‘Carter. I forgot.’ Baird directed his words toward the door. ‘I won’t need a ride home. Rudi can take me. Can’t you?’
‘Don’t I always?’ Vollmer replied, with what I had to assume was good humor.
‘Then it’s settled. You may go.’ Carter, the younger man, winced politely and vanished into the crowd.
Baird then declared, ‘I for one am not going to talk on an empty stomach. Shall we?’ He led the way into the cafeteria as if he were the guest of honor at a testimonial dinner. Hollering greetings over his tray to every cafeteria worker, he built himself a heaping turkey dinner with all the fixings. Baird was a Clifton’s fixture, clearly, and he’d chosen it for our meeting for two reasons: he could eat his fill, and the staff would see him in the company of someone who would cover his full tab. The words were right there on the bill as I stepped up to the register: Dine Free Unless Delighted – No Check Too Small. Addison was paying for this dinner, so I put down more than the cost of Baird’s early Thanksgiving feast, Edith’s small salad, my macaroni and cheese, and Vollmer’s black coffee. Edith added a few bills to my offering. The brunette at the register accepted the cash with a cheerful, ‘God bless!’
Baird had dragooned a dishwasher to hold a table for us in the shadow of an ersatz chapel. I pointed it out to Edith. ‘You can go up there later and hear “The Parable of the Redwoods”.’
‘Maybe you can summarize it for me.’ Edith turned to Baird. ‘Wally Westmore sends his regards.’
‘I don’t accept them.’ Baird threw down his knife but it landed in his mashed potatoes, robbing the moment of its power. ‘That entire family is a cabal. They’ve taken over the industry. Made it impossible for people like me to get a job.’
Vollmer chose this moment to subject his coffee spoon to a detailed inspection.
‘Now then,’ Baird said to the forkful of stuffing hovering near his mouth, ‘what exactly goes on here? I know Marion sent you, but what are you ladies meant to be doing?’
Edith deftly explained Marion’s concerns about the letters, her desire for discretion. ‘Miss Frost and I will make inquiries so we know to refer Miss Davies to the right people.’
‘“The right people”?’ Baird frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Policemen,’ I said, thinking of Gene.
Vollmer, satisfied with his spoon, dunked it in his coffee. ‘Makes sense.’
‘Surely that’s excessive. This is just some prank. Someone with sour grapes lashing out at dear Marion.’ Baird made a dismissive gesture with a turkey leg. ‘I hardly see the need to involve the police.’
‘Miss Davies will make that decision. It’s her name being tarnished.’ I managed to sound almost chirpy. Baird glowered at me, then attacked his potatoes with a gravedigger’s zeal. I had met my share of larger-than-life figures in Hollywood. Stars, in my experience, had a strange solidity to them; they somehow filled the extra space they’d claimed as their right. But Baird was hollow, a parade float of a person, puffed up with air and grievances.
Edith, dispensing with the niceties, asked to see the letters they’d received. Vollmer reached into his jacket, his hand snapping out with an envelope. Baird grumbled and pushed aside his tray, patting every pocket before finally unearthing the malicious missive.
Both sheets of paper bore the same florid purple ink, the same block printing with certain words enlarged for emphasis, the same cryptic signature.
MR BAIRD,
YOU BORE WITNESS TO THAT SAVAGE CEREMONY IN THE LIONS DEN. DO YOU EVER REMEMBER IT? DOES MARION DAVIES?
ARGUS
Vollmer’s letter was more philosophical.
MR VOLLMER,
DID YOU THINK MARION DAVIES BELIEVED HER VOWS? DID YOU THINK THE TRAMP WOULD STAY FAITHFUL?
ARGUS
I fought off a shudder as I read the letters. Edith leaned forward to examine them, manipulating them with her cutlery.
‘Not the sort of thing one wants to find in the morning mail,’ Baird said. ‘Cast a pall over the whole day.’
‘Yet you think contacting the police would be excessive,’ Edith said mildly.
‘That’s not what I—’
The tines of Edith’s fork tapped two words. ‘What is this “savage ceremony” referenced in your letter, Mr Baird?’
‘It’s not my letter. It was sent to me.’
‘Forgive me,’ Vollmer said with a note of apology. ‘But you don’t know? Marion did not tell you when she spoke with you?’
‘No,’ I admitted after a moment. ‘She didn’t.’
Vollmer sat back, swearing off the coffee and the conversation. ‘If she did not reveal this, I cannot either.’
‘Nor I,’ Baird crowed.
‘We can’t very well get to the bottom of this without a sense of the knowledge this Argus has,’ Edith said.
‘Then Marion has chosen her help poorly.’ Baird flicked a hand over the letters. ‘Anyway, as I said, there’s nothing to this nonsense. It’s a mean-spirited joke from someone out of the business. Barely hanging on.’
Like both of you, I thought, looking from one man to the other. High overhead, a caged canary sang sweetly.
‘Surely you gentlemen can shed some light.’ Edith’s tone was the essence of reasonableness. ‘Miss Davies is quite upset.’
‘As we both know.’ Baird brushed crumbs from his coat, the gesture calling attention to other stains on the garment. ‘She confided as much in us when we saw her.’
‘Surely you can speak about that, Mr Baird. The day you saw Miss Davies. Which of you contacted her?’
‘I did.’ Vollmer leaned forward, engaged again.
Edith gestured at the envelopes on the table. ‘But you received your letter first, Mr Baird. Two days earlier, from the postmark.’
‘Yes, but as I said, I didn’t think anything of it. After my initial shock,’ he amended. ‘Then Rudi said he’d gotten one.’
‘That very morning.’ Vollmer cast his eyes at the offending sheet of paper. ‘I had already resolved to call Marion, to ask if she had also received such filth. I was thinking how to broach the subject when Clarence visited—’
‘And we decided to approach her together,’ Baird finished.
‘I understand she invited you to her home,’ I said.
Vollmer turned to Baird, who didn’t return the courtesy. He simply dove into the telling. ‘Yes, the beach house, the next afternoon. It was a glorious day. She served a lovely lunch – she always did, it’s why it was such a treat working with her – and when it was finished, we discussed the business that had brought us there. She showed us the letter she’d received. A good deal coarser than ours, I should say.’
‘Vulgar,’ Vollmer muttered.
Edith and I exchanged a look. The correspondence Marion had shown us was ominous but hardly indecent, meaning Edith’s deduction had been correct; Argus had indeed written to Marion more than once.
‘And we talked about who might be responsible for such trash,’ Baird said.
‘Did you reach any conclusions?’ Edith asked innocently.
‘Obviously not.’ Baird sniffed. ‘Everyone adores Marion. A creature of pure light. I encouraged her to put it out of her mind, and she said she already had. Then we talked about the old days until the sun went down.’
‘Sounds marvelous,’ Edith said. ‘The old days were when, exactly? What pictures did you and Marion work on together?’
‘Right when Marion started making films in California. My God, can it be fifteen years ago? Zander the Great, Yolanda, all at MGM.’
‘I don’t remember any lions in those films,’ I said. ‘Except maybe Leo, the MGM mascot at the beginning.’
Vollmer took an unusually long draught of his coffee, while Baird simply gazed through me as if I hadn’t spoken.
‘No doubt the lion isn’t literal. More a metaphor,’ Edith said. ‘You gentlemen haven’t received any additional correspondence, have you?’
‘Of course not,’ Baird spat.
‘We told her we would.’ Vollmer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that why you’re here? Why Marion contacted you? Has she received more letters?’
Edith didn’t respond. I glanced at Baird. He sat motionless, eyes on the table.
But Vollmer was ready, even eager, to shoulder the conversation solo, the spotlight his at last. ‘Or has someone else gotten one? Like Clarence and myself? Has this Argus cast his net wider? We thought Charlie would be next to—’
I knew Baird had kicked him under the table before Vollmer abruptly clammed up. Baird didn’t permit the silence to linger. ‘We promised Marion we’d be in touch.’
‘And she appreciates it.’ Edith smiled benevolently at them both. ‘Now, you must tell me about working with Marion in her glory days. I want to hear everything.’
Baird required no additional coaxing, warming to the task of sharing stories. ‘The rhythm of working was so different then. Easier, almost languid. It gave everyone the chance to get to know one another.’
‘Cost Mr Hearst a lot of money,’ Vollmer said.
‘It was worth it. Look at the outcome. Now everything is rush-rush. The way those blasted Westmores like to work. I’m better off out of it, although if Marion or the right star sought my ministrations, I’d pick up my kit again. For now, I’m enjoying my semi-retirement.’
‘Do you still go to pictures?’ I asked.
Vollmer shrugged. ‘Who needs all the talking?’
Baird didn’t touch his Jell-O. The sight of those gaily colored cubes wobbling on the table as we stood filled me with sadness.
In the lobby, Carter, the young man who’d driven Baird to the cafeteria, waved to us. His frame was hunched forward subserviently, his big head tilted up to display the pleading grin on his face. I pointed him out to Baird, who stopped short, scowled, and then sighed.
‘Good Lord, Carter! Have you been waiting here all this time?’
‘Decided to have dinner.’ He gestured toward the dining room’s phony foliage with a copy of Food-4-Thot, Clifford Clinton’s little magazine of philosophy. ‘No bother to wait, see if you needed a ride home.’
‘Unnecessary. I told you, Rudi’s agreed to—’
Vollmer seized his opportunity. ‘I’ll say my goodbyes here, then.’ He scurried off with more energy than he’d exhibited all night.
‘Oh, very well. Shall we?’ With a windy exhalation, Baird blew out through the doors. Carter loitered a moment longer, his deep-set eyes on Edith as if he had some momentous announcement to make. Instead, he half-swallowed a few words about what a pleasure it was to meet her, then followed Baird out.
Edith picked up her own copy of Food-4-Thot. ‘What an intriguing publication.’ She perused its pages, giving Baird and Carter ample time to depart. Outside, we piled into her roadster. Only when we were underway did we start talking.
‘You heard Mr Vollmer, I take it,’ Edith said quietly.
‘Clear as a bell. He said, “Charlie”.’
‘I also take it you had the same thought I did.’
‘That Charlie could mean Chaplin.’ The most famous silver screen clown – and arguably the most recognizable man in the world – had been a regular part of the Hearst/Davies social set at its height, with rumors of an affair between him and Marion circulating for years.
‘I confess the possibility occurred to me before Mr Vollmer’s slip-up,’ Edith said. ‘“Did you think the tramp would stay faithful?”’
I gasped. The notion that Argus’s letter to Vollmer referred to Chaplin’s famed pantomime character – and not to Marion’s loose morals – had eluded me entirely. I felt terrible about it.
‘The letters mentioned a ceremony and vows.’ I realized I was speaking in a near whisper. ‘They – Charlie and Marion couldn’t … they couldn’t have been married, could they?’
‘It’s impossible to know without further details.’ Edith squinted into the growing dark. ‘Shall we seek some from Miss Davies tomorrow?’
If we live that long, I thought as we barreled into the night.
SIX
Edith dropped me off at my door almost literally, the front tire of her car summiting the curb. I fumbled for my keys until the angry horn of a passing car confirmed she’d motored off.
Then I dropped my keychain back into my purse and ambled around the corner to the drug store. Taking a seat at the counter, I ordered an ice-cream soda. Something cold was in order to battle the lingering heat and smooth out the wrinkles of the day.
I had bolted half of it and was tracing squiggles in the condensation on the glass while waiting for my headache to subside when the notebook skidded to a stop near my elbow.
‘Daydreaming again.’ Simon Fischer dropped onto the stool next to mine and spun around so he could stretch out his long legs. His black-and-white spectator shoes had been freshly shined.
‘Softer voice, please. Too much ice cream at once. What else am I supposed to do when you’re late?’
‘You told me you were going to be late.’ He summoned the soda jerk. ‘I’ll have what the lady’s having. Put in two straws so she doesn’t have to order a second round for herself.’
‘I’m not having a second round. I filled up on Jell-O before I got here.’
Simon kicked himself lazily to and fro on the stool, a bored and impossibly lanky schoolboy. Only the patch of dead white flesh stippled with scars at his left temple spoiled the illusion. So far as I knew, it was the only physical damage he’d suffered fighting the Great War; the true toll of his service was psychological.
‘I’d ask how it’s been,’ I said, ‘but I’ve read the papers.’
‘The gang down at Deutsches Haus has become insufferable, as you might expect. The Germans are poised to invade Poland any day, and the whole Bund’s salivating at the prospect. Meanwhile, their fearless leader Fritz Kuhn is lying to the faces of a Congressional committee in Washington, and they’re gloating about that, too. So yes, it’s been a fun couple of weeks.’
Simon had been persuaded to go undercover in the Los Angeles branch of the German-American Bund by a group of concerned Jewish citizens, many of them titans of the movie industry. He was a disaffected veteran with a low-level job as a driver at Lodestar Pictures, a background that made him the ideal candidate for Bund membership. For years he’d attended meetings, handed out leaflets, swilled cheap beer, and listened, passing along every scrap of information he’d ferreted out on Nazi sympathizers.
‘You’re doing important work,’ I told him.
He laughed. ‘Sometimes I’m convinced everyone in the Bund works for some other outfit. LAPD, FBI, even the B’nai B’rith. Maybe there are no Germans there anymore, just knuckleheads all spying on each other. Clogging files in various government offices. While Fritz Kuhn, the bastard, puffs on his cigarette and swears to a bunch of Congressmen the Bund isn’t talking to the German government and doesn’t want a dictatorship in this country. I’d be better off selling shoes. Or army boots.’
Simon had also let me know a few months earlier that he wanted to be close to me. I had resisted his advances, in part because I’d thought at the time that Gene and I would reconcile but mainly because I did not return his feelings. The subterfuge demanded by his mission had pulled Simon’s nerves taut. I had stumbled on to his double life and lessened that tension, providing a rare respite. That, I was certain, accounted for his continuing interest in me.
Why, then, did I keep seeing him? That question I didn’t have so ready an answer for.
I nodded at the notebook. ‘Keeping at it, I see.’
‘Have to keep the wolves at bay somehow.’ He drummed his fingers on the book’s cover before sliding it over to me. Simon had been toying with the notion of becoming a writer, fictionalizing his derring-do. Due to necessity and my nebulous ties to the picture business, I had become his sounding board, editor, and occasional amanuensis. All that was required of me was to hear his stories. There were
steeper prices to pay.
I read his latest opus as Simon used both straws to drain the ice-cream soda he’d ordered. His handwriting varied from page to page, sometimes changing within paragraphs; firm and steady here, spidery and tentative mere lines away. I wondered which parts he’d written when he was sober. His reliance on alcohol had erected another barricade between us. He’d made attempts at booting the bottle, even saying he was ‘doing it for me’. That only made the relapses even worse.
Simon squirmed noticeably beside me. ‘You don’t have to sit there while I read,’ I told him. ‘You can leave the notebook with me.’
‘Feels queer doing that. Those are my secrets. Can’t let them out of my sight. Anyone might read them.’
‘That’ll make it tough when they’re printed in Collier’s.’
He snorted, then pivoted toward me. ‘You don’t think it’s that good, do you?’
Don’t make jokes, Lillian. They always backfire on you. I studied Simon, recalling his advice to always be honest. ‘It’s not there yet.’
‘Didn’t think so. What does it need?’
Edith excelled at making negatives sound positive, couching criticism in inspiring terms. Another of her many gifts I lacked.
‘A plot, for one thing. This reads like the minutes of a Bund meeting, with some terse and rather mean-spirited descriptions of the people in attendance.’
He smirked. ‘Dry, then.’
‘Not even. Your main character – whose name changes from John to Joe partway through, incidentally – never reacts to what he’s hearing.’
‘He can’t give himself away. He’s there under false pretenses.’
‘But we can feel his inner turmoil. That is, if you want us to feel it.’ I slumped, pulling my hands away from the notebook. ‘I’m not very good at explaining this kind of thing.’
‘You sound fine to me. Go on.’
‘I think you have to decide what you want this to be. If it’s meant to be an exposé, like Confessions of a Nazi Spy, there are some journalists I can put you in touch with.’
The Sharpest Needle Page 4