Alta Journal is pleased to present the third installment of a five-part original fiction series by author and Alta contributor David Talbot. Each week, we’ll publish online the next portion of “Murder on the Starlight Express.” Visit altaonline.com/serials to keep reading, and sign up here to be notified by email when each new installment is available.
This Alta Serial is a fictional account of a 17-day, cross-continental whistle-stop tour that carried Warner Bros. stars (including the author’s father, Lyle Talbot) from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C. The train journey took place during the depths of the Depression, and its purpose was to promote the new movie 42nd Street and entertain the public at each city along the route, spreading good cheer in the run-up to president-elect Franklin D. Roosevelt’s inauguration.
The third act opens as the Starlight Express—with the corpse of a murder victim on board—is stopped at Chicago Union Station.
Act 3
By 1933, Al Capone no longer ruled Chicago, but the gangster’s spirit lived on. There were turf wars between rival gangs over the booming bootleg business that sometimes erupted in drive-by shootings and other bloody spurts. The Chicago police force, much of which was on the gangsters’ payrolls, was unwilling to control the crime surge. So, Washington urged J. Edgar Hoover, the tough-talking chief of the FBI, to step in. His G-men quickly became the most vicious racket in town.
It was a volatile time, fear and anger everywhere. The long presidential reign of the Republicans was shifting to the New Deal era of Franklin Roosevelt. FDR’s pick for attorney general—the aging but crusading senator from Montana Thomas Walsh—was reportedly going to sweep the Justice Department clean of Republicans, starting with Hoover. The attorney general–designate told colleagues that Hoover could get dirt on anybody, that he ran a sinister secret police force and it was time for him to go. Then Walsh conveniently fell dead from his sleeping berth on a train, the apparent victim of a heart attack, while coming back to Washington from his honeymoon. Hoover greeted Walsh’s corpse at Washington’s Union Station, looking properly mournful but wearing his usual carnation in his suit lapel. Then he hurried back to his office to lobby for a more agreeable attorney general.
Sam Bullock wasn’t the top man in the FBI’s Chicago office—that post was given to pretty boy Melvin Purvis, a favorite of Hoover’s. But Bullock was the most ruthless in an office that the FBI chief ordered to take “extraordinary measures” to crush the city’s crime lords. Bullock turned the Chicago FBI office into a “black chamber,” subjecting those unfortunates who fell into his snare to brutal “third degree” interrogations that they sometimes didn’t survive and other suspects to a “shoot to kill” execution policy. Bullock—and Hoover—wanted to show the incoming administration that the bureau was bare-knuckle enough to crack down on the country’s crime capital.
I was trembling when Bullock and his G-man partner walked into my train compartment, which was near Bertie’s. Mrs. Parker—who looked worse for wear at that early hour—was doing her best to comfort me, but she was devastated by Bertie’s murder too. Bullock and his sidekick were big men; they wore suits and hats but plainly were capable of physical action. Mrs. Parker scurried out of the room as soon as Bullock announced that the FBI was taking over jurisdiction because the Starlight Express had crossed over state lines—and he wanted to talk to me alone.
Bullock had a face like fresh-butchered beef, red and angry. His eyes were pinpoints of malevolence. He clearly decided I had murdered Bertie and it was just a matter of when I would confess. As I said, I was already shivering from the trauma of discovering Bertie’s body—but now I worried for my safety.
No, I answered, I didn’t know anybody who wished Bertie harm. He was a popular figure at the studio, I said to the G-men.
I told them about the tough-looking intruder I had spotted on the train the night before. But my voice was shaking, and I sounded unconvincing.
“Did anyone else see him?” Bullock asked. It was a fair question, but it sounded like an accusation.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with the others.”
There was a pause. Then Bullock’s partner started on me. He didn’t exactly play good cop, but he was slightly less intimidating than Bullock.
“There were some things missing from Mr. Swindell’s trunk.”
“I wouldn’t know…”
“Some files. Apparently, he kept files on the studio’s stars—about their personal lives?”
I stared at him—how did he know about the files? Bertie did keep track of the Warner Bros. contract players’ lives, even some sexual details. Not to shame them, keep them in line, or blackmail them. But to protect them. He’d even shown me a few of the files, because he needed my help to quash the nosy press stories.
Miss Blondell had endured seven abortions, for example, because her cinematographer boyfriend insisted on the illegal procedures. “My poor baby,” he said each time she told him she was pregnant. Hollywood was full of heels like that. Bertie and I worked hard to keep that story hidden. It would’ve killed Miss Blondell’s career.
Why Bertie brought the files with him, when other publicity executives would’ve kept them stashed in their office safe, is still a mystery to me. Maybe he thought it was safer to keep his eye on them. Or maybe he doled out tidbits of the truth to inquisitive reporters during the train trip, while keeping the dangerous stuff secret.
“He never talked to me about that, the files,” I lied. “I guess it was above my pay grade.”
My voice wavered even more, and Bullock pounced. “Quit the crap, kid. You knew all about the files. Did you figure there was money to be made from selling them? To a rival studio? Or maybe to some gang?”
I was stunned by Bullock’s ferocity. He was jutting his face just inches from mine, and it had grown even more raw-looking.
“Th-that-s not tr-true.”
My stammer seemed to embolden him.
“Did he get you drunk, touch you…all over? Did he fuck you?”
“Maybe you didn’t like it?” Bullock’s partner suggested. “Maybe you had to get rough with him?”
My throat seized up, but I managed to squeak out, “Mr. Swindell never laid a hand on me.”
“Not his type, Dark Irish?” The FBI men smirked at each other. That made me boil over.
“He was fond of me, but he respected me,” I almost shouted. “I would never hurt him. He was…everything to me.”
My voice dropped to a near whisper. “You’d never understand.”
Bullock was on me in an instant. He slapped me hard across the face with the back of his meaty hand, then backed me into a corner of the small room and began to choke me. I tried, but I couldn’t fight him off. He was too big and coiled.
“You fucking cocksucker.” Bullock’s face was looming over mine. He seemed unstoppable. I was going limp.
Then the door was flung open. There were Mrs. Parker, Mr. Talbot, and Mr. Dellums. It looked like there were several porters behind them.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mrs. Parker was loud, outraged.
Bullock let me go, and I slumped to the floor.
“We’re in the middle of an interrogation.” Bullock was flushed, still panting.
“An interrogation? That’s what you call it?” Talbot spoke with equal contempt. You could tell that Bullock recognized him from the big screen, and he began to back down.
“Well, this fellow is a…a prime suspect.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Mrs. Parker was still on full volume. “This fellow was devoted to Mr. Swindell. We spent all morning crying our eyes out.”
“This type of…procedure—it doesn’t happen on my train.” Mr. Dellums, with his deep voice, sounded authoritative. The FBI men didn’t like being addressed this way by a Black man—but they could see he had backup.
Bullock straightened himself up. His partner, too, tried to look dignified, like they weren’t just caught in the act.
“We’ll leave for now—but he remains a suspect.” Bullock jerked a thumb at me. “Someone close to the victim committed this murder. Someone profited from this crime.”
I was in a daze the rest of the day. All of us in the Starlight troupe checked into the opulent Blackstone Hotel, which hosted presidents and gangsters. But I didn’t leave my room all afternoon. I was haunted by images of Bertie’s crumpled body and Bullock’s angry insinuations. If the FBI men were fixed on me as the culprit, it meant not only was I in danger but Bertie’s real killer was going free.
Who was the true murderer? My mind was a beehive of suspicion. I fixed first on the mysterious man who had boarded the Starlight the night before. His unblinking, sharklike stare still gave me shivers. Had he shot Bertie for his secret files? Was the triggerman working for one of the underworld outfits that preyed on America? Was organized crime muscling into Hollywood?
Then my bustling brain conjured my randy neighbor on the train, the married star who enjoyed the favors of the leggy Busby Berkeley chorus girl so vociferously each night. When I’d entered Bertie’s compartment one afternoon, I’d witnessed the end of a bitter argument between him and the star, who apparently objected to his snooping.
“If a sleazy story about me winds up in a gossip rag, I’ll know where it came from!” shouted the star as he exited Bertie’s room. He brushed roughly past me without uttering an apology as he left. An air of reckless menace trailed after him. He wasn’t getting any younger, and his studio contract was up the following year.
I could tell that Bertie was shaken by the angry encounter, but he made light of it. “If that horrid man only knew how many times I kept his name out of the gossip columns,” he snorted, before quickly changing the subject.
Had the fading star—a man who fed his fragile ego with the fleeting satisfactions of adultery—confronted Bertie for his file the night before? Had their argument spiraled out of control?
About six o’clock that evening, there was a rap on my door. Talbot and Miss Blondell were standing there, decked out in a tuxedo and an evening gown, looking like a glamorous couple ready for their close-up. “We’re free for the evening, kid…and we’re taking you to dinner,” Talbot announced. I started to make apologies, saying I planned to order room service. But they insisted.
In the lobby, Talbot was approached by two short but menacing-looking men. “Mr. Talbot, we were sent by Spike O’Donnell,” said one. “I’m Babe. This here is Dingy. Mr. O’Donnell wants to make sure you have a good time in Chicago. He don’t want anyone to bother you.”
“That’s all right, uh, Babe. We’ll be perfectly fine. Thank Mr. O’Donnell for me.”
Talbot was obviously embarrassed. But Babe stood his ground.
“Mr. O’Donnell was very clear. He wants to make sure you’re safe. We’ll be your shadows while you’re here.”
There was no way of shaking Babe and Dingy. As we walked out on bustling Michigan Avenue, followed by the two men, Talbot leaned over and explained it to me. “Spike O’Donnell is the only crime boss who stood up to Capone and lived,” he whispered. “They keep trying to kill him, but the bullets always miss. He got on the Warners lot when he and his family vacationed in Los Angeles—don’t ask me how he did it. Watched a scene from Ladies They Talk About—that gangster picture I did with Stanwyck. Afterwards, he came up to me and said he liked the way I knocked over the bank. Said if I was ever in Chicago, he’d take care of me.”
He shrugged—what was he going to do?
“Nice gentleman. Good family man. Sharp dresser,” he added.
As we made our way to the restaurant, it was clear that Babe and Dingy were not accustomed to shepherding Hollywood celebrities. When a few movie fans excitedly recognized Talbot and Miss Blondell, asking for autographs, Dingy quickly intervened, telling them to “scram.” Talbot had to illuminate the bodyguards about the essential role that fans played in the lives of stars like him and Blondell.
We tried our luck at the Empire Room, the swanky dinner club that was featuring singer Connee Boswell later that evening. “She swings!” Talbot exclaimed. “She’s a white gal, but she has that New Orleans sound.” A maître d’ with thinning, pomaded hair and a trim mustache blocked our way with intimidating courtesy. “I’m sorry, sir, we’ve got a full house tonight.” Evidently, he didn’t go to the movies. Babe moved in and set him straight. “These here are big stars—get them your best table.” The maître d’ immediately saw the error of his ways, and the three of us were seated near the stage.
We ordered champagne cocktails—the Prohibition no longer held much sway in this town—and steaks before the show began. I quickly realized the leading man had no designs on the leading woman—they were just good friends. In fact, it seemed, Talbot had invited us both out that evening because he realized we needed care. Bertie’s death and the violent questioning I had endured at the hands of Bullock were too much to discuss. So, instead, we talked about Blondell’s private life—a less agonizing subject, though troubling to her. She trusted us; she had mulled it over with each of us before. Then, too, the terrible events of the past day hung over us; maybe we talked more honestly, in a less scripted manner, because of what we’d been through.
“For God’s sake, Joanie, don’t marry him—George always makes you feel used.” Talbot sounded adamant.
Miss Blondell was a down-to-earth gal, like the secretaries and chorus dancers she played on-screen. “It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard.”
By then the cocktails had begun to work their magic. We laughed until there were tears in our eyes. Miss Blondell excused herself to tidy her makeup.
She was gone for only a minute when a well-dressed man slipped into her empty chair. Talbot sounded equal parts giddy and nervous when he greeted him.
“Spike O’Donnell! I didn’t know you were dropping by.”
“I don’t like to advertise where I’m going. But I wanted to say hello to you, Lyle.”
O’Donnell wore an expensive suit with a pocket square and bow tie. He had a twinkling smile and a musical voice. I liked him immediately.
“So, this is the young fella that Sam Bullock got rough with,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “He’s a bad cop, a bad one.” O’Donnell looked me square in the eyes. He sounded on the level.
“Hoover knows how important Hollywood is becoming,” O’Donnell continued. “He wants the lowdown on all the Warner Bros. stars. He wants to embarrass Roosevelt, get the drop on him before his presidency even begins.”
O’Donnell’s tone was matter-of-fact, like he was commenting on Chicago’s nightlife. But it hit me like a gunshot.
Was he suggesting that Hoover and his enforcers were behind Bertie’s murder? O’Donnell seemed like a straight shooter, but after all, he was a criminal. The lawmen were his enemy.
The blood pulsed in my ears. I wanted revenge. I wanted to kill the men who had killed Bertie, whoever they were. I had never felt such murderous rage in my life.
O’Donnell read me. “Don’t fly off the handle, young fella. We still don’t know for sure who bumped off your boss. When we find out, they’ll get what’s coming to them.”
Then he turned to Talbot. “We need to get to the bottom of this—before Roosevelt is sworn in. You huddle with your people. I’ll huddle with mine.”
He faced me again. “They tried to kill me many times. Shot to death my brother. Sprayed machine-gun bullets into my home when my wife and I were sitting in the parlor, our kids were upstairs. I’m still here because I always kept my head on straight. What do they say? Revenge is a dish best served cold.”
O’Donnell got ready to leave. “Lyle, are Babe and Dingy looking out for you?” Talbot assured him they were. “Good, good—enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”
And with that, O’Donnell put on his homburg and was gone. As Miss Blondell made her way back to the table, Talbot and I just looked at each other. Suddenly, we were different people. Suddenly, we had important work to do.
Connee Boswell came onstage, followed by her sisters. They were sultry, swampy, like Lyle had said.
“Stop the trains everywhere / Stop all planes in the air / Stop the night, stop the dawn / My man is gone…”
It sounded like a southern funeral. I buried my young self that night.•
ACT 4 »
Visit altaonline.com/serials to keep reading “Murder on the Starlight Express,” and sign up here to be notified by email when each new installment is available.
David Talbot's latest book is Between Heaven and Hell. He is the founder of Salon magazine; the author of Brothers, The Devil's Chessboard, and Season of the Witch, and a journalist and columnist who has written for the New Yorker, Time, the San Francisco Chronicle, and others.
