The Tinseltown Murderer

by Maureen Driscoll

  “And two others.”

  Greta reached for the sterling silver cigarette case which had been a gift from an ardent admirer, a married studio executive who’d been a useful source of information. After pointedly not asking if Stern wanted a cigarette, she took one for herself, then looked for a lighter.

  “Allow me,” he said as he struck a match and stood too close, as always.

  “Danke,” she said before sitting on a velvet chair with a skirt which extended to the floor, providing a convenient hiding place for weapons. “Yes, I met David Remington and his wife, Josephine. They’re going by the name Matthews, not that it will do them any good.”

  “You got the picture?”

  Greta nodded, as she exhaled smoke. “I had my photographer near Kennedy. Fortunately, it didn’t take much maneuvering to get a shot.”

  “Be sure to get it to Berlin as soon as possible.”

  “I didn’t plan on keeping it to myself. What about you? Are you holding up your end? Or are you only intent on spying on me?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said, as he walked toward her, then collected his hat from behind her chair. It took every bit of Greta’s discipline to keep her back to him. “Just make sure you have the package ready to ship. Good night, Greta. I’ll see you soon.”

  When Stern left, Greta felt under the chair to see if her pistol was still there. It was, and she checked to see if it was still loaded. Somewhat surprisingly, it was. That meant either Stern hadn’t searched her house, or he didn’t see her as a threat. If the latter were true, he was making a huge mistake.

  * * *

  “If you want to learn more about Greta,” said Lawrence the next morning at breakfast on the patio, “I suggest you start here.” He put a newspaper article in front of Josie and David, as Dora re-filled everyone’s coffee.

  “The German American League?” asked Josie, as she glanced at the headline. “We saw one of their posters near the train station.”

  “Yes,” said Lawrence. “It’s ostensibly a social club for Americans of German heritage. Their lodge is downtown, and it started off as a place to reminisce about the old country. During the Great War, their focus was on combatting anti-German sentiment. They had war bond drives, supported the Red Cross and even made small loans to families facing hard times while their men were off fighting.”

  “Did it counter the anti-German sentiment?” asked David.

  “I wasn’t living here at the time, but according to this article, it generated enough goodwill that Germans didn’t face the hardships of many other ethnicities. Even at the height of the war, Americans of German descent had an easier time of it than almost any other minority you can think of.”

  Josie took a sip of coffee. “You said the League started off as a social club. What has changed since the Great War?”

  “There are a lot more Germans, for one thing, and not just Americans of German descent. I mean German nationals.”

  “Nazis,” said Dora. “There’s a local branch of the Hitler Youth that’s being billed as an outdoor club similar to the Boy Scouts.”

  “If the Boy Scouts were fascists,” said Lawrence.

  Dora continued. “They have Brown Shirts from Germany, young men who espouse Hitler’s ideals and love intimidating people.”

  “It goes further than mere intimidation,” said Lawrence. “People have been beaten up either by the Brown Shirts or the American version, the Silver Shirts. As Hitler grows bolder in Europe, his followers here in the U.S. do so, as well. The members of the League are no longer shying away from the crimes of the Fatherland. They’re proud of them, and they’re gaining an audience. Seven years of the Great Depression have created millions of Americans who are mired in poverty. Some will take hope from whomever offers the rosiest version of the future, regardless of the swastikas on the brochures.”

  “Can’t the police do anything?” asked Josie. “The Brown Shirts are almost certainly being encouraged by Hitler and it’s only a matter of time before things get worse.”

  “It’s already bad enough,” said Dora quietly. “As Lawrence said, there have been beatings, and a number of synagogues have been defaced and had their windows broken. Threats have been made.”

  “Then let’s go to the police,” said Josie. “Because if there’s one thing the LAPD is good at it in my day, it’s never being afraid to show force. And in this case, I’m all for it.”

  “It sounds like your day is remarkably similar to ours,” said Lawrence. “But the problem is that the police are much more concerned about the communists. I know that for a fact, since Dora and I are both dues-paying members of the party.”

  “Actually, I’m a bit behind on my dues,” said Dora. “Salon services are expensive.”

  Lawrence smiled at his best friend. “That’s not very proletariat of you.”

  “Don’t worry, I tip well.”

  Josie put down her coffee cup. “First of all, your communist party membership is going to make it hard to work in Hollywood in about fifteen years, so keep that in mind. Second, I think this means you shouldn’t be the ones to go to the police.”

  “I don’t think I can do it,” said David. “Kennedy recognized me, and others might, as well. That could raise questions we can’t answer.”

  “So, it’s going to have to be me,” said Josie.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to send an anonymous letter instead?” asked Lawrence. “The LAPD can be…prickly.”

  Josie shook her head. “It’s the LAPD, what could go wrong?” Then she thought about that statement. “It’s the LAPD in 1936. It’s probably fine.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Josie looked at the building in front of her in downtown Los Angeles. The headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department was a non-descript municipal building which had seen better days. A steady stream of uniformed officers – all white and all male – were walking up and down the stone steps, occasionally escorting a handcuffed suspect. A motorcycle officer, wearing knee-high boots, revved up his bike and merged into traffic. Two other officers walking into the building stared at Josie. She wasn’t certain if it was with suspicion or lust, and she didn’t care to find out. She walked toward the entrance of the imposing building, which featured three double sets of glass and steel doors. She was just about to reach for one, when an officer who’d just left the building retreated, then held it open for her.

  “Thank you,” said Josie, still getting used to the social niceties of this earlier era.

  “Anytime, Toots,” said the man with a wink, before going on his way.

  And that was a reminder that the modern era might mean fewer niceties, but not quite as much “Toots,” either.

  The interior of the building was filled with more unformed officers, as well as men in suits who might be detectives. There were a few women striding through the halls carrying files and dressed the way Josie might be if she went for tea with the Queen. But, apparently, this was just what you wore to work.

  She approached the main desk, which was staffed by a uniformed officer who was barking out orders to three other men behind him. Finally, he turned to Josie and smiled. “How can I help you, miss?”

  “I’d like to speak to a detective.”

  “Are you here to report a crime?”

  Yes. In fact, she wanted to tell everyone about the coming genocide, but since that wasn’t an option, she could only say, “Yes, please.”

  “What kind of crime?”

  “Suspicious political activities.”

  The man at the desk nodded knowingly. “Commies? We’ll have you talk with someone right away.” He snapped his fingers in the direction of a thin officer who couldn’t have been older than twenty. “Sprague! Take this lady to see Hutchinson on the double. She’s got something on the Reds.”

  Josie wanted to tell him her concerns weren’t red but brown-shirted instead. However, since she was now being escorted upstairs, she figured she could clarify later. Young Officer Sprague
led her through the dark hallways painted institutional green until they entered a large squad room on the third floor. There were two dozen desks spread out in the room, with a few offices at the far end. Tall windows let in a great deal of the Los Angeles sunshine, which made it easier to see the haze of cigarette smoke which Josie had smelled from far down the hall. Aside from the considerable damage to everyone’s lungs, she wondered if it was the best idea to have that many burning objects around so much paper in the pre-digital age.

  “Detective Hutchinson,” said Sprague, as he nodded to a man of about forty who looked like he might have been a linebacker in school. He was dressed in a neatly pressed suit and his hair was slicked back in the fashion of the day. “This lady wants to report on some communists.”

  “Very good, Sprague, I’ll take it from here,” said Hutchinson, who rose to put his hand on Josie’s back in a proprietary manner as he led her to a wooden chair near his desk. “Have a seat.”

  “I’m here to report suspicious political activity, but not of the communist variety,” said Josie as she sat on the uncomfortable chair.

  Hutchinson looked confused and extremely disappointed. “But Sprague just said you were here about the Red Menace.”

  “Unfortunately, there was a miscommunication. The political activities I’m here to report are those of the German American League. They have flyers everywhere.”

  Hutchinson’s look of confusion turned patronizing. “You don’t have to worry about them, miss. They’re just some German boys eating pretzels and drinking beer.”

  “But some of them were sent here from Germany to sway public opinion about Hitler’s activities.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that loudmouth.”

  “Yes, we do!”

  “Who told you that?”

  The History Channel. History. “The newspapers are filled with reports of Hitler’s activities in Europe.”

  Hutchinson nodded sympathetically. “And who has been reading you stories like that?”

  “I’ve been reading them.”

  “Well, there you go.” He nodded like he’d solved one of life’s mysteries. “Articles like that are very hard to understand.”

  “Not really.”

  “Not for your father, of course. Or a husband. But that’s not the sort of thing a young lady should be wasting her time with. Have you tried one of the women’s magazines? Or something about movie stars? My wife likes it when they write about Gary Cooper. You should try one of those. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Detective, please. I’m afraid the Germans are acting on Hitler’s orders and trying to influence us about a war in Europe.”

  The detective patted her hand. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. We’re not about to get dragged into another war in Europe. I don’t understand the appeal of these Germans, either, except for two things. They make a fine beer and they hate communists like we hate communists. So, as far as I’m concerned, they’re good to have around.”

  “But they’re not! They’re terrible to have around! The Nazis are dangerous, and they’re getting a foothold in Los Angeles.”

  Hutchinson studied her for a moment. “Did you have a boyfriend who was German? Did he break up with you and that’s why you’re so upset?”

  Josie sighed. “May I speak to your supervisor?”

  All of Hutchinson’s condescension instantly disappeared. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “I want to try to make him understand how dangerous these Brown Shirts are, as well as the Silver Shirts.”

  “He’s not going to be any more sympathetic to your boyfriend problems than I am.”

  “I don’t have boyfriend problems!”

  Detective Hutchinson looked like he found that hard to believe.

  “May I speak to your supervisor’s supervisor?”

  “You can go all the way to the top and talk to Chief Davis, but he won’t be any more sympathetic than me because no one hates communists more than him. And he figures that if the Silver Shirts can help us get rid of the Reds, then we can just get used to drinking their beer.”

  Josie was slowly realizing the futility of her mission. “Is there nothing I can do?”

  Detective Hutchinson scratched his head. “I suppose I could write up a complaint if you really want me to.”

  “That would be excellent,” said Josie, even though she wasn’t optimistic it would do any good. But perhaps a warning would be seen by the right person.

  Hutchinson touched the tip of his pencil to his tongue, then began writing on a form. “What’s your name?”

  “Josie Matthews – Josephine.”

  “Your address?”

  “I live in McConnell, Oregon. I’m just in town for a visit.”

  Hutchinson stopped writing and looked at her. “If you don’t live here, how do you know about the Silver Shirts?”

  “I’ve heard about them.”

  “From who?”

  “Friends.”

  Hutchinson began writing again. “What are their names?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  He put his pencil down. “Why not?”

  “They’re in the entertainment industry.”

  Hutchinson picked up his pencil with some interest and began writing. “So, they’re Reds.”

  “Of course not!” Which wasn’t exactly true. “They’re perfectly normal, non-communists who told me about these Silver Shirts. And I do wish you’d take this seriously. They’re very, very dangerous.”

  “Who are? Your friends?”

  “The Silver Shirts!” Josie took a deep breath. Yelling at an LAPD detective probably wasn’t a good idea in any era and was a decidedly bad one in the pre-Miranda days of policing. She was also aware that everyone else in the room was staring at her. “Maybe I should go.”

  “Maybe that’s a good idea,” said Hutchinson, who most decidedly did not crumple up the form and throw it away, but tucked it into a file, instead. “I’m sorry about your boyfriend problems, but maybe next time try the Lonely Hearts column and not the police.”

  “Yes, I’ll keep that in mind,” said Josie, as she gathered the purse and gloves she’d borrowed from Dora. “Good day.”

  She was so intent on getting out of the room, she didn’t notice Hutchinson nod at Officer Sprague, then another time in her direction.

  * * *

  An hour later, Josie was back on the patio with her friends, having just told them about her morning.

  “That doesn’t sound like it was very productive,” said David.

  “Yes, I realize that now. But if the local police won’t help us, where do we go from here? Maybe the FBI?”

  Dora shook her head. “J. Edgar Hoover is much more interested in communists and bank robbers than Nazis. You’ll only make yourself a target if you talk to the FBI.”

  “What about Grant?” asked David, referring to his childhood friend Grant Barker, who’d been at the fateful house party in 1929. “Is he still at the Bureau?”

  Lawrence nodded. “Barker has done very well for himself at the FBI, but he’s a good guy in spite of it. He and Lydia married.”

  “I read about that,” said David with a smile. “They’ve loved each other for a long time. Perhaps we should involve Grant, though I hesitate doing anything which could change time again. The more people we involve, the greater chance there is of that happening.”

  “But if we don’t do anything, we know bad things will happen,” said Josie. “I also think he’d be very disappointed if you came all this way and didn’t at least call him. Besides, he may be the only one we can trust to help. The world is depending on us.”

  “If you put it that way, let’s call Grant.”

  “I wonder if he’ll think Greta is beautiful.”

  “Are you ever going to forget I said that? Can’t I be forgiven for being an idiot once?”

  Josie’s only response was a shake of her head.

  “You know, David,” said Lawren
ce. “Once this is all over, you may want to take one last trip back in time to last night so you don’t say what you so unfortunately said. Just a suggestion.”

  “And a good one,” said David.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lydia Barker found her husband in their small living room, playing with their two sons. She still couldn’t believe she’d been so fortunate as to be given a second chance with the man she’d loved since childhood. As she watched, she wondered if any of his colleagues at the Federal Bureau of Investigation would recognize the gruff, decorated agent as he laughed with his children while they built a pillow fort.

  He looked up at her and smiled, and it went straight to her heart. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, but then she remembered why she was there. “You have a phone call.”

  “If it’s the office, tell them to call someone else. This is my first day off in three weeks.”

  “It’s not the office. It’s an old friend from back home.”

  Grant Barker groaned. “Don’t tell me Uncle Mikey has gone back to his old ways.” Uncle Mikey was his old friend Mikey Corrigan, who had once been one of the most notorious bootleggers in Chicago but was now retired and living in Florida with his wife Lizzie.

  Lydia smiled. “It’s the other old friend. The one we haven’t seen for seven years.”

  A moment later, Grant picked up the phone in the kitchen. “Is it really you?” The long-distance connection had some static and likely wasn’t private, so Grant knew not to use names.

  “How are you, old friend?” said the man who’d been like a brother to him.

  “All the better for hearing your voice.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  “Uh, where exactly are you calling me from?”

  “I’m in Los Angeles staying with mutual friends of ours. There’s a problem, a big one, and we need your help.”

  “We’ll be on the next train. I know Lydia would love to see you, and you can meet the boys.”

  “Nothing would make me happier, but this is dangerous, and I can’t put them at risk.”