“Thank you, Mr. Rankin. You don’t know what that means.”
“A second disc on the DVD re-release of Flesh and the Devil, probably, and a lot of hyperventilating on the part of a select group of cinema geeks. These days, old movies and department stores suffer from the same apathy on the part of mall rats and Adam Sandler fans. Call Roger. He’ll arrange a screening.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“It’s been stored under ideal conditions. I think you’ll be pleased.” Suddenly Rankin’s face went white beneath the tan. “Good Lord!”
Valentino turned, following the direction of his gaze. Harriet was approaching. The legendary head shot of Garbo, full face, in the identical Mata Hari headdress hung on the wall behind her and she seemed to be coming straight out of the frame. All at once she stopped, her plucked brows rising. When Valentino turned back, Rankin was no longer standing before him. He lay on the floor, pale and unconscious, with a crowd beginning to gather around him.
The doctor, dressed as John Barrymore in double-breasted Grand Hotel blazer with a coat of arms on the handkerchief pocket, was summoned into Rankin’s study, where Valentino and another male volunteer had carried the tycoon and stretched him out on a leather sofa. The patient had come to, but the doctor had insisted on listening to his heart.
He smiled, removing the stethoscope from his ears. “Just a faint, I’d say. You might try a looser collar next time you play dress-up.” His trim moustache, unlike Valentino’s, was genuine, but appeared to have been retraced with an eyebrow pencil much darker than his thinning hair. His wife, whom Valentino had seen with him in the ballroom, had looked big-boned and awkward in a ballerina’s frilly tutu—although no more so than Garbo in that film. Fortunately, she’d worn more becoming outfits in most of her scenes.
“It wasn’t the collar.” Rankin looked at Valentino. “Who was that woman? I thought it was the guest of honor back from the grave.”
“Harriet Johansen, my date. She doesn’t look that way most of the time. She’s a criminal expert with the LAPD. I’m sorry she gave you a start.”
“Make sure she’s still here when we give out the prize for Best Garbo Look-Alike. Phyllis won’t mind, will she, Ned? I’d hate to lose my personal physician over a social gaffe.”
“She has a sense of humor. I told her she looked like one of those dancing hippos in Fantasia. She didn’t hit me where it shows.” The doctor snapped shut his bag and rose from the sofa. “Just to be sure, why not schedule an appointment? We won’t have nearly as much fun dressing up for your funeral.”
Rankin assured him he would. At the door, the doctor made room for Roger Akers, Rankin’s personal assistant, to enter. He was a lean, high-shouldered, narrow-faced man of forty, a high-strung, nervous type whom Valentino had dealt with often in his relations with his employer, and for whom he’d formed an instant dislike. There was something of Uriah Heep in his demeanor. He wasn’t in costume. Valentino had not seen him at the party.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Akers said.
“I’m sure you did. Did you finish those letters?” The older man sat up and buttoned his shirt.
“Of course not. They said you’d collapsed.”
“Well, I didn’t die, so you’re still employed. Help yourself to a drink, since you’re here, but I expect those letters here on my desk in the morning.”
“Have I ever failed?”
“You’ve never been one to overlook a detail—or an opportunity. Now, please leave. I’ve something to discuss with Valentino.”
Spots of color the size of quarters glowed high on Akers’ otherwise sallow cheeks, but he turned and left without comment.
“That was fairly unpleasant,” Valentino said.
Rankin stood and refastened his tie before an antique mirror. “His concern was real. If I die, that man will have to live on an assistant’s salary.”
“If you dislike him so much, why do you keep him on?”
Thirties dance music drifted in from outside while Rankin fussed with the tie. “Your stunning date,” he said. “Did you say she’s a police officer?”
“Not technically. She’s a criminalist. She collects and analyzes evidence, but she doesn’t arrest or interrogate people or carry a badge or a gun, like on TV.”
“Nevertheless I assume she’s required to report unlawful activity. Can you come back tomorrow morning, without her, and without telling her we’re meeting? I don’t want to put you in a position of having to duck awkward questions.”
Valentino hesitated. “Something tells me this has nothing to do with my job responsibilities.”
“It can, if you agree to my terms. You pose as a detective, which suggests you have a talent for investigation. I know you’ve been instrumental in bringing many lost films to light. How would you like to exercise your gift and incidentally add Greta Garbo’s first appearance on screen to that list? Immediately, I mean. Not after I expire and my will crawls through probate.”
“I like the part about getting How Not to Dress for UCLA. The other part sounds illegal.”
“I want you to dig up something on Roger Akers. Something embarrassing, and preferably intimidating.”
“That is illegal.”
“Only if you break the law to obtain it. What I do with it isn’t your concern.”
“It is if you’re considering some kind of blackmail. That makes me an accomplice.”
“There was only one blackmailer in this room, and he’s left. I want to use the information to stop him before he cleans me out.”
Valentino had no intention of investigating anyone’s sordid past, but he had a movie buff’s desire to see what happened next. Matthew Rankin, the wily old CEO, had sensed that, and refused to elaborate that evening. His guest agreed to the appointment, but rebelled against the terms by telling Harriet they were meeting in the morning.
They were at her door. She lowered her Best Garbo Look-Alike prize from her face—a nearly priceless period majolica vase fashioned into a full-length likeness of the actress—and fixed him with her Mata Hari-like gaze, primed to wring secrets from the unwary male gender. “If he wants to adopt you as his heir, don’t let him. Department stores went out with miniskirts.”
“He’s kept his going a decade longer than most. Anyway, my birth parents might object.”
“Why are you being so mysterious? Remember, you’re talking to a police specialist.”
Already he’d begun to regret taking her that far into his confidence. “You know I’ve been obsessed with that earliest Garbo footage for years. He’s invited me to a screening.” Which wasn’t a lie.
“Not an answer. It’s no mystery you love movies more than people.”
“Not in every case.” He kissed her. “Where are you going to put your prize?”
“You’ll find out the next time you try to change the subject.”
“I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“About a screening? What is it, a skin flick?”
“A porno film starring Greta Garbo would be the find of the century, but I’d never show it in public for the same reasons I’m not going to betray Mr. Rankin’s confidence. Some things should be kept private.”
She didn’t pry him any more for information. She also didn’t let him kiss her again. He stared at the door she’d closed in his face, feeling a little like John Gilbert must have when Garbo left him at the altar in real life.
Matthew Rankin’s mansion wore a grim aspect under a heavy slice of morning smog. Valentino, shorn of false moustache and dressed for work in the California uniform of sport coat, T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes, let the housekeeper lead him to a front parlor to wait while she went to see if her master would receive him. He was contemplating an oil portrait of Garbo in late life—a gift, no doubt, to her friend Andrea Rankin—when a door slammed at the other end of the house.
The noise was followed by a chandelier-rattling scream; and Valentino knew that was no door he’d heard.
The
shortest route to Rankin’s study led through the ballroom, where a team of invisible servants had removed all traces of the party that had taken place only a few hours before. He pushed past the housekeeper, frozen inside the open door with her hands covering her face, and put on the brakes just in time to avoid tripping over Roger Akers.
Rankin’s assistant lay on his back, spread-eagled, as if he’d been knocked flat by a sudden gale. The front of his suit coat was stained dark, and a stain of the same color was spreading around him on the valuable Persian rug.
“Is he dead?”
Valentino looked at the speaker. Matthew Rankin stood on the other side of the great carved desk where he conducted business. The squat revolver smoking in his right hand clashed with his conservative gray suit.
Rankin didn’t wait for the answer to his question. “He was a madman. He came at me with that.” He pointed.
A marble bust lay on the rug inches from Akers’ right hand. It appeared to be a naturalistic rendering of Garbo at the height of her beauty. The wooden pedestal it had occupied stood empty nearby.
The housekeeper raised her head from her hands. Her expression was distorted but she appeared to be regaining composure. When Valentino told her to call the police, she nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind her as from habit.
Rankin looked down, seemed to realize for the first time he was holding a gun, and dropped it on his desk. He sank into his chair. “He wanted more money than I’d been paying him to keep quiet. When I refused, he went into a rage. I’ve kept this gun in the drawer for years, for my protection. I don’t even remember picking it up. He had that bust raised above his head and I knew he meant to split open my skull with it.”
As Rankin spoke, Valentino felt Akers’ wrist. There was no pulse. Anger or surprise twisted the dead man’s face. “It will have to come out now,” Valentino said. “What was he blackmailing you over?”
The top drawer was open; presumably, it was the one that had held the revolver. A befuddled-looking Rankin rummaged through its contents and laid a sheet on the desk. With a shudder, Valentino stepped away from the corpse and picked up the sheet.
It was a handwritten letter reproduced on common copy paper. There was no signature, and the text was written in a foreign language he identified as Swedish. “Liebe Andrea,” read the greeting.
“A friend of mine paid a lot of money at auction for a rare Garbo autograph,” Valentino said. “It looks like her writing. Did she write this to your wife?”
“Can you read it?”
“A word here and there, from my high school German, which is close. It appears to be a very tender letter.”
“Andrea’s mother was Swedish. They spoke in that language when they didn’t want anyone eavesdropping; it was another bond between Andrea and Greta. I picked up a little over the years, by osmosis.” He drew a deep breath and let it out in a rattle. “It’s a love letter.”
“Did they have a sexual relationship?”
“Not that I ever knew, but the letter’s explicit. Aren’t you shocked?”
“Lesbian rumors followed Garbo her whole life. Even her best biographers haven’t been able to track down any hard evidence. How did Akers get hold of this?”
“Snooping, how else? He must have found it somewhere in the house. It must have meant a lot to Andrea or she’d have burned it with the others. He gave me this copy: a souvenir, he said. I assume the original’s in a safe place.”
“We’re enlightened these days. It wouldn’t be that big a scandal.”
“It would be to me. My wife was a very private woman, much like Greta. I’m betraying her memory just by showing you the letter.” He sat up straight. “Give it back. I’m going to destroy it.”
“If you do, you may stand trial for murder. It’s hard to make a case for selfdefense without establishing a motive on the part of the deceased.”
Rankin’s expression was stony; his earlier confusion had evaporated. He scooped up the revolver and pointed it at Valentino. “Give it back, I said.”
“It won’t do any good. The police are bound to find the original when they go through Akers’ things.”
The stone cracked. Rankin laid the gun on the desk and lowered his face into his hands. As the first siren came into earshot, Valentino nudged the weapon out of Rankin’s reach.
“It’s Swedish, all right,” Harriet Johansen said. “Would you like a translation? My father was proud of his homeland. He made sure we all knew the language.”
They were seated in the break room outside the forensics laboratory at Los Angeles police headquarters. He’d come there straight from Beverly Hills, where he’d given his statement to local detectives. He’d been looking forward to a social visit, to take his mind off the death scene and the picture of Matthew Rankin being taken away in a squad car. “Since when does your jurisdiction extend beyond the city limits?” he asked.
“We’ve got the best facilities in the State of California. It’s a reciprocal thing: L.A. goes to Beverly Hills when we want to know what wine to serve with the veal at the commissioner’s banquet.” She took a folded sheet out of a pocket of her smock and spread it out on the table. He recognized the Garbo letter. A glop of mayonnaise fell from her tuna sandwich onto the text, smearing the ink when she brushed at it.
“What kind of way is that to treat evidence?”
“Relax. We ran off a half-dozen copies from the fax they sent us. This is a recap of a liaison Mrs. Rankin had with Garbo in New York in nineteen forty-nine. Pretty steamy stuff. You want it grope-by-grope or just a summary?”
“Neither. If the handwriting checks out, it backs up Rankin’s story and answers a question gossips have been asking for decades. I’m relieved for him, but it would be nice if just one star were left to shine untarnished in the firmament.”
“You sound like a homophobe.”
“If I were, I’d have to be a masochist, too, to live in this town. These days a person’s sexuality isn’t supposed to matter, but of course it does, or the columnists and talk-show hosts wouldn’t whisper and giggle so much whenever someone famous gets outed. I like my Titanics unraised, my Jack the Rippers unidentified, and my Garbos mysterious.”
“But not your shootings.”
“I’ve got a personal stake in this one. If Rankin goes to prison, my department won’t get its hands on How Not to Dress until he dies and his heirs finish fighting over the will.” He told her then the reason for his meeting with Rankin.
She regarded him in silence for a moment. Without the exotic headdress to cover her short ash-blond hair she looked less like Garbo, but shared her sphinxlike expression. “If you’d told me he was being blackmailed, Akers might still be alive and in police custody.”
“I promised I wouldn’t.”
“Don’t pull that noble act on me. You had your eyes on that film, and you were willing to help blackmail a blackmailer to get it.”
“Guilty, but only of the first charge. I thought if I knew the details I might be able to suggest a better solution. And I’m prejudiced in Rankin’s favor. His wife died of a sudden heart attack just when they were planning retirement together. Then the bottom fell out of the department-store business, but instead of bailing out he invested his personal funds to drag the chain into the computer age at a time when most industries were still looking askance at it. His was one of the first businesses to sell merchandise online. Then he used some of the profits from the turnaround to help the film-preservation program. I’d have offered to help even without the added inducement.”
“You’re still not out of the woods, buddy. But I suppose I’ll forgive you, if you promise not to make a habit of keeping secrets.”
“I do, from you.” He smiled.
She finished her sandwich. “The fingerprint people in Beverly Hills are pretty good. They matched some prints on the bust to the victim, so that part of Rankin’s story checks out.”
“If your graphologist confirms that letter was written by Garbo, he
should be released.”
“I spoke to him just before you came. He Googled her and hit paydirt in Stockholm. The Swedish Military Archives has the most extensive collection of her letters in the world. They’re faxing samples for comparison, but our guy already has his doubts.”
“How can he, without the samples in hand?”
She swiveled the paper on the table and slid it toward him.
“Anything about this strike you as odd?”
He frowned at it, then shook his head. “I’m no expert, except where her films are concerned, and I don’t know enough Swedish to order from a smorgasbord.”
“You don’t order from a smorgasbord; you help yourself. People are imperfect creatures. They seldom write a character in cursive the same way twice. The shape and slant vary, and so does the thickness of the line. But look at this.” She used a coffee stir-stick as a pointer. “All these s’s are identical. Same goes for the t’s and y’s and the rest of the alphabet. Even the commas are the same, and don’t get me started on the umlauts.”
“By all means, let’s not discuss the umlauts.” He took a closer look. “It’s obvious, when you point it out. I’m impressed. I knew you had a good eye, but—”
“Stop trying to butter me up. I’m still mad at you. It was the graphologist who noticed it. One of our computer nerds came up with the explanation. Did you know it’s possible to create your own font, even from something as personal as handwriting? All you have to do is scan it in, and if you’re handy with a mouse you can sculpt the alphabet in upper-and lowercase and all the punctuation, type it up, and print it out.”
“Akers was Rankin’s assistant. He must’ve spent a lot of time at the computer, typing letters and running errands. Experience is a great teacher.” Valentino bit his lip—the only thing he ever bit into in that room. It was too close to where autopsies were conducted to trust the menu. “But anyone can see the difference between a printout and the real thing. A pen makes an uneven texture you can feel with your fingers.”
Valentino: Film Detective Page 18