The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  ‘Not your gossip columnist friends.’

  ‘No, real ones, who know Addison and understand how important this story is. But if you want to write pulp, something that will sell to the movies, you have to – I don’t know – make it pulpier.’

  ‘Tales of two-fisted action.’ Simon stroked his chin. ‘Fu Manchu yellow peril stuff, only with Germans.’

  I slid the notebook back. ‘I could be wrong. I usually am. Don’t listen to me.’

  ‘Who else do I have to listen to? Besides, I need to make my mind up soon. The second the war starts, my work at the Bund will be over. Uncle Sam won’t want amateurs around. Especially ones working for the people I work for. And then what will I do with my time?’

  ‘Drive people for Lodestar.’

  ‘Can’t fill a whole day that way.’ He tucked the notebook away. ‘If I keep writing, will you keep reading?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He clinked his glass against mine, toasting me with the dregs of his ice-cream soda. ‘Reason enough to keep at it.’

  We lingered, discussing the dire news from Europe, Simon asking about pictures I knew he had no intention of seeing. He saw me home with a friendly kiss goodnight.

  Dance music boomed out of Mrs Quigley’s half-open door, so loud it sounded like my landlady was hosting an orchestra in her parlor. Miss Sarah Bernhardt, her all-knowing Burmese, lay in wait at the foot of the stairs, ready to trip any late-arriving drunkards then slink into the shadows, having committed the perfect crime. ‘Just ice cream, Your Honor,’ I told her. ‘You won’t catch me out.’

  I sifted through the stack of mail on the long table by the phone. My eyes fell on a vaguely familiar envelope, and my throat filled with dust.

  I tore the envelope open so quickly it looked like a rabid animal had been at it, the flap jagged right where the postmark should have been. The paper within was the same, the ink the ostentatious purple I expected.

  MISS FROST,

  LEAVE WELL ENOUGH ALONE. THIS DOESN’T CONCERN YOU. JUST DRINK MILKSHAKES WITH YOUR SCARRED BOYFRIEND.

  ARGUS

  Scarred, of course, was the word practically slashed into the page.

  I had been followed. My correspondent had been close enough to notice the disfigurement on Simon’s face, but not so close he could determine what we had been drinking, a fact that gave me a perverse comfort. The eyes of Argus, it turned out, were not all-seeing.

  Mrs Quigley wandered into the lobby in her new housecoat. I had bought her one of the latest sleek styles for her birthday, and she’d returned it for something with ruffles. Lots of ruffles. She hectored her cat for a moment before noticing me. ‘Oh, Lillian, you’re home! Did you get your mail? I came out before and noticed it on the floor. I must have dropped it when I collected everything earlier.’

  There was no point in correcting her, telling her someone had deposited the letter through the slot within the last hour. Instead, I thanked her. I eyed Miss Sarah, who had likely been there when my delivery arrived. She stared back, unable – or maybe just unwilling – to help.

  Los Angeles Register August 19, 1939

  LORNA WHITCOMB’S

  EYES ON HOLLYWOOD

  With the mercury rocketing skyward, the place to be is the set of Remember the Night. Those skillful Paramount craftsmen have conjured a Currier and Ives wonderland for scenes set in a snowy Midwest locale. Visitors are catching colds just looking at all the fabricated frost … Studio chiefs are still waiting to see how the National Labor Relations Board or NLRB rules on the proposed contract with the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees or IATSE. Whew! Just don’t offer them alphabet soup while they’re waiting. Not in this heat! … It seems Britishers on our shores can’t get enough of Goodbye, Mr Chips. They’re lining up for repeat viewings to see cricket and rugby done right. Or is that right-ho?

  SEVEN

  For once I didn’t bend Rogers’s ear as he ferried me to my destination. I sat primly in the back of Addison’s Cadillac, my purse on my lap. It contained the late-night letter I’d received. For that reason alone I didn’t want to open it, not even when I needed a handkerchief or wanted to freshen my lipstick. The handbag had become like a room housing an ill relative; you avoided it, keeping the door shut until the doctor brought news.

  Early that morning I had telephoned Edith to inform her about my unwelcome delivery. Her concern radiated down the wire, wrapping itself around me like a shawl.

  ‘Have you told Detective Morrow?’

  ‘I haven’t, actually.’

  ‘Would you like to? We’re under no obligation to keep a veiled threat to you in confidence.’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’

  ‘The alternative is to wait until we speak to Miss Davies. I can say with some degree of confidence that once that happens, we’ll have a clearer sense of where matters stand.’

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do. Just tell me what to wear.’

  Her counsel led me to a wine-colored rayon jersey, designed to catch shore breezes. It had a V-neck, short sleeves, and a corset waistline that obviated the need for a foundation garment. I topped it with a sailor hat bearing a matching wine ribbon, and complemented the shade with my selection of lipstick. Which I couldn’t reapply, because it was in my purse, with the letter.

  As was always the case when I went to Santa Monica, I sensed the ocean before I caught a glimpse or a whiff of it, my blood abruptly running in rhythm with the tide. We pulled up at the address on Palisades Beach Road, but I couldn’t see the promised beach. Only the fabled beach house itself, a Colonial structure that seemingly stretched from Tijuana to Malibu. I could smell the surf, hear it roaring in my ears, taste it trickling down the back of my throat. But along this stretch of road it was hidden from the public eye, behind the largest private home on any beach in Southern California.

  Rogers nosed the car to a halt across from the house’s broad fence. ‘You don’t have to wait,’ I instructed him. He looked at me briefly, poised to express concern.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and drove off.

  A fleet of cars sat idle opposite the house, Edith’s little roadster among them. A liveried chauffeur squatted on the running board of a touring sedan that glistened so brightly I figured he’d driven it straight from the lot. He acted more like the owner of the vehicle than its driver. Cap low over his eyes, legs sprawled in the dusting of sand that had swept across the road, he peered up at me. ‘Don’t suppose you could dismiss me as well? Powerful hot out here today.’ His Irish brogue reminded me of my uncle Danny’s.

  ‘I could, but you might not have a position.’

  ‘Ah, well. So long as you have my interests at heart.’ He winked at me, then tilted his face toward the sun. He’d be out here a while. Might as well get some color to show for it.

  I entered the gate and walked to the front door, accompanied by the thwock of tennis balls being struck, the rhythm so metronomic I assumed a professional was involved. A butler informed me I was expected, and suggested I continue through to the pool area. Because of course a recreational fortress on the Pacific coastline had a pool. People might tire before they reached the ocean.

  I moved quickly through the house, glimpsing dark blue Chinese carpet and a painting I would have sworn was a Rembrandt, then stepped out into the glare of sunlight again. The colonnade behind me boasted enough columns for David O. Selznick to build two Taras for Gone with the Wind, with change left over. The pool party underway seemed as informal as any function in a house this grand could be. I didn’t spot any familiar faces but saw many recognizable types. Men of industry bored with their surroundings, men of aspiration sweating to look calm, the wives of both overdressed for punching the clock. A sylph sat poolside, undoubtedly someone’s discovery. No one was paying attention to her – despite her fetching white halter top with red and white striped skirt over shorts – and she was taking it out on the pages of a magazine. Her dark hair was damp at the ends from her swim, a stra
w sun hat with a red ribbon protecting her elegantly lean features.

  ‘Any idea where I can find the lady of the house?’ I asked.

  ‘If I knew that, don’t you think I’d be there?’ She flicked another page, sounding genuinely hurt and frustrated. And with the whole day stretching out before her.

  A helpful maid pointed me toward a secluded table overlooking the tennis courts, now silent. Marion and Edith sat together. Our hostess epitomized elegance in wide-legged natural linen trousers coupled with a white man-tailored shirt cinched at the waist, one huarache-sandaled-foot bobbing in the air. She reached down to caress the head of the dachshund dozing next to her. Edith wore a snow-gray dress, the pointed collar outlined in black. Oxfords sportier than her usual work style were her sole concession to the weekend.

  They weren’t speaking to each other, though. They were listening to the sparkplug of a man with the amiably pugnacious face who loomed over them. Him, I knew on sight. It wasn’t often you encountered a certified pioneer of the motion picture business, his story oft retold as part of Hollywood’s founding myth. Walter Kehoe had arrived in Los Angeles from the amusement palaces of the New Jersey shore in 1911. Five years later, the slapstick antics he produced under the banner Kehoe’s Kapers played across the country. He discovered the comedy team of Knight and Daly (right names Hirsch and McGowan), who continued to pack ’em in. Lately he’d been making programmers at Lodestar Pictures since an ill-advised deal he’d struck with Vittorio Mussolini, producer son of Italy’s ruler Benito, had come a cropper; his plan to grind out movies on the cheap in Rome had led to him being assailed by both the press and the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League. Kehoe wore a collarless white terry robe over a swimsuit, baring thin legs that didn’t look sturdy enough to support his barrel chest. He paced in his rubber sandals; it was odd to hear a legend squeak.

  Edith excused herself and rushed over to me. ‘Are you all right? May I see the letter?’ I gingerly extracted it from my purse. Edith sized it up. ‘We’ll present this to Marion. Assuming Mr Kehoe ever leaves.’

  Marion waved happily to me and scooped up the dachshund. ‘Meet Gandhi. This little fellow is my everything. He’s a red smooth dachshund. Isn’t that right, Gandhi? Aren’t you red? Aren’t you smooth?’ She showered Gandhi with baby talk and didn’t stammer once.

  Kehoe looked on, baffled that he’d lost control of the conversation – and to a dog, at that. Edith introduced me. ‘Actress?’ he asked, sparking a cigarette.

  ‘No, I’m Addison Rice’s social secretary.’

  ‘Good, so you’ve got some sense in you.’ He barked out a laugh, then picked up where he’d apparently left off. ‘W.R. and I need to sit down, so he can get back into pictures in a big way. He and I can do some good together. You, too, Marion. Come over to Lodestar. Put you together with Bruce Fleming. You two would be gangbusters. Even better than Gable.’

  ‘I adore Clark. Anyway, I’m out of pictures. Look how busy I am.’ She held out her hands, indicating her crippling workload. A maid misinterpreted the gesture and scurried over at once.

  ‘We’re fine, Louise. You go inside and rest your arches.’

  Kehoe continued to hold forth. About real estate, his horses running at Del Mar, the political situation in Europe (‘None of our business, W.R. is absolutely right’). He’d been successful for so long he’d cultivated the habit of speaking to everyone like an employee, never expecting a word of disagreement. Thanks to his droning and the heat, I was beginning to nod off.

  Marion cleared her throat and pointed across the patio. ‘Walter, isn’t that your friend?’

  The sulky brunette I’d spoken to earlier was engaged in a complicated piece of comedy business, her straw hat being carried away by a non-existent breeze. Maybe she was auditioning for Kehoe’s Kapers. ‘Damnation, Vera, what are you up to?’ Kehoe strutted away, sandals protesting with every step. Gandhi briefly waddled after him, then reversed course and returned to his mistress’s side.

  ‘I don’t know what’s worse.’ Marion sighed. ‘Walter having W.R. play second fiddle to Mussolini’s kid, or bringing his latest would-be actress girlfriend here. I’m sorry you had to wait.’

  ‘We’re sorry to bring you this.’ Edith nodded at me. I placed the letter I’d received on the table. Marion reared back, then edged closer to the paper to read it. She reached for the glass at her side and drained half of it.

  ‘There’s no call to mention your friend’s scar. I feel terrible about getting you mixed up in this.’

  ‘We agreed to help,’ Edith said consolingly. ‘We did discuss calling the police. There’s every reason to interpret this letter as a threat against Lillian.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Marion worried the knot on her shirt, twisting the fabric around her fingers. ‘I’d prefer you didn’t, obviously, but do what you must.’

  ‘You understand it’s difficult for us to proceed without knowing what’s behind these letters.’

  Marion nodded vigorously. And said nothing.

  Edith resettled her glasses, this pair darker than her standard tint. I couldn’t see her eyes at all. ‘May I ask if the incident in question involved Charlie Chaplin?’

  ‘Who talked?’ Marion cupped her forehead and glanced to see if anyone was within earshot. But the closest people were approximately a field goal away.

  ‘No one. Just a guess on our part.’

  ‘It’s a good one, I can tell you that.’ Our hostess slumped in her chair, looking defeated and relieved at once. ‘It happened when I made Zander the Great. Around fifteen years ago. Good Lord, that long. There was a bit in the movie at a circus where I had to go into a cage and fight a lion. Silly scene, really. They put a sheet of glass between me and Leo, but I forgot all about it once he started roaring. Everyone swore up and down he was a tame old fellow with all his teeth out, but that was not true. I didn’t count ’em, but believe me, they were there. Charlie was making The Gold Rush at the same time, and he said he had the perfect lion for us. Retired out in Pasadena, only took tea and soda crackers. Charlie brought this lion over so we could do the scene. And wouldn’t you know it, they ended up cutting the whole circus sequence from the picture? Taking my life in my own hands for nothing.’

  She was dawdling. We let her, because she did so in such engaging fashion. She turned her head and told the rest of her story to the wide Pacific.

  ‘Charlie and I were close back then. Very close, you might say. He’s a lovely man, really. Anyway, one evening on the set, we … got up to some fun. A few drinks were had. And all of us – the actors, some of the crew – went back to the circus set. Into the empty lion’s cage. Again, we were feeling silly.’

  Edith leaned forward. ‘Perfectly natural. Releasing tension after a long day.’

  ‘Exactly. We were only fooling. And Charlie and I, we, we … we pretended to get married. Had a little ceremony there in the cage, and said funny little vows, and laughed about it all.’

  ‘A ceremony complete with witnesses,’ I said. ‘Among them Clarence Baird and Rudi Vollmer.’

  Marion nodded. ‘And several others. None of them received letters. At least, they haven’t yet. I asked them.’

  ‘Have you asked Mr Chaplin?’ Edith’s voice a whisper.

  ‘We’re not close anymore.’

  ‘Yes. But have you asked him?’

  Another nod from Marion. ‘No letters.’

  Now Edith gazed out at the sun-dappled water, that answer obviously having some particular significance.

  ‘Could Argus have proof this ceremony took place?’ I asked delicately.

  ‘No,’ Marion said. ‘No. It’s very unlikely.’ Then she glanced at Edith. ‘Although there are stories …’

  We sat in silence, the waves inviting. A new tennis match began, two fit young men waging battle on the court below us as if seeking our favor. Gandhi yapped happily at them.

  ‘You understand why I can’t pester W.R. with this.’ Marion pushed her shoulders back, determined to bear
up under the load. ‘It’s embarrassing and hurtful. It meant nothing and it was years ago. I just want it to go away.’

  ‘It could.’ Edith spoke with guarded optimism. ‘I believe, but cannot prove, that these letters were sent by Mr Baird.’

  Marion asked the question for me. ‘Why?’

  Edith tapped the missive I’d received. ‘The arrival of this correspondence surely indicates one of the individuals we spoke to yesterday is responsible. But then, you already suspected as much, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did, although I hate to admit it. But I couldn’t simply accuse them. I didn’t even know who to accuse. What makes you think Clarence is Argus?’

  ‘The timing of the other letters, to begin with. Mr Baird’s first, then Mr Vollmer’s. Had Mr Vollmer received the opening salvo, he would have telephoned you at once. That was his intention when his letter arrived – on a day when he already had plans to see Mr Baird. It’s essential that this seem like a campaign, a broad public effort to defame you. Second, Mr Chaplin was not contacted. If this was to be a true scandal, Argus would have certainly approached Mr Chaplin.’

  ‘Probably before me.’ Marion picked up Gandhi and nuzzled him.

  Edith nodded. ‘Finally, I asked whether Mr Baird and Mr Vollmer had received additional letters. Thus raising the notion that you had received more than one. That is the case, is it not?’

  Marion shivered in the sun. ‘Eight, altogether.’

  ‘I wanted to see their respective reactions to that idea. Mr Vollmer was surprised and concerned. Mr Baird said nothing, averting his gaze. Because I believe he already knew about those letters.’

  ‘Clarence never could hide his emotions.’ Affection tinged Marion’s words even now. ‘But why would he do this?’

  ‘You already know why. What happened when you learned he and Mr Vollmer had been contacted by Argus?’

  ‘I had them here for lunch. We spent the day together.’