Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1938)

A murder and a movie star, an undercurrent of romance, an overcurrent of mystery — all of which add up to this — cr fast-moving thriller packed with action and suspense I WAS plunged into the mysterious case of the Hollywood scandal when Mildred Parker, secretary to Lawyer William Foley, met with a mysterious accident. I was selected for her position because of my voice. Foley judged all people by their voices. My first duty was to execute a secret legal contract between talent promoter Frank G. Padgham and one Carter Wright; my second, to deliver the contract that evening in person to an address where Foley and Padgham would meet me. I went, found the door of the house unlocked. Since there was no answer to my "Hello," I went in. Cold terror gripped me as I became conscious of a thumping noise upstairs. Investigation proved that it was Bruce Eaton, my favorite movie star, bound and gagged. Quickly, I released him. On the pretext of getting drinks to steady our nerves, he disappeared. As I reached for my brief case, which had fallen to the floor in the course of events, I found a key which had apparently fallen from Bruce Eaton's coat. Pocketing it, I started for the stairs. It was then that I discovered a man sitting at a big desk, his head slumped over his chest. He was — dead! Suddenly, without warning, every light in the place went out. I'd been anxious enough to get into the house; by now I was twice as anxious to get out. I found the stairs and was halfway down when a bell shattered the silence. Mr. Foley and Frank Padgham, I thought with relief. PROPPING my brief case against the wall, I flung open the door. There stood Frank Padgham, alone. I explained what had happened — about the dead man and the lights. For five seconds he didn't move. I was sorry that I couldn't see his expression. I started to tell him why I was upstairs, then stopped abruptly. I couldn't tell him about Bruce Eaton. He suggested that I go out and wait in his car while he investigated. On my way to the car I remembered my brief case. I ran back and got it. There was a drugstore at the corner. I went into a telephone booth and looked for Bruce Eaton's name in the directory. He wasn't listed. Then I remembered the name of his agency. As luck would have it, someone answered the phone. I told him if Bruce Eaton wished to get in touch with the girl who had removed his gag to call Miss Bell in the law office of William Foley and then slammed up the receiver. I was halfway back to the house when an automobile swung around the corner. The tires screamed at a too-sudden application of brakes. I heard Mr. Foley's voice calling me. I don't think I was ever so glad to hear a voice in my life. I climbed into his car and told him what had happened. He instructed me to go into the drugstore, tell the clerk that I was too nervous to telephone and ask him to notify police headquarters that a dead man had been found in the house. He explained that I was not to telephone myself as he didn't want me to give my name. I followed his instructions. He had his car in gear when I jumped in and we drove on. I 26 handed the brief case to him. He stopped the car, opened the case, then looked up at me with questioning eyes. I stared incredulously. The brief case was empty! Morning brought the newspapers and gave me the first really definite information I'd been able to obtain about what had actually happened. Police, it seemed, having been notified by a drug clerk that the body of a murdered man was awaiting them in one of the more expensive homes in an exclusive Wilshire district, had sent a radio car to investigate. The house had turned out to be the property of Charles Temmler, a wealthy, retired contractor. The police found the front door of the house unlocked. A main light switch near the heater on the back porch had been thrown, plunging the entire house into darkness. Using flashlights, the police climbed the stairs to the second floor, where they found a dead man seated at a desk in what was evidently an upstairs study. From letters in the man's pockets and cards in his cardcase, the police tentatively identified the body as that of one Carter Wright, a man who had been employed by Mr. Temmler as chauffeur. Death had been practically instantaneous, caused by a bullet fired at close range from a .38 caliber automatic. In another upstairs bedroom, the police had found evidence which led them to believe a man had been tied and gagged. Two handkerchiefs, moist from saliva, and which evidently had been used as gags, had been found on the floor. A sheet had been jerked from a bed, torn into strips and tied in square, businesslike knots. Later on, apparently, this man had been liberated by some person who had cut through the strips of cloth with a sharp ILLUSTRATION BY MARIO COOPER knife. There was no clue whatever as to the identity of either of these two persons. Police were testing everything on the property for fingerprints and, it was understood, had found several very good "latents" which they considered of more than ordinary significance. I WAS particularly interested in seeing myself as others saw me, for the clerk in the drugstore had given a description of the woman who had reported the murder. This young woman was the subject of an intensive and widespread search. I read the description with interest. Dark chestnut hair, rich, warm brown eyes, very full red lips, a smooth satiny complexion, average height, approximately 116 pounds, possessing a superb figure and naturally graceful in her actions. She disclosed even, regular