The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  His enormous head bobbled as he awaited some acknowledgment of his cleverness. I couldn’t muster the meagerest bit of praise. ‘Our hostess wants to know why you’re here.’

  ‘To offer my assistance.’ Chaplin lit a cigarette, managing not to set his bogus bristles ablaze. ‘I spoke with her after our colloquy and she made it understood her recent troubles would end at this function, one way or another. She would not provide details, even when pressed. I had to attend, even if in secret, to provide Marion my help, should she require it.’

  Whoever was working the gate at this soirée needed to be given the heave-ho. They were letting in any riffraff off the street. That said, Chaplin’s solicitude was sweet.

  ‘Has the blackguard shown his face?’ he asked me. ‘If he has, and he possesses the film of our long-ago foolishness, I will pay any price. Marion needn’t worry herself.’

  ‘There’s been no sign of him yet. Marion is concerned you might run into Mr Hearst.’

  ‘I know enough to steer clear of him.’ Chaplin puffed out his chest in a show of spunk, turning into the Tramp before my eyes. ‘Besides, he won’t look up from his work on a night like this, with news from the Continent so dire and the levers of power untended. Men of his ilk live for such moments, chances to leave their mark on the world while the rest of us merely live. I doubt W.R. will even put in an appearance. If he does, I shall beat a hasty retreat. Of that, Marion can be certain.’

  I was willing to believe him. Then suddenly I had to, because Kay Dambach barreled over to us, with Hank ‘Ready’ Blaylock in tow.

  Ready bussed my cheek. Little wonder he’d come as Jesse James; as the silver screen’s premier stunt rider, he already owned the duds. In order to conceal that he favored fellows when it came to keeping company, he regularly made the rounds as Kay’s ‘boyfriend’. She matched him in a Belle Starr ensemble, complete with long skirt.

  ‘Finally!’ she said, making kissing sounds around my face. ‘We’ve been after you for the last few minutes, but you’re running around like you’re trying to catch a dog.’

  ‘You know me.’ I forced the words through a frozen smile. ‘Soaking in the atmosphere.’

  ‘That’s a swell costume,’ Ready said. ‘Didn’t have you figured for the kind to fly the Jolly Roger.’

  ‘I told Ready you’d be in a nun’s habit for sure. Now tell me if you spy anyone unusual here. I’m determined to get a scoop out of this.’ Kay then looked at Charlie Chaplin. ‘And you are?’

  Chaplin thrust out his hand. ‘Chuck,’ he barked in a passable American accent. ‘How are ya?’

  ‘Not sweating like you must be. Pleased to meet you. Ready, shall we soak up some atmosphere ourselves?’ She leaned toward me again. ‘Remember, you see anyone, you let me know.’

  Ready, no fool, stared into Chaplin’s face. Chaplin raised his eyebrows. Ready grinned hugely. He looked at me then briefly down at the tiled floor before offering Kay his arm. ‘Sure thing, sweetheart. Let’s see who’s out and about.’ As he escorted her away, Chaplin vanished into the crowd, as much as a man in a golden pointed helmet could.

  I fought through a phalanx of fiends on the dance floor as I sought Marion out. A flash of red satin informed me I’d literally bumped into Orson Welles again. He perspired profusely, but his putty nose held fast.

  ‘Lillian!’ he roared. ‘Fate casts us together again!’

  Someone jostled me, and I jostled Welles. ‘Having fun?’

  ‘No!’ He spoke discreetly into my ear, and I luxuriated in having a command performance of that miraculous voice. ‘There’s lots of noise but not much revelry. Too many swells, that’s the problem. There are other demimondes to be heard from.’

  ‘I’ll put you on the guest list for an Addison Rice party. You’ll get to rub some elbows then.’

  ‘I will hold you to that. I had a quick word with our hostess. Didn’t introduce myself, just thanked her for her hospitality. I should find where she’s getting her cocktails. Whatever she’s drinking is a damn sight stronger than what they’re pouring at the bar!’ He shook with laughter. ‘I asked after the man himself, and she said he’s working. It’d be something to see him in action, on this night in particular.’

  ‘Where did you see Marion?’

  Welles pointed toward a hallway, and I set off in that direction. I’d made it a few steps when a Roman centurion hove into view, a penitent Saint Teresa a few paces behind him. Together, Detective Hansen and Edith called to mind a scene from Cecil B. DeMille’s cutting-room floor.

  ‘There you are,’ Hansen grumbled. ‘I blame you for this.’ He gestured at his costume with the tip of his sword, which had bent. The maroon tunic bared a knobby pair of knees, and his toes spilled out of his sandals like they were making a break for it.

  ‘Stop complaining,’ I snapped. ‘I bet you’re more comfortable than most people here. I’d love to be in a skirt that short right now.’

  ‘It’s not a skirt.’ Hansen busied himself trying to straighten the tip of his sword. ‘C’mon. Morrow’s hunting for the pair of you.’

  I fell into step alongside Edith. ‘Did you have any luck?’ Edith asked.

  ‘Charlie vows to be on his best behavior. What’s Ben Hur’s hurry?’ In response, Edith could only shrug.

  Hansen stomped along a corridor, pausing to rap twice on a door. He threw it open. The fussy furniture beyond it had been crowded too close together.

  Gene stood in the center of the room. He signaled us to enter, raising a hand as soon as we’d crossed the threshold. Hansen scooted in behind us and shut the door. Gene stepped aside, revealing an unexpected object on the carpet. A shield, decorated in hues of blue and green. Colors I’d seen before.

  ‘The fellow carrying that,’ Gene said. ‘Timothy, you said his name was.’

  ‘Timothy Randolph. It’s an alias.’

  Only as Gene crossed to a wall did I observe the signs of a scuffle – furniture out of alignment, knickknacks overturned – that heightened the cramped feeling in the room. My mouth went dry as he moved.

  Timothy lay sprawled next to a low-slung couch. Blood streamed down his face from a vicious gash atop his skull. He did not appear to be breathing.

  It must have made for an odd tableau: the pirate crossing herself, the nun seizing the centurion’s arm.

  Two sharp knocks on the door were answered by Hansen. A detective in aviator gear slipped inside. Gene nodded, giving him permission to speak in front of us.

  ‘Painting’s still here,’ the pilot said.

  ‘There’s one break, at least,’ Gene said. ‘Wouldn’t mind a few more.’

  The door opened again, with no knock providing warning. The Scheherazade who stumbled in was a few veils short and several sheets to the wind. ‘What’s goin’ on in here?’ she asked tipsily.

  ‘Nothing,’ I told her. ‘We’re busy.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ she whined. ‘Cute outfit, though.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Gene assumed control, issuing orders to the detective in the pilot suit, whom he addressed as Ingram. ‘Check out front, see if anyone’s left the property. Move our men to every exit. Be quick and quiet about it. Not even a word to Hearst or Davies. Let’s keep this bottled up as long as possible. The last thing we need is a mass exodus.’

  Edith raised her hand. Considering that, to my knowledge, she was at her first murder scene, her keel seemed remarkably even. ‘Detective Morrow, what do you think happened here?’

  ‘A crime of opportunity, and a fairly recent one.’ Gene indicated the likely sequence of events with a sweep of his arm. ‘A confrontation between Timothy and an unknown assailant starts by the door, ends there. With the fatal blow being struck, I’d wager, with this.’ This being a metallic figurine of a leaping fish, nearly a foot high, facing the wrong way on a side table.

  ‘You’ve of course made a note of those?’ Edith pointed at the scattering of small colorful disks on the carpet, like scales the fish had shed as it vaulted
free of the water.

  ‘As you can see, I haven’t stepped on them.’ Gene permitted himself a small smile.

  Looking toward him meant I could see Timothy’s outstretched arm, so I forced my eyes elsewhere. My gaze fell on the shield that had been an essential element of Timothy’s costume – and his means of ferrying one painting into Ocean House then absconding with another. As I studied the shield, I startled myself by making a noise at the back of my throat. ‘I could have sworn the colors were the other way around.’

  Edith appeared at my side in a flash. ‘Timothy’s shield didn’t have a green griffin on a blue field?’

  ‘I only saw it once. But I thought the griffin was the same color as the feather on his …’ I trailed off, realizing that to verify my idea I’d have to consult the helmet that likely lay next to Timothy’s battered body.

  Gene obliged. ‘Blue. Whatever that means.’

  I lunged for the shield without thinking. Only Hansen’s surly ‘Hey!’ prevented me from touching it. ‘Can you pick that up? So I can see the other side?’

  Skeptical but willing, Gene removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He used it to tilt the shield upward. I knew at once from the ease with which he lifted it that the situation was graver than we thought.

  ‘Just a wooden prop,’ Gene said. ‘Nothing out of—’

  ‘Where’s the Montsalvo painting? I have to see it.’

  ‘Nothing doing,’ Hansen barked. ‘We’ve had that baby under wraps all night long.’

  ‘Then it shouldn’t matter. Please, Gene. One look.’

  Gene waved. Hansen griped. He then left the room for a moment, returning with the painting under a sheet. He removed the covering with a half-hearted flourish.

  I took in the canvas and drew in a breath. This version of Mary possessed, if not nobility, then a gravitas she’d previously been lacking, while Jesus had a distinctly colicky cast to his face.

  It was a copy of Paolo Montsalvo’s Madonna of the Hills, all right. But not the one that had been in Edith’s office. Timothy had been correct. He’d improved on his handiwork.

  ‘That’s not the painting,’ I said.

  Gene blinked, nonplussed. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s a fake Montsalvo.’

  ‘We know.’ Hansen patted pockets he didn’t have in search of cigarettes.

  ‘I mean, it’s the wrong fake Montsalvo.’

  ‘Lillian’s right, Detective.’ Edith stepped forward to inspect the painting. ‘That is not the artwork Miss Davies brought to my office for safekeeping.’

  Gene brushed his gambler’s hat back. ‘Say that again.’

  Edith and I explained as best we could, Hansen bending his sword anew in frustration as we spoke. ‘Timothy came here planning to switch the paintings,’ I summarized. ‘He was ambushed after he’d done it. Whoever killed him took his shield, which is hiding the real painting.’

  ‘The real fake one,’ Hansen clarified.

  ‘Yes, the real fake one. With a real Otto Haas behind it. That’s what this is about.’

  ‘I thought it was about this Italian painting.’ Hansen swung his crooked sword at the canvas. ‘Which is right here.’

  ‘I’m going to worry about the killer instead of any painting first, if that’s jake with everyone.’ Gene exhaled. ‘But looking for the shield isn’t a bad idea.’

  Hansen tugged the hem of his tunic. ‘If we’re doing a search, Gene, I gotta get out of this damn thing.’

  ‘We don’t have the budget for wardrobe changes, so you get to keep Timothy company.’ Gene turned to us. ‘I’m afraid you ladies will have to leave.’

  Edith lingered, confiding something to Gene about the colored discs on the floor. I left and strode briskly down the corridor, wanting to put some distance between me and Timothy. Naturally, I saw Vera as soon as I stepped into the vast front hall. My body tensed instantly. Instead of running, I channeled my energy into fading into the woodwork.

  It was a wasted effort. As if sensing my unease, Vera slipped through the crowd toward me. I couldn’t flee now. It was too late. Too late for everyone.

  ‘Have you seen Timothy?’ she asked.

  ‘Not for a while,’ I answered in some semblance of honesty.

  ‘I thought he wandered past not long ago.’ She made a show of gazing around the house, play-acting her awe. ‘Seems to be a lot of police activity in the last few minutes, if you know where to look. What’s going on?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ I leaned against the wall, the weight of the day crashing down on me at once.

  Vera noticed. ‘Oh, yes, you could. It’s Timothy, isn’t it? What, did he get himself caught?’

  Lord, I was exhausted.

  ‘He wasn’t caught.’ I said the words slowly, hoping Vera would take their full meaning.

  She did. She gripped my arm, her fingernails sharp through the silly puffed sleeves of my shirt. All this mayhem, and everyone in caps and bells.

  ‘Who did it?’ she said into my ear. ‘It was Selden, wasn’t it? You can tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know. No one knows yet. You can’t leave.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave. I’m going to stay until I find who did it. And I’ll make them pay.’

  ‘Don’t be rash. You have to—’

  She spoke over me. ‘Even if I have to go to jail. I don’t care anymore.’ She floated away as if in a trance – but still possessed the presence of mind to steer clear of Walter Kehoe. Who, I observed, was deep in conversation with Edith. Edith didn’t even seem to see me. Perhaps my fading-into-the-woodwork spell had worked on the wrong person.

  As I drifted in and around the house, I realized Vera was right. If you knew the police were there, you could sense something had changed; they moved about with purpose, vibrating at some higher frequency. At first I couldn’t fathom how the other guests didn’t notice the difference, but then they were hurling themselves into the festivities with an abandon verging on the manic, knowing the sooner the masquerade ended, the sooner they’d be at the mercy of the headlines. It felt like the last party in more ways than one.

  I pushed through the patio doors. Several people had kicked off their shoes and were dancing on the tennis court to the distant strains of the music. One couple had retreated to the shadows and moved on to the step that traditionally followed dancing. I looked toward the Pacific, felt the rhythm of the waves through the soles of my feet, tried to match the beating of my heart to its tempo.

  ‘Ah, Miss Frost.’ Anthony Selden’s plummy voice came out of the dark. He wasn’t being trailed by the two men carrying his disfigured portrait. I turned back to the ocean.

  ‘I’ve been looking for Addison,’ he announced to the side of my face. ‘Marion, too. W.R.’s watered down the drinks as usual. I’m hoping for some of her private reserve.’

  ‘Where’s your picture of Dorian Gray?’ I didn’t attempt to mask the brusqueness in my voice.

  Selden picked up on it, inspecting me with bemusement before answering. ‘The boys were wilting in the heat, so I gave them a break. I warned them they’d be working all night, and paid them handsomely for the time. God help the United States if you end up in the war and that’s the caliber of young men you send overseas. Now my costume is spoiled. People have no conception of who I’m meant to be.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Everyone knows you’re a sinner.’

  Selden’s tone grew icy. ‘I have acquired artwork of interest to your employer. Where might I find him?’

  ‘He’s dressed as an angel.’

  ‘That doesn’t exactly help.’

  My fuzzy brain fought to formulate an appropriate reply. I even toyed with sending him off in search of Vera, and letting fate run its course. Finally, I faced Selden. Behind him I observed a man in vaguely familiar clothes. A bejeweled turban, loosely knotted tie beneath a flyaway shirt collar. He bowed in my direction, careful to place a hand atop his turban to keep it from falling off.

  Kaspar Biel.

  Without any
apology to Selden, I charged over to the interloper. Before I could hurl one word of invective, Biel began talking calmly. ‘Do you like my costume? I selected it with you in mind. Professor Marvel from The Wizard of Oz. A most American combination of sinner and saint. A snake-oil salesman with a heart of gold.’

  ‘I had you thrown out of Paramount once. I’ll have you thrown out of here.’

  ‘That might prove difficult, considering I have an invitation. I’m sure Mr Hearst would have rescinded it given developments, but …’ Biel shrugged, powerless in the face of such social niceties. ‘Perhaps you could tell me why the police are not only here in force but noting comings and goings, particularly goings. Has something happened?’

  I stared into his eyes, wondering if he already knew the answer, if he was toying with me for sport.

  ‘Search me,’ I said. ‘I need a drink.’

  Returning to the clamor of Ocean House only resulted in a pounding headache. I found a flight of stairs, a hallway. Made turns until the roar of the party died away. For good measure I stepped into a room and shut the door behind me. The weak glow of a desk lamp transformed the furniture into hulking shadows.

  I took a deep breath. Then another.

  A voice by the desk said, ‘Let me call you back.’ A moment later, it called out, ‘Who’s there?’ Shuffling, then, ‘Oh, Miss Frost. The social whirl does get to us all.’

  William Randolph Hearst edged into the lamp’s circle of light, the movements of his large frame ponderous. His clear blue eyes took me in, the effect like being surveyed by an adding machine.

  ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  Hearst waved me silent. ‘It’s quite all right. High time the party reached this far into the house. Don’t tell Marion I’m not in my costume. I’m meant to be St George, but even fake armor is too cumbersome when you’re on the telephone. The lance is nice, though. I can lean on it when I get tired. Tell me, how is it going downstairs?’

  ‘Very well, Mr Hearst. Everyone’s enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Good, good.’ He pushed out a breath. ‘But I was speaking of the blackmailer. Argus. Have the police determined who’s after my painting?’