Greenson had then told Clemmons of discovering Marilyn’s body in a manner perfectly consistent with Murray’s version.
“His only additional touch,” Clemmons said, “was saying he removed the phone receiver from the woman’s hand. Said she must have been trying to call for help.”
“Calling for help?” I asked. “With her housekeeper down the hall, ten feet away?”
“I know. But it wasn’t my job to investigate, was it? I was there to take down the initial report. Record what I saw and heard. Then I was relieved by Sergeant Iannone.”
“Good man?”
A shrug. “Good enough, I’d say. Only one thing about Marv I’m not crazy about-he’s in tight with Hamilton’s crowd.”
“Works for intel, you mean?”
“No, but works with them, time to time. They like him. One of his special duty assignments is kind of interesting, in light of things.”
“Interesting how?”
“Well, whenever the president or the attorney general visits the Lawfords, Iannone gets the assignment from Hamilton to work the beach house.”
Neither of us said anything. Colorful fish swam by, swishing their tails, the kind of display they invented Technicolor for. The fountain bubbled. Squirrels scampered.
“I filed a report when I got back to the substation,” he said. “For all the good it did. Then I called Jim.”
“Jim?”
“Marilyn’s first husband-Jim Dougherty. He’s a cop on the LAPD, y’know. We’re old friends. He said two things that both got to me. I think they’ve been keeping me awake more than anything else.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, first he said he was surprised. And then he said, ‘There’s no way Norma Jeane killed herself.’ No elaboration. Just those two things.”
Traffic sounds from Sunset Boulevard provided a dissonant reminder of the city surrounding.
“I appreciate you telling me this,” I said.
“It has to stay off the record,” he said.
“I know.”
“I could lose my job, this gets out. They’ve clamped down tight on this, Mr. Heller.”
“Then why talk to me?”
“Because that woman was murdered.”
We shook hands, and he headed home. Maybe he could catch a nap before he went on at midnight.
Maybe.
I didn’t have an appointment with the boss at the Arthur P. Jacobs agency on the Sunset Strip, not caring to risk one. Instead I waltzed into the posh, modern offices, and told the attractive brunette at the amoeba-shaped reception desk that I was Nathan Heller, had no appointment, and was here to see Mr. Jacobs.
She of course asked if she could tell him what it was about, and I told her Norma Jeane Baker.
I had barely got nestled in my curved space-age chair, preparing to read the front page of Daily Variety, when another attractive girl (this one blonde) appeared, and walked me up some winding, exposed stairs out of a science-fiction movie to Mr. Jacobs’ private office. She delivered me to his receptionist, a redhead (all bases covered), and buzzed me on through.
His office wasn’t ostentatiously large, no more than twice mine back in Chicago, but it had a modern, empty look that made it seem bigger. One wall was all windows onto the strip, though the view was obscured by black vertical blinds. The other walls were bone-colored, with sleekly framed black-and-white portraits of stars he represented, Marilyn prominent among them; several framed one-sheet posters (including Bus Stop and Let’s Make Love) hung opposite the window wall.
Jacobs sat in the recession of a kidney-shaped, black-topped, metal-legged desk arrayed with phones and stacks of paperwork and a scattering of pens, a black enamel ashtray, a black enamel box or two, and no family photos. Behind him was a big built-in black wall cabinet with doors below and shelves stacked with books, screenplays, and piles of magazines, a working library at odds with the sterile modernity of the rest of the office.
He looked small for so important a man, and in the publicity game, Arthur Jacobs was among Hollywood’s most powerful. This former MGM mail-room clerk now ruled an agency with New York, Hollywood, and London offices.
His suit was dark gray and tailored, his tie black, narrow, and silk, his hair dark, just starting to gray, and cut in Caesar bangs. His oval face had intelligence despite simian grooves, and he might have been handsome if the nose had been shorter and the ears smaller.
He gave me a practiced smile and stood behind the desk and held out his hand for me to shake, saying, “Nate Heller. You’re lucky-you caught me toward the end of my day.”
His handshake was just firm enough-it was practiced, too-and I said, “Arthur, I don’t need much of your time,” and sat down in one of the two leather director’s chairs opposite him.
We were on a first-name basis, it seemed, though we knew more of each other than actually knew each other. He’d been to Sherry’s with clients a couple times when I was on hand, and I’d seen him at this event and that one, exchanging a few friendly social words, mostly because of shared friends and acquaintances. Like Marilyn.
Anyway, I was here to run a bluff, so I got started.
“Listen, Arthur, I guess you know I was helping Marilyn with security at her home. She had me wiretap her place, but by the time I got there Sunday morning, the tapes were gone and so were the gimmicks in her two phones.”
“Really,” he said, his longish face trying to decide whether to stop smiling or not.
“And I’m glad of that, as far as it goes… but I wondered if you knew what had become of them? The tapes, I mean. Pat Newcomb said I’d just missed you at the house.”
“She did? Well, I don’t know anything about those tapes, Nate. Or the phone ‘gimmicks.’ Sorry.”
I shrugged, crossed a leg. “Well, I don’t know what’s on the tapes, so whether it’s a problem for anybody, who can say? I’m just trying to do right by Marilyn. And you know, I wouldn’t mind helping Bobby and Peter out. Wouldn’t want to see them get pulled into this.”
His mouth kept smiling but his forehead frowned. Then he shot a finger like a gun at me and said, “That’s right-you’re a friend of Bobby’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Go way back. We played Untouchables together in the fifties.” I raised my hands in surrender mode. “I’m not working for him, understand. Quite the contrary-when I offered to help out, he just said I should stay out of it as much as possible.”
“Not bad advice.”
“I do feel I have a responsibility to Marilyn in this. As I’m sure you do.”
Jacobs opened a black enamel box on the desk. It contained cigars, and they smelled fine-Havanas, I would wager. He slid it over by way of offering me one and I didn’t decline. Then I slid the box back, and he selected a plump specimen and lighted it up. I got mine going. It took a while. It does, with Havanas.
I drew in the thick, rich smoke and tried not to choke. Then said, “If I’m not overstepping, I’m assuming you’re walking point on this-I’m sort of on the fringes, but I’d like to know the party line.”
He nodded, let out some smoke he’d been holding in. “We were all upset when this suicide story got out.”
“Yeah. Hell, I heard it called that on the radio on my way to Fifth Helena!”
The publicist frowned, shook his head in irritation. “Stupid. Very stupid. How can we market Marilyn, if she’s a tragic suicide? Now-an accidental death. That’s a tragedy we can work with.”
“Right. Are you planning a press conference?”
“Hell no! No press releases. Everything oral. We’re working hand in hand with Fox on this thing. Very delicate. Very controlled.”
I sat forward, rested the cigar in the ashtray. Thing tasted great but was so strong I thought I might pass out.
“Arthur, I’ve managed to duck the cops so far. I had a lucky break of sorts when that Captain Hamilton showed up. He and I have a love/hate relationship-he loves to hate me. So instead of questioning me, he threw my ass out.”