Dangerous to Know

by Renee Patrick

  “Good heavens, you didn’t venture across that thoroughfare, did you?” The male voice bore traces of intoxication and familiarity. Robert Benchley, the humorist recognizable from the hilarious special features he made for the pictures, sat in a leather wing chair seemingly jettisoned in a corner by movers. “That road’s a menace. Come sit by me and recuperate.” He hooked a foot adorned with a pearl-gray spat on an ottoman and drew it closer to him.

  I deserved a rest. I accepted his offer and introduced myself. Benchley, with cocktail already in hand, picked another off the floor. “Fortify yourself with this. I keep one in the hopper for that express purpose. You couldn’t be more right about the perils of Sunset. I’ve resorted to taking a taxi from one side of that street to the other, on days when I can face the driver’s derision. Still, it’s from such challenges that character is birthed. What brings you here this evening?”

  “A friend.”

  “Mrs. Parker?”

  What the hell. I nodded happily. “And you?”

  Benchley held his glass aloft. “Rumor says it’s where the liquor is.”

  “Are you a member of this august organization?”

  “I suppose my name’s on a piece of paper somewhere. The Hollywood Anti-Nazi League. Well, I’m most definitely anti-Nazi, as all right-thinking people are. And I am in Hollywood, though frequently I’m at a loss to explain why. All of which renders me eligible for League membership, bearing in mind it’s preferable to be in a league of one’s own.” He chuckled merrily, and rewarded himself with a sip of his drink. “The whole outfit’s a bit too Red for my blood, but that’s one man’s opinion. Not a very bright man at that.”

  Dorothy Parker ambled by, and Benchley waved to her. “Your friend’s washed ashore, Mrs. Parker!” Dorothy speared me with a smile reserved for a woman who’d shown up wearing the same outfit. I feared Benchley had noted her reaction, but he was gazing contentedly at the window.

  “Then there are sunsets that bring no perils at all. I prefer nighttime because birds rest then. Tell me, Miss Frost, what do you know of birds?”

  Stumped, I said, “They’re quite good fried.”

  Benchley’s laughter was entirely disproportionate to my comment. “That they are, quite good fried. I dislike birds intensely myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they have it in for me.” He stared at the window even though all he could see was his reflection. I caught a glimpse of Edith in the glass. “Our most learned scientific minds say reptiles are descended from dinosaurs, but it’s my considered opinion, not that anyone’s asked, their true progeny are birds. You can see it in their eyes, that utter lack of mercy. The term ‘birdbrain’ is used to describe someone of low intelligence, yet what do we know about the workings of the avian mind?” He looked at me. “Do you think it’s possible when we hear, for instance, the song of a lark, it could be a cry of pain? As if from a migraine?”

  “Possibly. Another of your theories?”

  “Yes, one that brings me great joy. Speaking of headaches…” He gestured at Ben the bellboy, tramping past carrying several empty bottles of gin. “Benjamin! I require several of your finest aspirins from Schwab’s.”

  “Naturally. Main Street all the time around here. You want ’em by the pill or by the bottle?”

  “Let’s splurge on a bottle. I’m planning a corker of a hangover. And keep something for yourself. I know you would anyway, but this time I want in on it.”

  An apparition manifested across the room: Edith frantically signaling me, her hands like hummingbirds. I made my excuses to Benchley and pinballed over to her.

  “You must help me find a conversation. I overheard a snippet of it and I—”

  A voice rose above the hubbub, the words it uttered finding me like darts.

  “… Nazi spy … Dietrich…”

  The man’s voice faded in the din. “Let me guess,” I said. “That’s the one.”

  We set off, eavesdropping on people then slipping past them, bulldozing across the bungalow until we heard a promising exchange.

  “So Eddie’s the spy?”

  The nasal tones from earlier held forth again. “No, the spy-buster. He’s campaigning for the part.”

  “Probably a good idea. Get that Red stink off him.”

  “It’ll take more than one role to do that.”

  A knowing, two-man laugh, then the crowd parted like the Red Sea in Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments to unveil the speakers, brothers in tweed and spectacles, each clinging to a glass and his allotted resentments.

  “And the Breen people are letting this happen?” the mustachioed one asked.

  “They’ll raise holy hell, talk up the ‘national feelings’ clause. But they can’t kick too much. The story’s true. It’s been in all the papers.”

  “And they’re Nazis, so who gives a damn about ‘national feelings’?” Mustache shook his head in wonderment. “Somebody’s finally showing some guts, and it’s the Warners.”

  His friend turned to catch us listening. I brazened on as if crossing Sunset again. “You talking about a picture?”

  “That’s right.” Mustache beelined over to me. “Confessions of a Nazi Spy. About that espionage ring the FBI broke in New York. Warners is whisking it into production with Eddie Robinson.”

  “And did you say Dietrich?” Edith asked.

  “They want her in it,” the nasal one said. “Only because she’s German. I wouldn’t put her in anything at this point.”

  “Forget her. Box office poison.” Mustache edged closer. “I’m Elliot, by the way.”

  “Hi, Elliot.” We’d birddogged the dialogue for nothing.

  “I hear Anatole Litvak’s directing.” Elliot turned to his friend. “Say, he’s a member. Is he here tonight?”

  I never heard the response. Litvak was a Russian whose principal credit was Mayerling, which may or may not have been produced by … noted smuggler Albert Chaperau. Known to his friends as Nate. My worlds had collided.

  I started to laugh. Edith joined me. In seconds, we were doubled over in hysterics. Elliot dutifully inquired if we were all right.

  “Dandy,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Have a lovely night.”

  After another lap of the villa, Edith and I had discovered that no League member had any recollection of Jens Lohse. “It’s like he made no impression at all,” I said.

  “A useful attribute for a spy, I’d imagine. Shall we go?”

  Edith stopped to say good-bye to some Paramount colleagues. As I scanned the bungalow for Charlotte, Dorothy Parker placed a hand on my elbow, a slightly soused seraph with an unreadable face.

  “Did I hear tell you’re leaving? That’s a shame. I’d hoped we could find a quiet moment to talk. Would you do me the honor of calling me? Tell me you’ll call me, Lillian.”

  I vowed to do so. Her dark eyes locked on mine. “I will hold you to that.”

  Fancy that, I thought with glee as she slipped away, Dorothy Parker seeking my company. I stepped aside to permit a few latecomers entry.

  “She won’t take your call.”

  I spun around. Charlotte’s face was cruel in its blankness.

  “What, Dorothy’s lying?”

  “Oh, no. Right now she wants you to call, desperately. Right now she’d rather be on the phone with you than in this room full of people. Trouble is, when you call she’d rather be at this party. That’s the tragedy of our Dotty. Good night, sweetheart.”

  * * *

  “MAYERLING’S DIRECTOR TAKING on a Nazi spy ring,” Edith marveled. “It truly is a small world.”

  The night air was crisp, carrying the faint undercurrent of decay that passed for winter in Southern California. We hiked through the Garden’s unpaved parking lot to Edith’s car. I girded my loins. A night drive with Edith packed more thrills than a Republic serial.

  “We have much to discuss,” she said.

  “Really? I thought this trip came a cropper.”

  “No, this
information I learned elsewhere. I only came here tonight to tell you. I didn’t feel comfortable repeating it over the telephone or in front of others.”

  I piled into the car, closing my eyes as Edith reversed out of her parking space. “You’ll remember Mr. Groff—Now what’s this?”

  She stopped short. I cracked an eyelid. A blue Ford had come to a halt behind us, the driver sitting motionless.

  The gears of Edith’s car squealed as she pulled forward, almost clipping the sedan parked next to us. A brown Ford roared out of the dark and boxed us in. The driver of this vehicle clambered out and glanced down at the dust coating the cuffs of his pants, then walked over to Edith’s window.

  “I’m going to scream,” I screamed.

  “Easy, Miss Frost. Miss Head. Let me show you my identification.” Agent Elisha Carpenter of the Federal Bureau of Investigation presented his credentials. “Why don’t you ladies hitch a ride with us?”

  30

  AT LUNCHTIME, PERSHING Square would be crowded with secretaries and switchboard operators sunning themselves under the stubby palm trees. But at night the downtown Los Angeles park’s fountain stood forlorn, the slender men moving in the shadows more interested in private, not public, spaces.

  The Federal Bureau of Investigation’s office was a block away in an uncommonly narrow building, its fire escape tucked discreetly on the side. A trio of bas-relief panels over the entrance depicted history’s march, the eras each figure represented distinguishable solely by costume. Edith gazed up at it approvingly. Below, a quote etched in stone: OPPORTUNITY IS MORE POWERFUL EVEN THAN CONQUERORS AND PROPHETS. BENJAMIN DISRAELI. I’d have to bear that in mind.

  Opportunity had been scarce on the drive from the Garden of Allah. Once we’d set off Agent Carpenter proceeded to ignore us. Edith and I barely spoke. I used the time to rehearse my most persuasive case regarding Jens Lohse, the mysterious Simon Fischer, and the impending Nazi threat in Southern California.

  Carpenter hustled us past a shuttered bank sharing the building’s lobby. The Bureau’s offices upstairs were unusually busy given the hour, staffed by staunch young men in starched shirts. No weariness in their voices. Nary a hint of stubble at ten P.M., the agents undoubtedly shaving in shifts beneath a framed photograph of John Edgar Hoover. Gene’s face occasionally betrayed the toll of long, frustrating days. These men were a different species altogether, emissaries from a world where law officers shined their shoes each morning and hung up their jackets at night.

  The man whose office Carpenter led us into exemplified the operation’s no-nonsense air. Jet-black hair precisely parted, skeptical eyes positioned in his broad face as if with the aid of calipers. Which only made the gap between his front teeth more incongruous, giving him the appearance of an exasperated jack-o’-lantern.

  “Miss Frost,” he said. “Special Agent Virgil Deems.”

  His name, I noted, was a sentence. Virgil deems. As in, “the agent judges.” Not that I read anything into that.

  “And you would be Mrs. Head of Paramount Pictures’ Costume department.”

  “Miss,” Edith corrected.

  Deems consulted paperwork on his desk. “Yes. You received a divorce but kept your married name. Interesting.” He scribbled an addendum to the file, then concentrated on me. “You’ve been running us ragged all over greater Los Angeles. We decided after your recent activity the time had come to have a chat.”

  I nodded, prepared to tell all. Carpenter asked if I wanted a glass of water. I said yes. I had a lot of talking to do.

  Deems shuffled papers, a transparently theatrical gesture. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier to wait him out. I gulped some water. Edith stirred beside me, poised to come to my aid.

  “We picked you up as you were leaving a meeting of the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League for the Defense of Democracy, correct?”

  I almost choked in my haste to reply. “Yes.”

  “Are you aware of the extensive Communist presence in that organization?”

  “I know no such thing. It was my first meeting. We were only there to—”

  “I’ll direct the conversation, Miss Frost.” More fussing with papers, Deems making like a spinster piano teacher. When he finally looked up, my eyes were instantly drawn to the gap between his teeth. He pressed his tongue into the space. “You are familiar with one Albert Chaperau?”

  I turned to Carpenter, expecting him to be armed with the feather to knock me over. Edith shook her head, every bit as mystified as I was.

  Again Deems’s tongue tapped the space between his teeth, like a convict testing the bars of his cell. He was going to do it every time he spoke, and I would be powerless to look away. “I asked a question, Miss Frost: Do you know Albert Chaperau? Born Nathan Shapiro, currently under arrest in New York City? We have it on the authority of your employer Addison Rice you were in attendance at a dinner party with him in Manhattan on the night of October twenty-first.”

  “Yes. I was there. I— Forgive me, but … you brought us here to talk about Albert Chaperau?”

  “Nathan Shapiro,” Carpenter said helpfully.

  “Yes, Miss Frost, and so far you haven’t told us anything. You do, in fact, know Mr.”—a glance at Carpenter, a touch of the tongue—“Shapiro?”

  “Yes. But he’s not important.”

  “Is that so? Then why were you at Paramount Pictures in the company of Mrs. Head—sorry, Miss—discussing him with Jack Benny, born Benjamin Kubelsky, and George Burns, aka Nathan Birnbaum?”

  “Excuse me,” Edith said, “but how did you know that?”

  Carpenter answered from behind me. “Their right names were in Modern Movie.”

  “No, how did you know Lillian and I talked to Mr. Benny and Mr. Burns? Did someone at Paramount provide that information? Someone in my department?”

  It’s a corrupt city, Gene had said. Everyone spies on everyone else.

  “We’re the FBI, Miss Head. And we’ll deal with you in due course. Now, Miss Frost. You then followed these conversations with a visit to an organization with known Communist ties.”

  “I’m sorry, Agent Deems. I’m confused. I thought I was here regarding Jens Lohse.”

  Deems raised one eyebrow the Bureau-sanctioned height to indicate mild puzzlement. Carpenter stepped in. “Musician found dead up in the hills. Austrian, I think.”

  Swinging his pumpkin puss back to me, Deems said, “Why would we be concerned with him?”

  “Because he’s involved with the Nazis! They probably killed him!”

  “Did they?” Another look at Carpenter, another note in the file. “Returning to October twenty-first at the home of Justice Lauer—”

  “Wait. You’re only interested in Albert Chaperau? Then why was the FBI watching Salka Viertel’s house and the homes of her guests like Gustav Ruehl?”

  “Ah, I understand your confusion. We are indeed aware of the activities at the Viertel residence and monitor them accordingly. But we aren’t watching them at present.”

  “I saw you there! Not you yourself, but other FBI agents.”

  “That’s correct, Miss Frost. But we weren’t watching Mrs. Viertel or any of her guests. We were following you. We’ve been following you for weeks.”

  “Me? Why?”

  Deems sighed. “Because as I’ve repeatedly stated, you know one Nathan Shapiro, also known as Albert Chaperau. A smuggler whose efforts don’t stop with Messrs. Kubelsky and Birnbaum.”

  “Benny and Burns,” I said petulantly.

  Deems’s voice assumed a tone tailored for a courtroom’s acoustics. “We have reason to believe other individuals in the motion picture industry profited from Mr. Shapiro’s activities. We further believe, given your history with Mr. Shapiro, the advantages bestowed by your position with Mr. Rice, and your friendship with Miss Head, you know who these individuals are, and may have delivered contraband to them.”

  “Absurd,” Edith erupted. “Lillian would never engage in such behavior. She’s the finest young
woman—”

  “To be conducted personally to an audience with Malcolm Drewe, a former smuggler who now owns a gambling vessel subject to multiple injunctions? To be involved in an altercation at a nightclub in unincorporated Los Angeles County?”

  “It’s all right, Edith.” Up went my white flag. The Frosts always know when they’re beaten. I told the agents everything I knew about Albert Chaperau, which was nothing they hadn’t already heard. Throughout, Edith held my hand. Deems and Carpenter tackled my story, which never changed. One of the benefits of telling the truth, Uncle Danny regularly counseled, was having less to remember.

  Having worn down their resistance, I said, “Now can I tell you what Edith and I have been doing? The reason I’ve been leading you on this merry chase?” I laid it all out: Marlene Dietrich’s role as catalyst, my voyage to the Lumen, my suspicions of Simon, Jens’s link to Kaspar Biel and the Nazis. Edith corroborated when necessary.

  Agent Deems, I noticed, never wrote one word down.

  His tongue grazed his ivories again. “Are you finished?” I nodded. “Good. None of that concerns us.”

  When I finally found my voice it was at a higher pitch than usual. “But Jens Lohse was murdered! It’s an official homicide investigation.”

  “Then I suggest you relay this information to your friend Detective Morrow.”

  “But you’re the FBI! Jens was a Nazi spy!”

  “So you allege.”

  I wanted to tear my hair out, but I’d spent too much time on it that morning. “Don’t you read the papers? Every day we’re closer to war.”

  “Miss Frost, we know what will be in those papers before they’re printed. The United States is some ways off from war. Meanwhile, there are people in this community—your community, Miss Head’s community—who think the law doesn’t apply to them. People who perform under aliases and fraternize in politically questionable organizations. Those people concern us.”

  “So you don’t care about Jens’s death and what it might mean. You’re only interested in snaring movie stars for dodging import taxes on jewelry and fancy clothes.”