Murder at Eastern Columbia

By Christopher Geoffrey McPherson

James Murray is a young man with a dream -- he wants to be a writer just like his idol, Dashiell Hammett -- but there's a Depression on, and he's the only one in his family with a job. Even though it's a good job -- clerking in the Junior Boy's department at the swankest new department store in downtown Los Angeles: Eastern Columbia, Broadway at Ninth -- it's not writing.

At the end of one typical day at work, there's a scream. James rushes toward the sound and finds his best friend -- co-worker Elizabeth "Bess" Flowers -- apparently shot and lying dead in the Better Furniture department. He finds a note in her purse telling her to be in front of the Orpheum Theater at 5:30 "or else." He looks at his watch: it's nearly that time now. Was she shot by a person she refused to meet? Or by someone who wanted to make sure she didn't make the meeting?

James decides to keep the date in front of the theater where, with the help of his good friend, screen-star Charles "Buddy" Rogers, he begins a whirlwind ride through the crepuscular depths of downtown Los Angeles, trying to solve Elizabeth's murder.

"Murder at Eastern Columbia" is not like any book you've ever read: Not a single novel, it's two parallel novels, featuring two heroes, working two murders in two different versions of 1930s Los Angeles.

Join James and his alter ego as they each try to solve the murder of the girl with sorrel-colored hair. His hard-boiled alter ego -- neither a private detective nor a police officer: just someone "who wants to help" -- needs to find out who's trying to pin the murder on him, but finds himself in a jam: "Yeh. Strawberry preserves. All the way up to my neck." Two men in two stories work their way through downtown Los Angeles following clews, interviewing people who might know something, going from location to location, with one goal in mind: find out who might have wanted the girl dead.

Along the way they meet a rich cast of characters including the notorious gangster, a gorgeous raven-haired dame, the beautiful young boy whose love is his undoing, a young doctor whose specialty is cancer research, the cleaning lady with a secret addiction, the struggling piano player who just wants to keep his nose clean, the gum-popping pawn-shop clerk and the sultry Chinese apartment manager who tries to hide behind the mysteries of the Orient.

"Murder at Eastern Columbia" is filled with twists, turns and a climactic scene along the dizzying heights of the observation deck atop the brand new Los Angeles City Hall.

Come along for the ride in this James Murray mystery: the story of a young guy, a kid really, who dreams of something better.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Geoffrey McPherson
• Release date: May 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301776191

Christopher Geoffrey McPherson

In more than three decades as a professional writer/journalist, Christopher has covered myriad subjects and interviewed thousands of people from the famous to the unknown. He brings these years of experience to each of his novels.In his career, his work has appeared in daily newspapers, monthly magazines, extensively on radio and the occasional dalliance with television. He has written advertising copy and radio commercials – and continues to write.Prior to this new novel, "Sincerely, Dina Lamont," Christopher wrote novels about the most famous cat in ancient Japan who had special powers in “A Cat in Time,” and “22: The Biography of a Gun,” a tale set in the near future where guns are strictly controlled yet where one manages to make its way into the hands of those who want it. Previously, Christopher spent more than five years creating a series of novels that take place in 1930s Los Angeles called “The James Murray Mysteries.” Books in the series are "Murder at Eastern Columbia," “Sabotage at RKO Studio,” “Abduction at Griffith Observatory,” “Blackmail at Wrigley Field,” and “Haunting at Ocean House.”Other writing featuring his byline includes "The Babi Makers" – a science fiction tale about a world where the most important resource is babies; "Sarah & Gerald" – a novel about Paris in the 1920s; "Forever - and other stories" – a collection of short stories; "The Life Line" – the novel of the big one that levels San Francisco; "News on the Home Front" – a novel of two friends during World War Two; and "Mama Cat" – a book for children. Also, several short plays, a few radio plays and a boatload of radio documentaries.

Book preview

Murder at Eastern Columbia

A James Murray Mystery

a novel by

Christopher Geoffrey McPherson

Murder at Eastern Columbia

Copyright 2013 by Christopher Geoffrey McPherson

All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover design by Matt Hinrichs

Author's note: Some characters in this story may seem familiar; however, this is a work of fiction. All buildings mentioned are real and many of the businesses inside really existed; however, some physical characteristics of the buildings have been changed to suit the needs of the story.

Smashwords Edition

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Murder at Eastern Columbia is lovingly dedicated

to the effervescent and ebullient

Shirley Wilson who, many years ago,

became my personal tour guide of La La Land

I would like to acknowledge the following for their assistance during the research phase of this novel: the staff of the Los Angeles Public Library, Martin Turnbull (author, the Garden of Allah novels), John Buntin (author, L.A. Noir), Lauren Everett (Los Angeles Conservancy), Richard Schave (Esotouric.com) and, of course, my spouse Matt, who patiently listened as I bounced idea after idea at him over otherwise quiet lunches in our backyard.

I am indebted to many authors whose factual books on Los Angeles in the 1930s were of great help to me. I especially want to cite perhaps the most cited book of L.A. history: Southern California: An Island on the Land by Carey McWilliams (1946) as being particularly helpful.

The beautiful font used in the cover design is called Ostrich Sans -- a free font available from TheLeagueOfMoveableType.com

Chapter One

Eastern Columbia

Broadway at Ninth

I opened my eyes.

The dull light of the morning sun filtered in through the wooden blinds, striking me smack in the face and hurting like a sonofabitch. I couldn't hear anything but a high-pitched whine. I cracked my jaw in the hopes it would stop the whine. It didn't. I looked around. There were hundreds of tiny flecks floating in the shaft of light like a thousand little flitting flies. It made me sick to my stomach to watch them.

I closed my eyes.

I opened my eyes.

I was lying mostly face down in what passed for an office at the top of the building. There was partially obscured backward lettering on a frosted glass door that was just visible above my field of view. The president's office, or so the sign said.

My right arm was under my face.

My left arm was stretched out.

My left hand was clasped around the wooden handle of the ice pick.

I followed my field of view and realized the reason I couldn't clearly see the backward lettering on the frosted glass door: her body was partially blocking the view. The ice pick held firmly in my hand was planted solidly in her chest, right between the two soft mounds of pleasure that had first attracted me to her.

Those mounds won't be giving anyone any pleasure any more, I knew.

She was lying there, on her back, more dead than anyone I had ever seen before. She was stiller than I had ever seen her. She was also whiter than anything white I had ever seen. Her rich sorrel-colored hair framed her face as if she had just been sleeping. I thought of the many times I'd awakened and seen her looking just like that. Her long tanned legs were stretched out to my left, pointing in the general direction of the windows that overlooked the intersection of Ninth and Broadway Streets. I noticed a run in one of her stockings. Those used to bother her a great deal. I figured this one would be an exception.

I started to lift my body from the floor. I realized I was doing it slowly and quietly as if I was afraid I would awaken her. I released the handle of the ice pick and brought my arm toward my body. The elbow hurt from being hyper-extended so long. I waited a moment for the pain to subside.

I turned slightly so as to put both palms on the floor and tried giving a little push. The lightning storm that flared up inside my head made me stop the effort. I rested a moment. I gave another push and continued right through the storm thundering deep inside my brain until I stumbled up onto both feet. I didn't know it at the time, but this was what a concussion felt like.

The sun still hurt my eyes. I still heard that whine. My throat was parched. I turned my body slightly and noticed the portable bar next to the cherry-wood desk. I gently stepped toward a bottle of amber liquid, tossed off the stopper, lifted the bottle and downed a gulp like a man who had been in the desert far too long. The sudden jolt to my system first made me cough. The cough turned to vomiting. I threw up on her handbag. I took another drink and noticed the clock on the desk. It said five-thirty. It took me a moment to understand it was morning and not evening.

Fortified with extra energy, I slowly moved toward the windows. I pulled the cord to let more light into the office. I turned my head. Her body filled my view.

She was wearing the red dress she had on last night. One foot still wearing the matching satin shoe; the other foot bare except for her hose, showing the red nail enamel she put on just for me, she said. There wasn't much blood in sight, just a small darkening blotch circling where the ice pick remained in her chest. There was some bruising on her arm and one of her fingernails was broken off. I wondered, for a brief moment, where the rest of the nail was. Her hands were empty. I moved her just enough to make sure there was nothing under her. She was so light. I guess I never really noticed how light she was.

I turned my attention to the office. It looked like nothing had been messed up or gone through -- just the way the president had left it when he called it a day the night before. I moved to the office door. It was locked -- from the inside -- and didn't look to have been jimmied open. I scanned the room. There was no other way into the office except the corner windows. They were thirteen floors above the busy intersection below. I always thought buildings were made with either more than or fewer than thirteen floors to avoid bad luck. It sure hadn't been a lucky number for her. In 1904, the City of Los Angeles imposed a height limit on all buildings to avoid problems with earthquakes. It seems like a lot of people had been having bad luck ever since.

I turned and looked out the window. I saw the flickering marquee to the Orpheum theater across and just up the street. I could see the name of the movie spelled out on the marquee -- Cimarron. I had been trying to get tickets to the opening last night and couldn't. I heard Richard Dix and Irene Dunne were going to make a personal appearance for the premiere. I had a thing for Dunne and really wanted to see her up close. Tickets couldn't be had so I didn't go. I wound up at the speak last night with the girl and her sorrel-colored hair -- and we all know how that ended.

I turned my attention from the window to take another look at the body on the floor. I guess maybe I thought she might not really be dead after all. She was dead all right. The ice pick still sticking up between her breasts, just as I remembered it.

Next to her body, on the side away from me, I saw her handbag, covered with the boozy vomit from a moment ago. I made my way over to the other side of the room and slowly bent down to pick it up. The thunderstorm in my head didn't let up. The pain was so bad I had to close my eyes and hold on to a chair for a moment. That last flare up made the whining go away. I could almost hear like a real person again.

I eased my body into the chair and opened the handbag. It still contained four hundred-odd dollars and a diamond brooch I remembered she took off last night when one of the paste stones came loose. The brooch wasn't worth two bits, but it had sentimental value, she said. Probably one of her old boyfriends, I thought. I offered to buy her another, better brooch -- with real diamonds -- and she refused. She took off the brooch with the loose stone, wrapped it in her handkerchief, and set it gently into her purse. I looked over to the body on the floor and saw she was still wearing the two diamond earrings -- real ones, this time. I noticed a little trickle of blood coming from one ear. I made note of that.

So, robbery wasn't the motive, I figured. But what motive could a person have for killing someone like her?

Next to her head, I noticed a cigarette butt that had been stubbed out on the carpet. It wasn't one of my brand, and the girl didn't smoke -- usually. I supposed it could belong to the president, but it wasn't likely he would put out a cigarette on his own carpet. I made a note of that, too.

After resting a few more minutes, I looked around the office to see if there was a private bathroom. There was. I washed my hands, examined my clothes and shoes for blood, made sure none of my personal property was lying around and then started to clean everything to remove any fingerprints I might have left behind. I then made for the office door. I wiped the inside knob, unlocked the door, let myself out and wiped the outside knob. I made my way down the deserted corridor that let into a small room occupied by the company's steno pool. There were four typewriters sitting on four desks that were usually occupied by four girls who had hopes and dreams for something better than this. But there was a Depression on and they knew they were stuck for now -- until some guy would screw up enough nerve and propose marriage. I could just hear them sighing in resignation as they typed the store memoranda.

At such an early hour of the morning, I knew there would be no one around to see me skulking down the corridors toward the elevator. I made slow and cautious progress just the same. My luck, I'd encounter a cleaning lady on her hands and knees scrubbing some spot on the marble floor that just had to be perfect before the store opened. I could do without that kind of dedication.

I made my way to the ornate copper elevator doors and scanned the row of numbers above them. They were all there: floors one through thirteen, with an additional B for the basement. I stood there. I wondered which floor might be occupied this early and realized none of them would be. I pressed the button to summon the elevator and had to lean my body against the copper and brass edging to conserve my strength while I waited for the car to arrive. It took longer than I thought it would but that was okeh -- I needed the rest.

I don't think I had ever been so exhausted as I was at that moment.

It wasn't so long ago that I had been a star athlete at USC -- was even supposed to have played in that first Rose Bowl Game in '23 against Penn State if not for the ligament I tore in my knee. I was tall and well muscled, popular with the girls and even some guys of the lavender sort. Still, I didn't have an ounce of fat on me, and my legs were long and powerful. I had muscular arms and a bulging chest that made it hard to fit dress shirts. Even so, I felt right then that I had just enough strength left in me to lean against the wall until the elevator showed up.

Soon enough, I discovered I would need that last bit of strength and more.

The car arrived. The doors opened and there he stood: the man I knew was president of the store.

He gave me the queerest look and I must have returned the favor. He slid open the inner gate and moved to take a step out of the elevator. I used the last little bit of strength I had to throw a solid right punch to his chin. It drained me, completely, but landed square and true. The president's body slammed against the side of the elevator and then fell half in and half out of the car. I stepped over his body and into the car. I kicked his legs clear of the door as I slid the gate closed and operated the lever that shut the elevator doors. I moved the lever again and the elevator started its slow and steady path toward the basement. I gave a silent prayer of thanks that the elevator boy didn't show up to work this early. That would have been messy.

What was the president doing arriving at work so early? Maybe that was his normal routine. Maybe it was just my luck. Well, what was done was done. He had seen me and probably recognized me. Soon enough, he would see the little present waiting for him in his office. Then, the jig would be up. But for now, I had to get out of the store and make sure no one else saw me.

The elevator arrived in the basement in good time. I moved the lever to stop the car, opened the inner gate and then moved the lever again to open the twin copper doors.

It was dark in the basement -- just as I had expected.

It was then that I heard her voice calling out to me.

Young man! the voice said.

I tried to shake the sound from my head. It was her voice, calling to me.

Young man! it said again, more urgently. Where is the lingerie department?

I had to stop and listen.

It would be the first of many things I would come to regret this day.

The boy set down his pen.

Chapter Two

Eastern Columbia

Broadway at Ninth

The boy set down his pen.

"I said, 'Young man'!"

The boy looked up from his writing.

Huh?

Now, look here, young man. This just won't do, the springy young woman insisted in a high-pitched voice that would easily attract the attention of passing canines. I've asked you three times now where I will find the lingerie department and three times you've ignored me!

The boy couldn't quite grasp what the woman was saying.

Yes, Ma'am? he said.

What are you doing there with that writing? Is the owner of this store paying you to write or are you being paid to assist your customers?

He looked down at the papers on the counter and then back up at the woman. She was sure pretty, even mad. Her curly blonde hair bounced when she spoke. The boy noticed she had the slightest bit of an accent, probably from the south, that came out from between the reddest lips he'd ever seen. She squinted her eyes as she looked at him, but he could still see that they were dark blue.

She didn't say anything further, just kept staring at him.

The boy ran his hand through his thick dark-brown hair, then looked back down at the pad of paper, the lines of writing on it, and the pen set across the page.

Oh, that, he said, a thought suddenly clicking in his brain. It's my novel, he said with a smile.

A what? the woman asked, incredulously.

I'm a writer, the boy said. That is, I want to be a writer. I'm working on a detective story and --

"A what?" the woman repeated.

"A detective story -- you know, like the kind Dashiell Hammett writes for Black Mask. "

This is entirely unacceptable. Where is the manager? she asked before she turned her head and shouted, Manager! Where is the manager?

Shh, the boy said, frantically. They'll hear you.

That is my very intent, the woman said, shouting again: Manager! Doesn't this store have a manager?

At that moment, a man in a severely tailored suit came around the counter.

Did someone call for a manager? the man said.

No, the boy said, trembling. No one.

I most certainly did, the blousy woman said. "I've been trying to get this young man to tell me where the lingerie department is and he tells me he's too busy writing a detective novel to help me!"

The particular kind of inflection she gave to the word detective would have been appropriate if she were describing a small mound of dog shit she had just stepped into.

Mr. Murray, the man in the suit said in an ominous whisper. We have told you before about working on your novel when you should be assisting customers.

Yes, Sir, the boy said.

I'm afraid this is the end, the man added. You're fired. I'm quite certain the Eastern Columbia Department Store can do without your services in the future.

Fired? the boy said, weakly. Fired? Where will I get another job? There's a Depression on, you know.

You should have thought of that before you idled away your paid time working on your, he paused, seemingly unable to utter the word: novel.

Fired? the boy repeated.

The woman, who remained, appeared surprised by the outcome of her distress.

Is that entirely necessary? she asked, standing next to the wooden dummy of a young boy in the finest school attire atop a gleaming chrome-and-glass counter. I mean, it's not like he's stolen anything.

That is not the point, the man added, Mrs...? Mrs...?

Compton, the woman said with assurance. And it's Miss.

"Oh, of course, Miss Compton, Shaw said, nervously. He collected himself. Whether he's stolen anything is not germane to the discussion. We've had situations like this many times with our young Mr. Murray, here. Many times. He has a habit of letting his mind -- he paused, wander, while he's at work."

But surely, a reprimand would be sufficient, wouldn't it? After all, he's just a boy. Boys will let their minds wander, won't they? she pleaded, her words followed by a slight laugh that had the fragrance of magnolia colored with a hint of mint julep.

The man in the severely tailored suit looked at the woman. He didn't recognize her, but from her manner of conduct and dress he concluded she must be prominent in Los Angeles society. He swallowed and cleared his throat.

Well, he started, unsure of his next step. "We here at Eastern Columbia say that the customer is always right. So, if you think I should let him