Death Was in the Picture (26 page)

“Open it up and see. Is he in?” he said, moving toward Dex’s closed office door.

“No. Haven’t seen him. Haven’t heard a peep. And I wanted to hear how it went at the studio yesterday.”

“Well, it went.”

“I know that, wise guy. But specifics. And I’ve got some of my own.”

Mustard looked interested but would not be diverted. “We’ll get to all that when he shows up. Meanwhile …” and he poked the folder another inch or two closer to me on the desk.

“All right already,” I said, before doing what he suggested, opening the folder and looking at the first page of a thick sheaf of mimeographed paper.

“The Motion Picture Production Code of 1930,” I read. “Wait, the name is familiar. Why?”

“Read on, just a bit,” Mustard said. “I think you’ll see.”

“‘If motion pictures present stories that will affect lives for the better,’” I read, “‘they can become the most powerful force for the improvement of mankind.’” I looked at Mustard again. “I don’t understand.”

“Skip to here,” he said, indicating a section a bit farther down the page. And then, “Out loud,” when I would have read it silently.

I complied, treading lightly over it until I got to this part: “‘Motion picture producers recognize the high trust and confidence which have been placed in them by the people of the
world and which have made motion pictures a universal form of entertainment.’ Mustard?”

“Keep going.”

I sighed, but did as he asked. “‘They recognize their responsibility to the public because of this trust and because entertainment and art are important influences in the life of a nation. Hence, though regarding motion pictures primarily as entertainment without any explicit purpose of teaching or propaganda, they know that the motion picture within its own field of entertainment may be directly responsible for spiritual or moral progress, for higher types of social life, and for much correct thinking….’ Wait. Why are you having me read this?”

“Who do you figure wrote this document?”

“These people,” I skimmed back to what I’d already read, looking for the salient bit, “these ‘motion picture producers.’ I know something about that. I was talking to this guy at the Masquers’ party …”

“Yeah, but you’re wrong,” Mustard interrupted me.

“Wrong about what? I haven’t told you anything yet.”

Mustard grinned. A bit sheepishly, I thought, but he grinned nonetheless. “No. You haven’t. But I know you’re wrong anyway. It was written
for
the motion picture producers. But it was not written
by
them.”

“Oh-kay …” I said. I could tell there was something Mustard wanted to say, but he was getting to it in his own sweet time. I let him amble.

“The actual writing was done by a Catholic priest.”

“A Catholic priest.”

“Right,” he hesitated a beat. I waited things out. “A Catholic priest,” he repeated, “named Daniel Lord. From … Chicago.”

I sat there for a minute, waiting for the import of what Mustard was telling me to sink in. Obviously, there was something here he wanted me to see. Something he’d already gotten loud and clear, but it just wasn’t coming through.

“Listen, Mustard, I don’t wanna say ‘big deal’ but…”

“Don’t you see it?”

I shook my head while still scouring my brain. “I’m sorry, Mustard. Maybe there’s something here I’m missing. We’ve got… what? Some kind of rules written by a priest who wants movies to be moral. And you’re acting like it’s some big missing piece.”

“Well, it’s the Chicago thing, for starters.”

“It’s a big place, Mustard. Chicago is a city. There are a lot of people there. I’m pretty sure they don’t all know each other.”

“Sure, I know that,” he said impatiently. “But, see, I told you: a guy I know in Chicago—a horse racing guy—gave Xander Dean my name. But Dean, who does he work for? Did he ever tell you?” Mustard watched my face for a second, then looked slightly triumphant. “See, he never told you, did he?”

“Are you asking me if he told me? Or are you asking me if I know?”

“There’s a difference?”

I nodded.

“OK then, I’m asking did he tell you.”

“In that case, no.”

“There you go,” he said triumphantly.

“Are you kidding me?” I said, feeling the end of my rope drawing near. “What are you
talking
about, Mustard? I’m completely lost.”

“I’ll draw you a picture.”

“Do that.”

“We’ll just play pretend. Let’s say that, back in Chicago, Daniel Lord hires Xander Dean …”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “A Catholic priest hires local muscle? Already that’s a stretch.”

“Just pipe down and listen up, will you? And, anyway, it’s not as much of a stretch as you might think. See, Father Daniel Lord has spent most of his career in St. Louis.”

“All right,” I said.

“And things with him seem pretty quiet up to 1926.”

“Then what happens?”

“He was made a director of the Sodality of Our Lady.”

“The Sodality of Our Lady,” I said the words. Tried them on. “What’s that?”

“OK: I’m still working on that,” Mustard admitted. “They don’t seem to go around publishing manuals on what they do.”

“No,” I said wryly, indicating the copy of the Production Code on my desk, “just on what others should do.”

“I do know that it’s not just priests what are members though. Peter Paul Rubens …”

“The artist?”

“Yeah. And Leopold of Austria …”

“Ummm … is he the one they called the Holy Roman Emperor? Maybe that’s not such a leap.”

“Maybe even Cecil B. DeMille.”

“Really?”

“Maybe. Anyway, you get the idea: not just people you’d think of as belonging to religious organizations.”

“Let me say it again: Holy Roman Emperor.”

Mustard ignored both the crack and my tone. “So, like I said, this Daniel Lord was made national director of the Sodalists in 1926. In 1927, he consulted on
The King of Kings
for DeMille.”

“Who was also a Sodalist.”

“Maybe. But, see, that’s Lord’s first Hollywood connection. And maybe, from his perspective, the first time he finds himself thinking about how he could affect the morals of the nation.”

“But that’s conjecture, right?” I said.

“Sure.”

“All right. Then what?

“In 1929, Lord starts work on the Production Code more or less under the direction of Cardinal Mundelein of the Archdiocese of Chicago.”

“More or less.”

“Sure,” Mustard admitted, “probably one or the other. I’m just not sure yet which one. Anyway, from what I can tell, these guys put the Production Code together and then give it to the Hays Office.”

“I’ve heard of that,” I said.

“It’s not really called that. It’s the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America,” Mustard said. “Will Hays is the head of it. But, from my digging, I gather it’s kind of a shield. The studios formed this organization in the 1920s. They gave Hays a lot of money to quit his post office job and run it for them.”

“He was a mailman?”

“Kinda. He was Postmaster General.”

“Of the
United States?”
I’ve never claimed to know much about either business or politics, but even I know that’s a pretty important job.

“Yeah. And before that he’d been chairman of the Republican National Committee. But he’d only been Postmaster General for a year before the studio heads hired him to head up the Hays Office….”

“Which wouldn’t have been called that then.”

“… word is they offered him $100,000 a year.”

I just looked at Mustard then, finally speechless. Mustard allowed the quiet, perhaps enjoying my stunned expression.

“That’s a lot of mazuma,” I said. “And it would explain why he gave up the cushy postal thing.”

Mustard nodded. “It would indeed. Anyway, they put the Production Code into action, but no one would listen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the studios figure they’ve done their part, you know, they’ve hired Hays and he can pay lip service to whoever and make the pesky government types who would inflict rules on things just go away. Only it’s not enough, right? It’s not enough for anyone: the government wants real censorship, not just lip service. And the church wants morality. So something’s gotta give.”

“I have no idea where any of this could possibly be going,” I said.

“Well, the Hays office brings in an enforcer. Someone whose job it will be to make everyone toe the line.”

“Xander Dean?” I ventured.

“Not even close,” Mustard said. “They bring in Joseph Breen.”

“Who is also from Chicago?”

“No,” Mustard admitted. “Pittsburgh. But there’s a Chicago connection.”

“Of course there is,” I said dryly.

I looked at Mustard for a full fifteen seconds without saying anything. Who would have expected that his long convoluted story would actually have a postscript that I’d be able to write?

“What?” Mustard said. “You’re burnin’ a hole in me.”

“I know him. I know Joseph Breen,” and all the bits I’d been inadvertently collecting on him came tumbling out. “I met him at the Masquers’ Ball. And I saw him yesterday. At the MGM commissary. He was there with Xander Dean. And he gave a girlfriend of mine a ride home and it turns out he hates Jews.”

Just then the door opened and Dex came in. “You two look chummy,” he said. “There a reason for this party?”

Mustard and I looked at each other, then we both looked down at the Production Code, still on my desk.

“Yeah, there’s a reason. Let’s go in your office, buddy,”
Mustard said, leading the way, but indicating I should follow. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

“A lot,” I chimed in.

“And you’re gonna wanna drink. A big one.”

“WHAT THE HELL does any of this have to do with our guy?” It was a bellow. I could hear that it came from Dex’s heart. It was fueled by the bourbon he’d been topping his glass with every ten minutes or so for the last three quarters of an hour, but it hadn’t been born there. That place was a different one entirely.

Mustard looked almost comically unconcerned about Dex’s outburst. He and Dex had been friends a long time and they’d been through a lot together. The trenches in Europe during the War, for starters. They’d watched each other’s backs. Lots more since, I guessed, and though neither of them ever talked about it, the bond they shared ran deep. They were connected in that strange distant-close way that only men who have faced bullets together ever are.

“No, really, Mustard, you come in here with some cock and bull story about secret religious organizations—in Chicago of all places—and political leaders and the Holy Roman Empire …”

Mustard shot me a look at that one and I shuffled my feet apologetically. I probably
should
have left Emperor Leopold out of things, since I could barely remember that lesson from Mrs. Beeson’s school myself and I was fairly certain that Dex had retained even less of the tale than I. Plus, strictly speaking—as I’m sure Mustard would have pointed out given the chance—the emperor’s position as a Sodalist didn’t have much to do with anything at all.

“But don’t you see,” Mustard started to say, “it’s the Chicago connection…”

“Don’t start that again.”

“… and it comes through Xander Dean.”

“Right. And Kitty saw Dean and Hays’ right-hand being all chummy at the studio yesterday,” Dex supplied. “And Breen told a girlfriend of Kitty’s that Xander was hired muscle. And all of this doesn’t prove anything at all.”

“On the other hand,” Mustard said, “you have to admit it’s a little odd.”

Dex nodded agreement. “You’re right. It’s certainly at least a little odd.”

“What about you two,” I prompted. “I haven’t heard how your day at the studio went.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” Dex said, “they serve a very good grade of whiskey at MGM.”

“The best,” Mustard agreed.

“And the Cubans! I haven’t had a cigar so good since I don’t know when.”

“No, really you guys. Did you find anything useful?”

The two of them looked like small boys, caught in the act of something nasty … and delicious. They did not scuff their feet on the floor, but I caught an impression of that just the same.

“Well, we discovered one thing,” Dex said. “You shouldn’t wear lead.”

“That’s right,” Mustard chimed in. “The color doesn’t suit you. I’ve seen you move more elegantly, too.”

I did my best to ignore their jocularity. It was hard. Sometimes when the two of them got going, it was difficult to get them back on course. And sometimes they were obviously having so much fun, you didn’t want to try. “Well,” I said, “I actually have still more to impart.”

“No kiddin’?” Dex said.

“One of the people I saw on set yesterday was Baron Sutherland.”

“Your boyfriend,” Dex put in knowledgeably. Mustard’s ears perked right up when Dex said it, too.

“Hardly that,” I said. “And he didn’t see me and we didn’t talk. But one of the things I learned yesterday was that it’s possible, though not definite, that Baron had his contract drawn up so that if anything happened to Laird Wyndham, he himself would step into Laird’s roles.”

Dex sat back in his chair and seemed to contemplate this. For his part, Mustard said, “How good is your source?”

“Not terribly,” I admitted. “Still, it might be worth looking into.”

“Definitely, Kitty. Thanks. Anything else?”

“Well, I already told Mustard: I saw Xander Dean at MGM yesterday. In the commissary with Joseph Breen. I got the feeling that Xander was working for Breen.”

“And they’re both from Chicago,” Mustard said, sounding pleased with himself.

“Working how?” Dex asked, completely ignoring his old friend.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Well, I did …” I shot a quick glance at Mustard, “I
did
hear the word ‘Chicago.’ Least, I’m pretty sure I did.”

“Oh good God,” Dex said.

Mustard beamed.

“But a girl I was talking to, Rosalyn Steele? From the Masquers? She was an extra with me yesterday. And she got… well, she got Breen to give her a ride home.”

“Wait: you got a girl to go home with Breen in order to get information?” Dex looked incredulous.