Murder on the Warner Bros. Express page 2
All went well as the golden chariot climbed over the Rockies and steamed regally across the High Plains states and the monotonous flatlands of the American granary. Farmers with faces wrinkled by sun and worry, tramps dressed like scarecrows, women and children old before their time all broke temporarily free from their Depression fates to gather at the train stations along the route. They waved and shouted to the gods and goddesses from the silver screen who stood on the train balcony, wearing tuxedos and evening gowns and perfect smiles that seemed as if they belonged to another, carefree race.
It was in Chicago that the trouble began. The stars had been warned to be discreet about their drinking. The Prohibition was still on and a still bitter Herbert Hoover might send a squad of G-men swooping down on the celebrity express if he thought he could catch the stars in flagrant, inebriated violation of the law, and thereby shame the man who had defeated him at the polls. And until the Windy City, the actors had been careful, with even the thirsty Bogie limiting himself to a nip or two from his flask.
But in Chicago, Spike O'Donnell, the dapper Irish gangster who had inherited the Capone empire, insisted that his old friend George Raft bring the entire Hollywood retinue to a well-lubricated party at his Southside mansion. As the bootleg champagne and Canadian Scotch flowed, O'Donnell's boys danced with Busby Berkeley's bobbed and rouged chorus girls, and Babe McGinty, O'Donnell's trigger man, took a special liking to a pretty, petite hoofer named Faye Stevens, who happened to be Raft's girl of the moment. Snarling words were exchanged between the Hollywood tough guy and his real-life double, and Babe even made a move for the gat inside his double-breasted silk jacket.
O'Donnell, however, insisted that his party not be spoiled and the raucous affair kept picking up speed deep into the night, shifting locations to the Warner Bros. luxury train which sat like an idle monarch back at the station. Somewhere on its downhill
course, the runaway party had swept up several distinctly out of place guests, including Pat Gerrity, top dog in the FBI's Chicago office and an old drinking companion of O'Donnell's. No one seemed to notice the G-man; by then it was not the kind of party where polite introductions were made.
It was not until noon when the half-naked body of Faye Stevens was found in her sleeping berth, with a size 12 silk stocking creasing her creamy neck, her arms thrown high above her head like the big finish in "42nd Street."
