This is the story of a murder, of a single soft-nosed bullet that traveled upward through a man’s rib cage, piercing his lung and lodging in his neck, after being fired by an unknown assailant ninety-two years ago on a cold Los Angeles night.

This is also the story of three beautiful, ambitious women, all of whom loved the victim and any of whom might have been his killer, or the reason he was killed. It is also the story of one very powerful man, who saw the future of a very profitable industry hanging in the balance and kept the truth about the murder obscured and camouflaged for nearly a century.

In many ways, this is also the story of the American dream factory, which was just being born in 1920—a time when the movies were still young and their power still taking people by surprise. It is the story of the clash between old and new, between tradition and innovation, between those who would have censored the movies and their facility to spread new ideas and those who were determined to bring about a new world of freedom, technology, power, and illusion.

I have not fictionalized these events. All scenes described come from primary sources: letters, telegrams, police reports, production records, FBI files, and contemporary news accounts. Nothing has been created for the sake of enhancing the drama, and I do not venture unbidden into the minds of my subjects. When I write “How terribly she missed him” or “Zukor seethed,” these descriptions are based on interviews or memoirs by the subject in question, wherein such feelings, attitudes, or motivations were disclosed or can be deduced. Anything within quotations comes from direct sources. Full citations can be found in the notes.

And in a nod to 1920s orthography,
clue
is herein spelled
clew
.

—WJM, New York

PROLOGUE

A COLD MORNING IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

FEBRUARY 2, 1922

6:20 A.M.

Headlights punctured the early-morning darkness of the coastal highway between Los Angeles and Ventura. As the Pacific Ocean crashed against the beach, a solitary motorcar sped up the highway in the northbound lane.

Streaks of pink lightened the sky as
the vehicle emerged from the shadows—an expensive touring car, its leather top folded down. Traveling at a dizzying speed—perhaps as fast as sixty miles an hour—the car likely originated in Los Angeles, where such flashy automobiles were popular among the movie people.

By the time it reached Ventura, the roadster was thirsty for fuel. As the sun peeked above the treetops of the coniferous forest surrounding the little town, the vehicle pulled off the highway and into a filling station. Dozing inside his office, the attendant opened his eyes to spot a shiny car idling beside the pumps. He was surprised to see that the driver was a woman, and a beautiful one at that, wearing an evening dress and a fur coat. Her hair was in disarray from the wind.

“Give me all the gasoline and oil my car will take,” the woman told the attendant when he hurried to her side. Her face was pale and drawn, and the attendant saw her biting at the fingertips of her gloves. As he filled the car’s tank, he thought the woman seemed “anxious and restless to be on her way.”

Having paid with a bill, the driver screeched out of the station without waiting for change. The attendant stared after her. The incident was unusual enough that he made a mental note of all the details, just in case someone came asking.

Someone would.

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