Dangerous to Know

by Renee Patrick

  “We have a trained ear at the table.” Wilder smiled while still laboring over his card. Brackett, I noticed, had written down many more words than him. “There is a system of quotas in place, so many immigration visas for each country. European nations go through their allotments quickly, with legions of people fleeing the fascists. But in Mexico, the visas go begging. So I packed a grip and crossed the border.” He set his pen down but continued to stare at the letters gathered on the page. “It was a risk, because I did not have the proper paperwork. It was in Berlin, and I was not about to go back for it. I am Jewish, and if I presented myself looking for documentation, a very stern gentleman would say, ‘It is here, on this train. Come this way.’ I sat before the American consul and explained my situation. He walks around the desk as I talk, nodding, yes, yes. Finally, he asks, ‘If I allow you to return to the United States, what will you do? How will you make money?’ I tell him I am a writer, I write scripts. Little do I know he is a fan of the movies. ‘Write some good ones!’ he says. He gives me the stamp”—Wilder pantomimed the gesture—“and sends me on my way. He did not have to do so. In another life, I am still there, waiting for my chance to enter this country.”

  “Cue the violins,” Brackett said. “I still say there’s a hell of a picture in that situation.”

  “Too depressing. You’d need the right angle. Why do you ask about Mexico?”

  “There’s a composer who may have gone there for the same reason,” Edith said.

  “Always it is good to know composers. Friedrich Hollaender—he’s Frederick Hollander now—introduced me to Lubitsch and saved my life. Who is the composer?”

  “Jens Lohse,” I said. “He wrote a song called ‘The Trouble with Sin.’”

  Wilder hummed a snippet of an unfamiliar melody. “I know this song. ‘The sable under the table.’ It’s clever. It’s not Hollander, but it’s clever.”

  “Do you happen to know Salka Viertel?”

  “A little.” Wilder shrugged. “She is a writer, too. Mainly for Miss Garbo. But as Miss Garbo seldom acts nowadays, Miss Salka seldom writes.”

  “She seldom acts?” Brackett raised an eyebrow. “Then who the devil have we been writing for?”

  “You seek your composer at Salka’s?” Wilder peered at me cryptically.

  “Possibly. Any advice?”

  “Salka’s friends are my people but not my crowd. They look to yesterday while I prefer to think about tomorrow. They wait to go home while I am waiting to get paid.”

  “Hear, hear!” another man cried.

  “To put it yet another way,” Wilder continued, “they were compelled to leave Europe. I choose to be in Los Angeles, because I want to make pictures.”

  “He promised the little man in Mexico,” Brackett said.

  Two men at the opposite end of the table began arguing whether “grith” was a word. Brackett’s benediction didn’t end the dispute. They were still going at it hammer and tongs when a waitress finally ventured over. “You writers don’t knock off this racket, you’re gonna get moved into your own room.”

  “We would welcome the solitude,” Wilder said.

  “Your game would probably improve.” Brackett pointed at his partner’s card. “Look at the dross you’ve come up with.”

  The waitress turned to Edith and me. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I was told to have artichokes for lunch,” Edith said.

  “Artichokes? Good Christ, is Marlene here?” Wilder sat up straight and rolled down his sleeves, the specter of Marlene putting him on his best behavior.

  4

  ADDISON’S GLOSSY BLACK Cadillac Fleetwood waited by Paramount’s Bronson Gate where I’d left it. I marched over to Rogers, the liveried chauffeur.

  “Finished! We can head back to the house.”

  Rogers grunted and continued squatting on the car’s running board. He took a drag on his cigarette. Then another. At long last he rose, crushed the butt under his boot, and slid behind the wheel, leaving me to open the rear door myself.

  The universe didn’t want me to get a big head. It had given me access to a car, courtesy of Addison Rice. It also provided an operator for said vehicle who didn’t care for me one iota. Rogers had been in Addison’s service for years, his face and hands nut brown from front-seat exposure to the California sun. Our relationship had gotten off to a perfectly civil start, until Addison suggested Rogers teach me how to drive. My first and only lesson led to a white streak in Rogers’s hair, a certain skittishness whenever he passed a Bentley, and a regular deduction from my paycheck to cover the damages.

  From that day forward, Rogers proved singularly immune to my charms. That chill didn’t stop me from chattering to him incessantly out of a misplaced confidence I could win him back.

  “There may be more driving,” I warned him.

  Rogers sucked on his teeth and tossed his chauffeur cap onto the seat next to him.

  * * *

  AT ADDISON’S MAMMOTH manse, purchased with the proceeds from the many radio parts he’d patented, I stopped by my desk to ensure there was no pressing business then set off in search of my employer. I found him in the solarium, slumped opposite a stocky man. Donald Hume was not only Addison’s attorney, he handled the legal affairs for any number of Los Angeles luminaries. He certainly looked the part, brown hair graying with distinction, his procession of immaculate black suits giving the impression he was always off to a funeral worth attending. Addison greeted his counsel’s counsel with a castor-oil face.

  My boss mustered a smile as I approached but couldn’t mask his agitation. “Lillian! How was your lunch with Edith?”

  “Lovely, but I’m afraid it’s what we expected given Lorna Whitcomb’s column this morning. Albert Chaperau snared at least one person at Paramount in his scheme.”

  Addison winced. “That name now provokes an immediate need for bicarbonate of soda.”

  I’d gone into my meeting with Edith anticipating she’d inquire about Chaperau. Two weeks earlier, Agent Higgins from Customs had returned to the house with more questions about the felonious filmmaker. Addison had been in constant contact with his attorney ever since.

  Donald lit a cigar, turning it in the flame with a safecracker’s grace. “I don’t suppose Edith mentioned who’s under suspicion.”

  “She didn’t breathe a word.”

  Addison wiped his brow. “To think I invited that common criminal into my home.”

  “Be fair,” I said. “If anything Chaperau’s an uncommon criminal. Not every bounder gets himself accredited as a Nicaraguan commercial attaché.”

  “Higgins says he wants to know about my previous dealings with Chaperau. I don’t like the sound of that word. I didn’t have ‘dealings’ with the man, I asked him to some parties.” Addison heaved a mighty sigh. “I could use a party now to take my mind off this lunacy.”

  “We talked about this, Addy,” Donald said. “No one loves your parties more than me. But they’re why Customs is interested in you. Chaperau might have exploited your hospitality to further his smuggling racket. Use Maude’s absence as a reason to lower your profile until this matter’s sorted. Nothing more elaborate than a quiet evening of bridge, like tonight.”

  Addison wasn’t the only one who longed for one of his signature blowouts, complete with elaborate theme. It fell to me as social secretary to organize the bashes, a charge for which I often felt woefully ill-equipped. Thanks to Uncle Sam’s scrutiny we had but a single charity breakfast on the horizon, leaving me with little to do. If we didn’t schedule a shindig soonest, I feared I’d be looking for another job.

  Donald paced the solarium floor. “It’s beyond me why Customs is pursuing this case, especially when it hinges on the testimony of a Nazi maid. With the press they’ve been getting?”

  Coverage of the Reich had changed markedly in the last month, since the two nights of mayhem when dozens of Jewish citizens in Germany and Austria were killed and countless synagogues and Jewish businesses
vandalized, the streets littered with broken glass. The ferocity and apparent coordination of the attacks, along with the subsequent arrest of tens of thousands of Jews by the Nazi regime ostensibly for their own protection, had transformed the conversation about German aggression. Regarding Adolf Hitler as a menace only to his own people and their neighbors could no longer be done. I knew, because like most Americans I’d tried.

  Addison’s face clouded; he’d been reading the newspapers closely too. “Damn it, I wish Maude would come home. But she insists on maintaining her schedule.”

  “She knows she’s safe in England,” Donald said. “Might as well be in Pomona for all the risk she’s facing.”

  “But how long will that hold?”

  “For the foreseeable future, Addy. Hitler’s a bastard and an anti-Semite, no question. But he’s Europe’s problem. They’ll deal with him before he becomes a true threat. Lindbergh’s right on the money: The real danger is Russia. Europe will wake up to that soon enough. Don’t let the news wear you down. Remember, it’s not just what you’re hearing. It’s who’s saying it. You know my rule. Life’s like playing poker. Once the hand is dealt, first you check your cards then you—”

  “Check your dealer,” I finished along with him, prompting a chuckle from Addison.

  Donald feigned indignation. “Some wisdom is worth repeating. Back to this Chaperau business. We now know Paramount will be doing their own legwork, and lots of it. It would benefit us enormously to be privy to that information. Any chance you could keep your ear to the ground there, Lillian?”

  “Edith did ask me for a favor.”

  “Do it,” Donald directed. “Whatever it is.”

  I side-eyed Addison. “It would mean helping Marlene Dietrich.”

  Addison sat up straight. Funny how Marlene’s name instantly improved the male posture. “You agreed, I hope.”

  “It could be tricky, what with you being more partial to Garbo.”

  “Nonsense. They’re both wonderful. Marlene played the musical saw for me!”

  “Now that was a party,” Donald said rapturously. “Customs better wrap this Chaperau investigation up fast, Addy. We need you entertaining again posthaste. It’s like keeping an artist from his canvas.”

  * * *

  ADDISON HAD A new wave of patents to discuss with Donald. Back at my desk, I resumed my march through the Rices’ Christmas card list.

  “Is this where I buy in to the crooked bridge tournament?”

  I was happy to have my steady diet of good cheer interrupted, especially by Charlotte Hume. Donald’s wife was his sole concession to a Hollywood lifestyle. The up-and-coming starlet, her dark hair and gimlet eyes a fan magazine fixture, had broken out last year in The Defense Rests, thanks to a big scene where she collapsed on the witness stand being cross-examined by Robert Taylor. Donald had coached his spouse on her technique, earning a fair bit of press for himself in the process. The Humes hadn’t batted an eye when Addison hired me as his untested social secretary, Charlotte serving as benevolent Beatrice, my guide through Paradise in The Divine Comedy that had become my life. She looked immaculate in a dark gray suit with a Persian lamb collar, her sandalwood perfume complementing the scent of leather she always carried from horseback riding.

  We exchanged kisses. “Donald tells me you’re toiling for Marlene Dietrich now.” Charlotte’s sleepy voice contained too much Virginia molasses for studio vocal coaches to eliminate. “You know, I was up for a part in a Capra picture with her.”

  “The Chopin film with Spencer Tracy?”

  “Lord, wasn’t that a terrible idea? I’m talking to Mr. Capra about a part in his new picture, a senator’s daughter who tempts poor Jimmy Stewart. Utterly thankless, but it’s Capra.” She sighed. “I’m still holding out hope. For Scarlett.”

  Charlotte, owing to her recent fame and southern upbringing, had not only been floated as a possible Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind but had tested for the role—twice. Jimmie Fidler even pegged her as a frontrunner in March, but she’d since fallen back to the pack.

  “Oh, I know it’ll be Paulette Goddard in the end. But Mr. Selznick keeps bringing in unknowns, saying he wants a new face. He’s testing another one this week, the latest antebellum belle fresh from amateur theatricals. Thanks ever so, Mr. Selznick.” She fanned herself with her hand. “I told David O. I was born to play the part, that Gone with the Wind was like reading about my own life. Do you know what he told me? He said every actress fed him that line. Including Katharine Hepburn, and she hasn’t been further south than Pennsylvania Station.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. Recalling what Edith had said about actresses and their reliance on undying optimism, I decided to buck Charlotte up. “You’re still in the running. Soon it’ll be Selznick on line one, Capra on line two.”

  “From your lips to the good Lord’s ears. Will you be playing bridge with us tonight?”

  “I should get started on that favor for Dietrich instead.”

  “You sound a touch dubious, sweetie.”

  “It’s not the kind of thing I usually do. But I’ll be helping Addison if I stumble through it.”

  “Then stumble away, I say. Horse-trading’s a way of life out here. And I’m a horsewoman from way back. Hollywood’s a big business and a small town. Favors are coin of the realm.” She paused. “As are rumors. Speaking of, let’s review who else is in the running for Scarlett.”

  * * *

  I ABANDONED GLAD-TIDINGS duties in favor of the latest Photoplay. I’d barely started the article averring that even his best friends didn’t know the real Tyrone Power when Addison crept into view. “Donald and Charlotte are brushing up on their hand signals for bridge. You have to tell me what you’re doing for Marlene.”

  I explained what Dietrich wanted. “I wasn’t sure about pitching in. But if it will help you—”

  Addison dismissed my reservations with a flick of his hand. “Anything for Marlene and Edith. My car’s at your disposal. Besides, you’ve already met Jens Lohse. Or at least heard him.”

  “I have? Where?” As soon as I posed the question, I knew the answer.

  “Here. He’s played several of my parties.”

  “Since I’ve been working for you? So I hired him. I hired him and didn’t know it.”

  “Come now, Lillian, it’s not like you booked the Jens Lohse Orchestra. He sits in with a few bands. The two of us happened to fall into conversation one night he was here.”

  Classic Addison, the most democratic person I’d ever met. He’d invite a bevy of stellar names to his soirees and would be as likely to wind up deep in conversation with a waiter as Clark Gable. What’s more, he’d be able to recall the person’s name and face without relying on mental gimmicks like I did.

  “March, it was. Our Spring Has Sprung affair. We’ll have photographs on file. Jens will be the sad lad at the piano. Go see what your quarry looks like.”

  * * *

  IT DIDN’T TAKE long to dig out the pictures, which brought back the vivid aroma of cherry blossoms on a warm March night. Chilled punch on every table, hot music by Tim Turner and His Troubadours.

  Attacking the ivories in one photograph was a thirtyish man blissfully unaware of the camera. His too-large houndstooth jacket made his shoulders appear gigantic. A curtain of fashionably long dark hair hid his eyes but left a slight smile for the world to see. He looked vaguely dissipated, like he was meant to die of consumption in the last reel and spare the heroine a difficult choice.

  At the edge of the frame, only a few feet from Jens, was yours truly. I did not appear to be enjoying myself. I seemed overwhelmed, biting my lower lip and staring at the floor, agonizing over whether I’d ordered too much food or not enough. Oblivious to whatever music Jens was playing.

  The booking agency put me in touch with Tim Turner—right name Lou Mandelbaum—who told me Jens was his third-string eighty-eighter, he had no contact information for him, and the Troubadours were available to play for Addison
again anytime.

  I studied the photo of Jens. He’d plied his trade in this very house.

  Now I felt obligated to look for him.

  5

  THE GOOD NEWS was I already had plans to play bridge with Gene Morrow, giving me a ready-made opportunity to ask about the LAPD’s efforts to find Jens Lohse. After that, the bad news came in spades—likely the only correct reference to cards I’d make all evening.

  Drawback number one: the get-together was at Gene’s house, a two-story Victorian wedged on a Bunker Hill incline. Gene rented the upstairs to the Lindbloms, a Swedish couple with an impossibly well-behaved brood of five children. He treated his tenants better than himself, tending to their needs while neglecting his own accommodations. Age and the neighborhood’s decline were taking their toll; the house was creaky and drafty, and every room on the west side picked up the scent of the Shell gas station on the corner. Hardly environs conducive to romantic sentiments. And on that subject …

  Drawback number two: we were playing bridge because Abigail Lomax enjoyed the game, meaning Abigail would be in attendance, and her presence was also not conducive to romantic sentiments. Gene and I didn’t see each other as much as either of us would have liked. His cases demanded odd hours, while Addison’s frenetic social schedule kept me jumping. When we could steal away together, chances were good Abigail would be our third wheel. Gene felt an understandable obligation toward the childhood friend turned widow of his longtime partner. Many’s the time I’d arrive to meet Gene at a restaurant or movie theater only to discover Abigail—sweet, always-a-kind-word Abigail—holding our table or our tickets, Gene later whispering an apology, saying she’d otherwise be cooped up home alone. As far as I could tell Abigail had no designs on Gene whatsoever. She was forever telling him he didn’t need to invite her everywhere, but I couldn’t help noticing she seldom said no. More troubling, Gene continued to ask.

  Which brought us to drawback number three: bridge required a foursome, and recruiting the quartet’s final member was my responsibility. The caliber of his play was irrelevant, so long as he was an available male who could, in theory, be paired off with Abigail both for the evening and the happily ever after.