The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  ‘Do you like it? I figure this crowd will be heavy on the sinners. I thought you’d be on the side of the angels with me.’

  ‘So did I. But I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘That I can understand.’ She hugged me close and spoke softly into my ear. ‘Should I have cancelled, do you think? With everything going on, is a party in bad taste?’

  ‘I think with everything going on, people need to let off steam.’

  ‘That’s just what W.R. said. He’s around here somewhere, though you probably won’t see him much. On the phone with his editors, redrawing maps and things. I’ll be sure to pull him out of his office. He’s cute as the dickens in his little outfit.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have arrived so early.’

  ‘You’re not early. We have people who show up days in advance. Sleeping on couches, poaching food out of the iceboxes. So long as you’re not the blackmailer, I don’t mind at all. Speaking of that rat, this came this morning.’ From beneath her breastplate she produced a sheet of paper, bearing a short, typewritten message: Looking forward to tonight! Argus

  ‘That’s it?’ I asked. ‘Nary a word about how the exchange is supposed to take place?’

  ‘At least he sent it with a nice card. The jerk.’ Marion stumbled over the insult, her stammer becoming almost violent. She peered over her shoulder, checking for W.R. The wig made her look young, a true damsel in distress. ‘Edith should be here any minute with the painting. I’m not telling a soul where I’m keeping it except the police. Please don’t take offense.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s a smart idea.’

  Marion bit her lip and screwed up her forehead; like one of her characters, she wanted to show she was thinking. ‘How’s he going to cart it out of here? Maybe he’ll have a cart with him. It could be part of his costume. He probably has a whole clever plan figured out.’ She slumped against me. ‘This is going to be a long night. I should have a bracer before it kicks off.’

  A cry from the front door presaged Addison’s arrival. He waddled over to us, regally ridiculous in his angel’s attire with small wings. ‘We should have traveled together, Lillian, if we were going to get here at the same time.’ He embraced Marion. ‘Never fear. Your nightmare will soon be over.’

  ‘Right as a much bigger one is beginning. Just my luck.’ She stamped her foot in frustration. ‘I told W.R. I wouldn’t dwell on the war tonight. We’re all going to have fun!’ She spoke out of the side of her mouth like Edward G. Robinson. ‘First, I’m going to have a drink, then I’m going to have fun. If I hear anything from Argus, I’ll flash you the high sign from those old Kehoe’s Kapers.’ She placed a hand behind each ear and flapped them, her eyes enormous. ‘I always thought those pictures were a stitch.’

  In the next room, Addison and I found dueling bars. One poured lemonade and Shirley Temples, the other the hard stuff. The theme extended to the dessert tables. In this corner, light, airy angel food cake. Opposite it, devil’s food. Considering several slices of the chocolate variety had already been snapped up, I put money on Old Scratch to carry the evening. Addison and I bellied up to the Goody Two-Shoes bar. I had work to do.

  Halfway through my lemonade, I spotted Bill Ihnen. He’d be hard to miss in a jumble of bright red garments accessorized with a pair of horns and a tail with a wire in it so it stood straight up on its own. It took me a moment to register that the woman on his arm was Edith. Shrouded completely in black, with a white wimple beautifully framing her face, she looked like she’d escaped from one of the medieval tapestries hanging at Hearst’s ranch at San Simeon. Bill whisked her over with a cackle. Edith responded with a look of comical forbearance.

  As Bill and Addison fell into conversation about each being the other’s opposite number, I pounced on Edith. ‘Who are you supposed to be? That costume is divine.’

  ‘More than you know.’ She gave a tight, toothless smile. ‘I thought you of all people would recognize me. I’m Teresa of Ávila, the patron saint of lace-makers.’

  ‘Now that you say it, I see the resemblance. I’d ask why you aren’t dressed as the patron saint of tailors and seamstresses, but I think I know why.’

  ‘Saint Homobonus.’ Edith’s nose wrinkled. ‘His beard didn’t look right on me at all.’

  Bill leaned over. ‘For the record, I thought it looked adorable.’ Edith slapped his arm playfully.

  ‘Is the painting here?’ I whispered.

  ‘Being tucked away as we speak. Now, my child,’ she said, playing her character to the hilt. ‘I must away to see our fair hostess. Bill, get a move on.’

  The house filled at a startling clip, the trickle of guests now a torrent. The bulk of the costumes fell into two groups: simple (devils, angels, ghosts) and ornate (Borgias, popes, anything with lots of jewelry). The latter predominated, as it provided an excuse to flaunt one’s finery in full. I overheard one Wicked Witch of the West say to another, ‘I tried to think of modern saints and the only one that came to mind was Harry Cohn’s secretary.’

  ‘Howdy, ma’am.’ Gene appeared at my side in the guise of a riverboat gambler, the fellow who reluctantly folds a hand to Clark Gable. He sported a long burgundy jacket, a loud checked waistcoat, and a felt hat with a wide brim. The outfit was showy, yet he looked comfortable in it. I could tell, because he preened a little.

  ‘It was the best of the bunch Edith offered by far,’ he said. ‘That’s why I volunteered to pick the costumes up. Hansen got stuck with a Roman centurion get-up. He’s clanking around here someplace. I also paid attention to detail.’ From his sleeve, he plucked an ace of spades. ‘This way, I’m definitely a sinner. Without it, I’d just be a very handsome sportsman. And you’re a pirate.’

  ‘Not any pirate,’ I spat in my best Irish brogue, while thrusting my flintlock pistol into his ribs. ‘I’m Anne Bonny, sailing under my own colors.’

  We stared at each other, me feeling self-conscious, Gene looking both uncomfortable and intrigued.

  To make the moment more awkward, a harem girl joined us. Her ensemble had been tastefully assembled, with a relatively modest top and pants that weren’t see-through; still, her midriff was on display. ‘Do you need this woman disarmed?’ she asked Gene, as if he were her possession.

  ‘She’s plenty disarming already. Lillian Frost, Lynn Albright.’

  I lowered my pistol. ‘Glad to know you.’

  ‘Likewise. Say, is that lemonade? I could use one of those. Pardon me.’ Lynn ran over to the bar, attracting several glances in her wake.

  ‘She’s a policewoman, Frost,’ Gene said in a low voice. ‘The last part of my costume. We’ve got men throughout the house but we don’t want to call attention to ourselves, so we’re each with someone for appearances. She’s a fine officer. From what I’ve heard, a faster draw than me.’

  ‘Where does she keep her gun in that outfit?’

  Gene blushed, his face almost matching his coat. ‘I spoke with Marion. We’ll have a man near the painting at all times, another close to her for when Argus makes contact. The rest of us – mostly our men, some Santa Monica PD – are circulating, looking for trouble. Speaking of that, I’d better go mingle.’ He intercepted Lynn as she got her drink. He said something, and she threw back her head and laughed. She was a natural. They made a lovely couple.

  A Lady Godiva excused herself breathily as she brushed past me in her flesh-colored leotard and long wig. I wanted to ask if she was a sinner or a saint, then decided not to bother.

  I angled toward the doors leading to the pool, thinking I’d get a breath of air, when I spotted Saint Teresa waving at me. I battled across the room to Edith. ‘Did you see something?’

  ‘Perhaps. A costume we might wish to keep an eye on.’ She led the way into the next room. She didn’t need to point out the dicey drag; I could spot it a mile off. A figure in stylish formal wear being trailed by two young men toting an enormous portrait of the same dapper gent, only the version on the canvas had been rendered decrepit and gnarled.


  ‘Dorian Gray,’ Edith said.

  ‘Anthony Selden,’ I added.

  ‘The art dealer? That’s very droll, very clever.’

  ‘Not to mention very expensive if he’s paying those two fellows to follow him around all night.’

  ‘It’s a daring choice if he’s the blackmailer. I wonder if that’s his plan. He walks in with one painting—’

  ‘And out with another behind it.’

  Selden darted across the room, as if he’d heard our speculations. His twin flunkies raced after him, almost knocking a Marie Antoinette wig off another partygoer’s head. Selden’s target became apparent: Marion. He cornered our hostess and began talking, an oleaginous smile spreading across his features as he gestured at one of the Greuze paintings on the wall. Marion’s expression showed sudden consternation.

  Edith and I exchanged a look. Was the blackmailer at last making his move? We stepped closer to their conversation.

  ‘Good evening, ladies.’ The voice uttering the greeting was impossibly deep and strangely familiar. The man spoke more to the dark blue carpet than us, his face largely obscured by the broad brim of his black hat. All I could see was his beard.

  A real one. A genuine growth.

  ‘Orson?’ I half-whispered.

  ‘On the contrary. Mephistopheles, at your service. I never got to play the role when we did Doctor Faustus.’ Another devil, yes, but a suave and stylish one. Welles bowed, exposing the red satin lining of his pitch-black opera cape. He’d affixed minute horns at his temples. Far more eye-catching was his false nose, an astonishing bulbous creation. Edith and I could only gape at it, Welles grinning hugely at its effect.

  ‘Marvelous, isn’t it? Foam, not putty. Crafted by Maurice Seiderman over at RKO. The man’s a bloody sorcerer.’ He sighed as he scanned the room. ‘Thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing? ’Tis not half so fair as this. I hope you’ll forgive me, Edith. I saw your invitation and couldn’t resist. I had to slip in and see Hearst’s festivities firsthand.’

  ‘You mean you weren’t invited?’ I asked.

  ‘No, fair lady. I came hither of mine own accord. It was easy to fall in with others and bamboozle the guards at the gate. Is that our hostess? I believe she’s beckoning to you.’

  I turned. Marion was indeed signaling in our direction. Anthony Selden and his retainers, meanwhile, had vanished.

  ‘I leave you to your business. I must explore the great man’s world while my mufti holds. Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not be discerned.’ He waggled his eyebrows at us, then raised his cape over the lower half of his face and plunged deeper into the house.

  We made our way to a flustered Marion. ‘Are you all right?’ Edith asked.

  ‘Not even a little.’

  I seized her hand. ‘Did Selden ask for the painting?’

  ‘No. Why? He’s not Argus, is he?’ The three of us stared at each other a moment, then Marion shook off her confusion. ‘Anthony told me someone snuck into the party.’

  So much for Orson Welles and his bamboozling, although for the life of me I couldn’t understand why Welles’s gatecrashing had upset her so.

  Marion pulled us both close. ‘He said Charlie’s here.’

  ‘Charlie?’ I was lost.

  ‘Not Mr Chaplin,’ Edith breathed.

  Marion pressed a smile on her face for the benefit of someone across the room. ‘Anthony spotted him a moment ago.’

  ‘Why would he be here?’ I asked.

  A kittenish look down. ‘I may have telephoned him yesterday. To thank him for his support. While we were talking, I may have implied that this would all be over tonight.’

  ‘He’s still trying to help you,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t deal with Charlie on top of everything else. Can you two find him?’

  I nodded. Nodding seemed like a good thing to do. ‘Do you know how he’s dressed?’

  ‘Anthony had me so flummoxed I forgot to ask. Tell Charlie I think it’s better if he left. And if he insists on staying, because he might …’ Marion sighed. ‘Please keep him away from W.R. It would be too much for him to bear this evening.’

  Sure, I thought. Why not? It’s not as if anything else is going on.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Every condition for a successful party had been met. The band played at a scorching tempo. Fully clad people bobbed in the swimming pool. The energy had reached such a fever pitch that I half-expected Ocean House to break free of its foundations and lift off into the night.

  Not that I could partake in the gaiety. Edith and I had split up to search the grounds for the most famous man in the world, not knowing what garb he wore.

  A knight planted himself in my path. He’d forgone shining armor, and in this heat who could blame him? Instead he’d donned an azure surcoat, a feather of the same shade adorning his helmet. His shield depicted a blue griffin, rearing up and facing me on a field of green.

  ‘You shall not pass,’ Timothy declared, his voice echoing faintly inside the helmet. ‘Not until you tell me where that blasted painting is.’

  I aimed my flintlock pistol at him. ‘As if I’d tell you. Anyway, only Marion and the police know where it is.’

  ‘Then it should be easy enough to find. These cops aren’t blending in. I’ll figure out what room they’re watching, await my chance, and snatch it away.’

  Not my desired outcome. I wanted Argus exposed. But if Timothy and Vera were responsible for the ruse, their intent could be to swipe the painting without confronting Marion at all.

  ‘How do you plan on waltzing out of here with it?’ I asked.

  ‘Right in front of everyone.’ Timothy hefted his shield. ‘Made a minor modification to this. It’s now holding my second stab at a Montsalvo. I’ll find my first, switch them, then offer my excuses and leave. Get a load of this likely flatfoot.’

  He nodded toward a monk, scratching himself unceremoniously through his robe as he stood watch near a door while sweating like a stevedore. A Cleopatra sauntered by with two lemonades, and the poor man licked his lips.

  ‘This looks promising. Pardon me.’ Timothy approached the monk. I toyed with tarrying to see if he struck oil or watercolor, but instead pressed on in search of Charlie Chaplin.

  I kept to the periphery of the dance floor, where Florence Nightingale cut a rug with Julius Caesar. Good thing I hadn’t worn the same costume; nothing spoils a party like two noble nurses coming to blows. I spied a man dressed as Adolf Hitler Sieg-Heiling a bartender. Could that be Chaplin? Who else would have the nerve to march into a party on this of all days in that uniform? Plus the papers were full of reports on the satirical film he was planning about the German leader. I pursued the faux Führer until I glimpsed the ginger locks beneath his hat, and turned away.

  To find Walter Kehoe staring quizzically at me. He wore a black suit with unusually wide red stripes that seemed to dance in the light thanks to rows of spangles. His face conveyed a common Hollywood message: I can’t recall your name but I know I should, so I’ll be civil to you. ‘Having a nice time?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I love your suit.’

  He beamed at the compliment. ‘From one of my classic Knight and Daly pictures. Good Heavens!’

  ‘I remember that! They go to hell and the devil’s sort of a gangster. That scene scared me when I was little.’

  Kehoe fumed. ‘It was meant to be funny.’

  Vera Randolph announced herself with a rich, mocking laugh. She was dressed as an Old West dance-hall girl, all beads and ruffled trim. She had also resumed her bored, catty persona. I thought of the firebrand I’d confronted in the car, and wondered if Kehoe had any inkling how talented a performer he had on his hands. ‘My outfit has no history,’ she said, suppressing a yawn. ‘Brand new this morning. I made Walter buy it. I’m not wearing some fusty thing out of storage reeking of mothballs.’

  ‘This suit doesn’t smell,’ Kehoe said in the voice of a man tired of arguing. ‘Your brother didn’t grouse when I gave him his
costume.’

  ‘He doesn’t have my taste. Speaking of Timothy …’ Vera glanced at me. ‘Have you seen him? I wonder if he found what he was looking for.’

  Message received. ‘Not yet,’ I told her.

  Vera pouted in response. Kehoe pulled her onto the dance floor. She let him, flopping around in his arms like a rag doll while his suit threw the light around the room.

  On I pressed with my search. I spotted Mae West, then turned a corner and saw her again in a different gown. I couldn’t tell if either Mae was the McCoy. The plume atop Timothy’s helmet sailed by on the far side of the dance floor like a duck scudding across a pond.

  My gaze passed briefly over a man in the battle dress of a Mongol warrior. Then I realized his eyes had been locked on mine first. When I looked back, he was making a break for the patio.

  I veered left and exited through a different door in time to see the mighty Genghis Khan crouching behind a column as he peered into the house, fearing my pursuit. The man wore a golden helmet that rose to a point, with long black hair attached to it. A lengthy mustache drooped under his nose. The rest of his costume consisted of an elaborately embroidered vest, fur-trimmed boots, and rough-hewn pants. There was also a sword, which remained firmly in its scabbard.

  When I tapped the man on the shoulder, his eyes gave the game away. I’d seen them on the screen more times than I could count. They were always soulful. Now, they looked afraid.

  ‘Good evening, Charlie,’ I said.

  ‘You saw through my disguise. I thought it rather good.’ He inspected his reflection in the glass of the patio door and nodded reassuringly at himself. ‘A small joke on my part. People know I intend to play one dictator. I thought it amusing to attend the party as another.’