December 8, 1938
LORNA WHITCOMB’S
EYES ON HOLLYWOOD
… Word from under the pepper trees that federal agents investigating the Albert Chaperau smuggling case have unleashed their bloodhounds on the Paramount lot. We hear a couple of funny men may soon be playing serious roles before a New York judge … Will David O. Selznick keep fiddling while Atlanta burns? The ersatz Atlanta that is, constructed amidst the detritus of the Selznick International backlot. The set will fall to the match on Saturday with cameras rolling but still no Scarlett in sight … Douglas “Wrong Way” Corrigan received an airplane hangar full of cash for his life story from RKO, but the flyboy’s not spending his windfall on fancy autos. The aviator has been seen taking the streetcar to the studio. Either he’s tight with a penny or he doesn’t want to end up in Pasadena by mistake …
17
EDITH’S SKILLS EXTENDED to set decoration. The gauzy salmon drapes in her guest room transformed the act of waking into a delight. They permitted the dawn to suffuse the room incrementally, making me feel I was steeping in the morning’s promise. I stretched every muscle, inventorying half-remembered images from the night’s dreams, discovering uncharted cool patches of the pillow like some drowsy da Gama.
I rolled over, reluctantly opened my eyes, and stared into a monkey’s grinning face. I then screamed like a banshee that had been fleeced at a clip joint.
By the time I realized the monkey was a primitive yet gruesomely handsome figurine, Edith had hustled into the room. “Good, you’re awake,” she said. “And you’ve met my friend. Bill found him in Mexico. Isn’t he striking?”
“And rather alarming to see first thing in the morning.”
“That’s why he’s not in my room. My housekeeper is fixing breakfast. We have a busy day ahead.”
I threw back the covers, relieved the previous night’s tension had dissipated. “What’s up?”
“I’ve been on the telephone. Salka Viertel is hosting an impromptu wake for Mr. Lohse today. If you care to attend, I’ll gladly take you. But first, if you could accompany me to the studio. Another person ensnared in Albert Chaperau’s web would like to talk to you.” As she left, Edith turned the simian rictus away from me.
* * *
I’D HAD THE presence of mind to grab a change of clothes before leaving my apartment, a navy skirt with a matching knitted jacket that was thankfully conservative enough for mourning. I called Addison and explained my pending absence. Once he extracted a solemn vow I’d be present bright and early for the next day’s Santa breakfast, he gave his blessing. I enjoyed a hearty meal, which I manfully kept down as Edith pell-melled us to Paramount in her car.
We checked in at Wardrobe first, Edith dispensing with half a dozen urgent matters in the time it typically took me to pour my morning coffee. Next, we hustled to the studio of John Engstead, Paramount’s portrait photographer and Edith’s close friend. We picked our way through a jumble of furniture and bizarre props—an enormous pair of scissors, a firecracker taller than me—toward Engstead, an eternally sunny man who embodied the unforced grace he captured with his lens. After kisses all around, Engstead said, “One of your stars is here, the other en route. I’ll leave you to it.”
Several lighting stands rubbernecked around a table laid out with a full English tea service. The backdrop behind it somewhat confusingly depicted Paris. A mannequin sat propped in one of the two chairs, clothed in pink chiffon.
“Where’d star number one go?” I asked.
“She hasn’t budged.” Edith gestured at the mannequin. “Meet Cynthia.”
“Really?” My own excitement baffled me. Cynthia was the plaster of paris brainchild of artist Lester Gaba. Acclaimed for his soap carvings, Gaba had been asked to bring the same level of realism to department store mannequins. Cynthia was the result, a figure so lifelike she boasted freckles and two different-sized feet. Her verisimilitude made her an unlikely luminary, invited to parties at the Stork Club and El Morocco, sporting hats custom-made by Lilly Daché, her comings and goings chronicled in gossip columns. I knelt humbly before her. “She was in the display window at Saks Fifth Avenue when I was in New York. People lined up to see her.”
“Mr. Gaba treats her like a living person, so we do, too. I’d catch myself talking to her and he’d apologize and say she had laryngitis. Most peculiar.”
“Someone should follow me around saying that. It’d spare me a world of trouble. Why is she here?”
“John is taking publicity photographs. She appears in Artists and Models Abroad.”
I leaped up. “Are the gowns from the fashion show here?”
Edith pursed her lips. “No. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with the clothes I designed.”
Oh, for a little laryngitis. Before I could apologize for my blunder, the other star of Artists and Models Abroad arrived. A smiling Jack Benny walked toward us with his distinctive show-pony stride. “Well, we’re all here. Edith, how are you? You must be Miss Frost, a pleasure. Hello again, Cynthia. You look a little peaked.” He patted the mannequin on the shoulder and chuckled.
Hearing that voice emerge from a genial midwestern face instead of every radio I’d ever owned produced a shiver of glee. To my mind Jack Benny was more than the funniest man in America. He was a genius who had turned his radio show costars into a family and created a world I was eager to visit every Sunday night.
Then the figurative penny dropped. Had it been a literal one, Benny would have stooped to pick it up. The man who famously played a tightwad was involved in Albert Chaperau’s smuggling scheme. He segued to the subject at once.
“Now about this Chaperau business, Lillian. You’ve met the man. You know what he’s like. I wanted a chance to talk to you, set the record straight.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Mr. Benny.” Saying his name made me sound like Kenny Baker, the boy tenor on his radio program. Like that, I’d become a character on his show. I’d met enough performers to grasp what was happening. I’d heard George Burns’s story, now I had to listen to Jack Benny’s. It was a matter of equal billing.
“Please, Lillian, it’s Jack.” He fanned his hand at me. “You should know I didn’t want anything to do with Chaperau. The whole thing was Mary’s idea.” Mary being Mary Livingstone, his wife and costar. Already he sounded like he was reading a radio script, with the usual quota of gags about him being miserly with money. “Mary and I, we decided to spend our summer in France, you see. We did Paris, we did the Côte d’Azur, all of it. And while we were in Cannes, we, we ran into this fella … Chaperau. Now, we’d met him here in Los Angeles socially and wanted to be civil, so of course we had lunch with him. It was a lovely meal, you know, right there on the beach, with the striped umbrellas. And I mention some jewelry I bought for Mary in Paris, a diamond bracelet and a pair of lovely clips to match. And Albert, uh, Chaperau, he tells me how he’s now some kind of diplomat. Who can bring Mary’s jewelry into the country under a sort of, of diplomatic flag, and this is a courtesy diplomats—not just him but all diplomats—extend to friends and business associates. And Mary, being a practical woman, says yes.” He took a step back, like a magician who’d completed a trick. “Now I ask you. If the people who work in our government, who make and enforce our laws, don’t feel there’s anything wrong with taking advantage of what I took to be a friendly gesture, why should I? Why am I being, you know, being unfairly punished? Not even punished, persecuted is what I’m being.”
He was rehearsing his legal defense on Edith and me. I didn’t know what to tell him, in part because I didn’t know how I’d react under similar circumstances. If Chaperau had offered me the chance to save hundreds or even thousands of dollars in import duties, would I have played along? More importantly, would my moral compass point true north when things went south, as George Burns’s had?
Who was I kidding? I’d been educated by the strictest nuns in Queens. What Jack Benny had done was wrong, and he should have known better.
&nbs
p; Edith cleared her throat. “It’s a thorny subject to be sure, Jack. Am I right in thinking the jewelry you’d bought was delivered to you in Los Angeles by George Burns?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s my fault for putting George in that position. You know, he and I have been friends for years. Since Flo Ziegfeld gave God his big break.” He paused for a moment, and I realized he was waiting for his laugh. “If I’d picked up the jewelry myself or let Chaperau bring it to me, George wouldn’t have to say a word, not a word. It’s another friendly gesture gone awry, is what it is.”
“George indicated that if charged, he planned on pleading guilty.” Edith spoke with deliberation. “He also said if he’s asked if he brought jewelry to you, he would have to say yes.”
“I won’t blame a friend for telling the truth to the authorities,” Benny said, his equanimity instant and apparently bona fide. “I’ve spoken to George and everything between us is fine, just fine.”
“Then would you plead guilty, too?” I asked.
“No, I won’t. I won’t. This whole thing was presented to me as aboveboard, perfectly legitimate, and I’ll tell every judge in the country that. Bill—George and I have the same lawyer, Bill Donovan, wonderful fellow, very connected, used to be in the Coolidge administration, you see—anyway, Bill convinced George to plead guilty and wants me to do likewise. Says it’s the fastest way to make this blow over. NBC, who carries my radio program, is already in a tizzy over this, and the General Foods people are up in arms about how it might affect Jell-O sales. George confided in me that he and Gracie are about to lose their sponsor. But I refuse to plead guilty when I didn’t do anything wrong, when there’s a, a big misunderstanding. And anyway, Mary doesn’t want me to do it.”
I was beginning to understand who wore the pants in the Benny household.
“Contesting the charges might keep you away from the studio,” Edith said. “Won’t they have to postpone filming Man About Town?”
“It’s a small price to pay. No, I’m sticking to my guns.” Benny sidled closer to me, arms folded across his chest. “Now, Lillian, you know Albert Chaperau.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Benny.”
“But you’ve made his acquaintance is my point. He’s offered to transport goods for other people, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I can only say he never made the offer to me. But then I haven’t been to Europe.” For once, that statement didn’t leave me feeling impoverished.
“Still, he’s the sort of fellow who has several schemes going at once, isn’t he? Did he, did he mention any other ploys? To you, or Addison, or anyone else you know? Maybe at one of Addy’s wonderful parties?”
He smiled at me, all guileless innocence. I resisted the urge to ask Edith to borrow some hip waders from wardrobe, because Jack Benny was clearly on a fishing expedition. If he planned on pleading not guilty to the smuggling rap, he’d have to mount a case. And in clumsy, disingenuous fashion he was asking me to help build him one—which I felt conflicted about doing no matter how much he made me laugh, because I knew he was guilty. I’d submit to a grilling by an attorney or a Customs official, but a comedian was an entirely different kettle of fish.
My eyes broadcast my distress to Edith, who smoothed the situation over like the nap on a suede jacket. “Excellent questions, Jack. But Mr. Groff already asked them when he interviewed Lillian the other day. Part of the studio’s plan to wage this battle in the courts if necessary. Every habit and mannerism of this Albert Chaperau recorded for posterity. You put your Mr. Donovan in touch with Paramount’s legal representatives and you’ll soon have all this unpleasantness behind you.”
John Engstead glided back into view. With velvet glove finality, Edith said, “Lillian and I should let you get to work. You don’t want these emotions registering in your photographs.”
“Quite right, Edith. We’re promoting light entertainment here. I can’t thank you two enough.”
We left Benny in Engstead’s capable hands. As we walked away, Edith muttered, “If he insists on pleading not guilty, Paramount won’t back him up. I hope his attorney convinces him to change his tune.”
“This investigation doesn’t sound over by a long shot.”
“Mr. Groff used the term ‘witch hunt.’”
At the door, I glanced back. Jack Benny sat opposite Cynthia, comically dainty teacup in hand. He smiled and sent a final wave in my direction. My favorite entertainer in the entire world, acknowledging me and me alone. I so wanted the moment to feel better than it did.
18
“YOU DON’T HAVE to drive me to Salka’s,” I told Edith.
“I owe you. Besides, it might do some good if I got away from the studio. Give the girls free rein for a spell.” She sounded like she was parroting advice from a trusted source she didn’t quite believe. “You really should acquire your own license. Driving’s an easy skill to learn.”
“Ask Rogers if that’s true. Provided he doesn’t light out for the hills when you raise the subject.”
What I’d wanted to say to Edith was Please don’t drive me to Salka’s. She handled her car as if she were constantly trying to make up ground at Le Mans. I was never more conscious of how thick her eyeglass lenses were than when she was behind the wheel. But I felt obliged to attend the wake. I’d found Jens’s body, so in a sense I was responsible for the proceedings. I wanted to see how Gretchen was bearing up. And Salka, I reasoned, might know where Jens’s music book was. Not that I was searching for it. But the sooner it was located, the sooner I’d be left alone.
The Lumen bobbed in the distance, a toy abandoned in a gargantuan bathtub by an enormous child. A multitude of cars lined Salka’s street. I inhaled sharply as I spotted a familiar vehicle. “There’s the man who followed me,” I said.
“In the blue Ford?” Edith peered at the driver, studying that morning’s paper, his hat visible over the headline blaring that Father Charles Coughlin, the controversial radio commentator, had sued a Detroit newspaper for libel.
She pulled alongside his car. “Good morning, sir. Will you be long?”
The man fumbled with his paper. “Pardon?”
“If you were leaving, we could have your space. Parking’s at a premium, what with the sad news.”
The man touched his fingers to the brim of his hat and started the car. Edith drove several feet forward while I gaped at her.
“What? If he’s here to watch people, he’ll want to watch us. We might as well have a spot to leave the car.” She swung into the newly vacated space.
* * *
SALKA CLUTCHED ME to her bosom the instant I breached her doorway, as if mere contact with her could soothe my woes. Curiously, she was correct. “I should have listened to Dushka. Poor Jens. Once I learned of his death, I threw my doors open wide. We need a place to grieve. People have been coming and going all day.”
Each arrival and departure noted by federal agents, I thought.
I introduced Edith. She and Salka exchanged words of mutual admiration, then Salka returned to the subject at hand. “The papers are intimating he was murdered. Is this true?” When I nodded, Salka gripped my arm. “I cannot believe it. Surely no one hated that boy enough to kill him.”
Evidence indicated otherwise. “Do you know where Felix and Marthe Auerbach are?” I asked.
“No, but Felix has the capacity to work anywhere. He’s taken to driving around Southern California, seeking inspiration for new compositions. The desert, the mountains. He could be anywhere.” She took my arm again. “I imagine the police would like to talk to him.”
“And Marthe.” As gracefully as I could, I inquired about Jens’s music book. Was it possible he’d left it here, perhaps on a bookshelf?
“Unlikely, my dear. It was the size of a Bible, scarcely the kind of thing one could conceal. Had I seen it, I would have recognized it instantly. I’ll search for it, though.”
Within thirty seconds Edith and Salka had identified half a dozen common acquai
ntances. “You must meet Ludwig,” Salka pronounced. “A new arrival signed to direct at your wonderful studio Paramount. Luddy, come here!”
I detached myself from the conversation and made my way to the garden. The atmosphere was markedly different from that of the salon days earlier. That assembly and its Babel of tongues had been like a Black Forest cake—dark, but with an undercurrent of sweetness for those with palates educated enough to appreciate it. Now only the gloom remained, the gorgeous weather isolating the participants in their grief.
Gretchen hadn’t sat down so much as collapsed in the scraggly shadow cast by the dormant lilac bush. The other guests avoided her like a spill they hoped someone else would clean up. I lowered myself onto the grass next to her. Gretchen glanced at me through red-rimmed eyes, utterly bereft, then turned away.
It really was a cruelly beautiful day.
“For the last few weeks as I fell asleep,” she said softly, “I’d tell myself Jens was fine and I’d see him the next day. Now that ritual’s gone, too. I thought knowing the truth, having some certainty about him, would make me feel better. But it only makes me feel a thousand times worse.”
There was nothing I could say to console her, lamenting a love that had never blossomed. There were only questions to ask.
“Gretchen, I need to find Jens’s music book.”
“Why do you want it?”
“Because other people are looking for it.”
The thought stanched the flow of her emotions. She sat up straighter and concentrated on me. “The people who killed him?”
“Possibly. When’s the last time you saw it?”
“The last time I saw him. He played at a party, a fund-raiser for the Anti-Nazi League at some writer’s house. I wasn’t invited, but I knew Jens was playing so I snuck in.”
“Where would Jens stash that book? How about the places he’d stay when he needed somewhere to sleep?”
“There’s a whole circuit of us he’d cycle through every few weeks.”
“Can you ask them to look for the book? Check your own place thoroughly. Jens might have hidden it.”
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