I slumped against a lamppost, reading descriptions of shock from every world capital. Gus, meanwhile, never stopped moving, hefting bales of newspapers and hacking at the twine binding them with his remaining arm. ‘You’d think they’d have learned,’ he muttered. ‘Twenty years wasn’t that long ago. Gonna be a lot more people walking around without arms. Or not walking around without legs.’ He turned and spat. For the first time, the triumphant clang of the cuspidor didn’t immediately resound; Gus had missed his mark. He peeked into the newsstand and winced. ‘Goddammit.’ Then an abashed, ‘Sorry, miss.’
I told him not to worry about his language.
Edith and I had arranged to see Marion before either of us reported to work. Edith’s tan suit, a fob watch pinned to its lapel, seemed appropriate, while I felt too gaily garbed in a royal blue dress with white checks and a short-sleeved white jacket. We didn’t say much on the trip to Santa Monica beyond confirming we’d both read the newspapers.
The atmosphere at the beach house felt far different from our first visit. We were the only guests, and a miasma of clouds pressed the morning’s heat down evenly like an iron. There wasn’t a modicum of merriment to be found, which meant we were well and truly doomed. When the cosseted wealthy couldn’t find respite from events, what hope did the rest of us have?
A maid led us outside to where Marion sat facing the ocean. Two handkerchiefs lay crumpled next to a china cup and saucer. Marion wore sandals with wooden platform soles, navy slacks, and a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face drawn. She looked every one of her thirty-nine claimed years, and more like the forty-two of rumor. Even Gandhi, capering at her feet, failed to rouse her spirits.
She extended her hands toward us. Edith and I each awkwardly took one. ‘Isn’t it awful? Isn’t it all too awful?’
Unsure which of our current calamities she meant, I simply said, ‘Yes.’
We took seats on either side of her. Marion shifted the handkerchiefs then waved at them helplessly. You see what I’m dealing with. ‘I’ve been an absolute wreck since you called yesterday, Edith, and told me what happened to Clarence.’ Then she amended, ‘What Clarence did to himself.’
Edith and I shared a look. I’d had no word from Gene on the exact nature of Baird’s death, but as we knew he harbored doubts about suicide, we decided it was best to say nothing.
‘Once he knows where you are, he never leaves you alone. Death, I mean. He took my sister Reine last year. I could feel him hanging around. The big brute wasn’t done with me yet.’ Marion snatched up one of the handkerchiefs, pressing it to her lips as if to prevent herself from screaming. She stared over the pool toward the Pacific, like a sentry awaiting death incarnate to make land in Santa Monica. ‘And he wasn’t. He took Clarence, after giving Clarence enough time to make my life miserable. And he’s still here. Death. He’s close. With eyes on every living soul I know.’ Her voice cracked on the final syllable, and again she stoppered her mouth with the handkerchief. I thought she was overacting, the veteran performer unable to resist playing to the crowd. But there was true hysteria in her reaction, enough to pluck my nerves and set me on edge.
For all our sakes, I had to talk. ‘I wanted to ask you …’ I started.
Motion came from the house. Marion pivoted toward it, murmured an oath, and drained her china cup dry.
I observed her actions in my peripheral vision. Because history itself was walking toward us, with a steady, deliberate gait, and that sight commanded my full attention.
William Randolph Hearst remained a physically imposing figure, even at his age. If anything, his years – he’d accumulated seventy-five or so if I were any judge – made him even more impressive. The press baron moved slowly, not quite infirm, his six-foot-plus frame slightly hunched. I wondered if he’d been born with a face meant to be carved as a bust, or if he’d grown into those features. Two people hovered behind him, a maid with the no-nonsense manner of a nurse and a man in a dark suit carrying a stack of newspapers. Both spoke to him, Hearst tossing one-word answers at each in turn.
They stood a deferential distance away as Hearst continued to the table. ‘I wanted to check on you,’ he said, his voice pitched higher than I’d expected. ‘How are you bearing up?’
‘Oh, I’m fine.’ Marion sounded girlishly bored. ‘Now that I have my friends here.’ She made the introductions. Edith retained her poise, telling Hearst his name was still mentioned with respect at Paramount.
‘And me not there for decades,’ he marveled modestly. ‘You’re not related to Alice Head, by chance, are you? She works for me in London. She has a marvelous eye for art, and I thought perhaps it ran in the family.’
Hearst then bowed pleasantly in my direction. His blue-gray eyes took me in, and for the first time in months I felt cold. There wasn’t malice in his gaze but an instinctual calculation. I was being assessed, the worth of my essential elements estimated and entered into a balance sheet. Then Hearst turned again toward Marion, and those same orbs filled with unfeigned compassion and tenderness. Did those qualities exist only for her? Or were they buried so deeply that this warm, daft woman could alone draw them to the surface?
‘We’re going to sit a spell and reminisce about poor old Clarence,’ Marion said, patting his hand. A second well-tailored man freighted with newspapers strode out of the house, stopping for a confab with his near-identical twin. ‘No need to worry. I know you’re keeping the world turning today.’
‘I have some time to sit with you.’
‘You also have minions waiting. I’ll be right here. Go on.’
‘If you insist.’ Hearst sounded relieved. He bent to Marion, I thought for a kiss. But then he leaned over her china cup and inhaled. He straightened to the fullest height he had left in him, the better to peer balefully down at her.
‘What?’ Marion pouted. ‘I told you. It’s my special tea. With the herbs that calm my nerves. I need it. My friend died.’
She stammered as she spoke the last word. Hearst looked dubious. Marion stared back, daring him to contradict her. Hearst chose to depart the field, his trio of retainers falling in slow lockstep behind him as he returned to the house.
‘Juniper’s a herb, isn’t it?’ Marion chuckled. ‘I think it is. That’s what I get for neglecting my education. Anyway, they signed some treaty today that has everyone up in arms. W.R. met him, you know.’
It took me a breath or three to recover my conversational bearings. ‘Met who?’
‘Hitler. I was supposed to be there, too, but something came up. Something usually does. Hitler was one of W.R.’s correspondents for a while. They say his copy was quite good, but he was terrible with deadlines. So that other fellow took over. What’s-his-name, Goering. Now W.R. is complaining that this Goering is buying up all the paintings W.R. had to put up for sale on the cheap. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.’
Even with the rest of the summer at my disposal, I couldn’t have concocted a suitable response. Edith took the only reasonable path and ignored Marion’s digression entirely. ‘What does Mr Hearst know about Mr Baird?’
‘I only told him Clarence had died and it hit me rather hard. He still knows nothing about the letters.’
‘Did you speak to Detective Morrow?’ I asked.
‘I did. He was able to slip in yesterday afternoon while W.R. was out, so we could talk in secret.’ Marion gave a lopsided smile. ‘He speaks very highly of you. And he treated me with kid gloves. He was sweet.’
Sweet. That was Gene.
‘What was the substance of your conversation with the detective?’ Edith prompted.
‘There isn’t much to tell. He asked about the Argus letters and the idea Clarence might have written them. I told him I thought it was possible but I hadn’t spoken to Clarence yet. Don’t worry, I gave both of you a big build-up. He acted like he’d heard it all before. He’s pretty keen on you, Lillian. He—’
I held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t, I
-I …’
Marion swatted me. ‘Are you sending up my stammer?’
‘I’d n-n-never …’ Damn, now it seemed I was doing it. ‘No, I’m confused. You didn’t speak to Baird after Edith and I talked to you on Saturday morning?’
‘No, I couldn’t. We had people in that night then more on Sunday, so I hadn’t gotten around to it. Anyway, I felt better knowing it was only Clarence seeking attention.’
‘We don’t actually know that,’ Edith cautioned. ‘That’s merely the most logical interpretation of what we’d learned.’
‘But it makes such perfect sense! So much so I just decided to let it drift. I would have had it out with poor Clarence eventually. I just didn’t want to spoil the weekend.’
Edith, as bewildered as I was, took off her glasses and resettled them on her nose. ‘Forgive me, Miss Davies, but I must clarify this one point. You did not tell Mr Baird – or anyone else – that you believed Mr Baird to have sent these letters?’
‘No. As I said, I didn’t have time to talk to Clarence. And now I’ll never have the chance.’ Her tongue tripped on ‘never’ and she waved a handkerchief in surrender. ‘Damn that stammer! When I was with Ziegfeld, I was chosen for one of the big numbers. They gave me a beautiful costume – blue tulle, with sparkles and a big marabou hat. I even had a line. “I am the Spirit of Spring.” Funny how I can say it now. The first time I went on, I couldn’t get the words out, and that was that. Back to the chorus for me. They took the costume away, too. That hurt most of all. Nothing’s worse than giving back a costume.’
Edith nodded in firm agreement.
A maid, the third I’d seen since arriving at the house, came to the table. I couldn’t help noticing she’d used a different door, and she carried another china cup, which she placed before Marion. ‘More of your tea, miss.’
‘Thanks, Maisie. Just in time. I’d offer you ladies some but, as I told himself, medicinal.’ She winked at the maid, who then asked if she could bring anything else. ‘We’re fine. You go inside where it’s cool. We’re going to stay out here to bake in the heat.’
Maisie left us. I cast a longing glance after her at the villa, then joined Edith and Marion in gazing out to sea, waiting for the Grim Reaper’s galleon. It felt like punishment for some unnamed sin. Perhaps it was.
TEN
I held my tongue until we were in Edith’s car. Once we lurched onto Palisades Beach Road, I erupted. ‘If Baird didn’t know Marion suspected him, why would he kill himself?’
Edith drove with one hand, wrapping a scarf around her hair with the other. ‘I was under the impression Detective Morrow didn’t believe Mr Baird committed suicide.’
‘Then why would somebody murder him? Is it because we talked to him?’
‘This has nothing to do with us, Lillian,’ Edith said firmly. ‘Had Miss Davies contacted the police or a detective agency regarding the Argus letters, as she should have, someone would have spoken to Mr Baird and the outcome would have been the same. This is about more than poison pen letters.’ She finally placed her other hand back on the steering wheel. ‘I fear something larger and more nefarious is afoot here.’
Edith’s car juddered to a halt outside Addison’s house, and I extracted my fingers from the dashboard. She waved off my invitation to come inside and say hello to the lord of the manor. ‘Do send him my best, but I’m already late for work.’
It was just as well; the day’s political developments had my employer out of sorts. ‘I’m trying to make sense of it,’ Addison said. ‘It’s like the whole world’s spinning out of control and no one’s lifting a finger to stop it.’ He sequestered himself in his office with the newspapers and the radio, busying himself with calls to East Coast associates seeking additional intelligence.
Global events soon cast a shadow on the social scene; the host of the party Addison would be attending on Saturday telephoned to send reassurances the soirée would proceed as planned. ‘Probably take the sauerbraten off the menu, for appearances’ sake,’ she chortled down the line. I promised to pass word to Addison, who hadn’t been looking forward to the event in the first place.
The doldrums settled over the long afternoon; the ticking of the mantelpiece clock combined with the steady susurrus of Mr Ayoshi spraying the garden outside my office window nearly lulling me to sleep. The telephone rang for the first time in what seemed like hours, jolting me from my torpor. My hand sent the receiver skittering across the desk.
‘Everything OK there, Frost?’ Gene said when I’d finally corralled the phone.
I couldn’t recall when he’d last called me at work. I stammered out a greeting. Swell, I thought, you’re mocking Marion again. ‘I saw Miss Davies this morning. She sang your praises.’
‘Who can live in a house like that? It’d be easier to bunk in the Coliseum.’
‘You managed to avoid the Great Man himself.’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s aware I stopped by, though. I was hawkeyed by the staff, who know who butters their bread. I get the sense there’s very little goes on around that woman Hearst isn’t privy to. I’m letting you know my suspicions have been confirmed. Baird was murdered. I ran my theory past the coroner, so the doc took his time. Found a fresh injection mark on Baird’s arm. The way we figure it, somebody slipped Baird a Mickey Finn to make him pliable, then spiked him with a needle of whatever they used to finish him off. They figured no one would look too hard. The suicide note sets the scene, with Miss Davies – or, as it happened, you – to provide the why of it. It was all supposed to get written off as a lonely, forgotten old man showing himself the door.’
I nodded into the telephone, then remembered they’re not built for that. ‘Any theories on who’s responsible?’
‘You’ll be pleased to know Miss Davies is in the clear. But seeing as those poison pen letters are likely involved, I’ll be talking to that fellow Vollmer.’
‘What about that other friend of Baird’s? Mr Carter?’
‘You mean Mr Muncy. Carter Muncy. The one who dropped by to say hello to his old pal Clarence and found us. I can tell you it’s not him, even though I still say he’s an odd duck.’
‘You’ve eliminated him as a suspect?’
‘The doc estimates the time of death at some point Sunday afternoon. Muncy can account for his whereabouts for the entire day. All of it, chapter and verse. Even parts we couldn’t care less about. Turns out he’s a member of a movie club, for people absolutely nuts about pictures. I’m surprised you’re not in one, Frost. Would suit you to a T. He got together with some folks for Sunday breakfast, where they talked pictures, then they went to a picture, then some other folks joined them for lunch, then they went to more pictures, then out for coffee, where you’ll never guess the subject of conversation. Multiple people can confirm he was with them around the time Baird took his fatal dose, so it wasn’t Muncy who administered it, although I would have pegged him for it. Something squirrelly about him. A few of these friends are like Baird, actually. Worked in silent pictures. Muncy collects them, apparently.’
‘He loves to hear their stories,’ I said. ‘On that subject, did Marion tell you what the Argus letters refer to?’
‘She played that pretty foxy, I have to say. Tried to avoid it. Lots of eye-batting and “Oh, now, Detective.”’
‘Which you no doubt enjoyed.’
‘You know me. I always like a front-row seat for a show. Finally she came across, at least partway. Said it had to do with a flirtation in her past. That’s how she put it. “Flirtation.” Did she spill the beans to you?’
I nibbled my lip. Did I dare mention Charlie Chaplin? Gene was already treading carefully thanks to Hearst’s involvement; he didn’t need another luminary to worry about. ‘She didn’t want to tell us.’ As I uttered this statement, which was true according to a narrow interpretation of the word, I blessed myself.
‘You just did that thing where you made the sign of the cross, didn’t you? I can tell by your voice. I’ll bet
Edith got it out of her. So confirm something for me. Was this “flirtation” with Charlie Chaplin?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Hansen. He has all the dirt. Says it’s common knowledge Davies and Chaplin were an item years ago, around the time she was making pictures with Baird, so it would fit. Ol’ W.R. couldn’t have been happy about that.’
‘You’re not going to bother him,’ I said. ‘Charlie Chaplin, I mean.’
‘Not unless a bowler hat and a cane turn up when we search Baird’s house again.’ He paused. ‘I suppose now is when we talk about the big news of the day.’
‘I was enjoying not talking about it, even though the other subject was murder.’
‘Are you doing OK?’
‘No. Is anyone?’
‘The world will come to its senses, Frost.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘Not even remotely.’ He smiled sadly; I could tell things by his voice, too. ‘But it seemed like the thing to say.’
For the rest of the afternoon, my thoughts regularly returned to Gene. I wasn’t pining for him, exactly, though I did miss him. Unfinished business remained between us, but I’d already learned that pressing him to talk didn’t yield results. Besides, I had my pride; if Gene was still interested in me, why didn’t he make a move? Here we were, two stubborn people being civil, even friendly toward one another. And the payoff was me watching Gene slowly drift away. It was like running one errand too many on the way to the station, arriving in time to see your train leave without you. You might have caught a bad break. Or you might not have really wanted to take that trip in the first place.
The Sharpest Needle Page 7