Dangerous to Know

by Renee Patrick

  Edith’s receptionist knocked on the door. “Pardon me, Miss Head, your next appointment is here.”

  Marlene Dietrich coasted into the office, crooked smile first. She wore a pale green daytime suit with a subtle checkered pattern and slightly flared skirt. The matching emerald veil on her low-crowned hat did extraordinary favors for eyes that required no help.

  Edith and Dietrich embraced, the actress bending to kiss the diminutive designer on both cheeks. Edith introduced me, my knees knocking at the prospect that Dietrich had somehow heard my cut-rate imitation of her. “But Lillian and I have already met,” Dietrich said, her accent an ermine wrap around every syllable. I sounded nothing like her. “At a party hosted by your lovely employer Mr. Rice. Perhaps you remember?”

  “How could I forget? You played the musical saw.” The image of Dietrich flicking her dress to one side, tucking the handle of the blade between those impossible legs, remained a high point of my Hollywood sojourn.

  Dietrich crossed those legs now as she sat down and took immediate possession of the room. I rose, preparing to leave the ladies alone.

  “Thank you for arranging this opportunity to consult with your esteemed guest,” Dietrich said.

  I cocked an expectant eye toward the door only to discover that Dietrich gaze again aimed squarely at me. Apparently, I was the esteemed guest.

  What had Edith walked me into?

  2

  I’D BE IN the dark a while longer; Dietrich was dictating the pace of the conversation. “Edith, what’s wrong? I can tell you do not feel at your peak.”

  “Actually, I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

  Those eyes narrowed. “Do not lie to me. I have a sixth sense when it comes to discomfort. Where does it hurt?”

  “Honestly, I feel fine. A headache after working late—”

  “Your liver. That’s the problem. All headaches are caused by harassment of the liver. You need artichokes. Have a few for lunch and dinner and you’ll see an improvement. Now. Have you spoken with Travis?”

  “I have, and he’s intrigued.”

  “Of course he is! It is a magnificent opportunity. Only Travis could do justice to these clothes.” Dietrich’s eyes shifted to me. “My director, Frank Capra, is preparing a film about George Sand. Have you read her writing?”

  The hazards of a Catholic education. The nuns who’d taught me weren’t about to let any libertines near the syllabus. At least I’d known Sand was a woman. “Who hasn’t?” I hedged.

  “A pioneer of fashion, in whose footsteps I humbly tread. She will wear men’s clothes at first, as was her wont. But as she falls in love with Frédéric Chopin, she becomes the essence of femininity.”

  “Who will be your Chopin?”

  “Spencer Tracy.”

  I tried to picture a bust of Tracy’s massive head atop the upright piano at my old boardinghouse. One of our most unpretentious actors playing a tortured composer? At a loss, I turned to Edith, who naturally knew what to say. “A fine choice. Making Chopin’s ethereal genius earthy and accessible.”

  “Exactly! Which is why Travis must design my wardrobe. We shall work together, Edith, to convince him.”

  Edith nodded, forever inscrutable. “Consider me your ally.”

  “You always have been. Enough about that. To the subject at hand.”

  Edith turned to me. “Marlene has a personal matter where I believe you can lend some assistance,” she said.

  “I’m happy to try.”

  “It’s very simple,” the actress said. “I’m looking for a young man.”

  Aren’t we all, I bit my tongue to prevent myself from saying. I glanced at Edith. The thick round lenses of her eyeglasses prevented any meaningful contact, and I wondered again if that’s why she chose to wear them. “I don’t understand. You want me to find him?”

  “At the very least I’d like to know where the boy is, that he’s all right. His name is Jens Lohse.”

  Her pronunciation made his surname sound almost like “louche.” I requested Dietrich repeat the name and spell it as well. She did so.

  “May I ask why you wanted me to do that?”

  “Something I read in a self-improvement book. Helps me do my job. Visualizing names makes them easier to remember.”

  “My mother did the very same. ‘Memory training,’ she called it. To build self-reliance.” She looked at Edith. “You were right. She’s definitely the one.”

  Floating several inches above my chair, I said, “Tell me about Jens.”

  “A gifted composer and pianist. From Austria originally, but I met him in Berlin. He was a whelp then, sneaking into cafés and nightclubs, learning at the feet of Kurt Weill, of Friedrich Hollaender. Soon he was writing songs of his own. ‘The Trouble with Sin’ was his great triumph there. Are you familiar with it? Very saucy, very knowing.” She cast her eyes modestly toward the floor, an effortless and automatically seductive gesture. “I have taken a stab at it once or twice myself.”

  “I’m guessing Jens made his way to America.”

  “Yes, like so many of us he fled Germany after the Nazis rose to power. Because of his Jewish background and his writing of ‘decadent music.’” She packed an impressive amount of contempt into two words. “I reconnected with him in Los Angeles. Still brilliant, but without a foothold in his new land. And at an added disadvantage because at first he didn’t speak the language. But his is a buoyant spirit, and such people always find a way to survive, to flourish. He would play the piano anywhere they would pay him. Beer halls, society parties, places beneath his talents.” Dietrich laughed. “Quite a picture, my dear Jens. He would arrive at the home of some studio executive in that wretched jalopy of his, a car you could smell a mile away and hear two miles off. But he would set the party ablaze with his gift … and his enormous book of music. He always kept it close at hand. He’d hear a new song and immediately scribble enough of the notes so he could fumble his way through it. It’s how he learned English. You can never stump that boy. He will play anything at the drop of a hat. Provided you toss a little silver into that hat, of course.”

  “You see him regularly, then.”

  “Yes.” Another bashful look. “I am toying with the idea of a nightclub act. To amuse myself between films. Jens was the only accompanist I considered. We would rehearse every week.”

  “He missed an appointment, I take it.”

  “Last Thursday. He didn’t telephone, so I telephoned him, very upset, only to learn he no longer lived at that address. Never mind, I thought, he is to entertain at a party I am attending the next night. I will deliver my tongue-lashing then. I arrive at the party and ask the bandleader to speak to Jens, and he tells me Jens has been replaced because he missed several of their engagements. At this point I know something is terribly wrong, because Jens is a complete professional.”

  In my experience, musicians demonstrated a pronounced tendency toward flightiness, but I kept that opinion to myself. “Then you should contact the police.”

  Dietrich tutted at me, and I felt all of eight inches of my five feet eight inches of height. “But I’ve done this! I spoke at length with a detective named Wingert.” She hurled the name like a blade, the W rendered as a V, the T as hard as a diamond. She then spelled it for me without prompting.

  “What did Detective Wingert tell you?”

  “Little of consequence. He said Jens had moved out of his home, which I already knew. Jens had run out of money and was adrift in the city, staying with friends. But Jens was a proud boy and had arranged for his landlady to receive messages for him. He also kept his car at his old address. That’s where this Wingert found it. Which, you see, tells me everything.”

  I blinked twice. The second time didn’t clarify matters. “I’m afraid I don’t see. Where does Detective Wingert think Jens is?”

  “Mexico!” Dietrich barked the word as if it were explanation enough. “Jens’s visitor’s permit was due to expire, so for weeks he had spoken of going to Mexico and
applying for a visa there. That’s what this Wingert believes happened.”

  “And you disagree.”

  “I don’t disagree. I simply recognized in this Wingert a, a…” She snapped her fingers trying to conjure the right word, Edith and I both instinctively leaning forward to aid the effort. “A functionary’s mind-set. Mexico is the convenient solution, therefore Mexico it must be. He will not consider other possibilities. Darker possibilities.”

  “Such as?”

  Dietrich sat back, a scatter of creases decorating her flawless brow. “Jens was in turmoil the last few times he played for me. As I’ve said, I can sense these things. Finally, I confronted him. ‘What is wrong? You must tell someone. Tell me!’ But he said he couldn’t. He was too frightened of … them.”

  “Did he say who ‘they’ were?”

  “He didn’t need to. I knew, and Jens knew I knew. That’s why he confided in me as much as he did.” Genuine loathing stoked the fire in her eyes. “The Nazis did something to Jens. They’re the only people he feared. The only ones I fear.”

  “Miss Dietrich,” I said after gathering my thoughts, “I’m not entirely sure what I can do for you. Detective Wingert’s theory sounds plausible. And if the Germans did do something—”

  “Not Germans!” Dietrich interrupted. “Nazis. Already all my countrymen are being tarred by the brush of National Socialism.”

  “Forgive me. But if this darker possibility is true, I’m the last person in the world who can help.”

  “Do not be modest. Edith tells me you’re a clever young woman. I know of your adventure with her last year. Unraveling a murder on this very lot, and doing so with the utmost of discretion.”

  If we’d been that discreet, I thought, you’d never have heard about it.

  “A special circumstance,” I said.

  “Nonsense,” Dietrich declared. “You travel in the circles where Jens entertains. I can hardly ask questions without attracting undue attention. But you can learn where Jens is without raising, as they say, a fuss. Surely this is possible?”

  It wasn’t, as far as I could see. I was struggling to articulate this view diplomatically when Edith spoke up.

  “Of course it is. Isn’t that right, Lillian?”

  In the year I’d known Edith I’d learned an incontrovertible truth: she did everything for a reason. I trusted she had one now. I smiled with a good measure more confidence than I felt. “Any suggestions on where I should start?”

  “At the capital of the German colony here in Los Angeles.” Dietrich smiled enigmatically. “The home of Salka Viertel. The writer. The earth mother of all refugees from the fatherland. Jens is a staple of her Sunday salons. Salka has a ready piano and a ready ear for him. Regrettably, I avoid these gatherings. Too much history with some of the participants. But I will give you her address and inform her you are coming.”

  I had but a moment to appraise Dietrich’s elegant script—165 Mabery Road, Santa Monica—before the actress closed her hand around mine.

  “Tell me,” she commanded. “What is your birth sign?”

  “I—My birthday’s June sixth, so—”

  “Gemini. You possess vitality, speed. You are definitely the person to help me. All my women friends are Geminis.”

  “I’m not,” Edith said.

  “But you, Edith, are a unique case. Lillian, I will have your horoscope cast by my personal astrologer on the Santa Monica pier. She has one tooth and the wisdom of the ages. I had Edith’s horoscope done years ago. Do you remember, Edith, what it said? ‘Better times are coming.’” Dietrich beamed. “And look at you now!”

  3

  “I WON’T ASK why you sandbagged me,” I told Edith as we walked toward the Paramount commissary. “I’ll use my storied detective skills. You want to design Marlene’s George Sand costumes.”

  “That picture isn’t being made.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Mr. Capra has already moved on. He’s started shooting footage in Washington, D.C., for his next picture, with that young actor James Stewart.”

  We passed a brunette in a plaid skirt, who offered Edith a tentative smile. “No gum, Stella,” Edith said in reply, leaving the poor girl stricken as she rooted in her purse for a wrapper.

  “But Marlene thinks the George Sand movie is being made.”

  “An actress must always retain her optimism. The sad truth is Marlene herself was the sticking point. I understand Mr. Cohn at Columbia refused to make the picture with her despite Mr. Capra’s insistence.”

  “Because she’s supposedly box office poison?” That was the phrase bannered across ads taken out by the Independent Theatre Owners back in May, urging studio heads to steer clear of performers who’d top-lined too many flops. Dietrich, Katharine Hepburn, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, all of them had to swallow news of the imminent demise of their careers along with their soft-boiled eggs that morning.

  “Yes, and what utter foolishness. Mostly women on that list, you’ll note. And every one of them will be on top again soon enough, mark my words.” Edith turned to me. “You’re not far wrong about my motives, of course. It’s early days for me in this job. If Paramount can land a bigger name they’ll cast me aside. Thus I’m doing everything in my power to make myself of value to the studio. That includes asking you about Mr. Chaperau and currying favor with every star I can get. And no matter what the Independent Theatre Owners say, Marlene Dietrich is a star.”

  “You don’t have to convince me. What I’d like to know is how I’m supposed to find her missing composer.”

  “But you don’t have to, dear. Given Mr. Lohse’s immigration status it’s likely he did go to Mexico to secure a visa. But you can make Marlene feel better. This Detective Wingert may not have taken her seriously. You can call your friend Detective Morrow for a more thorough report, make inquiries with Mr. Rice and his circle of friends. I doubt it’s necessary for you to visit Salka Viertel, although I hear she’s a fascinating woman. If you can reassure Marlene her friend has gone to Mexico, you’ll be doing me a great service.”

  Edith made it sound simple, but I harbored a healthy skepticism about the entire enterprise. Not wanting to voice my doubts, I said, “I wish I understood this Mexican visa business.”

  “I’m taking you to someone who can explain it.”

  Naturally. “I have to ask. Do you really think Spencer Tracy as Frédéric Chopin is good casting?”

  “Heavens, no. A dreadful idea. It almost makes me happy the picture fell apart.”

  * * *

  THE COMMISSARY WAS a sea of meline turbans, the lightweight fabric wrapped tightly around the head of each ravenous actress so her hairstyle would look exactly the same after lunch. Edith dispensed greetings as she strode toward the loudest table. Crowded with food and scraps of paper, it was ringed by half a dozen voluble men. The adjacent tables, I couldn’t help noticing, were vacant, a buffer against the raucous conversation. Not seeing any waitresses willing to brave the din, I snagged a piece of piping hot cornbread from a basket on the table.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Edith announced. “Mind if we join you a moment?”

  Boisterous hellos and mock grumbling followed, then the men went back to the business at hand. One of them would call out a letter, which they each scribbled on cards ruled into five-by-five grids. “Frank, did you say ‘A’ or ‘K’?” one of the men bellowed. He got two As and three Ks in response.

  Edith and I took seats next to two men. One had the sober style of a New England banker, wearing a double-breasted gray suit and navy tie. Only his tousled hair hinted at an independent streak. Alongside him was a smaller man in a tattered argyle pullover, shirtsleeves rolled up, ready to arm wrestle. He had the impish face of a cherub hidden in the corner of a painting as an artist’s joke, engaged in some secret act of deviltry. The man said in a Germanic accent, “And I have the last letter, and I say to L with the lot of you. Bon chance, gentlemen.”

  The men bowed over their cards a
s if they were hymnals and set pens to scratching. After a moment I understood they were constructing words out of the letters written on their grids. They tackled the task with rapt concentration: clearly money was at stake.

  Edith indicated the man with the accent. “Lillian Frost, may I present Billy Wilder. His writing partner Charles Brackett. They wrote Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife.”

  “I loved that movie!” I said.

  “You loved the beginning, maybe.” Wilder remained focused on his card. “The couple meets in the department store and buys a pair of pajamas together. Him the top, her the bottom.”

  “Guess whose idea that was.” Brackett pointed at Wilder. “You should see our next picture, Midnight. Lord knows we wrote enough on it.”

  “Multiple drafts of dazzling sameness.” Wilder raised his eyes to Edith. “I understand Claudette Colbert gave you a time.”

  Edith shifted uncomfortably. “She has her own opinions, to which she’s more than entitled.”

  “Pish. She’s stubborn. And thinks she’s French. Is she truly buying her Midnight wardrobe in a department store rather than have you do it? What is the studio coming to?”

  “I believe she said since her dialogue was off-the-rack, her dresses might as well be, too.”

  The table erupted in hoots and laughter. Wilder gave Edith a gallant seated bow. Touché.

  “We stopped by, Billy,” Edith said, “because I wondered if you could tell Lillian that story about your stay in Mexico.”

  “Ready your handkerchiefs, men,” Brackett called, receiving a chorus of “aye, ayes.”

  Wilder muttered a few words in a foreign tongue. “It’s not a sad story. It’s a simple one. I had a visitor’s visa. In 1934, it expired. I went to Mexico for a new one.”

  “Why Mexico?” I asked. “You don’t sound Mexican.”