Dangerous to Know

by Renee Patrick

  “And Marthe was home?”

  “Somebody let him into the building.”

  “It sounds like they were lovers.” This time I said the word like I tossed it around regularly. Hand me my robe, lover. It’s over there, behind my lovers. “Did you tell Felix?”

  “It’s not my place to tell Felix.”

  “More importantly, did you tell Gene?”

  “You know my policy. Don’t volunteer information. Keeps conversation to a minimum.”

  “But you told me.”

  “That’s different.” He picked up a piece of fried chicken. “I want to keep talking to you.”

  * * *

  SIMON OFFERED TO doctor my postprandial coffee with bourbon, pay the check, and walk me home. I said yes to all three. I told myself it was the lack of a third wheel that felt so liberating, but I was truly enjoying his company.

  As we strolled to Mrs. Quigley’s, he asked about my job. “I know Addison Rice from the papers,” he said.

  “I suppose you think he’s a crackpot.”

  “On the contrary. He made a fortune building things and now he’s enjoying the fruits of his labors. I admire the man. While I’m extending compliments, I’ll also say I admire you.”

  “Me? What did I do other than cadge a lift from you?”

  “You’re not like most people I’ve met here. You didn’t fall for the Hollywood dream.”

  “It’s more like the Hollywood dream didn’t fall for me. My uncle Danny painted sets at Paramount’s New York studio, so I know every second of movie magic comes from hours of toil.”

  We rounded the corner onto my street. I glanced up at my abode and came to a dead stop.

  “What’s wrong?” Simon asked.

  “I thought I saw light in my window. Maybe a car—”

  There was no mistaking it this time. The stab of a flashlight’s beam against my curtains, visible for only an instant. Simon pressed me against the closest building, a clapboard slat digging into the small of my back. He stood as close as he could without touching me, his eyes not moving from my window. I could smell the coffee and bourbon on his breath, found myself staring at the scarred patch of his skin as if it contained a code I had yet to decipher.

  “Front-facing unit on the second floor, right?” he said quietly. “Give me your keys.”

  I did so without hesitation. Simon darted up the block and eased open the door to Mrs. Quigley’s. I edged toward the street, the seconds elongating. Nothing moved in my window. Some perverse alchemy transpired in my stomach; base Salisbury steak had been turned into lead.

  I’d stepped toward the police call box on the corner when the clatter erupted behind my building. Headlights swept up the alley toward me. I leaped clear of the onrushing car and turned back in time to glimpse the man in the passenger seat. A black watch cap concealed his hair, which I already knew to be blond. Only his eyes registered, alive with canine ferocity and a spark of recognition. I trusted there was one in mine as well.

  Peter Ames.

  As the taillights shrank I sprinted toward Mrs. Quigley’s. I heard my landlady shriek and pounded on the front door. It opened an instant later. Miss Sarah tried to escape. I grabbed her out of instinct.

  Simon sat halfway up the stairs, blood pouring into his face from a gash on his scalp. “Yep, it was a flashlight,” he said. “Solidly made, too.”

  “Mrs. Quigley, can you call the police?” As she bustled away I hurtled upstairs, pausing to give Simon a handkerchief.

  Chaos reigned in my apartment. The armchair overturned, the bedsheets scattered. Books had been pulled from shelves, drawers emptied. I picked my way to the connecting door and found the adjacent unit untouched. Peter Ames didn’t know I paid for two flats. Not that he would have found whatever he thought I possessed.

  Just to be safe, I searched my closet and confirmed my mother’s brooch was where I’d left it. I’d lost the only keepsake I had from her once, and I couldn’t bear the thought of it happening again. Stepping back into the violated room I could hear Mrs. Quigley consoling the man who, to her, was a stranger.

  “The police will be here any moment. Can I get you anything, you poor man?”

  “Some coffee would be lovely,” Simon replied.

  Mrs. Q scampered off for a cup of her witches’ brew. The poor man, indeed.

  16

  THE BEAT COP Officer Macklin knew Mrs. Quigley well, both of them tracing their people back to County Roscommon. Once I ascertained nothing had been stolen from my apartment, they settled in for a gab session. Other tenants prairie dogged out of their doors to investigate the rumpus. By the time Gene arrived, the proceedings had taken on the air of a parish mixer. When he clapped eyes on Simon, though, the party was over.

  “Can I ask what you’re doing here, Mr. Fischer?”

  I’d bandaged Simon’s wound myself, my old department store gift-wrapping skills paying unexpected dividends. “After our conversation today, I wanted to see how Lillian was getting on.”

  “How she’s getting on isn’t any of your business.” Gene’s words carried a force that didn’t derive from his badge.

  “You’re going to begrudge a man an act of human kindness?” Simon drew on his cigarette. “What a world.”

  Gene gestured up the stairs. I led the way to my flat. He surveyed the scratches on the door’s lock, then the damage that lay beyond. “This is about Jens Lohse,” I told him.

  “Because you saw Peter Ames fleeing the scene?”

  “Yes, although I doubt that’s his name. I think he got it from a Barbara Stanwyck movie.”

  Gene blinked at me. “You realize how nuts that sounds.”

  “I’m aware, yes. But the fact remains Peter or whatever his name is thinks I have something that belonged to Jens.”

  “Which isn’t far removed from what Malcolm Drewe thinks.”

  After more terse fact-finding questions, Gene asked, “What happened to our having dinner tonight?”

  “You didn’t call by the time I left.”

  “I telephoned Addison’s just after five, then tried here.”

  “I went to the pictures.”

  Gene nudged a book with his wingtip. “You made plans with Simon?”

  “Not at all. When I got back, he was waiting. We went for a bite. He walked me home, and we walked into this.”

  “And you don’t find that suspicious? Him whisking you to dinner right when someone is tossing your apartment?”

  I invited him, I thought, but questions about the night’s convenient timing had indeed been fluttering around my head. Still, my capacity for denial exceeded even my gift-wrapping prowess. “He was attacked! Peter hit him on the head!”

  “Right where the wound makes a mess but does little harm. If I was going to clout a guy for show, that’s where I’d do it.” He shook his head, at either the wreckage of my flat or my credulity. “I don’t like this, Frost. You shouldn’t, either.”

  He was right. But I could try denying that, too.

  “We checked Jens’s car, trunk and all,” Gene continued. “No music book. And I heard back from Wingert.”

  “Let me guess. He won’t talk to me.”

  “His wording was more indelicate, but that was the gist of it.”

  “You’ve got to try again. Please.”

  “I knew you’d ask, and I was going to say no. But given tonight’s festivities, I’ll swing by and ask in person. He was a sorehead before this, though. Remember that when I disappoint you.”

  “You never disappoint me, Gene.”

  For a moment, he seemed ready to reply in an equally complimentary vein. Then he waved his hat toward the door. As we went downstairs, I decided a gesture on my part was called for.

  I beckoned Simon over. “I think you should tell Detective Morrow what you told me about Jens and Marthe.”

  Cigarette smoke clouded his grimace, then Simon did as I requested. “You didn’t see fit to share that this morning?” Gene asked.

  �
�It’s gossip. I don’t spread gossip. But as Lillian thinks it’s important, I’ll make an exception.”

  Putting his hat on, Gene turned to me. “I don’t want you staying here tonight.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “Where would you like to go?” Simon asked. “I’ll drive you.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Gene’s words slipped past clenched teeth. What a night. My apartment ransacked and now two would-be Lancelots jousting in the lobby. I spoke before Simon had a chance to parry.

  “I’d welcome a police escort. Addison’s is too obvious a choice. Let me telephone the one other person I trust.”

  * * *

  EDITH LIVED, AS I expected, in a darling house. The yellow cottage possessed an Italianate feel befitting its location overlooking the Silver Lake Reservoir. Under the moonlight, with the song of mockingbirds echoing over the water, it was possible to believe you were on the shores of Lake Como. Or at least the movies’ version of it; I’d never visited the Continent.

  A path wended its way through a small garden to the front door, which opened before I could knock. The woman who greeted me shared Edith’s petite size, but at first I doubted it was her. Dressed in a vibrant yellow blouse with puffed sleeves and a billowing violet skirt, she indulged in a broader palette than I’d ever seen her display at Paramount. Even her hair was different, the chignon abandoned for thick ponytails held by red ribbons. She looked for all the world like a child wandering out to wish a beloved pet good night.

  She pulled me to her at once. “I’m ashamed it took this ordeal to have you over at last. An ordeal of my making. Of course you’ll stay the night.”

  I wasn’t about to say no. I wasn’t about to say anything until I got something off my chest. “You look so different!”

  She glanced down at herself, then peered up at me with the faintest smile. “I’m on my own time, for once. You can’t show all your colors at work. You’d lose your capacity to surprise.”

  Crossing the threshold made me feel a passport was necessary. We were suddenly south of the border, the house’s interior chockablock with Mexican pottery and other artifacts in a style at once haphazard and meticulously organized. I couldn’t comprehend how someone who slaved at the studio for twelve hours a day could also possess a home that felt so comfortable. I decided I was entitled to hate Edith a little for managing to achieve such an enviable balance.

  “The kitchen’s where all meaningful conversation takes place. Bill, our other guest is here.”

  Bill Ihnen bounded over to me. Edith’s longtime friend and colleague, an accomplished art director, was at the tail end of an evening out, clad in a tuxedo with his tie unknotted. His red rose boutonnière drooped fetchingly, only a splash of champagne required to revive it. A hint of contented belly peeked over his cummerbund. He kissed my cheek and inquired after my safety.

  “I’m fine,” I said, “but I have the feeling I’m interrupting a war council.”

  “Some late-night shop talk is all.” Edith set a bottle on the table. “Fernet-Branca. An Italian liqueur. I was recently introduced to it by Madeleine Carroll.”

  “From The 39 Steps? I saw it thirty-nine times and still don’t understand why she was upset about being handcuffed to Robert Donat.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Madeleine’s doing her first American film at Paramount. Café Society with Fred MacMurray. She’s a joy to work with, a true member of the international set. Plus as the title indicates, it’s a dress picture. Lots of fun to be had.”

  “And her ladyship got you hooked on this?” I lifted the bottle of brown liquid.

  “It’s guaranteed to save you on the day you want to kill yourself.”

  “But I don’t want to kill myself.”

  “Then think how much more you’ll enjoy it!” Bill poured three generous drams into cordial glasses. “Be advised to sip this.”

  “When did I develop a history of guzzling?” Taking heed, I treated the liqueur like sacramental wine. The distinctly medicinal odor would have slowed me down in any case. Its bitter taste, containing notes of menthol, eucalyptus, and regret, prompted gagging, which I kept at a genteel level. “That’s an interesting flavor.”

  “Mostly saffron, I’m told. With a host of other spices including myrrh.”

  “You mean what the Wise Men gave the baby Jesus? They couldn’t have been that wise.” I nudged my glass away, not wanting to hurt Edith’s feelings. I told them about my evening, Edith and Bill taking turns making the appropriate sounds. At some point, the glass miraculously returned to my hand.

  “Now that I have a place to rest my weary head,” I said, “you two can get back to your important discussion.”

  “Honestly, it’s nothing,” Edith said. “I’m picking Bill’s brain about running an entire department.”

  “Which she’s doing marvelously.” Bill winked at her. “And of course rehashing this Chaperau business.”

  I reached for the bottle and topped off my nightcap. Lord help us, the Fernet’s insolent taste had grown on me. “Addison said Customs is wrapping up their investigation.”

  “I’ve heard otherwise,” Edith said.

  “G-men storming the Bronson Gate any minute.” Bill held his own glass out for a refill.

  “Paramount is making a film from J. Edgar Hoover’s book Persons in Hiding. Perhaps the Bureau wants to weigh in on the costumes.”

  “You know Hoover’s already read the script,” Bill said. “Without anyone at Paramount giving it to him.”

  “If federal agents do crash the place,” I interjected, “nothing says you have to talk to them. You don’t have to volunteer information to people simply because they’re in charge.”

  Edith turned to me so quickly her ponytails flew. “That doesn’t sound at all like you, Lillian.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t. I’m not myself. The Fernet’s going to my head.”

  “Time to let the slumber party begin.” Bill pecked Edith on the head, tugging her left ponytail as if signaling the streetcar to stop. “Alert me if Hoover busts down the doors, Edo.”

  I cleared the kitchen table as Edith showed Bill out. In the wastebasket I spied a wad of crumpled tissues bearing telltale signs of eye makeup. Had Edith been crying on Bill’s shoulder? Was the strain of her new position taking a toll?

  Or could it be something else? I wondered where Edith’s salesman husband was and how he’d take to his wife entertaining a tuxedoed man in the wee hours, workaday woes or not.

  Edith returned and tidied up my tidying up. “Again, Lillian, I feel dreadful. When I asked for your assistance with Marlene, I thought it would be a few phone calls, perhaps a nice drive. Not intruders in your home.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. I had an ulterior motive.” The Fernet had loosened my tongue. “I wasn’t just helping you. I was helping Addison by hanging around Paramount’s Chaperau investigation and telling him what I learned. I’ve been feeling guilty about it.”

  “Lillian, please. Firstly, I expected you to share this information with Mr. Rice. Secondly, you always feel guilty. Lastly, I absolve you. Strategy and a healthy self-interest are a benefit to a woman.” She appraised the kitchen. “There. Did I forget anything?”

  “Possibly. Where’s Charles? Is he on the road?”

  “He … we … no.” It was a night of firsts, seeing Edith so casual, then finding her flummoxed. “Charles and I are no longer together. We got a divorce.” She said the words cautiously, testing them out like a new roadster.

  Now I got to be at a loss. “I— When?”

  “Shortly after my promotion. One major change, I felt, deserved another. As did Charles. We parted amicably.”

  My interactions with Charles had been limited to a handful of chance meetings at Paramount. He was a genial if distant man, drifting from job to job, transacting the bulk of his business with John Barleycorn. What I remembered most about him were his immaculate suits with their flawless accoutrements. I’d lon
g suspected that Edith dressed him, too. I didn’t know why I was surprised to learn their union had been put asunder. Edith scarcely spoke of Charles when they were married. Why should she mention him once they’d divorced?

  She only invoked him now to pivot away from the subject. “You’ll stay in Charles’s old room tonight. Although I did want to ask about Detective Morrow’s theory regarding this … other gentleman you were seeing.”

  “Simon? I wasn’t seeing him.”

  “My mistake. You were merely dining together.” She adjusted her glasses, although her vision seemed plenty sharp to me. “Detective Morrow suggested Simon might have been party to the break-in.”

  “Yes. But that’s ridiculous.”

  “On the contrary. You must admit the timing is remarkably coincidental.”

  “So it’s coincidental. So what!” My vehemence startled me.

  And also Edith, who leaned back. “I only mean the theory bears consideration.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Why would Simon be in league with Peter Ames?”

  “That we don’t know. It’s worth remembering Simon professed to be friendly with the still-missing Felix Auerbach. It could be Felix pulling everyone’s strings.”

  A cogent argument, but one I had no interest in hearing as it presupposed a man would only spend time with me to facilitate a burglary. I was confounded by my feelings. Worse, I was snapping at Edith, who had taken me in after a long day. I tried to find a polite way to end the conversation only to draw a complete blank.

  Edith mercifully sensed my frustration. “It’s far too late to discuss these matters now. Several hours’ sleep will put you right. Let’s make up your room.”

  I almost asked if she had a hair shirt I could wear as a nightgown. I doubted rest would alter anything, anticipating a night of self-recrimination amidst twisted bedsheets. But my ticket was punched for the Land of Nod the instant my head met the pillow, the only thought I could articulate: Edith always knew what to do. Why didn’t I?

  Los Angeles Register