Dangerous to Know

by Renee Patrick

  “Lillian, please,” Edith said sharply. “Show these gentlemen the proper respect. We may not be privy to all the facts.” Her deference shocked me—until I spotted a glint in her eye even her glasses couldn’t conceal.

  Deems puffed himself up. “Listen to your friend, Miss Frost.”

  “There are issues here of which we are unaware,” Edith said. “You recall Mr. Groff found it unusual the authorities were pursuing a case of noncommercial smuggling. He did some checking at my request.”

  “Hold the phone,” Deems said. “Mr. Groff?”

  “Paramount’s chief of security. He’s likely in your records.”

  I spelled his name, as Hiram Beecher had taught me.

  Edith continued. “I telephoned friends in New York who work for various ateliers and, as such, have their ears to the ground. It was reported Mr. Chaperau returned from Europe in October with twelve pieces of luggage. Nine—fully three-quarters of them—went through Customs without inspection thanks to his so-called diplomatic clearance. The complete contents of that luggage were not in his hotel room.”

  “Meaning they’d already been distributed in New York.” Whatever thread Edith was pulling, I wanted to help.

  Carpenter and Deems both made uneasy sounds. Edith blithely spoke over them. “Nine pieces of luggage of undetermined size—trunks, for all we know—containing undisclosed amounts of undeclared couture gowns and jewelry. My friends say all of New York society is on the qui vive, waiting for the other hand-stitched shoe to drop. More than a few significant people are living in abject terror of being exposed as a result of Mrs. Lauer’s indiscretion.”

  Deems rapped his desk. “They broke the law.”

  “Undeniably true. But to whom are New York society people likely to be connected?”

  “Oh my God,” I yelped. “President Roosevelt.”

  “Formerly Governor Roosevelt of New York. It wouldn’t do for some of the president’s wealthiest supporters to be seen flouting the law in order to save a few dollars, particularly with the European situation so grave. But Mr. Groff confirmed that’s what will happen if the focus of the Chaperau investigation remains in New York.”

  “Now see here,” Deems blustered.

  Edith remained unruffled. “My thought is … suppose the FBI’s Mr. Hoover took it upon himself to spare the president a scandal.”

  “Why would he do that?” Carpenter tugged his shirt collar.

  “The world runs on favors,” I replied. I understood now what Edith was doing. She wasn’t speculating. She was recounting facts, direct from backlot Borgia Barney Groff. Facts she’d planned to impart on our drive home. Facts she was now using to shame the FBI.

  “He could accomplish this,” she went on, “by shifting the investigation’s focus to Hollywood.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Paint Chaperau as an unscrupulous film producer. Demonstrate his accomplices aren’t greedy New York society types but uppity Los Angeles show people. All of whom also happen to be Jewish.”

  “Hey,” Carpenter growled, leaning menacingly into my eyeline. Deems’s tongue pounded like a piston against his teeth. I didn’t care. It was as if the men had vanished and Edith and I were chatting in her kitchen, bottle of Fernet between us.

  “How does this hand play out?” I asked. “In theory.”

  “In theory, the federal government offers Mr. Chaperau a deal. He pleads guilty. In return, the FBI stops blackening his name. Mr. Chaperau then serves a minimal sentence, and the president avoids embarrassment. Similar deals are tendered to Mr. Burns and Mr. Benny, the terms strongly endorsed by their attorney Mr. Donovan. Who, as it happens, is known to President Roosevelt. If they admit wrongdoing and pay their fines, they won’t face prison and their cases will be handled with a minimum of fuss. Everyone saves face.”

  The ensuing silence was like a fifth presence in the office. Deems shifted some papers so he could neaten them.

  “Paramount wouldn’t film a scenario so full of holes,” he said. “Although it sounds like justice would be done.”

  I had met scores of influential people while working for Addison, but this was my first intimate glimpse at power being wielded behind the scenes, and it made me feel unwell.

  “So in order to keep from exposing a few Park Avenue swells as tightwads and making our commander in chief look guilty by association,” I said slowly, “the FBI is willing to let Jens Lohse’s killer roam free. Even if he’s a Nazi.”

  “Miss Frost,” Deems began, his voice wintry.

  Again Edith rushed to my aid. “It’s a matter of priorities, Lillian. But priorities change. These men are responsible for the Albert Chaperau investigation, no matter what motivated it. Once that’s settled, I’m sure they’ll turn their attention to matters of true import.”

  Deems didn’t quite shrug, didn’t quite nod. It was the best we could hope for.

  Edith had deftly called out the FBI men as errand boys while sending me a message. Hold your tongue. Let’s just get out of here.

  So I swallowed my anger at their apathy, at the manpower squandered on following me. And I smiled. And I asked if there was anything else.

  “Not at present,” Carpenter said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Could someone give us a ride back to my car?” Edith asked.

  Deems shook his head. “Given the circumstances, Mr. Hoover would frown on that.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “This is why I prefer getting hauled in by the Los Angeles Police Department. They always see a lady home.”

  31

  “LILLIAN!” ADDISON’S VOICE boomed across the lobby as I closed his front door. “What do you think of the Perisphere?”

  “I think it’s the salt of the earth. Why it spends so much time with that snooty Trylon is beyond me. Once the World’s Fair opens next year watch the Trylon drop poor old Perisphere for Robert Montgomery.”

  “I mean as a costume for Marion Davies’s New Year’s Eve party.” Addison placed his hands over his considerable stomach as if to prevent it from overhearing. “I wouldn’t need much padding. And Maude could go as the Trylon. That’d be mostly headdress, and she loves an excuse to stand in one place at these things. They haven’t been officially unveiled yet, but they’re already iconic.”

  “I think it’s a swell idea. I doubt anyone’s gone to a party as a Flushing landmark before.”

  “Are there other Flushing landmarks?”

  “The park bench at Kissena Lake where Jimmy O’Shaugnessy kissed me. Although some historians call the event apocryphal, among them Jimmy O’Shaugnessy. Will we be joined by Mr. Hume?”

  “He’s on his way. I telephoned him right after you called this morning, per your suggestion.”

  Addison accompanied me to my desk, holding forth on the myriad wonders slated for exhibition in my birthplace at the World’s Fair in April. As I hung up my coat, a deliveryman presented himself. He held a gold box large enough to require the use of both arms, tied with gilt-edged crimson ribbon.

  “Miss Frost? The butler said to bring this to you.”

  “That’s for me?”

  “If you’re Lillian Frost.” He accepted a gratuity and left in the vain hope of retracing his steps to the front door.

  “Don’t see a card.” Addison chuckled. “Any guesses who it might be from?”

  “If it’s not you, then I’m fresh out of ideas.” Gene, I knew, wasn’t given to surprises or extravagance. The notion of Simon fluttered into mind, and I shooed it away.

  One tug loosened the bow. Off came the lid. A profusion of multicolored tissue paper burst from the box. Like Howard Carter at Tutankhamun’s tomb, I started to dig. And dig. And dig. Shreds of every shade tumbled to the floor. Even Addison pitched in, unable to resist the fun.

  I struck plain brown cardboard and suspected an elaborate prank. Addison sifted through tissue paper as I overturned the box. I heard an object hit the floor. A small one.

  A matchbook. With the image of a ship on it.


  The S.S. Lumen. For a voyage of fun!

  A friendly reminder from Malcolm Drewe that he continued to have me on his mind, awaiting word on the whereabouts of the information he’d purchased from Jens. I cast a glance over my shoulder at Addison’s sun-dappled yard, unsettled by the sense my life had become a movie watched by a constantly expanding audience—Drewe and his cronies, Deems and the FBI, Kaspar Biel and who knew how many other Nazis. Worse, I had no idea when or even if I was ever off camera.

  “What is it?” Addison asked of the matchbook.

  “A joke. Not a very funny one.”

  Donald Hume cruised into view, his eyes widening at the sight of the box on my desk. “Christmas came early! And I didn’t bring you two anything.”

  I picked up the telephone. “We should get started, gentlemen. I’ll arrange for coffee. By the time I’m finished, you may want something stronger.”

  * * *

  “HOW I DEARLY wish,” Addison said, swilling a midday highball, “I’d never heard the name Albert Chaperau.”

  “Amen, brother.” Donald paced the floor. “All this time counseling you to check your cards and your dealer, and it turns out the whole house is rigged.” He looked at me in wonderment. “Groff really believes this is about protecting Roosevelt?”

  “He swears it.”

  “It does play.” Donald pointed at Addison. “You were at the dinner with Chaperau, and everyone in town attends your parties. The FBI likely figured you could have provided even bigger names than Burns and Benny.”

  Addison nodded. “And given your recent running around on Marlene’s behalf, Lillian, I can see how they’d view your behavior as suspect.”

  “Me, a conduit for contraband? I can only pray this is over.”

  “If Groff’s right, it is,” Donald said. “No one benefits the longer this drags out. The government convinces Chaperau, Benny, and Burns to plead guilty, and this goes away in a single flash of bad publicity. Everyone contrite, chalk it up as a misunderstanding.”

  “And hope the public forgives Benny and Burns for their mistake.” Even I heard the doubt in my words.

  “On that, we wish them luck. But it doesn’t affect us.” Donald clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “You’re in the clear, Addy, old boy. Uncle Sam has moved along, and so should we. On to new business. Namely, your crop of freshly minted patent applications.”

  A line clearly indicating Exit Miss Frost. I returned to my desk and a ringing telephone. Another delivery from Malcolm Drewe, maybe? Perhaps this prompt a used coaster from the Lumen wrapped in ermine and left in a brand-new Duesenberg. I picked up the receiver.

  “Lillian? It’s Gretchen Corday. I’ve been calling all morning.” Her voice sounded oddly hollow. “I was thinking about what you said last night at the Garden of Allah.”

  That conversation from a thousand years ago, before I’d been scooped up by federal agents and discovered I was a pawn in a game being played on behalf of the resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. “Right. What part of what I said, exactly?”

  Gretchen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Simon Fischer being involved in Jens’s death.”

  “I didn’t say that. I suggested he knows more than he’s letting on.”

  Steel entered her hushed tones. “I did some digging at Lodestar today. Before he took you to the Auerbachs’ cabin and you … found Jens, the last time Simon had driven out there was August twenty-sixth.”

  “I know. That’s what he told the police, and the studio confirmed it.”

  “Only he’s lying. I can prove it. Do you have any idea how many records a studio keeps? And how easy it is to get the right ones when you say you’re trying to clear up a discrepancy that will cost someone their job?”

  I squeezed the phone so hard it creaked in my hand. “Gretchen, what did you do?”

  Her voice assumed the dangerously serene quality of someone staring at the ocean in the moments before their final walk into it. “The records the front office showed the police say Simon didn’t drive to the cabin for months. But the ones buried in the motor pool that I looked at this morning? Those say Simon Fischer drove Jens to Felix’s cabin on the morning of December first. That’s the day the police think he died, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Can you—”

  “I saw him, you know. Simon. He returned a car while they pulled the records. He smiled and looked right through me.” She paused. “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “No. Gretchen, please—”

  “I’ll find him and tell him I know what he did.”

  “Don’t do that. You’ll tip him off. Let me call my friend with the police and he can arrest Simon.”

  “He’ll only lie again. He’ll lie about killing Jens.”

  “Not now. We have proof, thanks to you. Don’t go near him, Gretchen. Let me call the police, okay? Gretchen? Gretchen?”

  She didn’t answer.

  * * *

  “KEEP CALM, LILLIAN.” If Gene’s voice at the other end of the line were any indication, he could stand to heed his own advice. “Take a breath and talk me through this. What you’re suggesting is that not only Fischer lied. So did Lodestar.”

  “Yes, but at least their lie makes sense. They acted out of instinct to protect their interests. They didn’t lie to help Simon. They did it to minimize their involvement and Felix Auerbach’s.”

  “They wanted it to look like Auerbach, their employee, didn’t know Jens was going to be at his cabin.”

  “And to do that, they had to conceal that Simon drove him there.”

  “He could just be sticking to a story the studio gave him,” Gene said. “Trying to hang on to his job.”

  That’s not why he lied to me, I thought.

  “Then ask him. You can prove he’s lying, ask him why he did it. But please, do it now before Gretchen spills the beans. You’ve got to. I told you, the FBI won’t. They don’t care.”

  “Don’t worry, Lillian. I’m putting my coat on now. I’ll pull the motor pool records and bring Fischer in for questioning. And I don’t need the FBI’s permission to do it.”

  32

  MY UNCLE DANNY had a soft spot for what he called “weepers,” soapy ballads that jerked tears the way a frontier dentist pulled teeth: with minimal regard for artistry. At any gathering Danny would belt out one sad song after another, a dry spark of mirth in his eye as every other orb in earshot misted over. His repertoire covered fallen women, ghostly children, lovers parted by death. The title of one of his perennials, “A Bird in a Gilded Cage,” echoed in my head as I walked the floors of Addison’s magnificent house. I may not have been sporting fancy plumage but I felt trapped in a luxurious prison, and only word from Gene would set me free.

  Addison, detecting my unease, invited me to join him for lunch. I declined, which set off his alarm bells; I never passed up food. Upon hearing my dilemma, he had a telephone extension run to the table. “Just like the Brown Derby,” he said with a smile. The phone didn’t ring, meaning I scarcely tasted the poached salmon with creamy dill sauce or my two helpings of apple brown betty. After lunch Addison repaired to his workshop, leaving me to my lonely vigil.

  I checked the radio for news, dreading reports of gunplay at Lodestar, Simon reacting like a mad dog when confronted by Gene. I pounced whenever the phone rang, dealing with the merchants on the other end brusquely, vowing I’d add a bonus to their holiday gift to make up for it. As the afternoon wore on it grew more difficult for me to hoist my hopes with each call. By three o’clock, when I recited “Rice residence, Miss Frost speaking” for the umpteenth time, I had gone numb.

  “Lillian, it’s Gene.”

  I nearly wept. “Where are you?”

  “Edith’s office at Paramount. Can you come here? Right now?” He didn’t sound like himself. He sounded empty. Beaten.

  “Of course. Is everything all right?”

  He laughed, forgetting to include any amusement in it. “Ducky. I don’t understand anything anymore.”r />
  * * *

  ROGERS DROVE ME to Paramount in his customary silence. But I thought I spotted something like concern in the look he threw at the rearview mirror as I bolted from the car.

  Edith sketched at her desk, her gay crimson scarf at odds with the funereal mood of her office. Gene sat across from her, hat in hand, feet splayed as if bearing up under a great weight. His toothache smile grieved me.

  Barney Groff commanded the room, accusatory finger already stabbing in my direction. “About damned time you got here. First you’re no help on the Chaperau business. Now you’re screwing up something even more important.”

  “Go easy on her, will ya?” Gene said in a voice from the bottom of the sea.

  “She has a great deal to learn,” Edith said. “We all do.”

  Edith’s telephone rang. Groff answered it. “Now? Have him wait.” He slammed the receiver down so hard the bell echoed. Edith winced.

  Groff loomed over me. “You know how the Nazis gained power in Germany?”

  Experience had taught me even if I knew the answer to a Barney Groff question, he didn’t want me to say it. The point of the exchange was for me to admit my hopeless ignorance. I got on with it.

  “No.”

  “Disaffected veterans. Soldiers from the Great War who chafed at the way the country was treated after Versailles. That was this bastard Hitler’s first audience, the muscle that allowed him to take over. He tried the same routine over here, but it hasn’t succeeded. You know why?”

  “Because we won the Great War?” I said meekly.

  Groff glowered a moment before continuing. “Because the right man heard about it. I’m not telling you his name. You don’t need to know his name. It’s enough to know he’s a lawyer, a veteran himself, a true American patriot. And a Jew. Worked for the Anti-Defamation League. He found out veterans were being recruited into the Friends of the New Germany, the group that came before the goddamned Bund, and you know what he did?”

  Groff didn’t want input from me anymore. He was on a roll.

  “He told them to join. To remember everything they heard and report back to him. Even paid their expenses, out of his own pocket.” A shake of the head in amazement, Groff relishing the story. “Who else would do that, would have the foresight and the commitment necessary? The things he learned about what the Nazis were doing, were planning to do, terrified him. This tough, clear-eyed man, this American knew this was big, knew he needed money and support. First he turned to the B’nai B’rith, but they couldn’t get their act together. Then he tried the establishment Jews, the downtown crowd. Businessmen, lawyers, real estate people. Respectable types.” He charged both words with withering contempt. “They wrung their hands, said how terrible it was, how they had to do something. And between them they couldn’t scrape up a lousy thousand dollars.”