It is nearly 11 p.m. on June 20th 1947. A cool breeze creeps down the tree-lined streets

of Hollywood's Beverly Hills. Bright stars dot the dark sky, and crickets call to each

other, breaking the silence of the night. This is a new city, created to house the

rich, the famous, and the infamous. The elaborate homes lining North Lindon Drive are set

back from the road. Most have gardens out front. Few have walls or gates, because these

homes were built to be seen and admired. A man dressed in dark clothes moves towards

a lavish pink mansion, fronted by a well-tended lawn. A semi-automatic rifle is slung over

his shoulder. It's lightweight and easy to handle, the standard firearm for American

soldiers in the Second World War. But tonight it'll be used against a different kind of

enemy. A head of the gunman, headlights swing around the corner. Instinctively ducks down

by the parked car. Part, thundering. He waits for the vettled to pass, then closes in

on the house. Palm trees cast shadows on the walls. Their wide fronds rustling in the

dark, covering the sound of his footsteps. Much of the extravagant property is in darkness,

but to the right of the front door, four tall windows are lit up. He hears voices laughter.

The house is leased to a woman who's currently in Paris, but he needs to confirm that it's

her boyfriend who's at home. The gunman peers through the glass. Inside, there are three

men in a lavish sitting room. It's like a museum in there. Full of lamps, vases, statues,

paintings in gold frames. There's even a grand piano. And next to that, on a wide sofa,

is the man he's looking for, wearing an expensive suit and shiny shoes. He's reading a copy

of the Los Angeles Times. The gunman smiles. If tonight goes to plan, this story will be

on the front pages tomorrow. Retreating, he takes up his position. He rests the barrel

of the gun on a garden pagoda, then lowers his eye. Steadying himself with a breath, he

...