“Lillian’s friend left those,” Mrs. Quigley said. “We should all go!”
“Remember, the free turkey dinner is strictly from hunger. You’re better off paying for the prime rib.”
Mrs. Quigley’s crest fell. “I should have known you don’t get something for nothing. Your coffee’s growing cold, Detective.”
* * *
“TWO CUPS, FROST. She topped me off like we were at a diner. Be ready to take the wheel if I black out. Tell me about Mr. K-N-O-L-L.”
I regaled Gene with my nautical narrative. “You shouldn’t have gone with them,” he said when I finished.
“They wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. Besides, they knew about us. I mean, they knew I knew you.” I felt myself blush and studiously ignored it. “They made no bones about where they were taking me, they suggested I call you, and the boat’s a public place. I assumed I’d be safe.”
“They could have lied about where you were going. And don’t assume you’re safe on the Lumen. Malcolm Drewe was a tough customer in his rum-running days. Men died because of him.”
“He’s not running rum now, though.”
“No, he’s taking on the city, county, state, and federal governments at once. The days of the gambling ships are numbered and Drewe knows it. Mayor Bowron got elected beating the reform drum, and Earl Warren, the attorney general, plans to ride gambling clear to the governor’s mansion. He’ll scuttle those ships himself if he has to. Drewe sees the writing on the wall. He’s a bastard but he’s no fool.”
“And he only hears what he wants to hear. He didn’t believe me when I said my part in this was over.”
“He’ll believe me. I’m going to have words with Mr. Drewe.” His fingers flexed against the steering wheel, and I felt safe for the first time since returning to dry land. Gene, my rough-hewn guardian angel. “Did it sound like Jens stole something from him? Or did Jens sell Drewe something, then not deliver?”
“If Jens stole from him, I think Drewe would come right out and say it.”
“So do I.” Gene paused. “Do you think Drewe could have killed Jens?”
“I— Why? Was Jens killed?”
Gene nodded. “Autopsy results came back. Coroner fixed Jens’s death at some time Thursday, the day before you started looking for him. Jens took what looks like two direct blows to the back of the head that aren’t consistent with the injuries sustained in the fall. Condition of Jens’s body meant the doc couldn’t conclusively say those blows caused his death, so I went back to the Auerbachs’ cabin. Still empty, by the way. No Felix, no Marthe. Based on the shape of the cranial injuries I examined the fireplace poker. Somebody cleaned all the fingerprints off the handle, like it had never been touched. Scrubbed the rest of it pretty good, too, but they missed where the hook curves in. That spot still had … residue on it.”
I appreciated Gene’s tact, but found myself picturing the scene nonetheless. Two swings of a fire iron, and Jens’s music had been silenced.
My voice trembled. “So someone struck Jens, then threw his body off the balcony to make it look like he’d jumped?”
“That’s the thinking. The body might not have been found for weeks if it wasn’t for you. We’re searching for Felix Auerbach. Lodestar claims to have no idea where he is, insisting he’s on vacation. We’re bringing in your driver again, Fischer, and some of Felix’s studio colleagues.”
“What about Marthe Auerbach? Couldn’t she have killed Jens?”
“And then heaved him into the canyon by herself?”
“I would have thought swinging the poker was the hard part.”
Gene shrugged, taking my point.
“I have nothing to base this on,” I continued, “but it’s possible Jens and Marthe were having an affair. Maybe it went sour.”
“Or Felix tumbled to it, and that’s his motive. Naturally, we want to talk to both halves of the happy couple, wherever they are. And now there’s Malcolm Drewe, beefing about what sounds like a busted business deal. Jens sells him a bill of goods and fails to come across, Drewe’s boys brace him and get carried away, and now Drewe expects you to lead him to the dingus. Any thoughts on what it might be?”
“Not really.”
Gene glanced over at me. “I speak fluent Frost, you know. I can tell when ‘not really’ means ‘well, kinda.’”
I told Gene about Jens’s music book. Ever-present in life, wholly scarce in death. “Interesting notion,” Gene said. “Yours?”
Take the credit. Just take it. “Edith’s, actually. It occurred to me the book could be in the trunk of Jens’s car, which was locked.”
“We can certainly open it now. The owner won’t complain.”
“Could you do something else for me?”
I practically heard Gene’s guard going up, like steel shutters closing. “Depends what it is.”
“I want to talk to the detective who dealt with Marlene Dietrich.”
“Wingert? Forget it. He hates you.”
“Why? What did I ever do to him?”
“Landed him in hot water. Thanks to you, the brass thinks he gave Dietrich the brush.”
“But he didn’t! Even you said he did everything he was supposed to.”
“Sure, but when a civilian then finds a body by asking a few questions it reflects poorly on the department as a whole. What do you want with him?”
“I just want to be sure he didn’t overlook anything.”
“Like this music book? If it turns up, what then? Call Drewe for more dinner and dancing past the three-mile limit?”
“No. I’d call you. After seeing if Jens finished a song he was writing for Marlene. It would help bring this to a close for her.”
Gene looked dubious, but I was used to that by now. “I can sound Wingert out about talking to you. Keep your expectations low. Any dinner plans?”
“Not at the moment,” I said brightly, glad I was dressed for an evening out.
“Good. Abigail said something about a new place she wants to try in the neighborhood.”
Abigail. Strange how you could like a person yet loathe the sound of her name. “Keep me posted,” I said.
* * *
ONE ADJUSTMENT I had yet to make to Los Angeles life was planning for Christmas with the mercury high enough to keep Saint Nick in seersucker. At least my chosen musical accompaniment produced a wintry chill, even if it was ill suited to yuletide chores: a brooding orchestral piece, jagged notes conjuring an atmosphere of dread without coalescing into a melody. When Addison entered aghast, I lifted the phonograph needle.
“What on earth was that racket?” he asked.
“Something I had the record store send over, by a composer named Felix Auerbach. I won’t play it again until you’re out. Or ever. What happened with Customs yesterday?”
His voice brimmed with relief. “Twenty minutes! I wait all day, then I’m in and out in twenty minutes! A handful of questions about how Chaperau broached the subject of his diplomatic papers, that’s all. Donald’s due with the latest. I pray this is over and done with before Maude comes home. I’d love to spare her this burden. Speaking of which—”
“I sent a wire reminding her about the Customs duties. I’ve also arranged for a representative from your New York law firm to be on hand when her ship docks to assist with any problems.”
“Splendid. I can’t afford even a hint of impropriety.”
“As for your Christmas plans, we’re all set for the boys’ breakfast on Friday. I’ve laid on extra helpings of gruel. And I believe this single item should dispense with the bulk of your holiday shopping.” I spun a catalog toward him. “Behold the tantalus. From Greek mythology. Twin crystal decanters in a frame, the sweet nectar therein inaccessible without a key.”
“Hence tantalizing.”
“Give that man a cigar. The frames come in a range of finishes. Chrome for business associates, silver plated for well-wishers, et cetera. But you have to set aside time to make some decisions.”
&nb
sp; Addison huffed. “Maude usually handles that sort of thing.”
“I arranged a tie-up with our friends at Coronet Liquor Store. Each set of decanters will be full of the hooch of your choice. A tasting, naturally, is required. Mr. Coronet himself will be here with a selection of his finest potables at seven sharp.”
Addison rubbed his palms together. “Now that is a capital idea. You’ll stay and assist?”
I remembered Gene’s indistinct dinner invitation. “This should be a solo mission, sir.”
“We’ll be happy to pitch in. We can toast my legal legerdemain.” Donald Hume approached my desk, followed by Charlotte. She had selected her demure day dress—blue silk with a pleated skirt and narrow white stripes—to complement Donald’s club tie, yet on her it managed to say cocktails more than brunch. In her hand, a bouquet of daisies bound with violet ribbon.
“There’s the free man now.” She bussed Addison on the cheek, then me. “All praise to his high-priced mouthpiece.”
Donald bowed modestly. “Spoke with a friend of a friend in Customs this morning, Addy.”
“Why? Things had gone so well.”
“Too well, I feared. Never hurts to know exactly what they’re after. The hand had been dealt. You’d checked your cards and your emotions. I simply wanted to—”
“Check your dealer,” the three of us finished.
“Mock my sound advice at your peril. I gleaned the odd tidbit. We should discuss briefly.”
Addison led his legal counsel away. Charlotte curtsied and offered the bundle of flowers.
“For me?” I said with surprise.
“From my very own garden. I thought you could use them, after reading you’d found a dead body. What in heaven’s name was that about?”
“Blame Marlene Dietrich.” I gave her the short version.
“She got you into this?” Charlotte perched on my desk with easy elegance, flaunting the bold chin that had already made her a caricaturist’s dream. “You are nothing if not thorough. For your next trick, why not get cracking on who’s going to beat me out for Scarlett O’Hara? David O. better make up his mind soon. They’re burning Atlanta in a few days.”
“I heard that! How’s that supposed to work without a leading lady?”
“Slap a wig on a stuntman and hope the flames are high enough. I think it’s a brilliant idea.” She tapped a lacquered fingernail on the image of the tantalus in the catalog. “As is this. So clever. Donald and I need an elf like you helping us make merry. How do you do it?”
“Two steps. First, write down every last thing you have to do. Second, grow up Catholic. Guilt makes a mighty motivator.”
“Whatever your secret, sugar, it’s working. You’ve taken to this like a duck to bourbon.”
“You’re sweet to say so. I’m just making it up as I go. I still feel like I’m on probation.”
“We all feel that way. And probation doesn’t end until we reach the glory land. A tip from someone who grew up Baptist.”
“I could use a few parties to plan, even if all the work makes me break out in hives. I’m going a little stir-crazy.”
“There’s the Santa breakfast, which is the other reason I stopped by. You have to walk me through my role.”
We were well into reviewing Charlotte’s hostess duties when Donald returned. “Addison wants us to attend tonight’s tasting,” he said. “The man needs Maude back posthaste.”
“I can’t. There’s an Anti-Nazi League meeting.”
“I’m sure they can foil the Führer without you.”
“But they’re planning the next radio show! I may get to do a bit on it.”
“You sure Selznick will be happy about that? I’ve said before I don’t see the percentage in someone in your line getting overly political.”
“Be serious, dear. Jack Warner is on the League’s board of directors. Fredric March, Bette Davis—”
“So it’s a kaffeeklatsch.” Donald winked at me. “You’re not going to topple fascism. You want to show off your clothes.”
“Of course. Why does anybody do anything?”
“Jens volunteered for the League,” I blurted out, taken aback by how the late musician continued to occupy my thoughts.
“Who? That poor boy you found?” Charlotte patted my arm. “I wonder if I ever saw him there. I’ll mention him tonight. Maybe we’ll acknowledge him on the air.”
“That would be lovely,” I said. “I have a question for Mr. Rice’s legal counsel. What do you know of Malcolm Drewe?”
“I know not to gamble anyplace you can’t readily walk away with your money. I haven’t met the man. I can only pass along some sage wisdom dating back to the birth of the great state of California.” Donald flashed a grin. “Never trust a man who owns a pig farm.”
I told him I would bear that in mind.
15
THE LITTLE HAND reached the five without word from Gene about the evening’s events. I was surprisingly jake with that. After barge-toting and bale-lifting for Addison, the notion of sampling the cuisine at some newly minted hash house alongside Abigail held little appeal.
Not that going home would set the night on fire. I bailed out of the streetcar several stops early in search of the standard balm for my soul: a movie.
I’d already seen Thanks for the Memory—I never missed a chance to admire Edith’s handiwork—but revisiting the clothes and Bob Hope warbling “Two Sleepy People” with Shirley Ross was easily worth fifteen cents at the neighborhood discount theater.
Alas, the newsreels focused almost maniacally on the upheaval in Europe, the repeated shots of Adolf Hitler exhorting crowds poisoning my mood. I hadn’t seen the first two episodes of the jungle serial, and my fellow filmgoers, more interested in winning a set of dishes in the bingo game between features, chattered over Hope’s amiably corny jokes, their cigarette smoke filling the auditorium. I wandered out before the picture ended.
Not having much of an appetite, I opted to cull dinner from my icebox. A lanky figure sprawled across Mrs. Quigley’s front steps. I thought his shoes looked familiar. Then he took a surreptitious sip from a flask.
“Hello, Simon. Nice to see you again.” And I meant it. My former driver reminded me of some of my uncle Danny’s vagabond pals. Sailors and salesmen, older gents with colorful stickers on their suitcases and unfamiliar scents on their clothes. You couldn’t help feeling a thrill when they appeared on the doorstep unannounced. The wider world had come to call.
Simon rose to his feet. “Good evening, Lillian. Apologies for turning up like this.”
“I already said it was nice to see you again.”
“That’s right. You did.” He moistened his lips as if craving another jolt of whiskey, but instead pocketed his flask. “Spent the day being interrogated by your friend Detective Morrow. Made me wonder how you were faring.”
“He mentioned he’d be seeing you when I talked to him this morning.”
“Bet he was more abrasive with me.” Simon chuckled and glanced down the block, baring the patch of scarred flesh at his temple in the streetlamp’s glow. “So you’re okay then?”
“Yes, thanks.” Again I felt a pang of guilt at entangling him in my affairs. The next words tumbled out of my mouth without any input from my brain. Once uttered, though, my brain raised no objections. “I was about to get dinner. Would you care to join me?”
Simon leaned back, the better to cock an eyebrow. “It would be my honor,” he said with a quaint formality.
* * *
NO ONE HAD ever written home about the grub at Cavanaugh’s, but the fare served our purposes. I’d recommend the joint to Malcolm Drewe’s man Garrett if I had the bad luck of seeing him again.
Lost for an opening move in the conversation, I yammered about the movie I’d seen. “Don’t go to pictures much,” Simon said.
“Check, please.”
“Occupational hazard. You hear people in the back of your car describing them all day, you lose interest.”
&
nbsp; “But you enjoy being a driver.”
“Maybe it doesn’t show much ambition on my part, but I can’t take being trapped in an office all day.”
“Who’s the most famous person you’ve ever driven?”
“All the big Lodestar names. Bruce Fleming, Madge Granger. Drove Clark Gable once. Quiet fella.”
“He’s going to play Rhett Butler.”
Simon smiled from what seemed a long distance away. “Is that good?”
“Wow, you really don’t follow pictures.”
“I don’t deal with stars much. Stars want to drive themselves. They need to go fast and all of them think they’re wizards behind the wheel. Mostly I deal with the moneymen. And people with money aren’t automatically interesting. They just have money. Hear those executives talk and they sound like the pants-pressers they used to be.”
I scraped gravy from my Salisbury steak, but upon seeing what lurked beneath hastily put it back. “Was Felix Auerbach interesting?”
“I’ve been talking about him all day.”
“Talk about him some more.”
Simon weighed coleslaw on his fork as if the fate of our dialogue hinged on it. “He genuinely is interesting. Probably his European background. Or maybe it’s that he bothered to learn my name. He asked me about the war. He sees me as a person. While I don’t see him as a genius. That’s a tough racket, being the guy who has to think things up. I’d rather be the one in the front of the car. You get to read the signs that way.”
Simon, I suspected, seldom required signs to determine which way to go. “How about Marthe?”
“How about her?”
“Did she know Jens?”
“Jens played piano in her house while her husband yelled ‘fortissimo’ or some such at him. I’d wager she knew him.”
“That’s not what I meant. Is it possible they were…” I faltered, thrown by a vision of Sister Frederick wagging a judgmental finger at me. “Were they a couple?”
“Sometimes I’d drive Felix home for a lesson with Jens and find Jens’s car already there. Once about three months ago, I drove Jens to Felix’s apartment. Then, two hours later, drove Felix there from the studio. Jens led me to believe he was going to Felix’s for a lesson, but Felix was still at work.”
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