Dangerous to Know

by Renee Patrick

  “No,” I said. “But it didn’t occur to me look for it.”

  “Undoubtedly Detective Morrow will inventory what’s in the cabin. I ask only because the book wasn’t discovered at Mr. Lohse’s former residence or his car. It seems unlikely he would go to the home of his music teacher without it. Even if he went there with the intention of killing himself. If something were removed from the Auerbach cabin, it would be that book as opposed to a suicide note.”

  The headache that started directly behind my left eye told me Edith was onto something.

  “I’m sure all will be explained once the Auerbachs are located.” Edith made her voice three-strip Technicolor bright. “Now! How about lunch with my gratitude?”

  “I’d love to, but unfortunately I have to return to work. Today’s my chance to get ahead on Addison’s Christmas shopping while Customs interviews him about Albert Chaperau. Any developments on that front?”

  “None I’m privy to, although Mr. Groff has burned copious quantities of midnight oil.” Edith’s voice turned grave. “I’m sure he’d want me to say any information you can relay from Mr. Rice’s meeting would be held in the strictest confidence and much appreciated.”

  “First Marlene, now all of Paramount. At this rate, the whole town will owe me favors.”

  13

  SHOD AGAIN IN carpet slippers I decamped to Mrs. Quigley’s, her radio blaring as her favorite gossip columnist took to the air.

  “This is Jimmie Fidler in Hollywood, where the latest looks are always in the bag … sometimes the diplomatic bag.”

  I knew a veiled Albert Chaperau reference when I heard one. So much for packing up all my cares and woe after an afternoon at Addison’s.

  A knock at the front door interrupted my nightly nuzzle with Miss Sarah. I set the cat down and went to answer it, hoping Jimmie didn’t dish any Chaperau dirt in my absence.

  Two men waited outside. One lingered in the shadows, hat brim down as he cleaned his fingernails with a matchstick, doing everything in his power to avoid being seen. His cohort, in contrast, provided almost too much to look at. Beneath a crown of red hair his left eye protruded slightly, as if his head had been pulled out of a vise at the last possible moment. Worse, he possessed a truly engaging, even roguish smile.

  “Good evening, miss.” The redhead spoke in a whispery singsong suited to addressing a spooked horse. “We’re looking for Lillian Frost.”

  “That’s her there,” Mrs. Quigley volunteered, wandering out into the lobby.

  The ginger gent channeled extra wattage into his grin, and I almost ran for the stairs. “My name’s Mr. Knoll.” He spelled it for me, in case at some future point I wanted to enter it into the record. “That’s Mr. Garrett. We’re your escorts for the evening.”

  “And where are you gentlemen supposed to be escorting me?” I asked in a level voice.

  Knoll snapped his fingers and Garrett handed over several familiar cards. Urchins pressed them on strangers on the streets of downtown Los Angeles. The outline of a ship’s prow on the left, four aces on the right, THE S.S. LUMEN emblazoned across the top. THREE MILES FROM SANTA MONICA—BUT A WORLD AWAY!

  “The gambling ship!” Mrs. Quigley said. “I see the advertisements in the newspapers all the time!”

  Knoll dropped a few of the cards into her palm. “You keep those, dear. Each one good for a free turkey dinner onboard. Cuisine by Jean-Claude of Lyon. Bring your friends.”

  Things were getting entirely too chummy. “And if I don’t want to go?”

  “Why wouldn’t you want to? Hospitality is our business,” Knoll said. “Oh, I feature it. You’re concerned no one knows your plans. Mrs. Quigley here is informed. Call Detective Morrow and share your whereabouts, if that appeals.”

  His knowing about Gene sounded like a fait accompli. I took Knoll up on his offer, marching to the telephone and dialing Gene’s desk. Another detective answered and I left a detailed message, silently thanking Knoll for spelling his surname.

  “I’ll tell you all about the boat when I get back,” I said to Mrs. Quigley. I glanced down at Miss Sarah. Her face indicated that if I never returned, there was a slight chance she’d remember me.

  * * *

  MY THIRD TRIP to the shore in as many days. Soon I’d be suffering from the gout Salka Viertel had mentioned. Once we were underway in a black sedan I didn’t recognize as one that had followed me, Garrett couldn’t stop talking. He served up succinct critiques of every restaurant and diner we passed, a veritable Baedeker of beaneries. This place had lethal coffee, that one a blue plate special worth driving out of your way for. He nodded at the Hi-Hat Café and said they offered decent toast.

  “How do you rate toast?” Knoll wheezed.

  “They don’t burn it much,” Garrett said reasonably.

  Never had I missed the taciturn Rogers so deeply. The lights of Santa Monica Pier couldn’t appear fast enough.

  Garrett parked the car and we walked underneath Christmas lights and wreaths. Passersby undoubtedly assumed we were a foursome out for an evening of waterfront fun, temporarily one woman short. Knoll and Garrett, veterans of escort duty, had their technique down to a science. I glanced around for Marlene Dietrich’s single-toothed soothsayer. Maybe she could tell me if I’d survive the night.

  Knoll indicated a neon arrow at the end of the pier. “This way. You ever been on the Lumen before?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t set foot on a boat since Mikey DeFarlo’s cheap-date cruise on the Staten Island Ferry.

  A sign beneath the arrow boasted of continuous water taxi service. We crossed an arched bridge to a float, where a boat waited. The Maybelle was a narrow launch enclosed by glass for most of its length, canvas awnings supplying additional protection from the elements. Garrett clambered aboard, extending a hand to help me. Knoll jumped on and nodded at someone on the float, the Maybelle’s engine instantly roaring in response.

  The launch lurched away from the pier, swerving around the costly cutters berthed nearby as it made for the mouth of the harbor. The other passengers huddled at the front of the taxi, studying the fine print on the cards inviting them to the Lumen. Aside from a young couple lost in each other’s eyes and lips, we had the stern of the Maybelle to ourselves. Knoll leaned out into the spray, letting it cool his face. Garrett approached me as soon as the launch cleared the breakwater. I decided this wasn’t a coincidence and gripped the railing for dear life.

  “The free turkey dinner’s not bad,” Garrett said. “For a free dinner, that is. You’re better off paying for the prime rib. Unless you prefer veal scallopini.”

  I nodded and almost heaved over the side, not wanting to contemplate veal scallopini at the moment. On a dinghy this size, I couldn’t even countenance soda crackers.

  True to its name, the Lumen bristled with lights, Christmas coming to the high seas early. From the look of her, she had once been a proud oceangoing vessel, the kind of four-masted ship on which Charles Laughton would have tried in vain to break Clark Gable’s spirit. (Repeated viewings of Mutiny on the Bounty constituted the bulk of my maritime service.) But the Lumen had been extensively, almost cruelly overhauled, everything past the bow gutted so a squat structure could be erected behind it. The lightshow, with multiple beams probing the early winter darkness like octopus tentacles, couldn’t glamorize what was essentially a warehouse on the briny deep.

  Several such ships were tethered along the Southern California coast just past the three-mile limit—and theoretically beyond the state’s jurisdiction, so prohibitions against gambling did not apply. Whether this legal strategy held water was still being debated in the courts. One could read coverage of the latest developments in the local newspapers across from advertisements for twelve-minute water taxi rides to the Tango or the Rex or the largest of them all, the Lumen. Those aggressive enticements were partly why I was willing to accompany Knoll and Garrett on this brief voyage; any business spending that much money to promote itself had to have a fighting chanc
e of being legitimate.

  The launch motored up to the Lumen’s landing stage, illuminated like a theater box office with a battery of ushers in red jackets at the ready. Not that I required their assistance. The Lumen was perfectly stationary as I stepped aboard, three massive hawsers holding it in place.

  Knoll and Garrett steered me through the casino. I glimpsed a bank of forlorn slot machines and some sparsely attended roulette tables. At the far end of the hall, a dance band desultorily tuned up. From below drifted the scent of freshly grilled beef. From everywhere else I smelled fish.

  I was whisked through a STAFF ONLY hatch, down a flight of metal stairs, and along a series of drab corridors. Knoll rapped on an unmarked door. As he opened it, Garrett whispered, “I’m gonna hit the galley. Get some shrimp.”

  The door barely cleared the desk beyond, a mammoth piece of furniture apparently hewn from what had been the rest of the Lumen. The balding man seated behind it was every bit as solidly constructed. He’d shucked his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, ruby tie in a flawless Windsor knot. He possessed both a large stomach and hungry eyes, never a good combination. His placid face had stared out at me from the pages of many a newspaper.

  “Miss Frost,” he said. “Malcolm Drewe.”

  The owner of the Lumen had made his reputation during Prohibition, running liquor from Canada in a fleet of speedboats. Once the law of the land had been set to rights again, Drewe parlayed his profits into a host of ventures: pool halls, automobile dealerships, real estate speculation. But testing the limits of seafaring law was his grand obsession. Rumor had it several of Drewe’s former bootlegging cronies were silent partners in the Lumen. But it was Drewe publicly waging the battle in the courts, promising to equal the splendors of the French Riviera while paying track odds daily.

  And he had hustled me out to a ship where the normal rules didn’t apply, in order to make conversation.

  “Have you been well looked after?” His question may have been directed at me, but those voracious eyes sought out Knoll.

  “Treated her like your special guest,” Knoll answered. “Haven’t given her the grand tour yet.”

  “Make sure you bring her by the dining room. Let her sample some of our fine fare.”

  The counterfeit congeniality only ratcheted up my unease. “I’d rather you just tell me why I’m here.” I wanted to sound calm. My words simply came out hushed.

  Drewe smiled. “Straightforward. I appreciate that. You’re here because you found Jens Lohse. To be precise, you’re here because you were looking for Jens Lohse. Never thought anybody would turn over rocks searching for that sheeny except me. I’m interested in your interest in him.”

  So you get to drag me away from my home on a whim? I didn’t yell, knowing to keep my anger in check. “I was doing a favor for a friend.”

  “Then we’re in the same business. Who’s the friend? Maybe I know him, too.”

  The circumstances seemed to preclude prevarication. “Marlene Dietrich.”

  Knoll snorted. Drewe sighed. “I hoped we could avoid this kind of silliness. Did your employer Addison Rice tell you to hunt up Lohse?”

  “Addison had nothing to do with this, so please don’t say his name again. You’ve obviously done your research, Mr. Drewe. Did you hear a story from about a year ago involving me, Paramount Pictures, and the police?”

  “Some rumblings, maybe.”

  “My interest stems from that. Jens played piano for Miss Dietrich. She was worried about him. I said I’d look around. I found him. And now I’m out of it.” I paused. “Honest.”

  Drewe leaned forward, bare forearms on the blotter, eyes boring into mine. “I’d love to have Miss Dietrich out to the Lumen,” he said finally. “Could you mention it to her?”

  “Absolutely. Can I ask if you’re having me followed?”

  “When you spot a tail, Miss Frost, it means the person wants you to know they’re there. Either that, or you’re dealing with incompetents. I don’t qualify on either score.” He reclined again. “Lohse could tickle those ivories. He played on this ship, you know. He was briefly a member of our band, the Lumenarias. You probably heard them as you came aboard. As for my interest in him, it’s not altruistic like Miss Dietrich’s. Jens had something that belongs to me. I paid for it. So I’d like it now.”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Started over. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because once I pay for something, it’s mine. So here’s the deal. You come across anything Jens left behind, do me the courtesy of letting me know.” He scribbled on another of those ubiquitous free turkey dinner cards. “Call this number day or night should you stumble on any objects of interest.”

  “But I’m not looking for objects of interest. I’m not looking for anything. Jens is dead. I really am out of it.”

  “You’re hardly the person I would have expected to find Jens’s body. You strike me as capable of more surprises.”

  “Have I already met one of your people looking for this whatever-it-is?”

  The slight frown on Drewe’s face unleashed an icy feeling in my heart. Even Knoll took a step back. “You met someone else on the prowl for Jens? Where?”

  I swallowed hard, and told Drewe about my encounter with Peter Ames. Drewe listened intently, writing Ames’s name on a pad of paper. “Helps me remember names, seeing them in my own handwriting,” he said. “Little trick from a book I read.”

  “How to Be at Home in the World, by Hiram Beecher?”

  “You read it, too?” Drewe beamed like I’d just signed my house over to him. “I’m an extravagant admirer of Mr. Beecher’s. Gave copies to all the boys.”

  “It’s why I spelled my name for you before,” Knoll chimed in. “Saves time.”

  “This Ames fellow is unknown to me,” Drewe said. “But now I’m interested in his interest. The fact that you encountered him proves you and I should remain in touch. Your path crosses his again, you dial that number I gave you.”

  There was no point in protesting that our paths wouldn’t cross. Drewe wasn’t listening to me. “Could you at least tell me what it is you’re looking for?”

  “I don’t want to limit your initiative. I’d rather make it easy on you. Call if you find anything at all.”

  I’d had it with people making it easy on me, and with Hollywood’s favor economy. Edith had sworn looking for Jens wouldn’t inconvenience me, yet here I was shanghaied and missing Jimmie Fidler. I was through helping people. From here on out, I’d be Lillian Frost, bad Samaritan. “That’s a lot of work for a turkey dinner that’s already free,” I said.

  “Don’t crack wise with me, Miss Frost. You’re not pretty enough to get away with it. Marlene Dietrich’s not pretty enough.” Drewe stepped out from behind his desk, and I turned green for reasons that had nothing to do with the swells nudging the ship.

  With his dress shirt and tie, Drewe wore thick-soled boots and dark brown work trousers. Both were freshly stained with mud, the pants bearing arcs of what I prayed was not blood, as if Drewe had stood too close while bringing a mallet down.

  He didn’t look at me as he crossed to the office’s porthole, comfortable in the knowledge his attire was having the desired effect. “Don’t mind the clothes. I’ve got a hog farm out by Fullerton. First place I made any real money. Still go there on occasion to take care of business. Bring in the pork we serve on this very ship.” He turned to Knoll. “Another reason to take Miss Frost to the dining room.”

  “Will do, sir.” Knoll grinned.

  “There’s two ways of judging a man. How willing is he to get dirty, and how well does he clean up.” Drewe nodded at his own profundity and gazed out at the sea. “Usually we close the Lumen for the winter. Weather’s too unpredictable. But people want a break from their families during the holidays—Christ knows I do—and we’ll be here to take their money. We were open Thanksgiving weekend and made a killing. I’m not a gambling man myself
, but I have to make a bet. What if we lose this lawsuit and I’m forced to scuttle the Lumen? Better bank as much as I can now. I’m also willing to bet if anyone can find my property, it’s you. There’ll be a nice finder’s fee should you come across.” He peered out into the night for a moment, not liking what stared back. “That’ll be all,” he said softly.

  Knoll touched my arm. I refrained from screaming and slipped free of his grip. I was prepared to swim back to Santa Monica and walk to Mrs. Quigley’s from there.

  14

  GOOD OLD PREDICTABLE Gene. Knowing what he considered the earliest acceptable time to call, I positioned myself by Mrs. Quigley’s telephone. Came the first ring, I pounced.

  “You’re alive,” he said. “You can tell me about your misadventure at sea while I drive you to work.”

  “You know me. Always willing to accept a ride.”

  I set about the task of dressing deliberately. If Gene was coming all this way, I wanted to make an impression—and force him to partake of the house coffee. Mrs. Quigley, her taste buds ravaged by an excess of champagne and oysters during her Ziegfeld Follies days, brewed java strong enough to bring Pony Express riders to their knees. You couldn’t pour it down the drain behind her back, because it would eat away the pipes. You could only quaff the stuff, contact a clergyman, and hope for the best.

  I was still assessing my accessories when Mrs. Quigley greeted Gene at the front door. After a suitable interval, I staged my dramatic entrance to Mrs. Quigley’s apartment in a black collarless suit with red fabric buttons and a red and pink scarf shot through with gold thread, black toque angled over one eye as if I had something to hide.

  Not that Gene noticed. He sat at the kitchen table, warily regarding a coffee cup at arm’s length. It was still full.

  “Good morning, Lillian!” Mrs. Quigley said. “Let me fix you some coffee.”

  “No need, Mrs. Q. I had a cup after I answered the phone.”

  Gene held up the cards Knoll had left promising the night of a lifetime about the Lumen. “Souvenirs?”