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Welcome — if you're invited — to the brand new home of Marie Prevost. Right on the sandy front yard there's a small strip of garden. And what a grand sun porch for bridge playing. But does Marie have any privacy? Just see how close her next-door neighbor's house is. That's Malibu!
The general store at Malibu looks just like the one at Hicktown, except that R. L. Bills, the proprietor, sells more caviar and pare de fois gras than pecks of potatoes and turnips. John Boles, in typical Malibu costume — white cap, white sweater and open shirt — does the family marketing for his missus just like you and I do
on those stepins? Ridiculous. Simply ridiculous, if you ask me."
A stone wall along the coast highway protects Malibu from the outside world. At the gateway stands a small white hut. The post office. With old-time open boxes and names printed beneath. And what names! Connie Bennett, Chico Marx, Warner Baxter, Estelle Taylor, Leila Hyams, George O'Brien, Eddie Lowe, Louise Fazenda and dozens of others as famous.
"My dear, there's that same bill for Susan Bigname again. See, sticking out of her box. Well, the way some people don't pay their bills has me under."
Just a village post office where world-famous people gather every day for mail and gossip. Just as thousands of others do, the world over.
A gateman is posted here who halts every incoming car of strangers. "All right, where are you going? You expected? Just a minute." As we now have telephones in some houses, the gateman phones. "You expecting visitors from Sedalia, today? Two women, one man, four children, one with the whooping cough, and four guinea pigs? No? Okay.
"Out please, and make it snappy. You're not expected." And the informal visitors are on their way. Out.
A kidnapper wouldn't have a chance to ply his trade here. A straight road leads down from the main highway to the settlement. From the back road all that can be seen is a row of garages and a low black fence marked, "Visitors for number fifty-three park here. Visitors for sixty-eight park here, etc." The owners' Chevrolets, Rolls Royces, Packards, Fords are all tucked away in the small garages.
Seven patrolmen are on duty night and day. Protecting the homes from gate crashers that may have gotten past the gateman, souvenir seekers, over-eager fans and yes, gangsters. Then too, there's the ever-present danger of fire.
After the first fire, when fourteen houses burned to the ground, a new fire engine was [ please turn to page 108 ]