Gimme a break! ‘Cut to the chase, Benny. What happened?’
‘Well, Bob called me over, see, and told me to talk to the man. He wanted to know why you’d replaced Miss Pettigrew. Who’d hired you. That kind of thing. The guard didn’t know so he asked me to talk to the gentleman.’
‘This guard —’
‘Bob. It was Bob on duty.’
I took a deep breath and fought down my impatience. ‘So Bob … who is a guard working at the front gate … asked you to give out private information about a studio employee. Now why would he do that? Did Bob know this man?’
My chagrin showed through.
Benny said nervously, ‘Yes, I know it was strange, Miss Dupree, but Bob’s a good guy and I was in a hurry so I didn’t really tell the man anything.’ He continued earnestly, ‘And later I told Miss Manning.’
This was like pulling teeth. ‘Bob didn’t drop his name or introduce you?’
‘No, miss. I didn’t want to hang around anyway.’
Damn. It had to be Brigham — who else would know I was here? Who else would care what I was doing?
‘Have you seen the man since? Where did he go after he spoke to you?’
‘I was helping Mr Wheeler set up, so I don’t know where he went after that.’
‘Could you find Bob and ask him to come over here?’
‘Er, I don’t think so, miss. He was on the night shift. He’s off duty now.’
Damn. How did Brigham get the guard’s cooperation? What cover was he using?
I quickly scanned the podium.
Earl was still in his seat, looking dazed but staunchly upright. Clark Gable was making his speech — something about the duty of actors to represent the material as honestly as possible. From the approving expressions of the crowd it was going down well. Especially with the ladies.
I turned back to Benny. ‘Thanks for that, Benny, but if he comes back I want to know immediately.’
‘Sure, miss, whatever you want.’ He tipped his cap and trotted off.
So now at least I knew who my NTA supervisor was — Brigham. That was good, but I still had to put it aside.
I had leads to follow but little time to do it in. Lewis Renfrow seemed like the most certain of all. I pictured the cement body cast. Yep, it sounded like a Mob signature all right.
But what was Susan Curtis doing? She’d lied to me. Totally misled me. She wasn’t here the week Earl died, so what was the schedule she’d put together based on?
Why had Susan deceived me? I didn’t know what to think …
I vaguely registered that Earl had replaced Gable at the podium. I could feel Gilbert tense beside me.
Selznick introduced him as, ‘Mr Earl Curtis, the well-known director of Crimson Dawn.’
Loud applause.
Earl leant into the podium as though checking the top of it for termites. He was making sure his feet were well under him and wanted a good crutch while he did it.
At least he was still upright.
If he’d just keep it short! It was like watching a car crash: you don’t want to watch but you can’t take your eyes off it.
‘Arrggh.’ Earl could be just clearing his throat or about to vomit. Instead he coughed, which sent the microphone into overload.
The feedback made everyone cover their ears.
‘Ah … it has been my … er …’ He had to pause to let his head recover from the sudden rush of blood that the cough had sent to his head. ‘Life’s privilege … to be a part of this …’ He sucked in a deep breath. ‘Important project.’
Earl waved like French royalty facing the guillotine and then shuffled back to his seat.
Selznick got back on his feet, a smile frozen in place. ‘Thank you, Mr Earl Curtis. A deeply heartfelt statement from a very modest man … as I’m sure you all can tell.’
Everyone warmly applauded.
‘Now,’ said Selznick, indicating the table of food and drink behind the visitors, ‘we can dispense with the formality and get down to some hot coffee and some of that fine Georgia coffee cake that the Ladies Auxiliary of the Standard Bearers brought with them.’
Everyone rose to their feet slowly, but then there was a sudden stampede to the refreshment tables as the stars climbed down the stairs. Everyone wanted to get in position to meet them.
Meanwhile Earl was still in his chair; he was now slug-white and swaying. Gilbert and I nipped up the stairs to grab him before he toppled over the left side of the chair.
‘Er, Miss Dupree.’
I got in a glance over my shoulder; it was one of Jennings’ team.
He eyed Earl. ‘What’s wrong with Mr Curtis?’
‘He’s sick,’ I said. ‘Food poisoning, I think.’ I nodded at Gilbert. ‘We’re about to take him back to his bungalow.’
Gilbert put his shoulder under Earl’s left arm and started lifting. I grabbed the other arm.
‘Er, Miss Dupree …’ The guy wasn’t giving up yet.
‘He’s too sick. I’m sorry but Mr Curtis can’t —’
He cut across my explanation. ‘It’s not him Mr Selznick wants to see.’
I turned to face him. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’
‘Mr Selznick wants to see you, Kay.’
That made me suspicious. ‘Why?’
‘I’m sure you’ll soon find out, Kay, but we can’t keep him waiting any longer.’
‘All right,’ I said.
He went back down the stairs.
‘Don’t worry, Miss Dupree, I can manage,’ said Gilbert.
Gilbert got Earl upright and frogmarched him through the front doors of the building behind us.
I surveyed the crowd milling around on the brilliant green lawn below. Selznick was tall so I could see his head in the middle of a fawning crowd under one of the trees. Gable was next to him. As I passed through the crowd I could see Vivien Leigh was there too. She was in fine fettle and speaking French, very fast, very fluently. Someone replied in the same tongue, equally fast, equally fluently. She laughed, delighted at the response. Yes, Vivien was in full flirt mode.
One more step and I could see who she was flirting with …
Daniel Devereaux.
Selznick saw me first. ‘Ah, Kay, Daniel is here, ready for his tour.’
Leigh was batting her eyelashes at Daniel. Her intent expression indicated her boyfriend, Laurence Olivier, was not uppermost on her mind.
Daniel gave her a final blast of both dimples and a full-lipped grin then turned to me. ‘Miss Dupree, I hope I won’t be an imposition.’
Jade-eyes’ French accent rolled over my name like honey straight from the comb.
It made me think of hot nights. Annoying ones … the kind where you can’t sleep but wish you could.
Leigh searched Daniel’s face and then mine and made a sarcastic comment in French.
Daniel didn’t even turn his head to respond. Instead he picked up my hand and softly kissed the ring finger. ‘I’m glad to see you again, Kay.’
There it was again — that velvet mouth. Damn, I wish he’d stop putting it on my skin …
Selznick beamed at us both. No doubt contemplating my possible usefulness in prising open Daniel Devereaux’s bank account.
He clapped Daniel on the shoulder. ‘There is so much for you to see and do today, let’s get you both started.’
He walked us out of the crowd. ‘Kay, I want you to take Daniel for a tour around the Back Forty.’
‘Certainly, Mr Selznick.’
Hmm … That’d give me an excellent opportunity to pump this mysterious Frenchman for information about Earl’s trip to France. I’d ditch him after that and go back to work on the Lewis Renfrow lead.
‘What is this Back Forty?’ asked Daniel.
‘It’s the studio backlot, the rear forty acres. It’s where all our outdoor sets of Atlanta have been built.’ Selznick spoke as though it was his most prized possession and we were just lucky enough to see it. ‘Daniel, I know you want to meet the th
ree veterans and Frank Bourke, the journalist Life sent over, is shooting their portraits there.’
‘So shall we take a look at the Atlanta set, Mr Devereaux?’ I said.
‘Call me Daniel, please. Yes, if you have time.’ He gave me a quizzical smile.
Selznick said, ‘It’s a bit of a walk from here, so my driver will take you.’
The limousine was waiting in the driveway.
As we walked over I said, as casually as possible, ‘So, Daniel, how did Earl Curtis find you?’
‘He didn’t find me, I found him.’
22
THE BACK FORTY
We drove down Ince Boulevard, crossed over Lucerne Ave, and into the Back Forty.
To my eye it seemed more like thirty not forty acres of open land, but maybe it was forty acres, Hollywood style. The driver was one of Jennings’ tour guides and insisted on pointing out every tiny detail as we went.
I gave Daniel a careful perusal while he was busy asking the tour guide about the sets … Why the hell would a French businessman be interested in Earl Curtis? And what was Daniel’s real business here anyway?
The backlot was triangular with Lucerne Ave forming the shorter top and West Jefferson Boulevard and Hiquera Street forming the long sides. On the other side of West Jefferson rose the bare slopes of the Baldwin Hills; the driver said they often served as a backdrop to the outdoor sets. Ahead of us, in a line running down the central spine of the triangle, were the brand-new outdoor sets of Gone with the Wind. Here and there clusters of craftsmen were busy adding the final finishing touches … a trim of blue paint on the gables, an extra section of box hedge next to the front door, another patch of ivy on the wall …
The level of authenticity was amazing. These sets must’ve cost Selznick a fortune.
Sure, at a certain angle you could just see that a few of them were only facades intended to provide background for the fully dressed sets. But overall the attention to every tiny little detail, from roof tiles to living trees and lawn, had created a startlingly real antebellum time warp.
You half expected a line of Confederate soldiers whistling ‘Dixie’ to march down the main road.
My guess was that Selznick’s overweening ambition, combined with his addiction to Benzedrine, had driven him to this.
No wonder he’d run out of money …
Tara — Scarlett O’Hara’s family home — was a white double-storey plantation house sitting in the middle of artfully positioned sprawling trees, rolling but ragged green lawn and carefully distressed rustic fences. Most of the trees were real but others were fake and held together by guy-wires. The contrast between the stately mansion and its unruly natural setting evoked a wealthy but convincingly lived-in Southern estate.
The Atlanta train depot, which looked like a train could pull up at any moment, sat just across from Tara. Beyond that stretched antebellum Atlanta, complete with roads and houses, a decorous square ringed by stores, a steepled church and a dignified courthouse.
You just felt that church bell could ring at any time … and knowing Selznick it probably could.
The driver pulled up in front of the plantation house, saying, ‘Mr Bourke is photographing the vets here.’ As we alighted he said, ‘Mr Bourke is expecting you. I’ll stay here, so take as much time as you need, Mr Devereaux. Enjoy.’
Tara was the classic Southern mansion. A plantation house in whitewashed brick with four majestic front columns that ran the full two storeys from porch to roof. The long windows had open green shutters and the white front door was elegantly framed by side windows and a semi-circular fan window at the top.
The Life crew was set up just in front of the house, busy photographing the three veterans seated around a little table on the wide brick porch. The old men were now proudly wearing their Confederate uniforms, hats, boots and all. They certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves. One was exchanging light banter with the thickset photographer with his back to us; the old soldier next to him was peacefully smoking a long thin pipe in between sips of his drink.
We softly approached the crew and came even with a teenage boy who was sorting through a box full of swords, plumed hats and other Civil War props. The boy looked up when he saw us and asked if Daniel was Mr Selznick’s visitor. When I nodded the boy asked if we would mind just waiting a few moments as the light was perfect for the next shot. I nodded again.
‘Now, Captain, would you mind turning a little more to the right please?’ asked the photographer.
‘Is that Frank Bourke?’ I asked the boy.
‘Yes, ma’am. Mr Bourke’s our best war correspondent. He’s just come back from three months in Germany.’
‘Is Bourke a Nazi?’ asked Daniel; his tone was neutral but his expression was not. I couldn’t read the emotion but it was intense.
‘No.’ The boy laughed. ‘Mr Bourke hates them.’
I searched Daniel’s face for a reaction but he gave nothing away. Hitler had supporters amongst the French ruling class and I was still wondering about his real agenda here.
Even more importantly, what was Daniel Devereaux after from Earl?
‘Mr Bourke was in Germany covering the aftermath of Kristallnacht,’ said the boy.
Daniel focused on Bourke with increased interest. ‘So why is he here … covering Hollywood?’ The last word was said dismissively.
‘Oh, Mr Bourke asked for this assignment. He came back from Berlin yesterday so he could do it.’ The boy nodded at the vets on the veranda. ‘Mr Bourke’s an expert on the Civil War and Captain Montgomery wrote a book about General Sherman’s march through the South.’
Daniel scanned the three vets now, his expression edged with … a kind of thirst.
It startled me. I scanned the porch. Just what was this sophisticated Frenchman reacting to?
‘That’s it for now, gentlemen,’ said Bourke to the old veterans. ‘You can relax.’ He turned to his crew. ‘Okay, boys, pack everything and take it up to Sound Stage 2.’ He instructed the man next to him. ‘Everett, you know where to set up.’ The man nodded then bent to unscrew the camera from the heavy tripod.
Bourke turned, searching for the boy, saw us, scowled and then walked over.
‘Miss Dupree.’ He nodded curtly to me and extended a firm but unfriendly hand to Daniel. ‘Mr Devereaux, I’m Frank Bourke. Mr Selznick said you’d be coming.’ He jerked his head at the porch. ‘Samuel, go over and make sure they have everything they need.’
That’s when I noticed Bourke was missing the top third of his left ear; it was still pink and healing.
‘Samuel told us that one of the veterans has written about Sherman’s March,’ said Daniel.
Bourke shot him a swift sideways look — as if questioning Daniel’s motives. ‘That’s Captain Montgomery, he’s the tall one sitting on the left.’ He gestured impatiently towards the porch. ‘Would you like to meet them now?’
Daniel nodded and together we mounted the steps.
Bourke introduced us.
The three old men automatically struggled to their feet, wanting to greet us properly.
‘Miss Dupree.’ The taller veteran spoke first, offering his hand to me. He just clasped my fingers gently with the very tips of his fingers and bowed slightly over them, as though in lieu of kissing them. ‘Captain Cyrus Montgomery of the 51st Volunteers Brigade, at your service.’
He sounded more English than anything else.
The captain then shook Daniel’s hand, saying, ‘Very pleased to meet you, sir.’
‘It’s an honour to meet you, Captain Montgomery. Is that a London accent?’
‘Yes, Mr …’ He stopped. ‘My apologies, dear sir, but my hearing isn’t as good as it used to be. I’m afraid I didn’t hear your last name.’ He gave a self-mocking smile. ‘I fear that old age has claimed its due.’
‘His name is Daniel Devereaux,’ barked the short, bald man next to him. ‘Old age be damned, Cyrus! It’s that shotgun of yours that’s blown out your ear holes.’ He then
offered his hand to us both, saying, ‘Sergeant Emmet Routledge at your disposal.’
His accent was pure South. Liquid syllables tumbling out and ending in a soft twang.
Sergeant Routledge offered us a boyishly appealing but gap-toothed smile. ‘Cyrus here likes huntin’ even though he can’t lift the gun too well any more. It’s a wonder he ain’t shot hisself somewheres important.’
‘The Cap’ here is a regular redcoat,’ croaked the third old man, his black eyes contrasting strangely with the pure white hair flowing down to his shoulders. ‘Fifty years afore we’d a had to shoot him instead of the Yankees. Pleased to meet y’all, I’m Private Ruben Gouge.’
Samuel found three more chairs so we all sat around the table.
‘So, Mr Devereaux,’ said Captain Montgomery. ‘Is that a foreign accent as well?’
‘Mr Devereaux is French,’ I said.
‘So you don’t know the real story of the War Between the States?’ Captain Montgomery sent a joking eye across to Frank Bourke. ‘We’ve been trying to talk sense into this New York Yankee …’
Bourke said sarcastically, ‘Yes, I didn’t realise the North actually lost the Civil War in 1865. They’ve been explaining why.’
‘David Selznick said you three fought together in the Battle of Atlanta,’ stated Daniel.
‘Yes, sir, we was the last left in our brigade,’ replied Sergeant Routledge. ‘The siege went on for nigh on four months. We didn’t even have soles on our boots by the end.’
‘Or enough bullets,’ muttered Private Gouge.
‘Ah, but you must not think we’d given up hope, Miss Dupree,’ said Captain Montgomery, patting my hand. ‘We held Atlanta because we knew that if we could just stop Sherman there was still a chance that the war could go our way again.’
I studied his worn visage. How on earth could the South have come close to winning the Civil War in 1864? The war ended in a Northern victory the next year. ‘Why do you say that, Captain Montgomery?’
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