I flipped on the light to look at the old grandfather clock, I discovered I'd only been asleep for twenty minutes. It seemed like hours.

  It was six o'clock in the morning, and I had to be back on the set of Hold Your Man by eight. I was wide awake and knew I couldn't take a chance on going back to sleep for fear of not getting to the set on time.

  I quickly showered and shaved and dressed in my usual black suit. It was one of the few things in the house that actually belonged to me. I paced through the house again, taking in all the amazing furniture and artwork. It was breathtaking to say the least.

  As I sat down at the old man's huge desk, I wasn't quite sure how I was going to word my letter to him. So like always, I wrote the first thing that popped into my head.

  Dear Mr. Hearst:

  I don't mind helping out an old friend, but I don't have room to store your things in my new house. I have my own furnishings on order and they should be coming shortly. So if it is not inconvenient to you, please have the movers come post haste to retrieve your belongings. Except for the polar bear, whom I have named Roger. I will keep Roger.

  Signed, Bay.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The big dilemma was how to get my note to William Randolph Hearst toot sweet. I knew if I mailed it, he'd never see it. So I did the only thing I could think of doing. I called Marion Davies.

  I got lucky and was patched through to Marion's private number after identifying myself.

  “Just go see him,” Marion said. “You may have to wait awhile, but you know he will always see you. You're Gretch Bayonne, for God's sake!”

  “But my friends call me Bay,” I said instinctively.

  “Bay,” Marion replied. “Just keep the stuff! William went through a lot of trouble to furnish your house. Do you have any idea of how much that is worth?”

  “I don't know,” I replied. A million dollars?”

  “Try about five million!” she said. “And that's a lowball figure! He's never entrusted anyone with any part of his collection like he has you! He will be crushed if you return it!”

  “That's just it,” I answered. “It is his stuff, not mine. It's not that I'm ungrateful, but if I tick him off again, he's liable to come take it back anyway. I just don't want to be beholden to him.”

  “I understand,” Marion replied. “Then go see him, and explain your position. You don't want to just drop this on him with a casual note.”

  “Yes, actually I do,” I replied. “He left me a casual note when the things were delivered. I want to return the favor.”

  “You are something else, Bay,” Marion said. “So I am your messenger now?”

  “You did a good job of it on the Graf,” I said. “Why would I want to use anyone else?”

  Marion reluctantly agreed to hand deliver my note to the old man that night.

  It took me two hours to find her on the set of the film she was shooting, Operator 13. They were filming outside on location at MGM where a dozen other productions were going on simultaneously. Even after I found her
, I had to wait until she was finished with a scene with Gary Cooper. The director, Richard Bolestawski asked me to sign a copy of the Graf book. I told him my hand was broke. Finally, I got to speak with Marion.

  “I still think you are being foolish,” she said as she pocketed my note to the old man. “He is not going to be amused by this.”

  “It won't be the first time I upset him,” I replied. “And it probably won't be the last.”

  “He is not happy right now as it is,” Marion said. “You know, these killings are eating at him something awful. I hope they find this man soon. Everyone does, of course, but probably no one wishes for that more than William.”

  “Has he talked to you about it lately?” I asked.

  “Only every night,” she replied. “It is practically all he talks about these days. But when he found out that you bought a house, he put everything else on hold immediately. He spent the entire day picking out what furniture and artwork to have delivered. I haven't seen him that happy in a long time.”

  “He actually did it himself?” I asked. “He didn't delegate it to one of his cronies?”

  “Oh, no!” Marion said. “His staff was there, of course, but he was very meticulous and chose every item himself. I was there for some of it. He picked out every piece and debated on whether you would like it.”

  “I wonder how he figured that out,” I said.

  “He said in order to know a man's taste, you must know the man,” she replied. “It was a challenge for him because he said he wasn't sure how well he knew you.”

  The old man must know me pretty damned well. There wasn't a thing in the house I didn't love.

  “Give me back the note,” I said.

  “What?” Marion asked.

  “I've decided to keep the stuff,” I replied.

  “That's wonderful!” she said. “What changed your mind?”

  “It has nothing to do with the old man,” I replied. “I just don't want to sleep on the floor tonight.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Bela and Lillian Lugosi were two days overdue coming back from their honeymoon, and people were starting to get nervous. I wasn't that worried about it. I figured he just decided to enjoy being on the ocean for a while longer than he had planned. Hell, I would do the same thing if I were he.

  I, on the other hand, was busy finishing up the Harlow/Gable movie and getting ready to move on to the next one.

  Patty and I moved into my new house with all the incredible furnishings, courtesy of one William Randolph Hearst. We were both living in utter disbelief in our new surroundings.

  “Bay!” Patty yelled. “Everything in here is worth a fortune!”

  “I know,” I replied. “Marion said millions.”

  “We must have a house warming party!” she said. “Let me handle the details!”

  “I don't know,” I answered. “You know I don't like parties.”

  “Oh, but Bay!” she said. “It is only fitting that you invite your friends to see this! I bet Hearst and Marion would even come! Please, let me plan it!”

  “But the pool isn't ready yet,” I replied. “And I still have to get the damned roof redone before rain leaks in all over everything.”

  “And then we can?” she asked.

  “I guess so,” I said. “The contractors are coming tomorrow.”

  “It will be the party of the year!” Patty said. “I am so looking forward to this! I will make lasagna!”

  I was reluctant to have a bunch of people traipsing through my new house, but agreed to appease Patty. And I knew I had to keep up with the Hollywood social scene whether I liked it or not. I was getting film work, and that was all I cared about. The house was nice, but I would have been content living in a tiny apartment as I'd done all my life back in Hoboken.

  “Maybe just a few people,” I said.

  “Just the Grafers then,” Patty replied.

  “Damn,” I replied. “That is a lot of people.”

  Patty grabbed a notebook and pen from the kitchen counter and sat down, looking serious.

  “Help me make a list,” she said.

  “Let me see, now,” I replied. “Who was on the Graf?”

  I began reminiscing about that fateful trip and rattled off the names of my fellow Grafers. I even knew how old they were at the time.

  William Randolph Hearst (age 69)

  Marion Davies (age 35)

  Mary Pickford (age 40)

  Douglas Fairbanks (age 49)

  Charlie Chaplain (age 43)

  Bela Lugosi (age 50)

  Greta Garbo (age 27)

  James Cagney (age 33)

  Jean Harlow (age 21)

  Spencer Tracy (age 32)

  Joan Crawford (age 28)

  Gary Cooper (age 31)

  Clark Gable (age 31)

  Groucho Marx (age 42)

  Marlene Dietrich (age 31)

  All the talk about the Graf and me writing the book started to make me feel uncomfortable again.. It had been a double-edged sword for me all along. I was just looking for a quick ride to California and got caught up in the middle of one of the biggest disasters in history. I'd been tossed into a sea of crap and somehow managed to come out on the other side of the rainbow carrying a pot of gold.

  “Can I invite anyone else?” Patty asked.

  I didn't want to have a party. I didn't even want half of the Grafers there. I'd only gotten on with a few of them to begin with.

  “You can invite whomever you like,” I said. “As long as you keep the list down to ten people.”

  “But there are fifteen Grafers alone,” she replied. “And they will bring guests.”

  A banging at the door saved me from dodging the party conversation with Patty.

  “Who the hell could that be?” I asked, as I walked to the front door.

  I was shocked to see Nancy, the young schoolgirl standing at my doorstep.

  “Come in,” I said. “How did you find me?”

  “I am sorry to bother you Mr. Bay,” she said. “But I have more pages for you and some new information, too.”

  Patty rushed into the room and embraced Nancy before she had a chance to sit down.

  “How are you?” Patty said. “It is so good to see you again!”

  After ten minutes of the two of them chit chatting about pretty much nothing, Nancy finally got around to why she really wanted to see me.

  “We got another letter from the Valentino Killer,” she announced.

  “I hate to tell you this, Nancy, but there are a lot of crazy people out there. Anyone can write a letter. It doesn't mean it is legitimate.”

  “I know,” she replied. “And I wasn't going to bother you with this, so I took it down to the police station first.”

  “And what did they say?” I asked.

  “They wouldn't even look at it,” she said. “I waited for three hours. And they told me Detective Bannon was no longer working there.”

  “He is working on it,” I said. “Just in a secret capacity. Don't bother going down to the police station anymore. But believe me, other people are working on this around the clock.”

  The taxi was still waiting outside for Nancy as she handed me the letter from the supposed Valentino Killer.

  “How did you find out where I live?” I asked her as she stepped into the cab.

  “The address was in the newspapers about you buying a new house,” she replied. “Everyone knows where you live, Bay!”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Nothing is secret in Hollywood. There are more reporters in this town than dogs.You can't cross the street without it being in the newspapers.Yet no one knew who killed those five women right here, under our noses.

  I was miffed that my address was published, but there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it. Apparently, it is a matter of public record. But that was the big wake up call for me to have a security gate installed. And I would need a housekeeper, too. It was all more reason to keep working in movies. I was going
to need the money.

  I was scheduled to be in a movie with Spencer Tracy called Man's Castle. His costar was the amazing Loretta Young. I was excited to meet her, and legendary director, Frank Borzage. To be honest, I'm not sure how Spencer ended up on the Graf. He wasn't a big star, but apparently everyone thought he would be someday. Especially William Randolph Hearst.

  It was great to see Spencer again. He wasn't the type to go to Hollywood parties. I hadn't seen him since the Graf. This guy was a serious actor and wasn't full of himself like so many others are. I spent the whole day talking to him between shots. Eventually, the conversation turned to the Hollywood murders.

  “You know what I think?” Spencer asked.

  “No,” I replied, “but I am sure you will tell me.”

  “I don't think they are ever going to solve this,” he said.

  “You may be right,” I said, resisting the urge to tell him that the B.O.I was on it now and had a damned good suspect.

  “There hasn't been a murder in a while,” he went on. “I am betting this guy is on a beach somewhere in Mexico.”

  “Or he could be right here in Hollywood, waiting for the perfect moment to strike again,” I said.

  Director Borzage called us for another scene. As much as I enjoyed talking to Spencer, I was glad we were interrupted this time. I didn't want to talk about the murders anymore.

  But after twelve hours on the set, I was faced with talking about them again when I got home. Wolf and Bannon were waiting for me at my house.

  The two of them were in awe of the Hearst furnishings at my new residence. After a quick twenty-minute tour, I finally had to ask them why they were there.

  “I think we are at a dead end here,” Bannon explained. “We've been watching Allen from the Rose, and so far it is the same pattern. But he has made no attempt to seek out old actresses. He's strange, no doubt about it, but I don't think he's the murderer.”

  “What pattern?” I asked.