“That’ll teach him,” Rogers said. “After all, we’re Americans.” I had the feeling it was the only positive thing he could think to say about me.
8
“LILLIAN!” MRS. QUIGLEY called up the stairs. “The show’s about to start!”
No one needed to tell me when The Jell-O Program Starring Jack Benny began. Listening to my favorite comedian was a Sunday night ritual for me and most of America. I stepped into my pink carpet slippers and headed down to join my landlady. Miss Sarah Bernhardt sprawled on the lobby floor, wholly unimpressed by my choice of footwear. Served me right for trying to win over a dusky Burmese.
Gathering up Miss Sarah, I went into Mrs. Q’s apartment. The aging ex-chorine stood her post in the kitchen, stirring her bottomless pot of stew. She wore a housecoat of many colors, and one side of her permanent had gone flat where she’d fallen asleep on it. “Help yourself if you’re hungry.”
The gugelhupf had been hours ago, so I dished out some dinner. I’d been one of Mrs. Quigley’s tenants for almost two years. Thanks to the generous salary Addison paid me, I could have afforded bigger digs. But no place I’d scouted was as homey as the first place I’d ever lived on my own, complete with its prowling feline empress. I’d started paying additional rent and had a handyman pry open the painted-over connecting door to the smaller adjacent apartment so I could colonize its closets, the arrangement a triumph for all concerned.
The three of us settled in for the broadcast. Announcer Don Wilson declared that this week’s show was emanating from Radio City in New York. “I saw a movie there on my last trip,” I said.
“Shush,” Mrs. Quigley sensibly replied.
The standard silliness—Jack’s wife, Mary Livingstone, razzing his stinginess, crackpot crooner Kenny Baker missing the point of, well, everything—was underway when the lobby telephone rang. Mrs. Q, bent close to the radio so as not to miss a wisecrack, didn’t hear it, so I ran to take a message.
The voice rattling down the line asked for me in hushed tones. “It’s Mrs. Fuchs. From yesterday. I thought you’d want to know there’s a man here looking for Jens Lohse.”
“Right now? Is he from the police?”
“He said he was Jens’s friend, so I invited him in for tea.” The sound on her end was briefly muffled, and I pictured Mrs. Fuchs cupping the receiver to throw a nervous glance over her shoulder. “If you move fast, you can talk to him yourself.”
Mrs. Fuchs clearly hoped to pick up a few additional dollars from me. Going to the bungalow court seemed a less reckless option than letting her brave a stranger solo on my behalf. I dashed upstairs for my shoes and coat. On my way out I poked my head into Mrs. Quigley’s. “Where did you go?” she said over Kenny Baker’s singing. “Jack’s going to do a detective skit called ‘Murder at the Movies’!”
Of course he was. And I was going to miss it.
* * *
ON ENTERING MRS. Fuchs’s bungalow I spied Jens’s box of meager possessions, a homely centerpiece between two cooling cups of tea. I also observed she was alone.
“What kept you?” she asked, clutching her cardigan. “Did you see him?”
“I had trouble finding a taxi. He left?”
“I kept him here as long as I could.” She sounded hurt. “He got restless, so I mentioned Jens’s car. He went to have a look and hasn’t come back.”
I scampered to the alley, which, naturally, was pitch dark. The only illumination came from a flashlight wielded by a man conducting an inspection of Jens’s jalopy. I cleared my throat.
The man’s blond head snapped up like a dog hearing a whistle. At the same instant, he doused the light. I blinked into the blackness and felt for the bungalow behind me.
The light snapped on again, much closer than I expected. The man had moved with stealth. I glimpsed blue eyes and cheekbones fashioned by God’s top sculptor. “May I help you?”
“I was hoping we could help each other. I understand you’re looking for Jens Lohse.”
A faint clucking sound emerged from the man’s throat as he pieced together Mrs. Fuchs’s stalling tactics. “Then you would be seeking him, too, Miss…”
“Frost. Lillian Frost. And you are?”
“Peter.” He spoke with a precise and curiously airless quality, as if calibrating each syllable in advance. A tense smile settled on his thin lips. “I assume this is about money. Is that what you want?”
Mrs. Fuchs probably does, I thought. “No, it’s not.”
“Are you sure? It’s my experience most things are about money. Jens is a friend, then.”
“Not exactly. I’d like to offer him a job.”
“You see? It is about money.” His shoes scuffed concrete. “You must have a favorite of his songs. Which is it?”
A test. Luckily I had an answer. “‘The Trouble with Sin.’”
“A bit earthy for me. Always popular with the ladies for some reason.”
Turnabout, I had learned from Sister Luke in grammar school, was fair play. “Which Jens Lohse composition tops your hit parade?”
“He’s written so many. I’d have to say ‘Pick a Star.’ Lovely melody, simple sentiment. ‘Choose the right celestial fire / And you may find your heart’s desire.’”
He could have invented a title for all my knowledge of the Lohse songbook, but quoting the lyrics convinced me. “So we are both after our musical genius,” Peter said. “When did you last see him?”
“It’s been well over a month,” I hedged. “And you?”
“Too long.” As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw Peter’s fingers graze the trunk of Jens’s car, the gesture almost intimate. “I came by hoping to surprise him, only to learn he hasn’t lived here for weeks.”
“Same thing happened to me. No one knew.”
“He’s good at keeping secrets, our Jens.” A last lingering brush of the car’s faded finish, then Peter’s hand withdrew. “Do we know where he is?”
“I’m trying to find that out. What he left behind isn’t very helpful, at least not to me. I gather Mrs. Fuchs showed the items to you. There’s not much. A book I read, a western, some postcards—”
“The Karl May. Winnetou and Old Shatterhand.” Enthusiasm crept into Peter’s voice. “I enjoyed those books as a child. Far from an accurate depiction of the West, but then May never set foot past Buffalo. Motion pictures take similar liberties. Did you see The Plainsman? A silly enterprise that ran roughshod over history.”
Normally I bristled whenever someone criticized a Paramount picture, out of loyalty to Edith. But Edith hadn’t touched a stitch of the costumes on The Plainsman; it was a Cecil B. DeMille production, and DeMille maintained his own costume unit. That was a sore spot with Edith, and consequently with me. Plus I hadn’t cared for the movie. Perhaps our mutual disdain for DeMille’s sagebrush saga could provide common ground.
“Oh, I agree.” I nodded vigorously. “Why don’t we go back inside? We can look over Jens’s things and pool our resources.”
“If you don’t mind, Miss Frost, I think I’ll take my leave. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
“Wait! What about finding Jens?”
“I’m sure he’s fine, wherever he is. I’ll see him again soon enough. We share many friends.” He touched a finger to his hairline and again switched off the flashlight. He retreated down the alley, blond hair ghostly in the shadows.
I scurried to Mrs. Fuchs’s bungalow. She waited in the doorway, her best scowl in place. “Did Mr. Ames tell you anything?”
“Was that the name he gave you, Peter Ames?” It sounded a bell in my head, as if I’d heard it before. “No. He went out of his way not to tell me anything.”
“That’s what I thought. Shifty fella. Didn’t care for him.”
“Had he visited Jens before?”
“Never set eyes on him in my life.” She sighed. “Then the whole thing was a waste of time.”
“I do appreciate it, though.” I fished a few more dollars out of my purse i
n gratitude.
“Please, I’m happy to help.” She still tucked the money into her cardigan. No martyr, our Mrs. Fuchs. “I’m only sorry I missed the Benny program.”
“I was listening before I came over. It’s from Radio City tonight.” A second bell tolled. Radio City. On my New York trip with Addison, we’d gone to Radio City Music Hall to see a movie. The Mad Miss Manton, with Barbara Stanwyck as a daffy crime-solving heiress. Henry Fonda played opposite her as the stuffy newspaperman turned love interest.
Named Peter Ames.
A common enough handle that it could be a coincidence, I supposed. But if you were caught off-guard and needed an alias, why not select one from the silver screen?
Pondering the possibility, I wandered over to the box of Jens’s possessions. I absently examined the western by Karl May, the author “Peter” had so enjoyed as a child.
During our conversation in the alley, I had completely forgotten the book was in German.
9
I DECIDED THE next morning to invoke Rita of Cascia in making my case to Edith. Rita was the patron saint of lost causes—one of several, lost causes abundant enough for the Vatican to have saints working in shifts. If Marlene wanted to find Jens, I’d say, she’d do better with Saint Rita pounding the pavement. I was fresh out of miracles.
But Edith had access to higher powers of her own. “It’s uncanny that you’re calling,” she said. “Can you come to the studio at once? Mr. Chaperau’s scandal has claimed a victim. Some representatives of the government were on the lot this morning interrogating George Burns.”
“George Burns?” I barked the comedian’s name loudly enough to bring a quizzical Mrs. Quigley from her apartment. I waved her back inside. “Was he involved?”
“It looks that way. As you might imagine, it’s a matter of some import. Mr. Groff wants to speak with you.”
Barney Groff? Paramount’s stern security chief? A man who, legend had it, once made Chico Marx burst into tears with a single glance? A man with all the charm of a rusty stiletto, who cared for me neither a jot nor a tittle, requested my presence?
I told Edith I’d be there, then dialed Addison. He sounded subdued even before I explained the situation.
“Donald informs me Albert Chaperau was indicted in New York this morning on charges of smuggling and conspiracy, along with Mrs. Lauer. Agent Higgins then requested I report to Customs tomorrow for further questioning.” Addison chuckled out of habit. “I won’t require Rogers today. You help Edith and learn what you can.”
* * *
ONE WANTED TO look sharp when calling on Paramount’s powers that be. I broke out a navy blue sheath with a boxy jacket I’d saved for just such an occasion, accessorized with a necklace of chunky coral beads. Edith handily outclassed me in a reddish-brown dress with a gathered yoke boasting three rows of black dome buttons. She was always fashionable but never flashy, and sometimes I wondered why I bothered. She still sported the chignon, the hairstyle apparently agreeing with her.
“Thank you for coming,” Edith said. “I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”
“It might be for the federal agent who followed me here.”
Edith stared at me. “What?”
“I picked him up yesterday outside Salka’s house. He was at it again this morning. Trailed me right to the gate. Rogers is down there now making with the malocchio. But it’s not my car, and I hate involving Addison in this.”
“Not as much as I regret putting you and Mr. Rice in this position.”
“Couldn’t be helped. We’ll discuss Jens after my audience with Mr. Groff.” I nodded at the sketch pad in her hand. “More work on Jack Benny’s next picture?”
“Yes. Did you hear his show last night? The last skit—a detective burlesque, very funny—ended with a joke priming the audience for Artists and Models Abroad.”
“I missed it,” I said huffily, peeking at Edith’s pad. The sketch showed a woman in a gold halter top held around the neck by a thick chain. Golden links draped in loops over, and did precious little to conceal, an exposed midriff. A brief matching skirt, saved from criminal trespass by sheer harem pants, completed the ensemble. “Jack’s latest has exotic slave girls?”
“Several of them. Too risqué?”
“Maybe a touch.”
“Nonsense. The young ladies who’ll wear these costumes will be bright, smiling chorus girls above reproach. Any immorality will be in the eye of the beholder.”
“Tell that to the Breen Office.”
“I have, on multiple occasions.”
Edith’s secretary announced her next visitor. “So this is where the congregation is meeting,” George Burns said in his signature rasp. “Good. Always happy to stop here, Edie. It’s peaceful. Like a betting parlor after the last race is called.” The comedian looked dapper in a pin-striped navy suit and two-tone shoes. His eyes practically disappeared into a face that seemed old beyond its years yet emanated a playful spark. His fingers twiddled an unlit cigar.
Edith introduced me, and I told him I’d had the pleasure of meeting his wife, Gracie Allen, the year before. I could have added that Edith and I had lent a hand in apprehending a murderer on the set of his film College Swing, but that seemed a lot for a man to absorb at once.
“If you’ve met my better half, I’m going to prove a real disappointment.” Burns shifted the cigar to his other hand. “I’m told you also know Albert Chaperau. The man who’s going to end my career.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” Edith said.
“Let’s revisit the subject in six months and see who’s right.”
“How did you meet Chaperau?” I asked.
“Through friends. He was taken by the fact we’re both Nathans. His right name’s Nathan Shapiro, mine’s Nathan Birnbaum. Chaperau couldn’t get over it. Me, I wasn’t so impressed. Where I come from, I know plenty of Nathans. I see one every time I look in the mirror. Frankly, I’m not too enamored of him lately.” Burns smiled thinly, craving a laugh he knew he didn’t deserve. “A few years ago, 1936 it was, we’re all in New York at the same time. Me and Gracie, Chaperau and his wife, Paula. We have dinner at the ‘21’ Club. And I notice the bracelet Paula is wearing. A lovely thing. The bracelet, not the wife. Normally I don’t make a practice of noticing bracelets, but this one is wide.”
“Wide?” I was lost.
“Tell me something, Lillian. That is your name, isn’t it, Lillian? I know it’s not Nathan. You’ve met my Gracie, seen her in pictures. Notice anything particular about her clothes?”
He would have to pose the question in front of Edith. After a moment, I shook my empty, empty head.
Burns moved the cigar back to his other hand, and Edith took this as her cue. “Sleeves,” she said solemnly.
“That’s right. She always has full- or three-quarter-length sleeves. Do you know why? Because she was scalded on one arm as a girl and hates for anyone to see the scars. So I stay on the lookout for jewelry she can wear.”
“Like a wide bracelet,” I said.
“Exactly. That night I took Chaperau aside. Gracie would love that piece, I said, where can I buy one like it? Chaperau says you don’t have to buy one like it, I’ll sell you that one. I said I don’t think Paula will take too kindly to that. He told me not to worry. That’s when I should have started worrying. Who sells jewelry right off his wife’s arm? I wouldn’t try it. I don’t know another man who would. But I’d gotten it into my head I wanted it. Because it was perfect.”
“Wide,” I said.
“Wide. Chaperau says it’s mine for two thousand dollars. I get the money, I buy the bracelet. I had no idea he’d smuggled it into the country. I send him a note later saying Gracie loved the bracelet—she did, by the way—and I sign it ‘From Nathan to Nathan,’ knowing he’ll get a kick out of it. He asks me for a photograph, I sign it the same way. And that’s how I landed in the soup. He travels with the picture and the G-men found it. Fans like him I don’t need.”
He lapsed into silence. “Surely the government wouldn’t harass you over that,” Edith said.
“I’m pacing myself. I’m not proud of what happened next.” Burns contemplated the cigar. “Earlier this year, Chaperau showed me papers he’d gotten. Credentials from some country.”
“Nicaragua,” I prompted.
“That’s the one. And he explains how he can bring in goods under diplomatic cover and save us a few hundred dollars. Not that I’m looking to save the money. But Chaperau tells me everyone does it. Politicians, society people in New York. I knew it was wrong, but didn’t want to say it was wrong. You get in a situation like that, you don’t want to be the rube.”
I understood. I’d met enough show people to know even those at the top of the profession viewed their position in society as tenuous at best. Years of living in run-down theatrical boardinghouses and being treated as second-class citizens made them extremely conscious of status. For Burns to be included in a dodge reserved for the upper crust was a greater windfall than any money he might save.
“So I went along. When I bought Gracie gifts in Europe, I let Chaperau take them back into the country. I did it in May, then again in October. I was in New York when he came back from that trip, so I stopped at his hotel, picked up the jewelry, brought it to California.” More seemed forthcoming, but Burns abruptly stopped talking and fussed with his cigar. The stogie, I realized, was more than a prop he’d use to time his jokes, or a baton to conduct conversation. It was an essential part of his character, a meditative object.
Edith not only sensed his distress but intuited its cause. “What else did you bring to California, George? Items Mr. Chaperau had smuggled for a friend, perhaps?”
The question compelled Burns to set the cigar alight at last. “Gracie always says you’re a smart cookie, Edie. The government men asked me the same thing. They were more forceful about it.” He took a contented puff, the fragrance indicating Burns didn’t skimp on quality. “It’s funny, I’ve sat under those pepper trees I don’t know how many times and never thought I’d be grilled by federal agents there. My agent, maybe, but not Uncle Sam’s. It’s where we first met, Edie, remember? Back when we were making College Holiday.”
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