The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  I did, and had telephoned ahead. I’d missed my chance to speak to him at San Simeon; now, I had an appointment. The small lobby seemed several degrees cooler than outside. I credited the young woman perched behind a tiny mahogany desk. She possessed unshakable poise and alabaster skin so flawless I assumed she was carried into the building via sedan chair, sunlight never scalding her features. Beautiful antique clips held back her russet hair. When she asked for my name, she did so with a lush British drawing-room accent that made me sound like a New York cabbie bellowing across Times Square in comparison. She said Mr Selden would only be a moment, and would I care for ice water? I accepted gratefully. She poured me a glass, the nectar tasting of cucumber.

  No artwork was on display. A mirror hung on the wall behind the woman. In it, I could see the back of her perfectly shaped head and my own hair, flying every which way. I also noticed I was beginning to perspire through the bodice of my dress. Holding my elbows to my sides, I inquired whether Mr Selden was exhibiting anything at the moment – or, I left unasked, was the joint just a place for him to put his feet up? No, she purred with disappointment, Mr Selden only shows pieces requested by clients. I wondered how he stayed in business. It sounded like a racket to me. The ice water was refreshing, though.

  Selden bounded out of his office, filling the air with cologne and apologies. ‘I hate to have kept you waiting, Miss Frost, but I had a long-distance telephone call and these things can be impossible to reschedule. And that’s without the prospect of war on the Continent at any moment. Has Stella gotten you some ice water? Excellent. Come this way.’

  Somehow Selden’s office was even cooler than the lobby, despite being flooded with light, so much of it that it seemed he was in the business of selling empty space, not artwork. A single painting stood on an easel, so familiar I found myself peering at it. It was by an artist Addison had mentioned in passing on the train to San Simeon, whose work hung in Addison’s home. Selden had hustled it out after I’d telephoned, an act at once savvy and suspect.

  ‘May I say, this is a most pleasant surprise.’ He settled himself behind a desk many times the size of Stella’s but utterly bereft of paper.

  ‘Mr Rice sent me,’ I lied. ‘He’s been thinking about the art you discussed last weekend. And some you didn’t.’

  ‘I’m happy to answer any of his questions. Particularly when they come from so fetching an advance party.’ He executed a minute adjustment to his blue silk necktie. ‘I regretted we didn’t talk more during our time at W.R.’s ranch.’

  Sure, roll out the red carpet now that I’m Addison’s emissary. The pout surfaced on my face before I understood I was playing along with Selden’s brazen attempt at seduction. ‘I was hurt by that.’

  ‘Nothing personal, you understand, Lillian. May I call you Lillian?’ He didn’t wait for my answer. ‘An instinct overwhelms me when I find myself in the company of an individual of discernment, like W.R. or Addison. I fear I leave the social graces behind in the heat of battle. But rest assured, you were noticed. Most definitely.’

  ‘That’s good. But you’re doing business now.’ If he wanted to flirt, I would flirt back. Anything to get him talking. Besides, it never hurt to stay in practice.

  ‘Yes, but in more intimate surroundings. We can go at our own pace, have refreshments of our choosing. For instance, would you care for something stronger?’

  I glanced at my glass, wanting him to see me considering the idea. ‘Not while I’m working.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll behave, too. We’ll complete our duties faster that way.’ He rose and took a path to the artwork on the easel that brought him closer to me than was strictly necessary. ‘This piece came in, by Coppins. I know Addison’s an admirer. Do you think this would appeal?’

  ‘It might. But he sent me to ask about more modern work.’

  ‘He struck me as a bold figure, a man looking to broaden his horizons. And this is the time to move into contemporary art. The market’s in flux, with a great many pieces available. A collection can be built with ease provided the buyer moves quickly. These pieces are likely to increase – skyrocket, even – in value. In part because they’re more … provocative.’

  He said the last with a tone implying he’d saucily raised an eyebrow, but his were too fair for me to tell for sure.

  ‘The pieces at the auction you attended in Switzerland,’ I said. ‘Some of them seemed … provocative.’ I hoisted my own eyebrow with enough force that I feared I’d sprained it.

  ‘Indeed they were. Certainly ruffled a feather or two in Germany.’

  ‘Do you still have the catalogue you showed us?’

  Selden crossed to a file cabinet. ‘It made an impression, I take it. As I said, a number of pieces at the Lucerne auction were in the Degenerate Art exhibition, along with others that have since fallen into that category. Rather a broad one where the Nazis are concerned. I thought the auction represented an opportunity for much of that artwork to come to the United States – be delivered to the New World, as it were – but few American buyers attended. Difficult, of course, for the larger museums to show their faces under the circumstances, but I thought perhaps— Here we are.’

  From a drawer, his nimble, tapered fingers extracted the book he’d flaunted on the train. He sat on the arm of my chair as he presented it to me, bracing his hands on either side of my shoulders. I didn’t cringe or shudder. Instead, I made appreciative sounds as he offered a self-satisfied survey of what had come up on the auction block.

  ‘You said many of these artists have been targeted by the Nazis,’ I said as I turned to the next page.

  ‘I didn’t use that word, Lillian, and I’d be hesitant about employing it. No matter how accurate it might be.’ A jaded chuckle. ‘The Germans would insist they’re interested in honoring art that is in keeping with their philosophy, that’s all.’

  ‘Didn’t you say you went to the Degenerate Art exhibit? You don’t have the catalogue from that, do you?’

  ‘You’ve developed an eye for the provocative already? I don’t have a catalogue, but I may have some other souvenirs.’ He returned to the filing cabinet. ‘You’re sure I can’t fix you a drink? It’s nearly the end of the working day, after all.’

  As soon as he left my chair, I flipped back a page. There he was.

  Otto Haas, the catalogue read. It wasn’t the painting now in Edith’s office, but even from the black-and-white reproduction I could tell this work had been envisioned by the same eye, crafted by the same hand. Confrontational fields of color, broken by jagged lines. The book identified the painting as Indecision, Number Four.

  ‘You think Addison would be interested in him?’

  I hadn’t heard Selden return to my side. Blame my preoccupation and his thick office carpet. He tapped the image of Haas’s painting. Our hands touched. His fingers felt hot.

  ‘Maybe. It’s a striking piece of work.’ Striving to sound professional yet disinterested, I tried emulating his secretary. ‘Otto Haas. Is he still working?’

  ‘Sadly, no.’ Selden took the catalogue from me and returned it to his files, walking, I thought, a good deal more stiffly.

  ‘Why sadly? Did something happen?’

  ‘Yes. He died.’ He made a point of locking the cabinet. ‘An unfortunate incident. He was killed at a bar in the town where he lived in Germany. An argument with some men. I only learned of it secondhand. The specifics were hazy.’

  He studied me as if I were a stain on his otherwise spotless lapel; he wasn’t sure what I was made of, and he wondered how much effort it would take to get rid of me. I stretched out a little and smiled. ‘I believe I will have that drink, if it’s still in the offing.’

  ‘Of course.’ He moved to a second cabinet and opened a drawer, the rattle of bottles indicating a full bar.

  ‘Did you know Mr Haas?’ I asked.

  ‘I never made his acquaintance. I only know his work. What there is of it. Since his death, it’s been hard to come by. The piece i
n the Lucerne auction was the first Haas I’d heard about in a few years. Snapped up right away, naturally, by a shrewd competitor.’

  ‘It’s probably increased in value already, then.’

  ‘That’s not always the case. There have to be some pieces for sale in order to gauge what the market is. At present, Haases are too thin on the ground to be certain.’ He returned to my side and handed me a glass of light brown liquid. His poison, I noted, was clear and easily could have been water. I wrapped my hands around the glass, not sipping from it right away. Selden took notice of that. ‘Is Addison interested in Otto Haas?’

  I raised the glass to my lips without sipping from it. A clumsy pantomime, but one he seemed to buy. ‘I don’t actually know. I’ve only heard the name.’

  ‘I understand.’ He nodded pityingly at me, the poor menial well out of her depth. ‘Perhaps Addison is interested in Otto Haas. Perhaps he’s even acquired some of his work.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t. That is to say, I haven’t seen any.’ I cocked my head. ‘I thought you said they were hard to come by.’

  ‘That they are. They would appear to be in the wind. Lost for the moment. Why don’t you enjoy your drink, Miss Frost?’

  Selden placed his hand around mine and tried to force the glass to my lips. The liquid within roiled, spilling over the rim, trickling onto my fingers.

  Instinctively, I leapt to my feet. Several fingers of liquor sloshed onto my clothes. ‘That’s maybe not a good idea.’

  Selden held his ground, not retreating as I stood up. He crowded me against the chair. ‘You’re here to find out about Haas. What do you know?’

  ‘Nothing. I … I’ve already said too much.’ I stepped around him and walked to the door. The handle wouldn’t budge. Selden had deftly locked the door behind us on our way inside.

  ‘I’ve frightened you. I apologize.’ Selden slipped an oily smile on to his face. He was, at bottom, nothing more than a salesman, just one with a highbrow product to pitch. ‘Let’s not end our chat just yet. I’ll fix you another drink.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, so abruptly even Selden was taken aback. After a moment’s hesitation, he started toward me, hand extended for my glass. I moved to return it, making sure that I dropped it on the narrow section of exposed floorboard between the heavy carpet and the door. The resulting crash was loud enough for Stella to hear in the foyer.

  For the next part of the act, I played flustered. ‘I’m so sorry, Anthony! The glass was slick and it slipped. Here, let me …’ I reached for the sharpest shard, then gasped and put my finger in my mouth. ‘I cut myself. I’m just, I’m so stupid.’ I wrapped a handkerchief around the allegedly wounded digit before Selden could see I was faking.

  He had taken an angry step toward me when Stella knocked vigorously at the door. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Selden?’ Selden faltered for an instant, wishing his loyal girl Friday would vanish. Then he unlocked the door.

  ‘Careful,’ he warned her. ‘There’s glass here. The restroom is this way, Miss Frost. We have bandages—’

  ‘Won’t be a moment!’ I stepped over the shattered glass, not stopping until I was through the lobby and onto the street. My heart thudding in my chest, I was able to marshal a single incongruous thought. Maybe I’m not such a bad actress after all. I’d ace that screen test if I took it now. Where’s David O. Selznick when you need him?

  I clambered back into Addison’s Cadillac, my breath still heaving. Rogers made a show of sniffing the air. ‘Drinking on the job, huh? Must be nice.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Selden definitely knows something,’ I told Edith over the telephone. ‘Haas’s name rang more bells than Quasimodo. He’s on the hunt for the painting. Whether he knows where it’s hidden, I can’t say.’

  I’d had Rogers stop at a drug store once my nerves settled so I could fill Edith in. ‘My next quarry is Walter Kehoe. He’s in a hurry to scoop up the Montsalvo painting. I’d like to know what he thinks he’s buying.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Edith replied sternly. ‘Don’t be lulled into thinking Mr Kehoe is a spent force. He still wields considerable influence in this business, which he won in its earliest days. When matters were addressed in a more … cutthroat manner. Not to be indelicate, dear, but you just had difficulty handling an art dealer.’

  ‘I got away, didn’t I?’ I could feel her frowning at my bravado. ‘Anyway, I’m not going to talk to him. I’ll run the old end-around play and buddy up to his girl Vera. Once I concoct some excuse to invite myself over.’

  My master plan met with silence. Then Edith said, ‘Why not invite Miss Randolph somewhere else? A safer public venue where you can prepare for tomorrow’s party at the same time.’

  ‘I’m intrigued. What do you have in mind?’

  Now I could sense her smiling. ‘Squeezing one more favor out of Wally Westmore.’

  Vera didn’t recognize my voice or my name at first. I was poised to send over a photograph when I mentioned our weekend at San Simeon. ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said, slowly and suspiciously.

  I commenced laying it on thick. ‘I’m having a terrible afternoon. I have an appointment with a girlfriend at The House of Westmore, and she canceled at the last minute. I thought maybe you’d like to come.’

  ‘Why me?’ Skepticism now jockeyed with excitement in her voice.

  ‘You’re going to Marion’s party tomorrow, aren’t you? That’s why I made the appointment. I thought the two of us—’

  ‘I’ll meet you there,’ she said, and hung up. Edith had scored again.

  From the position I’d staked out under the awning of the Westmore brothers’ salon on Sunset Boulevard, I watched Rogers slaving over his crossword puzzle. I could have waited for Vera Randolph inside the pleasant Tudor-style building, but I was nervous. Not about venturing on to what in Hollywood was sacred ground – so many stars routinely patronized Westmores’ that Lorna Whitcomb and Hedda Hopper cobbled together columns based solely on who they’d spotted there – but about the imminent prospect of some elaborate beauty treatment.

  I read the advice in the magazines – what red-blooded American woman could resist? – but in practice I hewed to a simple approach. Astringents where my skin was oily, creams for dry patches. Anything more complex smacked of chemistry class and invited trouble. One of the girls at Mrs Lindros’s boarding house spent half of her first paycheck on an electric mask to stimulate the skin. She fell asleep wearing it and couldn’t go out for a week. Another developed a permanent kink in her shoulder from a mirror worn around the neck so you could style the back of your head. I didn’t need any technological innovation more advanced than Marlene Dietrich’s kitchen matches and baby oil.

  Walter Kehoe’s car pulled up in front of Addison’s Cadillac. Owen, the driver, thumped the dashboard with surprising vehemence. Vera leaned forward from the back seat and gestured at Sunset Boulevard like she owned it. They continued their heated discussion for another moment before Vera exited the vehicle and Owen sped away.

  Vera didn’t require much in the way of beautification, I thought as she approached, just moderation. The royal blue of her chiffon day dress demanded to be dethroned, and her summer straw hat was large enough to steer a houseboat. But her makeup had been elegantly applied, and she moved with her usual willowy grace.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I asked, indicating the disappearing sedan.

  ‘It’s fine. I don’t like Owen. He gets above his station sometimes. What about him?’ She angled her hat toward Rogers.

  ‘He doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Who cares what the help thinks?’ She headed for the salon, remembering to pause at the door. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Some girl talk will be fun.’

  A fleeting spell of dizziness overtook me as we stepped into the salon, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling mirrors spaced every few feet that condemned you upon your entrance, and congratulated you as you exited. The downy peach-blush carpet underf
oot was so soft Miss Sarah would slip into catatonia if she lay down on it. White silk draperies with crystal fringe allowed in the optimal quantity of sunlight. The atmosphere, both feminine and focused, proclaimed that here was where the serious business of glamour was done.

  I led the way to the front counter. Next to several jars of Westmore cosmetics in their distinctive green, black and gold packaging rested a stack of advertising cards featuring the Lane sisters – Priscilla, Rosemary and Lola – along with Gale Page in a range of makeup styles and hairdos. Which of the Daughters Courageous Type Are You? the card queried, referencing that summer’s film. Today, I’d better be all of them, I thought.

  A clerk wafted over to offer her assistance. I gave my name, and she stood up straighter. ‘Mr Westmore instructed us to take special care of you.’

  As we trailed after her, Vera, impressed in spite of herself, asked, ‘Which Mr Westmore?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  The clerk escorted us to a private cubicle decorated in shades of bronze and coral so becoming I almost said, I’ll have the same. ‘What service may we offer you ladies this afternoon?’

  ‘Manicures,’ I said, setting my plan into motion. ‘The full treatment.’

  ‘That would include a unique Westmore process first,’ the clerk said soberly. ‘One to open the pores, remove impurities, and soften the skin. It has the added benefit of removing any superfluous hair from the arms.’

  Any hair the Good Lord had blessed me with didn’t seem superfluous, but these people were the experts. ‘Sounds good,’ I chirped. Vera nodded.

  Our technicians then arrived, two women whose blouses identified them as Phyllis and Hattie. They proceeded to paint our arms with layer after layer of warm, pink liquid. It would set like candle wax, they explained as they wrapped our now-coated arms in cellophane. After fifteen minutes, they’d remove it and commence the manicures. ‘Enjoy it!’ Hattie counseled us. ‘It’s so relaxing.’