Frames

by Loren D. Estleman

  “John or Ethel?” They said it together.

  “Drew. I got a shot of good sense up the ying-yang when I auditioned for Marat/Sade in the school play.”

  “Was that Dr. Zinnerman’s production?” Broadhead asked.

  “Yes. Did you see it?”

  “I never go to the theater: too much yelling and stomping about. But Zinnerman’s the nastiest piece of work on the faculty. If he taught law instead of drama, he’d have humiliated you out of going for that degree.”

  “No way. He was a bear, but he did me a favor. I might have wasted a whole semester finding out I’ve got less talent in my whole body than Lynn Fontanne has in her dead little finger.”

  “Is that how he put it?”

  “He used adjectives. Mr. Yardley was plenty tough in the class I took from him on contract law, but he couldn’t shake me. I aced the final.”

  “That’s impressive,” Broadhead said. “Jack Yardley started out as a criminal attorney, reducing mob killers to tears during cross-examination. And he hands out A’s the way Fort Knox gives free samples.”

  Valentino said, “Maybe we should invite him in.”

  “Ew,” Fanta said. “I bet he hasn’t trimmed the hair in his nose since his bar exam.”

  The professor finished weeding his pita. “A distinct advantage in court. It’s almost impossible to get a jury to pay attention to your summation when they’re watching your opponent marcelling his nostrils at the defense table.”

  “Charming.” Valentino pushed away his plate of angel hair pasta.

  Fanta drank iced tea. She wore a tank top and cargo pants and her black hair loose to her shoulders, a hooded cellophane raincoat flung over the back of her seat. It was an incongruous mix with the woven-leather shoulder bag beside her on the cushion. The bag was the same one she’d had with her the day she and Valentino had started their investigation. The young studio executives looked up frequently from the script they were mutilating to cast admiring glances her way. She appeared oblivious to their interest. “I like this place,” she said. “It reminds me of the pub in The Invisible Man. I’ve been boning up on old videos.”

  Valentino said, “They built it on top of a cocktail bar. William Holden drank himself to death at a corner table.”

  “I thought he got drunk and fell down in his apartment.”

  “He was already half embalmed when he left here.”

  “Charming.” Broadhead set down his beer untasted. “The Invisible Man isn’t a murder mystery,” he told Fanta.

  “I know, but I fell in love with Claude Rains’s voice when I saw Deception. You don’t hear pipes like that anymore, and we had some great ones in drama class.”

  “Microphones,” said Broadhead. “No reason thundering out to the back row when you’re wearing a lavalier around your neck.”

  From there the talk turned to other great stage-trained voices, Rathbone’s and Welles’s and Edward Arnold’s. It was Valentino who steered it back to the business at hand. “Let’s review what we’ve got so far.”

  “Not much,” Fanta said. “A newspaper article about a missing projectionist who fits the skeleton’s description and what Warren Pegler told you.” He’d filled her in on the interview while they were waiting for the booth.

  “What he didn’t tell me amounts to a lot more,” Valentino said.

  Their waitress, older and more ambitious than the woman who’d served them the other day, asked if they wanted anything else, took orders for coffee and a refill of Fanta’s tea, and left, bearing away their dishes.

  “Maybe this’ll help.” Fanta dragged the shoulder bag onto her lap and opened the clasp. Valentino half expected her to produce another coffee table book with a picture of The Oracle in its glory, but instead she drew out a thick padded mailer and tipped a pile of folio-size newspapers onto the freshly cleared table. They smelled musty and the brittle old pulp was crumbling at the folds, but the heavy black masthead, identical on all three, still screamed for attention:

  THE ANGEL CITY INTELLIGENCER

  est. 1925

  The edition on top of the slanted stack was dated January of that same year.

  “I tracked it down through the Smithsonian Web site,” she said. “An online book finder found it for me in a shop in Las Cruces, New Mexico, of all places, and had them overnight it: the entire run, all three issues.”

  Broadhead picked up the top copy and unfolded it to study a grainy photo of a pair of corpses in hats and overcoats sprawled on the bullet-riddled front porch of a miniature Spanish hacienda, MEX SPEAK SERVES UP 2 STIFF ONES, read the caption.

  “Offhand, I’d say they overestimated their readership when they named the rag.”

  “There were dozens of these little dudes floating around town those days,” Fanta said. “When I found that out, I started wondering if some of their editors didn’t flip the bird at the studios and their control of the press.”

  “Flipping the bird was the tabloids’ specialty,” Broadhead said, “although they usually selected safer targets, like cops and gangsters. Picking on Hollywood might explain why this one ran only three issues.” He spread it open to an inside page. “Oh, look. Calvin Coolidge in a Sioux warbonnet.”

  Valentino felt a little buzz of anticipation, as if he were homing in on a Griffith reel. “What made you choose this one?”

  “I didn’t. It chose me. This isn’t the only package I got. My floor at home is covered with old newspapers. Now my side looks just like my roommate’s.”

  “How much did all that cost?” he asked her.

  “Let’s just say my parents are getting McDonald’s gift certificates for Christmas this year.”

  Broadhead closed and folded The Angel City Intelligencer. “That’s extravagant, young lady. At your age you should be blowing textbook money on keggers.”

  She screwed up her face and stuck out her tongue between her teeth. The professor sighed heavily.

  “Good heavens, look at those old newspapers! Is one of us a scrapbooker?”

  All three looked up at their waitress, who moved the stack to set down the coffees and iced tea.

  “I’m thinking of taking it up,” Broadhead said. “My doctor says I need to find a hobby less strenuous than Civil War reenactment. Carrying around that sword is murder on the sacroiliac.”

  “Just make sure you seal it all in archival plastic. The older the material, the sooner it deteriorates.”

  He thanked her for the advice.

  When they were alone again, Valentino said, “Civil War reenactment?”

  “My idiot older brother. He died at Gettysburg for Selznick and again at Shiloh for John Huston.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Older than Ruth and younger than San Jacinto.” He looked at Fanta. “Are you going to guide us to the truth, or must we spend all day improving our education on flappers and philosophers?”

  “I’m not sure I know what that means, but here.” She slid out the February issue, opened it to an inside page, folded it carefully into a square, and passed it across to Broadhead. Valentino leaned over his shoulder to read the square two-column item in the lower lefthand corner:

  REEL-LIFE SCOUNDREL PROVES REAL-LIFE HERO

  Erich von Stroheim, billed in theaters as “The Man You Love to Hate” for his numerous portrayals of villains on the silver screen, reversed roles to save the life of a fellow studio employee during a fire on the MGM lot late last month.

  Unnamed sources report that when a blaze broke out in the film developing laboratory, actor-director von Stroheim, who was present, disregarded his own life and safety to pull an assistant developer from the blaze.

  Von Stroheim received minor burns during the rescue. Warren Pegler, 18, was taken by ambulance to Los Angeles General Hospital, where his condition is still critical. The cause of the fire is under investigation, although inspectors suspect careless smoking was involved.

  The text surrounded a cropped photograph of von Stroheim that Valentino rec
ognized from the director’s early days at Universal, wearing a monocle and a well-cut tweed suit and carrying a walking stick, a Tyrolean hat at an arrogant angle on his bullet-shaped head. He had the ubiquitous cigarette and holder clamped between a thumb and forefinger.

  “I can’t understand why MGM suppressed the story in the bigger papers,” Fanta said. “Nowdays it would be all over ET and People. Von Stroheim rocked.”

  Broadhead said, “Nowadays, studios have insurance. Careless smoking is serious negligence. If a personal injury attorney had gotten wind of it, the suit would have cost millions, and the trial would have dragged on for weeks on every front page in the country, smearing the industry at a time when it couldn’t afford another witch hunt. It was lucky this got lost in the tabloid avalanche.” He looked up from the page. “You’ve unearthed a previously undiscovered piece of cinema history. That’s like finding a nugget the Forty-Niners overlooked. Think you can handle a second major?”

  Smiling, she propped her chin on her palm. “Tell you after I finish making up for all the homework I blew off this week.”

  “She’s done more than just add to Hollywood lore,” Valentino said. “She’s established a direct link between Warren Pegler and Erich von Stroheim. It can’t be coincidence we found Greed in the Oracle.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” Fanta said. “The theater, I mean. You said Pegler told you his business manager took off for Nazi Germany with all his investments?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “I should’ve paid more attention during Western History. Didn’t the Nazis surrender in, like, nineteen forty-four?”

  “Forty-five.” Broadhead drank coffee. “According to my great-grandmother.”

  “So what kept him going till he sold the place in fifty-six?”

  “Tickets and popcorn,” Broadhead said.

  “It wouldn’t have been enough.” Valentino sat back. “The book Fanta gave me said the Oracle was one of the first movie houses in L.A. to install Cinerama and three-D projectors and stereophonic speakers, to compete with television. The retrofitting alone would have cost him thousands, just at the time he said he was struggling. Why didn’t I think of that when I was asking him questions?”

  Broadhead said, “You’re an archivist, not a criminal investigator, no matter what your cards say. You’re not used to tripping people up in their lies. Most of the old-timers you talk to have been waiting years for an audience they haven’t told the same stories to a hundred times. The trick is getting them to shut up.”

  “Kym Trujillo told me he has his good days and his bad. I thought I was lucky to catch him on one of the good ones. It never occurred to me they’d be better than mine.”

  “So let’s catch him on one of the bad ones,” Broadhead said. “You said he’s at his best in the morning?”

  “That’s what Kym said. Should we pay a call on him this afternoon?”

  Fanta broke in. “You really suspect this guy of killing Spinoza?”

  “There’s no real reason to,” Valentino said. “We don’t have a motive. But there’s no law against hoarding a classic film, and homicide’s the only thing he’d have to be shifty about after all these years. There’s no statute of limitations, and his room is a lot more comfortable than a prison cell.”

  “Not to bum you out, but Pegler was more than twice Spinoza’s age in fifty-six, an old man—”

  “Middle-aged, mathematically speaking,” Broadhead said. “He’s lived almost as long since.”

  “—a middle-aged man in a wheelchair, with no legs. I’m the jury. Convince me he cracked his projectionist over the head and walled him up in the basement. How’d he get down all those stairs?”

  Broadhead nodded. “You’re good. Forget what I said about a second major.”

  Gloom settled over the booth. Their waitress, sensing the mood, left their check and drifted away without a word.

  Valentino perked up. “We’ll ask Pegler. Or maybe you should, a proper cross-examination. It could be extra credit toward your degree.”

  “At the risk of talking you out of it, shouldn’t we put this in Sergeant Clifford’s hands?”

  Broadhead and Valentino exchanged guilty glances. The professor cleared his throat. “We’re avoiding the police right now.” He told her about his bait-and-switch.

  “You’re just a naughty old man, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Middle-aged.”

  “I’ll call Kym.” Valentino took out his cell.

  “Time enough for that later,” Broadhead said. “We have a stop to make first.”

  “Where?”

  “The wardrobe department at Universal. I know someone there. This was a less informal town in Pegler’s day. You need to dress appropriately.”

  “Why don’t I just swing by my place and put on a tie?”

  “No offense, but styles have changed, and not for the better. First impressions count.”

  “This is my second visit.”

  “Well, you know what they say about Alzheimer’s: You meet new people every day.”

  “That’s incredibly insensitive. What about you and Fanta? You’re not exactly dressed for an audience with royalty.”

  “We don’t want to overcostume the thing. Too much period detail can drag down a production. Ask von Stroheim about that next time you see him.”

  “What are you up to?”

  Broadhead shoved the bill his way. “Just pay that. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Hold still, Professor.” Fanta wet a corner of a napkin in her glass and reached across to wipe the smudge of ash off the side of Broadhead’s nose. “That’s been making me non compos mentis for like an hour.”

  It had been bothering Valentino too, ever since his friend had scratched his nose with the paper clip he’d used to clean his pipe, but he hadn’t the courage to say or do anything about it. He braced for a curmudgeonly outburst. Instead, Broadhead looked sheepish and got up without a word to retrieve his hat and trench coat.

  **

  IV

  RED

  CARPET

  **

  CHAPTER

  20

  AT THE GATE to Universal City, the guard, a youngster good-looking enough to have a resume and head shots in his locker, spoke Kyle Broadhead’s name into his telephone, waited through what seemed to be a series of connections, spoke again, listened, and wrote out passes for all three of them. Then he activated a motor that whirred and clunked like the gate mechanism in a prison film. Valentino drove through the opening.

  “Cool,” said Fanta, when they passed a group of extras in French Foreign Legion uniforms. “You think we’ll get to see the shark?”

  Broadhead said, “That’s in Florida.”

  “Don’t tell me you never took the tour,” said Valentino.

  “I said I’m a Hollywood brat. If I lived in San Antonio I’d never have gotten to visit the Alamo.”

  Security was tight; the industry was convinced it was a top terrorist target. They were stopped by guards twice and asked to show their passes and driver’s licenses. The parking attendant checked them out again and smacked a pink sticker with the day’s date to the windshield. They found a space far down from the Hummers and Testarossas, next to a spotless Mercedes with the features and options still glued to a window.

  “A writer,” Broadhead said. “Poor slob.”

  Rain was still falling, one of those all-day mists that are as rare in Southern California as natural redheads. “There’s luck.”

  Broadhead’s companions looked to him for explanation. He offered none.

  At the door to the wardrobe department they handed their credentials to a square-shouldered man in a blue suit with a corkscrew wire coming out of his ear. He asked them each for a date of birth, compared it to the license, and handed it back. He thanked them politely and muttered into his fist. A buzzer sounded. He pushed the door open and held it. The visitors passed through.

  Fanta said, “I hope that
’s the last of it. I’m wearing granny panties.”

  They were in a hangarlike room that appeared to be a combination clothing warehouse and garment district sweatshop, only one with superior working conditions. Aisles of bare floor wandered between racks of costumes on casters, and hundreds, possibly thousands more suits, dresses, cloaks, leotards, and menageries of animal prints hung from tubes that circled the walls in stacks to the ceiling; as Valentino and Fanta followed Broadhead, the center row glided under its own power to the accompaniment of a humming motor, rotating its selection of textiles nearly halfway around the enormous room before it stopped and a woman on a catwalk removed a sequined evening gown on its hanger, folded it over one arm, and descended a flight of stairs to the floor. Bolts of fabric covered tables as large as full-size beds for cutters armed with shears, and tailors and seamstresses sat at columns of whirring sewing machines, feeding yards of silk, wool, and man-made materials to the bobbins. In spite of an elaborate ventilation system of ceiling fans and built-in air filters, the great room smelled of sizing, starch, and model airplane glue.

  “Awesome,” Fanta said.

  Valentino, who had visited before, could supply no better word to describe it.

  “This is the largest unit in the plant,” Broadhead said, “or it was anyway before they added a computer-generated special effects department, which is about as interesting to watch at work as a microwave oven. They go through more than eight hundred thousand yards of cloth here each year. Theoretically, that would clothe the population of La Jolla.”

  “The population of La Jolla can afford its own clothes,” Fanta pointed out.

  “Barstow, then. That’s the core of the reference library there. A good portion of it is chronically overdue on the shelves in the designers’ offices.”

  Under the catwalk that circled the room one story high, sturdy steel shelves arranged in stacks perpendicular to the walls supported rank after rank of books, some as small as change purses and crusted with gilding, many as large as world atlases. Some were very old and still wore the rings that had been used to chain them to medieval reading desks. There were nearly as many volumes in the room as there were articles of clothing.