“I do indeed,” Edith said with a wistful half smile. “As for this friend—”
“Do the feds know who it is, and does he work for us?” Among studio grandee Barney Groff’s many dark gifts was the apparent ability to materialize at will. He glided into Edith’s office as if mounted on casters in a suit the color of midnight, and placed a hand on Burns’s shoulder. “Tell me now, George, if we’re still in the woods on this business.”
“If I were you, Barney, I’d start building a campfire.”
“Goddamnit. Give me a light, George. Do the government boys know who it is?”
Burns sparked Groff’s cigarette. “No names, but they hinted pretty hard they know something. Maybe Chaperau told them. Maybe he travels with signed photographs of everyone he roped into this scheme. The putz.” Burns glanced over at Edith, then me. “Forgive me, ladies. I’m not myself today.”
“Think nothing of it, George,” Edith said.
“I’ve met Chaperau,” I added. “Putz is the word.”
If nothing else, I made George Burns laugh.
Groff ended our exchange. “So you stay mute, give them nothing. We make them prove—”
“Hold on, Barney. As soon as I heard Chaperau was arrested I told myself and more importantly I told Gracie I’d be honest with the government right down the line. I’ll own up to what I did. Pay restitution, suffer the consequences, answer every question truthfully. If they ask if I transported jewelry for someone else … I have to say yes.”
Burns’s sincerity moved me. But Groff, bless his black heart, was already hatching plots. “Suppose they don’t ask about this individual by name. There’s no reason you’d have to mention him, right?”
Burns drew on the cigar. “I hadn’t given it that much thought.”
“That’s the boy. All I need’s a little room to maneuver. Who’s your lawyer?”
“Good man, Bill Donovan in New York. He knows the president.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to call on Roosevelt just yet. You’ve got the right attitude, George. Face the music squarely and it’ll all come out in the wash. Paramount will back you to the hilt, and your reputation won’t suffer a bit. Don’t you agree, Miss Head?”
Edith nodded without wholly endorsing Groff’s view. “What matters is you’ll be able to face Nathan in the mirror again. And Gracie, too. How is she these days?”
I wanted to hear Burns’s answer but Groff pulled me aside. In the past he’d barely acknowledged my existence. I was the one who’d brought Gene and the LAPD into his Paramount fiefdom last year, and while ignominy was averted my presence didn’t evoke pleasant memories. Now he was galled at having to include me in top-secret powwows. “Christ, why’d they have to ambush the poor bastard? We could’ve put them together in an office somewhere, had his lawyer present. A goddamn train wreck, this is. Miss Head informs me you attended the dinner where this whole smuggling enterprise came tumbling down. Tell me about that night and this putz Chaperau. Spare nothing. I need an angle to work and fast.” I did as Groff asked while Edith kept George Burns occupied. She got the better end of the deal, serving as Burns’s willing audience, her hand permanently pressed over her mouth as she laughed.
“I don’t get it,” Groff said after he’d wrung me dry. “Why is the government pursuing a penny-ante noncommercial smuggling case?”
“Well,” I said, “the law was broken.”
Groff’s disparaging look contained a soupçon of pity for my naïveté. “I said noncommercial. We’re not talking about enemy agents bringing in radium, for Christ’s sake. It’s people ducking a few measly bucks in taxes. What’s more American than that?”
“Maybe that’s the point. The government wants to set an example with the war looming.”
“So they build their case on the say-so of a Nazi maid? None of this makes a lick of sense. They’ve got Chaperau and that judge’s wife dead to rights. What’s the point of coming out here and putting Paramount in the crosshairs? Why go after George Burns when you can hang a judge?”
“He’s better known than the judge,” I said helpfully.
“Since when is Uncle Sam in the publicity business? What, they need a tumble in Winchell’s column? The longer this thing’s in print, the more it reminds people the government’s in bed with some Kraut dishwasher. This stinks to high heaven. Something else is afoot here.” Groff spun dismal designs in his mind, subconsciously baring his teeth as he did so. “If you hear any whisper about the government’s case from Mr. Rice or his attorney, I trust you’ll share it with your friends.” He didn’t phrase it like a request.
His demeanor suddenly sunny, Groff wheeled toward Burns. “George, let’s you and I parley in my office. We’ll figure out our options and get you clear of this imbroglio.”
A slump-shouldered Burns said his good-byes. “You know what gets me, Edie? Here I am fighting for my livelihood over a bauble when I should have come to you. You’d have found something for Gracie to wear. Maybe not gold and diamonds. But it would have looked good on her. That’s all a woman wants.”
* * *
I ASSUMED EDITH and I would dissect the conversation, sharing breathless can-you-believe moments as the scent of Burns’s tobacco lingered. But upon closing the door behind her visitors, all thought of pending scandal was banished. “Now,” she said briskly, “tell me about your weekend.”
I gave a précis of my peregrinations. “There’s not much more I can do,” I concluded. “Wherever Jens is, he’ll eventually come back and contact Mrs. Fuchs. When he does, she’ll tip me.”
“I can’t thank you enough. You’ve gone beyond the call.”
“Yet I can tell from your voice,” I said, “there’s further still I can go.”
“Possibly. Would you excuse me a moment?” She picked up her telephone and had one of those distinctly Hollywood conversations, all cryptic remarks and half-finished questions. She set down the receiver with a flourish of accomplishment. “I thought I knew the name Felix Auerbach. That was Boris Morros, the head of our music department. An émigré himself. He said Mr. Auerbach is a highly regarded composer under contract to Lodestar Pictures.”
“And you want me to talk to him.”
“Only if you have time. Boris can arrange a meeting with his counterpart at Lodestar to pave the way.”
I only hesitated a moment. After all, Addison had encouraged me to help Edith. “If I go to Lodestar, I could speak to Gretchen about this Peter Ames character. He reads German and took pains to hammer any trace of an accent out of his voice. I’m thinking he’s another émigré, maybe a regular at Salka’s. Gretchen might know him.”
“An excellent notion.” Edith had undoubtedly drawn the same conclusion, but let me lay claim to the idea myself. “Then this trip will mark the end of your efforts on Marlene’s behalf. Don’t let me delay you.”
I could forgive Edith for chivying me along. She had a busy day ahead, slave girls to half dress.
10
THE G-MAN DILIGENTLY dogging me likely needed a rest. He and Rogers could remain at Paramount while I visited Lodestar. But the necessary deception required an accomplice.
After a few rondelets of ring-a-levio with the Lodestar switchboard ladies, I tracked down Gretchen Corday, taking messages for a B-picture producer named Huritz. She divined the reason for my call. “Have you heard something about Jens?”
“Several things. I’ve got an appointment at Lodestar’s music department about him.”
“I tried to help Jens land a job there!”
“The thing is,” I said, “I’ve got car trouble. Do you know the best streetcar route?”
“Forget that. You’re getting a lift courtesy of Mr. Huritz. Where should we pick you up?”
* * *
ANDREZJ CYBULSKI WAS a slender, ascetic man with a mane of silvery hair meant for center stage at a concert hall. His office at Lodestar Pictures had been styled in his chilly image down to his faithful factotum. She presented Cybulski with a sheaf
of papers, removing each one as he signed it with a sound like a whip crack.
“Yes, Jens Lohse approached me about a job. A second-rate Frederick Hollander, since you asked, a pushy lad who exaggerated his notices. I turned him down. Imagine my surprise when I encountered him on the lot some time later. He’d started studying composition with one of our employees. Not that instruction would have helped.”
Crack.
“Yes, as a matter of fact it was Felix Auerbach. Every studio has a brilliant German writing difficult music on their payroll. Felix is ours.”
Crack.
“No, he’s not here. Our brilliant Mr. Auerbach can’t be bothered to work on the lot because he claims the constant noise is a distraction. Do you hear any noise, Miss Frost?”
Crack.
“If you wish to speak to him, Miss Rascoe can provide his address. He also owns a cabin in the hills—an aerie, he’s actually called it—where he presumably composes his more groundbreaking and therefore unpleasant work and no one is inconvenienced, save the coyotes.”
Crack.
“Should you happen to find Felix, please be so good as to ask him to report to work. We need a new song for Laurence Minot’s picture Murphy’s Murphy Bed. Will there be anything else, Miss Frost?”
Crack.
* * *
GRETCHEN AWAITED A report, her black skirt billowing as she paced the forecourt outside the music building.
“Did you know Jens is studying here with Felix Auerbach?”
“He is?” Her voice shrank, which only magnified the pain it contained. “He hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
I wondered how one-sided their relationship was. Jens may have slept on Gretchen’s sofa, but could he pick her out of a lineup? Then again, no one seemed aware Jens was under Felix’s tutelage. Wouldn’t he sing such news from the rooftops if he was seeking employment?
“Do you know Felix?” I asked.
“Not well. He comes to Salka’s every once in a while. He’s one of the bei-unskis I told you about, doesn’t mix very much. I don’t think his wife, Marthe, even speaks English.” She paused. “Marthe’s beautiful, though. A lot younger than him, too.”
“Ever listen to Felix’s music?”
Gretchen’s eyes circuited their sockets. “Salka played a recording one afternoon, made the whole room fidgety. Except for another of her regulars, Arnold Schoenberg. He was flattered, I guess, because Felix had written the piece using Schoenberg’s technique. Twelve-tone composition, I think it’s called? I’m no expert on it.”
Neither was I. From what I knew, Schoenberg’s work was to music what Elsa Schiaparelli’s avant-garde designs were to fashion, acclaimed as the epitome by those in the know while leaving the hoi polloi flummoxed. All I knew was I couldn’t dance to one and couldn’t wear the other.
Gretchen squinted as I described the man calling himself Peter Ames. “I can’t picture him,” she said, “but I haven’t met everyone who frequents Salka’s. I guarantee he and Jens aren’t friends. In the past month Jens knocked on the door of anyone who was even a passing acquaintance looking for a place to sleep.”
We studied the red brick beneath our feet for a moment. “What now?” Gretchen asked.
“I could pay a visit to Felix Auerbach and find out when he last saw Jens. The music department gave me his address.”
“Then you’re on studio business. Wait here. I’ll arrange a car for you.”
Who was I to argue with such diligence?
* * *
A DIFFERENT LODESTAR driver picked me up, this one a lanky fellow who moved with a languid ease verging on disinterest. I told him our destination and he grunted. “You’re going to see Mr. Auerbach. I’ve driven him home before.”
Home was the El Royale Apartments on North Rossmore in Hancock Park, one address that could tempt me to abandon Mrs. Quigley’s. The magnificent Spanish-style building was an underhand stone’s throw from Paramount, the electric-green script of its rooftop sign beckoning to me whenever I passed it.
The car pulled up to the entrance like it belonged there, which it did. “Shall I wait?” the driver asked. “The Auerbachs are in 402, if that helps.”
The information sped me past the doorman. I flew through the splendid arches of the El Royale’s lobby without stopping to admire the gorgeous inlaid oak floor and ceiling. On the fourth floor, I rapped softly on the Auerbachs’ door, then hammered as loud as I dared. I pressed an ear to the wood and heard dust settling.
The white-haired elevator operator told me he’d last seen the Auerbachs “maybe a week ago,” each carrying a suitcase. The doorman had no idea where the Auerbachs’ hilltop aerie was, which posed a problem considering the address wasn’t on file at Lodestar, either. A promising avenue of inquiry had hit a dead end, my modest bag of tricks emptied.
Sorry, Marlene. I’d done all I could.
“Nobody home?” The Lodestar driver, smoking cross-legged against the sedan’s grille, smiled pleasantly. I considered him and reconsidered my options. He was older than I would have expected, in the vicinity of forty, hair already graying. He stood well over six feet tall, as lean as if he’d been whittled out of pemmican. His suit was as trim as he was, his brown-and-white Oxfords a subtle hint of flash. Perhaps the sign of a man willing to bend the rules.
“What was your name again?” I asked, knowing he’d never offered it.
“Simon.”
“You said you’ve driven Felix before. Ever take him to his place in the hills?”
Simon took a contemplative drag on his cigarette. “Up in Pacific Palisades? Yeah, now and again.”
“Any chance you remember where it is? It looks like he and his wife went there.”
“It’s rather remote. I relied on Mr. Auerbach’s directions.” He turned toward the hills. At his left temple, the side I couldn’t see from the backseat, the skin was bone white save where it was mottled with decades-old scars that remained a furious red. “But I’m willing to try. This is studio business, right?”
“Absolutely.”
A few blocks down Rossmore, I became convinced a car—not the one from that morning, but a different one—was shadowing us. Riding with Rogers of late had transformed me into a paranoiac, I told myself, but the gray car was still with us a few turns later. Desperate for distraction, I quizzed Simon. “I haven’t met Felix Auerbach. What’s he like?”
“Very serious. Doesn’t say much. Composer, isn’t he? Never heard his music. What kind of stuff is it?”
I pondered what I knew of Felix’s oeuvre. “Difficult,” I said. “Have you driven his wife, Marthe?”
“On occasion.”
“I hear she’s lovely.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
The gray car continued drifting along behind us like it didn’t have a care in the world.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen this man with Felix.” I handed Simon the photograph of Jens from Addison’s collection.
Once we were on a straight length of road, Simon glanced at it. “Seen him? I’ve driven him in this very car. He’s a student of Mr. Auerbach’s, isn’t he? Hans something or other?”
Never would I use the phrase “stab in the dark” cavalierly again. “Jens Lohse. When did you drive him?”
“Several times over the last few months, either from the studio to the Rossmore apartment or back.”
“Is that customary, providing taxi service to Felix’s students?”
We reached a red light. Simon pivoted toward me, the slash of scarred skin exposed in the rearview mirror. I willed myself not to look at it. “No,” he said. “But Mr. Auerbach requested it. I figured Jens was taking advantage of the studio’s generosity toward Mr. Auerbach until I got a load of his car. Lord, what a heap. Felix sent me to pick him up once after it broke down on Western. Bald tires, steam spewing out of it like in a silent picture.” He laughed a bit too avidly at the memory. “Poor bastard needed a lot of rides.”
“Sounds like you don’t h
ave a high opinion of Jens.”
Simon faced front again. His eyes met mine in the mirror and stayed there. “I didn’t like him, Miss Frost. He was a touch too slick and acted above me because I work this job. But he’s the one scrounging rides.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, so I assumed he’d smiled. “Besides, if my passenger doesn’t work for the studio, I don’t have to like him.”
“And if he does?”
“Then he—or she—is the most talented person it has ever been my privilege to transport.”
* * *
THE GRAY CAR no longer drafted in our wake as we climbed into Pacific Palisades north of Santa Monica. A short distance into the hills the earth was singed black, burnt trees clawing air faintly smelling of smoke. The presence of great swaths of green nearby only made the landscape more alien.
“Big fire up here last month,” Simon said. “Hope the Auerbach place survived.” I slid across the rear seat behind Simon as if he could shield me from the hell that had swept through not long ago.
We proceeded slowly, Simon navigating in silence and occasionally reversing course. He then nodded in satisfaction. “There’s the horse trail I’ve been looking for. Okay, now I’ve got this licked.”
The road, more a rutted track hacked through trees mercifully spared in the blaze, scaled a promontory. The rustic flagstone house at its summit had a balcony that projected over the canyon below. Simon stopped the car and the wind became our sole accompaniment, emphasizing how isolated the Auerbachs’ cabin was.
“I don’t see a car,” Simon said. “You sure they’re here?”
“That’s what I was told,” I lied. “Let me check.”
“I’m coming with you. You get coyotes and mountain lions up this way.”
Forest fires, coyotes, and mountain lions. Three things I never worried about growing up in Flushing. California had made me a different person.
No one answered my knock. Simon hollered hello through cupped hands a few times, the only response the breeze. He tried the front door. It opened.
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