Dangerous to Know

by Renee Patrick

I took a seat opposite Cynthia. She was shorter than me, so I perched at the edge of the chair with one leg hooked underneath me and the other outstretched, somewhat provocatively, for balance. I draped a blanket over my shoulders to mask my clothes. With the hasty removal of a few pins, my hair fell free and concealed most of my face. Lastly, I raised my arm as if I, too, held a cigarette. I told myself Cynthia and I looked like a pair of catty friends comparing notes in a cocktail bar, about to launch into lines from Clare Boothe Luce’s play The Women.

  Men, I thought across the dark to my scene partner. Always the wrong ones chasing you, am I right?

  Two flashlight beams punctured the gloom. They picked out furniture covered in dusty sheets, struck mirrors that reflected the light back, prompting hushed profanities. Someone bumped into something.

  A last inhalation through my nose, then I temporarily gave up breathing.

  Through a scrim of hair I glimpsed Biel, wielding his torch like a sword, surveying the room. The chunkier of the brown shirts followed him. Biel’s beam played over Cynthia, then drifted to me. It moved up, down, and up again, halting at eye level like a cruel taunt.

  The beam returned to my mute cohort, moving almost caressingly over her features. Biel spoke softly in German. The only word I understood: “Cynthia.”

  Leave it to me to be pursued by a Nazi who read Louella Parsons.

  The beams and their bearers continued through the room. Satisfied, Biel and his sidekick plunged back onto the lot.

  I remained motionless for several more seconds, until the blanket over my shoulders slid off as if nudged by an unseen presence. I took that as my cue to leave.

  “Nice working with you,” I whispered to Cynthia.

  The lot had grown even more quiet. I darted toward the Bronson Gate. Before I reached it I heard a steady drum of heels against pavement. I ducked out of sight and waited.

  The figure that appeared was too short to be Biel or either of his lackeys. There was only one person it could be. I hissed at Edith from the shadows.

  She understood the situation quickly. “We’ll avoid my office. My keys will let us into the admin building.”

  * * *

  AFTER LOCKING THE door behind us, Edith led the way to a windowless interior office so we could turn on all the lights we wanted. Her first telephone call was to studio security, resulting in guards being dispatched across the lot. Her next was to Barney Groff, who was tracked down at the Brown Derby.

  “They’re bringing a phone to his table,” Edith relayed. Of course they were.

  She spoke to him briefly and then, to my stomach’s dismay, held out the receiver. “He wants to talk to you.”

  The giddy hubbub of the Derby greeted my ears, and I badly wished I were there. Groff’s brusque demeanor froze my earlobe. “I want this direct from you. There are Nazis, actual Nazis, on my lot?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Put Miss Head back on.” I returned the phone to her. The rest of the call lasted six seconds.

  “We’re to wait here,” Edith said. “So. What’s new?”

  My digest of the night’s proceedings came out in a gush, sans governor, Edith bracing herself against the onslaught.

  “It all fits,” I said, forcing myself to wind down. “Donald Hume is an attorney. He represents countless influential people in Los Angeles. He’d be the ideal spy. Addison’s new inventions alone would be of value to Germany. And Donald and Charlotte are always at parties, so it would be easy for him to meet Jens and exchange information.”

  Some of those meetings, I thought, may have taken place in Addison’s home. While I was nearby. I shivered and kept talking.

  “Plus Jens was blackmailing Donald. Rory Dillon told me, and like him I assumed, as with most of Jens’s blackmail victims, it was about being unfaithful.”

  “It is, in a sense,” Edith said. “Mr. Hume is being unfaithful to his country.”

  “Jens had Rory reach out to Charlotte because he couldn’t very well go to Donald himself and say, ‘Pay up or I’ll reveal you’ve been talking to me.’ Then Donald eliminated the threat by killing Jens.”

  “It’s quite sound,” Edith said, nodding slowly. “And, may I say, astonishing. You’re the only person who could have made these connections.”

  “I know. It’s practically a miracle. I’ve been trying to figure out which saint I should offer up a prayer to.”

  “That’s the problem, my dear. Who else will believe it?”

  Like that, I was adrift.

  “You’ve convinced me Mr. Hume is a Nazi operative with a concrete motive to kill Mr. Lohse. But what evidence do we have? A rough translation of what Mr. Hume may have said to Miss Riefenstahl is damning to you—and yes, to me—but imagine bringing this to the FBI. They would do nothing, in part because they’ve made clear what their priorities are but mainly because it’s far from conclusive.”

  I felt queasy. I knew I had no argument to rebut her but struggled to mount one out of sheer pigheadedness. “I’ll tell Gene. He’ll believe me.”

  “He certainly will. And he’ll do what he can. But if anything, he’ll be more limited in his responses than Mr. Hoover’s men. They are choosing to ignore this situation, at least for the time being, while Detective Morrow has already contacted the German consulate and been rebuffed. Anything he attempts now would be without the sanction of the police department.”

  More arrows in Gene’s back, which bristled with a quiver of them thanks to me. You’ll still ask him to do something, I thought. And he’ll still try.

  Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I was determined to stop them from falling, because apparently I couldn’t accomplish anything else.

  “What am I supposed to do,” I asked, “if I know the truth but can’t get anyone to act on it?”

  Edith tilted her head, a deliberate gesture, I realized later, to keep me from reading her eyes.

  “One can always dress up the truth,” she said. “Put it in a new wardrobe so it resembles the truth others are seeking. The FBI, for instance.”

  A sharp rap on the door prevented her from elaborating. Barney Groff entered, attired in a single-breasted tuxedo doubtlessly described by his tailor as “Stygian.” His hair, normally lacquered in place, stood up in stalks. He caught me staring and tamped it down with his fingers, then smiled. “Problem solved,” he announced with a thorough lack of modesty. “It’s once again safe to traverse the lot.”

  “What happened, Mr. Groff?” Edith asked.

  “Turns out one of our guards was a Bund bum. He let the Nazis on, so now he’s out on his tuchus.”

  “And the Nazis?” I inquired.

  “They were also shown the gate, after the time-tested concept of private property was explained to them. Point by point. In meticulous detail.” He flexed his hands as he spoke. “The blond one required extra tutoring. But the lesson finally sank in.”

  He held the office door wide and gestured that we should leave. As he did, I noticed a fine spray of blood on his dress shirt, some of the bright red drops vanishing into the pleats as he moved.

  Again, Groff noticed my attention. Again, he smiled. It was the first time I’d seen the man truly happy.

  39

  I’D CHOSEN MY vantage point carefully. Upper deck near the stern of the Lumen, with a view of the floating casino’s landing stage. I watched one of the water taxis doggedly approach, swells be damned. Another benefit of my perch: an overhang that kept most of the night’s light rain off me. The weather didn’t dampen the spirits of those who’d made the trip. Over a dozen people clambered out of the launch. With firm determination on unsteady legs, they made their way inside.

  Once again, I didn’t recognize a soul among them.

  Malcolm Drewe appeared out of the dark next to me, raindrops glittering like rhinestones on his mohair coat. He gazed down at the passengers. “More seagulls, here for the free dinner. I can tell by their clothes.”

  “Seagulls?”

  “They eat
, shit, and leave. You spot your party?”

  “Not yet.”

  After a dubious grunt, Drewe brushed moisture from his coat and ambled back inside. I couldn’t blame him. There’d be a wait until the next launch arrived, which might or might not be carrying Donald Hume.

  * * *

  I TRIED TO do things the right way at first. But Edith, as usual, had correctly foretold the future.

  Agent Deems made it abundantly clear the FBI had no interest in any additional information I had acquired about the identity of a well-connected Nazi operative and his possible role in the murder of Jens Lohse. He did, however, remind me his door remained ajar should I care to discuss Albert Chaperau. I didn’t bother mentioning Donald’s name.

  As for Gene, I held nothing back. When I’d laid out every specious supposition and harebrained hypothesis, he appraised me over my coffee table, then shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Lillian. I can’t do anything.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “I’d talk to the consulate again, but it’s been expressed from on high I’m not to pester them anymore.”

  “I didn’t realize I’d gotten you in trouble.”

  Gene waved my concern away. “Part of my job is annoying the right people. Including my superiors. The bigger problem is the Auerbachs. When Felix resurfaced, Marthe recanted her confession. But the DA’s still going to prosecute her for Jens’s murder.”

  “I understand. I have to ask, though. Do you believe me?”

  Gene glanced out my window. Miss Sarah, slinking across the sill, forced him to look back at me. “Honestly, Frost? It’s not much to go on.”

  * * *

  “OF COURSE I believe you,” Simon said, his gaze steady over my coffee table. “What do you need from me?”

  Executing Edith’s plan without Gene’s help would require a lot of cooperation. Simon was merely the first stop.

  “The exact date of the secret Olympia screening.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to follow through on Jens’s plan. I’m going to blackmail Donald Hume.”

  * * *

  NOW THAT I knew to avoid booths with portholes, I would have ventured into Club Fathom alone. Still, I preferred showing up in Simon’s company.

  Rory Dillon’s sleek appearance wasn’t dented by his nonplussed expression. “You want me to do what?”

  “Exactly what Jens had you do before. Tell Charlotte Hume it was a pleasure to see her husband, Donald.” I turned to Simon.

  “On the evening of November twenty-fifth,” he said.

  “He’s still catting around, with the missus up there on the silver screen.” Rory winked lasciviously. I doubted he could wink any other way. “But why do you care?”

  “Charlotte’s my friend.”

  “Strange show of affection. I expect a cut of the proceeds.”

  If he wanted a share of the prison sentence coming Donald’s way, he was welcome to it. “You’ll have to earn it. A few days after you see Charlotte you’ll telephone Donald to arrange the meeting. I’ll tell you what to say.”

  * * *

  IT DIDN’T TAKE that long. The day after Rory’s second casual encounter with Charlotte, he telephoned in a lather. “Your man called me! Hume. Or his office did. How the hell did he know it was me talked to his wife?”

  He’s a spy, I thought. “How many dashing Irishmen with shady reputations can there be? What did he—or she—say?”

  “‘Mr. Hume doesn’t understand your instructions.’ Didn’t have a clue what she was asking, the poor wee girl.”

  A cagey move on Donald’s part, using his secretary Marjorie to keep himself at a remove. No wonder the Nazis prized him. “And your response to the poor wee girl?”

  “The time and place you gave me. I said I’d settle accounts with Mr. Hume then.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “She said she didn’t know if he’d be available but she’d relay the message. A lovely voice she had, quite posh. Should hire someone like that myself. My part in this drama is through, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember now, I’m in for a share of the winnings. I may even turn up at that boat to make sure I get it. Always wanted one of those free turkey dinners.”

  * * *

  I HADN’T SPOTTED Rory on the Lumen, but I had no doubt his representatives were present, along with Malcolm Drewe’s men. Drewe had been unstintingly generous with his support since I’d persuaded him to play along with Edith’s scheme.

  We had met at Marie’s Pantry again, Simon at my side, shortcake on the table. No more peach melba for me.

  “We found the person responsible for Jens Lohse’s death,” I said. “The person who kept you from getting what you paid for.”

  “And you want to give me his name so I’ll mete out some frontier justice? That’s not how I operate, Miss Frost, no matter what you’ve heard.” He looked pointedly at Simon, intimating I was the one who’d brought muscle along, forgetting about Knoll and the other men lounging in and around the diner.

  “That’s not what I want. My friend and I would like to confront this man and ideally bring him to the authorities. At the very least, he could give you the money you paid Jens. But there’s a chance this could go wrong.”

  “And it never hurts to have something that could go wrong take place in international waters. Is that it?” Drewe gazed wistfully out at Santa Monica Bay, resenting every moment he spent on shore. “Tell me your event’s requirements. Perhaps the Lumen can accommodate you. We do aim to please.”

  * * *

  ON THE SHIP’S deck, I shrugged deeper into my coat against the chill. I’d stuck a few extra pins in my hair to keep my hat on against the insistent breeze, but I’d foolishly forgotten my gloves. Time to warm up inside while awaiting the next taxi of tinhorns.

  To maintain Christmas spirits Drewe had sprung for punch stations serving gratis wassail to the bettors, each manned by a Santa. The Saint Nick nearest me had clearly been sampling from his own ladle. The wavering gaits of the Lumen’s passengers were only peripherally related to the rolling waters beneath.

  I moved among the crowd and rubbed feeling back into my hands. Knoll sat a table, an untouched glass of punch before him and a vacant smile on his face. “Silent night,” he said as I passed. His left shoe tapped the grip tucked under the table. “Your suitcase is ready when you need it. If you need it.”

  If indeed.

  * * *

  THE UNLIKELIEST COCONSPIRATOR in Edith’s plan proved the easiest to convince.

  At our meeting with Barney Groff, he greeted me with his customary indifference. Edith explained that the German assault on Paramount Pictures spearheaded by Kaspar Biel was, in fact, caused by Donald Hume.

  “Lillian tried to alert the FBI,” she said, “but they’re preoccupied with this Chaperau matter.”

  “Of course they are.” Groff fumed, so hot he almost didn’t need a match to spark his cigarette. “How the hell is it we see the threat the Nazis pose and Hoover’s boys can’t? Or won’t?”

  “It’s a shame, Mr. Groff.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So what do you propose to do?”

  “It occurred to me,” Edith said, “that as long as the FBI believes they’re investigating Mr. Chaperau, they’ll do so diligently. Particularly if you inform them of a recent development that has you concerned.”

  The security chief looked skeptical, so I spoke up.

  “You tell them I’m in cahoots with Chaperau after all. After his arrest, I hid couture dresses he smuggled into the country in the wardrobe department here at the studio. I exploited my friendship with Edith. Paramount is utterly blameless and just wants to help. You tell the FBI I’m a nuisance who causes you nothing but aggravation.”

  Groff looked from Edith to me and back again as he weighed the idea. Then a smile broke on his face as pure as the dawn. For the second time in a week, he was truly happy.

  * * *

  T
HE FBI’S SHADOWING of me escalated immediately. It felt creepy, but I got used to it. On the day Donald Hume was to meet his blackmailer aboard the Lumen, I arrived at Paramount with a suitcase. Purely for show, of course, along with my visit to Edith’s office. A rack of stunning gowns waited there: wild, adventurous creations unlike Edith’s usual designs. I said as much.

  “These aren’t mine, dear. They’re the dresses from Paris used in Artists and Models Abroad.”

  “Starring my good friend Cynthia.” I knew I was keyed up about what we were attempting when I couldn’t properly salivate over the sartorial smorgasbord before me.

  “No sense waiting,” Edith said. “Open your suitcase.”

  “But I don’t need actual dresses. I only want the FBI to think I have them.”

  “Props and costumes, which in this instance are one and the same, lend shape and definition to a performance. And that’s what you’re giving tonight.” She stepped back. “Is that what you’ll be wearing?”

  * * *

  THE FBI AGENTS dogging me scrambled to board the same water taxi. On the Lumen, they watched me entrust my suitcase to Knoll with palpable excitement.

  Edith’s plan was simple. Donald Hume arrives to confront his mystery extortionist. I present myself and hand him the suitcase. The FBI sweeps in and snares us both. Groff blows the gaff, with Edith offering bona fides for the dresses in my grip. The studio moguls then pressure the FBI to investigate Donald on charges of espionage and murder. Even if the gambit failed, Donald would be of no use to the Nazis as a spy after the incident.

  And if Kaspar Biel showed in Donald’s stead? I’d holler bloody murder until the FBI or Drewe’s minions came to my aid. An international incident in theoretically international waters would force the government’s hand. I merely had to bring the concerned parties to one location and stay calm.

  But the designated hour had come and gone, multiple launches ferrying no familiar faces. I had to consider the possibility Donald had stood me up. There’d been no word from him since his secretary called Rory Dillon; there wasn’t supposed to be. Earlier I’d taken the dicey step of telephoning his office to ask if he’d be available for a meeting with Addison that night. His perky secretary Marjorie—Rory was wrong; her voice wasn’t that posh—replied No, Mr. Hume has an engagement this evening, let’s see, what other times would be convenient for Mr. Rice? I hung up certain Donald and I had a date with destiny.