Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“Before we get started could you tell us a little about your life as a movie star? You’re such a great actor, and I think I’ve seen most of your movies.”

I thought Rita was pouring it on a little thick, but he seemed to be eating it up.

Jerome winked at her. The old bastard was actually flirting. “Of course, sweetheart.” His face seemed to brighten. “I was born in Connecticut into a privileged class. My old man owned a big industrial corporation, chemicals. After college, he wanted me to join the family business, but I said no. I held my ground. I wanted to be an actor, goddamn it. I stood up to him. Yes, I did.”

He stopped talking and just glanced around the room.

“Then what happened?” Rita asked.

“What did you say, my dear?”

“You wanted to be an actor and not go into the family business.”

“Good thing I didn’t stay with the company. I’d have been a businessman, hell’s bells!”

“What about your acting career?” Rita asked.

“Oh, yes. Ah, what were we talking about?”

“Acting.”

“Back in the late twenties and early thirties I did a lot of Broadway. Then Hollywood came running with an open checkbook. I took a look at all the luscious blondes working at MGM and said, why not. I hated the producers, adored the women. Did you know I made love to Thelma Todd in the men’s room at her Sidewalk Cafe in Malibu three days before her mysterious death? I told her to stay away from those rotten gangsters. She won’t listen…” His voice trailed off.

“I understand you also had a torrid affair with Joan Crawford,” Rita said.

He smiled. “Yeah, sure. But who didn’t?”

“What was she like?” I asked.

“What was who like?” It was apparent that the years of hard drinking had killed a few billion of Jerome’s brain cells. He seemed a little confused when discussing the present, but when he recalled his time of glory and glamour he was as sharp as a tack.

“What was Joan Crawford like?” I repeated.

“Oh, Joanie, yeah! I loved her. My God, that woman had a sex drive that wouldn’t quit. And man, was she good in the sack. I mean, she was wild, a contortionist. She could bend herself into a pretzel. Half the time I didn’t know if I was in bed with Joanie or sleeping with Mankin the Frogman.”

Rita chuckled, and I wondered who Mankin the Frogman was. Jerome kept talking.

“Hell, I couldn’t keep her satisfied. I’d walk around in a daze. That was Joanie.” He shook his head. “She’d sleep with anyone who came within spitting distance. In those days, I had a personal bootlegger, a guy by the name of Jack Cruelle, used to deliver only the best, bring it right to the house-Ballantine’s, Johnny Walker, Chivas, you name it. He bottled the stuff somewhere out in the desert. But anyway, one day I came home early from the studio and my bootlegger and Joanie were going at it. They were out in the back by the pool, screwing like a couple of red-bellied lemurs, all assholes and elbows. They hadn’t noticed me standing there. So I just turned, went upstairs, and packed my bags.”

“You never saw her after that?” Rita asked.

“Oh, yeah, I saw her. But just to fuck her.”

Rita turned red.

“Excuse my French, angel face. But you’re a lawyer. I figured you heard it all before.”

The nurse brought our coffee, Frank poured about a gallon of cream in his, stirred, then added a healthy dose of sugar and stirred some more. Rita and I sipped ours black.

Francis Jerome remained quiet and took a sip of his coffee concoction. He set the cup down, raised his hand up and moved it slowly about, defining the dining room. “They call this room the Douglas Fairbanks Lounge. I made a picture with Doug late in his career. He was a worse drunk than I was. We called him the bad example.” He laughed. “As long as he stayed alive, nobody could point to me and say I drank too much, but then he died.”

He took another sip and stared straight ahead. “Anyway, that was long ago.”

“Can I ask you about Sue Harvey?” I said.

“It’s been years since anyone asked me about her. Sad, such a waste.” He bowed his head.

“You were married to her, weren’t you?”

He looked up; his eyes were tired and bleary. “If you want to call it that.”

Jerome had been engaged to Sue in 1945, the year Al Roberts’s story had been made into a movie. I figured I’d ask him about that. “Ever hear of a movie called Detour?”

A big grin surfaced Jerome’s face. “I don’t think any prints still exist, but it was the worst picture ever made. Some kind of docudrama.” He chuckled. “It mentioned Sue, so naturally we got our hands on a copy. It was a joke and totally inaccurate. We ate popcorn and at first we laughed. But…”

“But what?”

“All that stuff about Al Roberts.”

“What about Al Roberts?” I asked, pressing.

“Who’s Al Roberts?”

“The guy in the movie?”

“Oh, yeah. Sue got a little teary eyed. But what the hell, it was only a movie.”

“What about your marriage to Sue?” Rita asked, in a reverent tone.

“Oh, goddamn it. Everyone said the marriage wouldn’t last. Even Joanie told me to stay away from her. Told me she was trouble with a capital T. Imagine Joanie saying something like that.” He frowned and shook his head. “But anyway, MGM threatened to put me on suspension if I went through with it. That tough little bastard, Eddie Mannix, a honcho at the studio, and his boys even tried to scare me off.”

“But you still went through with the marriage?”

“I couldn’t help myself.” His eyes rolled. “Sue was so hot. Long blonde hair, tits out to here. My God, she exuded sex.”

“I saw her picture. She was very pretty,” I said, but Jerome didn’t hear me. He was back in his world.

“A few romps in the hay with a goddess cost me a lot of dough. When we broke up, I gave her the house on Doheny. But it was worth it.”

“You don’t happen to remember the phone number at the house, do you?” I asked.

He looked up at me, confused. “Huh?”

“Do you remember her phone number? Sue’s phone number?”

“It’s funny, I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, but I remember the number: Crestview 6-5723.”

He paused a moment and fiddled with his scarf. “Why in the hell wouldn’t I remember it?” he shouted.

Rita wrote the number on her card, but I already knew it by heart. It was the other Beverly Hills phone number on my list that Sol had pointed out.

“What happened to Sue after you two split up?” Rita asked, quietly.

“I lost track of her for awhile, but I heard things. Bad things.” Jerome fell silent for a few seconds, then went on: “She fell on hard times. Lost the house and started a slow downhill slide, got in with a bad crowd, booze first; drugs followed, then prostitution. She’s dead now, you know.”

I let out a breath. Sue was dead. Christ, there goes another lead. But the odds hadn’t been on my side to begin with. The trip out here wasn’t a total waste, however. I had a name to match another phone number on my list. Still, what good would that do, now that Sue was dead? But, hey, the coffee was great and I learned a little about Joan Crawford and I almost met Mary Astor.

I was ready to leave, but Rita kept the conversation going. Maybe she liked the old guy. He was colorful. “Why’d your marriage break up?”

“My sweet little wife couldn’t stay away from her ex-boyfriend. The son-of-a-bitch. I think he eventually killed her.”

I perked up. What was he saying? Was he telling us that Roberts may have murdered Sue Harvey? He couldn’t have. “Alexander Roberts?” I asked.

“No, not that jerk. John Barr.”