Sabotage at RKO Studio

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. While working as a clerk at a swank downtown department store, James pens a novel that turns out to be a surprise success. Now, he’s the junior screenwriter at a major Hollywood studio.

During his time there, productions at the studio have been plagued by a series of mysterious accidents including fires, damage to costumes, theft of miniatures used for trick shots -- and the worst: theft of an important scene from the studio’s big picture, "King Kong." Not wanting to attract too much attention by calling the police, head of production Merian C. Cooper enlists James’s help in trying to find out what’s behind the sabotage.

"Sabotage at RKO Studio," and its predecessor "Murder at Eastern Columbia," are unlike any other books you've read: Not a single novel, it's two parallel novels, featuring two heroes, working two mysteries in two different versions of 1930s Hollywood. Join James and his alter ego as they each try to find the saboteurs behind the “accidents.” 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 “accidents” on him. Two men in two stories work their way through 1930s Hollywood following clews, interviewing people who might know something, going from location to location, with one goal in mind: find out who might want to damage the studio.

Along the way, they meet a rich cast of characters including a glamorous movie star; a poor Mexican girl working as a secretary in a bank; a mysterious blonde secretary who harbors a deadly secret; the intriguing Mexican girl from a very wealthy family who still mourns the death of her brother; the silent-screen star who left movies to marry into oil; a handsome young police officer just trying to do his job; and the pretty, young girl who gives tours at the Richfield Oil Building.

"Sabotage at RKO Studio" is filled with twists, turns and a final scene at a glamorous Hollywood movie premiere at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Geoffrey McPherson
• Release date: Jan 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310048463

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

Chapter One

I opened my eyes.

My coughing woke me.

It was a coughing fit like no other. I struggled. I couldn’t catch my breath. The smoke around me was that thick. My throat burned and my eyes stung. What was going on? I wondered, trying desperately to regain my senses. I tried to keep my eyes open but was met with searing pain. It didn’t take me long to realize the room -- or something in it -- was ablaze.

I knew from experience that the best thing to do when trapped in a fire was to get as close to the ground as possible. Hot air rises. Smoke and toxic fumes rise, so the freshest air -- what little there was of it -- would stay close to the floor. Luckily for me, I was already lying on the floor. I turned over, got on my hands and knees and started crawling. I wasn’t sure where I was or where I could find an exit but I had to do something.

I crawled a foot or two and discovered I wasn’t alone in the room.

There she was, lying next to the desk.

I had hopes she was just unconscious; but feared it was a little more permanent. I grabbed her arm. I was taking her out with me -- alive or not; no time to figure out which. I pulled her body along with me.

I heard a cough. This time, it wasn’t one of mine.

Then, a scream.

Who are you? she screamed at me as if I wasn’t actually barely a foot from her.

Shut up, I yelled at her. Screaming was pointless. It also used up precious oxygen. Staying calm now was the prime objective -- that, and getting out of here.

What did you --? she started.

Conserve your oxygen, I told her, sternly, no time for niceties. Shut up and crawl.

She turned over and got on all fours -- just like me. I usually liked a girl on all fours, but right now wasn’t a good time to be thinking about that.

When she turned over, her skirt hiked up around her thighs.

I reached up, grabbed the hem of the dress, and pulled it down.

She slapped my hand.

You’re welcome, I muttered.

We crawled.

We managed to cover another foot or so. I heard a loud bang behind me -- just about where I had been lying. A giant light had crashed down from above, followed by a thick, solid beam of wood the size of a man’s torso. The light hit the ground and sent shards of glass flying through the smoke. I heard something whiz by my ear. I reached up. There was blood. That was too close.

The girl screamed again because, of course, that was going to help us get out of here.

After another few moments of struggle, we made it to what looked like a door.

I reached up and felt for the knob. I grabbed it and let it go with a yelp. It was mighty damn hot. I lifted my body onto my knees and whipped off my coat. My favorite coat, by the way. I guessed I would have to find another favorite after all this was over.

I wrapped part of the coat around my hand and reached up again for the knob. I tried to turn it, but it was locked.

Behind us, another loud crash. I couldn’t see it, but it sounded like another huge light and a beam crashing to the floor -- closer this time.

Whadda we gonna do? the girl said, struggling between coughs.

I dunno, I said, not wanting to waste my breath.

I thought about trying to break down the door. I looked up. The hinges were on my side. The door opened into the room, so breaking through it would be difficult. Also, if the knob was hot, it could mean there was more fire on the other side. Breaking it down could just make things worse.

I got back on all fours and nudged the girl to move to the right. We weren’t going to get out through the door, but maybe there was a window or another door or maybe even an extinguisher to buy us some time.

There was a lot of debris on the ground. Desk supplies, a broken vase, a bunch of roses complete with pointy thorns. We crawled over all of it, getting cut and scraped along the way.

I kept listening for sirens.

Nothing.

Looked like we were on our own.

We stayed close to the ground and kept moving. We hugged the wall. There was nothing there for us but a filing cabinet. That wouldn’t do any good. We kept crawling.

I felt my head getting a little light, a little woozy from the lack of air.

The girl kept coughing. At least it kept her from screaming all the time and asking questions that were essentially pointless.

We crawled around to the back wall -- near where I was when this whole adventure started. I looked up. There was a window sill. Now we’re talking. A window. Maybe we could get out. If it was too high up the side of the building, we could at least open it and get some fresh air. Maybe there were firemen on the other side of the window.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I got up on my knees again. It was a window, all right. I looked out. From what little I could see with all the smoke, we appeared to be a good twenty or thirty stories in the air. No firemen in sight. There was no way we were going to get out this way.

I still had my hand protected by my coat. I reached up and gave the glass a hit. It shattered, surprisingly easily. Finally, something was going right.

I felt cool air coming in through the broken window. I grabbed the girl and lifted her up so she could catch her breath. The air seemed odd, not at all fresh and cold like you would imagine from being so high up in the middle of winter.

We both leaned our heads out the window to take a breath. Warm or not, at least it was clean, fresh air.

Behind us there was another crash. This time, two huge lights fell onto the desk near where the girl had recently been lying. I heard the lights hit and the desk give way. It crumpled under the weight.

Next to fall were two huge wooden beams. Right at the door we tried to open.

Things were getting too close too fast. We had to do something.

I tried to make my legs work, to stand up so I could step outside the window. Maybe there was a fire escape outside, but I saw nothing that would make me think that. The legs wouldn’t work. Gee, if I was only twenty-one again and still on the USC football team, then my legs would work swell.

I rested a moment, letting the fresh air clean out my lungs. I smiled at the irony of it: I quit smoking and now I’m going to die from smoke inhalation. Some kind of poetic justice.

Just then I heard voices.

Finally, I thought. Finally, someone has come to help.

Over here, Frank, a voice said.

I felt the girl next to me being lifted up. The firemen must have come in through the office door. I don’t know how that could have happened with the beams of wood blocking it. But, I didn’t just then really care how they got here, only that they did.

Next, I felt a pair of strong arms grab me under my shoulders and lift me up. I opened my eyes a little and noticed I was being pulled out the window.

My brain must have been getting fuzzy with so little oxygen, because I didn’t understand how I could be lifted out a window thirty stories in the air by someone who was not standing on a ladder. Maybe it wasn’t a fireman, I thought. Maybe an angel was pulling me out the window. Angels have wings; they don’t need ladders.

Watch out! I heard someone yell just before another pair of giant lights came crashing down from above. One hit next to me, right where the girl had been.

The strong arms pulled me out the window. The next thing I know, I’m standing on firm ground. The girl and I were being hustled away from the burning room and out through a pair of massive steel doors.

Are you all right? someone said to me.

I had no idea if I was all right or not.

The girl? I asked, between coughs.

She’s fine. Don’t worry about her. What about you?

Yeh, what about me? If I was dead, shouldn’t I be feeling better by now? Shouldn’t the air be crisp and clean? Shouldn’t there be lots of beautiful girl angels looking after me?

I’m fine, I think, I said.

Look out! a voice cried. The whole set’s gonna go! Get those men outta there!

I heard a crash as loud as anything I’d ever heard, as a whoosh of hot air flew by me, searing my face. I turned my face away from the heat.

It’s ruined! I heard a man say. The entire set is ruined. We’re going to have to rebuild the whole thing before we can resume shooting.

You won’t be able to rebuilt this place, another voice said. It’s gone. The Gower Street side of the sound stage just crumpled under the heat. The entire thing is going to have to be torn down and rebuilt -- from scratch.

Sound stage? Sets? My mind worked. What kind of building was I in that had sound stages and sets and yet was still thirty stories high?

I tried looking around me. Firemen, trucks, water hoses blocking my view. I tried to stand, but my brain had other thoughts, so I stuck close to the ground.

I looked to the side.

The girl was sitting on a curb about a hundred feet away.

Hey! I shouted to her over the din of activity

She turned toward me, all haughty like. Guess it was a bother for her to thank me for saving her life. Oh, well. Dames. Can’t live with them, as they say.

You there, she finally managed.

I looked up at her.

She stood up, off the curb and started walking toward me. She was furious.

Are you the person who tried to put his hand up my dress back there?

I was lowering your skirt. If I was trying to feel you up, you’d know it.

As I thought, she said, her voice low, throaty, just the way I like it. She took a few more steps toward me. That means you’re the man who saved my life, doesn’t it?

Finally, some appreciation. I coulda just saved my own life and left her there, but no. I’m Mr. Nice Guy. Always trying to do what’s right.

Yeh, I said, then coughed. You could say that.

She gave me a little smile. I could barely see it through the smudges on her face, but there it was: a smile -- just for me.

She opened her mouth to say something to me. Just then a frantic man came running up.

Irene! Irene! he shouted at her. Are you all right?

She turned toward the man. She lifted her hand and pushed some hair away from her face.

I’m all right now, she said, gesturing toward me, thanks to that brave man over there.

The frantic man ran toward me. His hand shot out at me.

Thank you, thank you! he said, almost faster than his mouth could form the words. Do you know who that is? Who the girl is whose life you saved?

I looked around his legs to the girl all covered is soot and smudges.

No, I said, honestly.

You just saved the life of Irene Dunne, dear man. Irene Dunne!

I looked around his legs again.

Well, shit and goddamn, I thought to myself. My favorite movie actress in the whole world and I was close enough to her to -- well, I was really close to her.

By this point, I had stood up. I stepped a little closer to her.

It’s all right, she said to the frantic man. We’re both all right. I don’t know that I can say the same for your set, however.

I looked at his face and watched as the frantic man turned his head toward what had been a sound stage on the RKO Studio back lot.

My movie! The frantic man said, grief stricken. What do I tell Cooper?

The young man set down his pen.

Chapter Two

The young man set down his pen.

I said, ‘What do I tell Cooper?’

The young man looked up from his writing.

Huh?

Gee whiz, James! Aren’t you paying any attention to me?

I don’t --

The script, the boy said frantically, pointing at the papers on James’s desk. Cooper wants to see more pages of your script.

James sat there and looked at the young boy. He was Mathew, one of the secretaries to one of the secretaries to one of the assistants of one of the head honchos.

Mathew stood in the doorway, his face flushed from having a one-way argument, his blond hair combed neatly back, his green eyes catching the rays of the mid-day sun that shone in through the windows of the room.

James looked at him.

The boy seemed awfully thin, his shirt and pants almost hanging off the bony frame; but then, a lot of people were too thin. There was a Depression on, after all. Money was hard to come by, food expensive when it could be found.

They aren’t ready, James told the boy as he looked down at the desk. I don’t have anything new yet.

As you said. And as I said, ‘What do I tell Cooper?’ You’re spending all your time writing something that I can see is not the script.

James focused his eyes on the sheets of lined paper and the words he had been writing on them.

It’s my new novel, James said, with a smile, as if those words would magically make everything better. I just started it.

New novel? But you’ve got a script to write. You don’t have time to be working on a new novel.

He was right, James thought to himself.

Late last year, James was hired by David O. Selznick himself to turn out a script for his debut novel Murder at Eastern Columbia that had been serialized in Black Mask before coming out in hardcover earlier in the year. The novel had caused something of a sensation and started a small bidding war for the rights to the film version. James decided to let RKO have the rights because that meant he would be working with Selznick himself. And everyone knew that, aside from Irving Thalberg, Selznick was the best movie maker in Hollywood.

He was so happy the first day he set foot on the lot, greeted by Selznick and a whole bunch of people he never saw again. Hands were shaken, promises made, expectations lifted. He wound up in a tiny office with a tiny desk that he had to share with another writer who was hardly tiny. A few months later, Selznick left RKO in a huff and went to MGM, leaving RKO to be run by Merian C. Cooper -- someone James had still never even met.

James got the sense that Cooper didn’t like him or his novel or the prospect of a fresh kid writing the script for their movie. The studio wasn’t going to cast any big names in the film; this wasn’t one of their prestige efforts. But they were talking up Nat Pendleton to play the detective character, Joan Bennett as the raven-haired femme fatale and Junior Durkin to play the character of James Murray, boy detective. None of them would have been his first choice, but he was just the writer, not the producer.

On top of all of that, he was stuck -- writer’s block, they call it. In reality, he didn’t know what he was doing. He typed a few lines of the script each day, but knew he was in way over his head. The fat guy assigned to the same office was a continuity expert. He was supposed to help James through his first draft -- but he spent more time at one of the nearby speakeasies than in the office, so James really had no one. So, when things weren’t going well, he’d pull out his stack of pages and work on his newest novel. He figured he could use his experience on the lot to come up with a follow-up novel -- even if he never managed to complete the film script.

You’re right, James said to the young boy.

The blond-haired boy realized James was in a jam and felt sorry for him. He had been at the studio only a couple years, working as the secretary to one of the secretaries to one of the assistants. He’d seen that look on the faces of writers more famous and more talented than James. He recognized James’s frustration, and didn’t relish adding fuel to the flames.

Whaddaya want me to tell Cooper? Mathew said, quietly.

Tell him I’ll have some pages for him first thing next week.

That’s what you said last week, the boy pointed out.

Yes, James agreed.

And the week before that.

James looked up. He wanted to smash the blond boy right in the kisser, but couldn’t. The boy had always been nice to him and, besides, he was right: James had been stalling long enough.

James knew he had to get his act together or there would be hell to pay. He certainly didn’t want to lose this job -- he was making more money in a week here than he made in a month back at the department store. His mother and father were so happy they could finally afford proper food and buy some new clothes. James was glad he could help. He didn’t want to disappoint them by losing the best gig in town: writer at a movie studio!

He repeated it in his mind: writer at a Hollywood movie studio.

He was doing everything he always wanted to do. He wasn’t going to let any secretary of a secretary get to him. He wasn’t even going to let the head of the studio get to him. No, he was going to go full speed ahead and work on the script like his life depended on it -- which, in a way, he realized, it did.

James looked at the boy, looked him right in the eye.

You tell Cooper to hold onto the reigns, tight, because I’m going to give him pages that will just blow him away. You tell him I said that.

Mathew, unimpressed, shrugged his shoulders and left the office. James could hear him clomping down the stairs leading away from the writer’s building.

James turned back to his typewriter and began typing.

Hey, there, stranger, a familiar voice said to James from the door to his office.

James looked up from his typing. He was so glad to see his best friend, Elizabeth Bess Flowers, standing there in a sunny yellow dress -- her face smiling, cheery, happy; her sorrel-colored hair blowing in the slight breeze.

Gee, Bess, am I glad to see you, James said, as he slumped back in his chair.

What’s the matter, Honey? the young woman asked as she entered the room.

James ran his hand through his dark-brown hair.

I’m dog tired, he said. The script is giving me nothing but trouble and Harold -- the guy who’s supposed to be helping me -- is never here to help. He sighed. I’m darn near close to chucking it all in.

Elizabeth walked into the sparsely furnished office and perched on the edge of James’s desk. She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

James, you’ve really got to stop beating yourself up. The script’ll come as it’s suppose to come -- just like your novels. You know you always have trouble with your writing and you stress about it. Just give it some time.

You’re right, of course, the young man said. But, Cooper is chomping at the bit for more pages. I think he’s just looking for a reason to throw me off the lot.

Elizabeth laughed.

Of course that’s not true, she said. Why, I’ve met him a couple of times and he couldn’t be nicer.

Nicer, sure, James said with a smirk. You’re married to one of his new stars. There’s no way he’d do anything to make you -- or Bruce -- unhappy.

He was referring, of course, to Bruce Cabot, the piano player who had married Elizabeth about two years ago: Valentine’s Day, 1931. He had just gotten his big break and been cast in King Kong, the studio’s major release for 1933.

I don’t think it’s that at all, Elizabeth said. Sure, Bruce’s got a big role in that monkey movie, but Cooper’s nice to everyone. He’s a lot of bluff and bluster, but underneath, he’s a caring man who has a lot of respect for the people who work for him.

He’s always rubbed me the wrong way, James insisted.

But, you’ve never even met the man.

True, but I feel his psychic energy, his vibes. I know when he’s talking about me.

You’re crazy, Elizabeth said.

No, truly. I think he has it in for anyone personally hired by Selznick. I know several of them -- including another writer -- who’ve already left the studio. I’m sure Cooper was the reason.

Or, they might have wanted to work with Selznick no matter what studio he was at. It’s possible they left on their own -- without a push from Cooper.

James sighed.

I suppose you’re right, Bess, he said, wearily. That still doesn’t get my script finished. You know, writing a movie script is so different than writing a straight novel. I really had no idea what I was getting into when I agreed to come on salary and write it. I should’ve just sold the rights and let some other poor soul do the writing.

Elizabeth stood up, reached down and grabbed both of James’s hands.

Come on, she said, cheerfully. Bruce is done with work for the day and we’ve got plans to go to lunch. That’s actually why I came up here: to take you to lunch with us. Whaddaya say?

"I didn’t know he’d already started another film. I thought he was taking some time off, now that Kong is done."

"Oh, he is. The studio’s loaned him out to Paramount for a picture called Disgraced! He’s been doing wardrobe and make-up tests; but filming doesn’t start for another week or so.

Oh, James said.

So? Elizabeth said, after a moment in silence.

So?

What about lunch? Are you in?

I really don’t think I ought to, James said, standing with reluctance. I’ve got this script to finish, he said, tilting his head to his Corona typewriter sitting there, devouring a piece of white typing paper in its maw. Cooper’ll --

Oh, pish posh, Elizabeth said, tightening her hold on his hands. Eat now, type later. That’s my motto.

James looked at her and laughed at the silliness she just spouted.

Okeh, if you insist, he said. Where’re you going for lunch?

We thought we’d head over to Perino’s on Wilshire.

Perino’s?

Yeh. It’s the new restaurant where the old Hi-Hat used to be. Bruce and I celebrated our engagement at the Hi-Hat. Remember? Then, after he lost his job at Desmond’s, he took a part-time shift there, working as a waiter.

Hey, that’s right, James said. That’s where the talent scout spotted him that night.

That’s the place. It holds many happy memories for us. So, we decided it would be a good place to celebrate last night’s opening of the monkey movie. Whaddaya say?

I say you really ought to stop calling it that. Cooper doesn’t like it, James said, grabbing his hat and coat from the coat tree by the door and slowly following Bess out the door and down the stairs.

True, Elizabeth said, leading the way, but it’s changed names so many times, I keep getting lost. At least, when I call it the monkey movie people know which one I mean.

They were halfway down the stairs when they heard a honking horn.

Bruce Cabot was sitting in a smart red convertible at the base of the stairs leading away from the writer’s building. He looked dashing behind the wheel -- his thick blond hair, dazzling blue-grey eyes and white teeth all set off by his beach tan. It suited him much better than the piano he usually played for friends. In fact, he’d been so busy at the studio lately