Hollywood Buzz

by Margit Liesche

  “Grandmamma sees in you a comrade in danger.”

  Roza had been impressed to learn that I was a U.S. secret agent. She understood that I helped bring down those strong-arming her into aiding the Nazis. She had specifically asked Ilka to convey her gratitude to me.

  “But you are all right?” Ilka was alarmed that I sank back in my seat.

  Cardillac was at large. I had killed a man in there; I had nearly been killed myself. I was wrung out, depressed, and unable to hide it. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Poo-chi, vee are completely with puff-chests to have you in the car. You have slain the evil beasts—” He paused for dramatic effect. “They vil ne-ver rise again.”

  Anticipating his audience’s reaction, his gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. I stared back. The dashboard lights gave his handsome, slightly bloated features a sinister appearance. Perfect for the comical delivery of the menacing lines. I should have laughed. But it was no good. Melancholy held me in a firm grip. I sighed. Looking out into the traffic snarl along Santa Monica Boulevard, I knew I would never regain my peace of mind if I failed to avenge Frankie.

  We passed a street sign that triggered something Tazio had said. In a blinding flash, I knew where Cardillac was going to meet the sub.

  “Mr. Lugosi, the Santa Monica Pier, please. And step on it. I’m after a Nazi agent.”

  He needed no further urging. At the next corner, he spun onto a deserted street and hit the gas. “Do not vorry.” Lugosi hunched over the wheel, his hands tight. “A getaway route I know vell.”

  He drove with precision and a faultless sense of timing, hurtling through the night, careening along a twisty westerly backstreet route, away from the Hollywood Hills and toward the ocean. I explained who we were trying to chase down and why. Next to me, Roza didn’t understand a word, yet she loved the chase after Cardillac. It was written all over her dark, wizened face.

  Lugosi attacked the Pacific Coast Highway at high speed. We passengers hung on with frozen smiles and a collective silence.

  “There it is!” Ilka sounded as relieved as she was excited, pointing to the illuminated archway at the pier’s entrance.

  I scooted to the center of the seat for a panoramic view as Lugosi, tapping lightly on the brake, swung the Lincoln onto the entry ramp and drove beneath the grand signage:

  SANTA MONICA YACHT HARBOR

  SPORT FISHING * BOATING

  CAFÉS

  ***

  We motored alone along the paved path leading to the pier’s end. The lampposts were lit at wide intervals, but the arcade entrance was strung with lights. The pavement ended abruptly, the Lincoln’s tires bit into wooden planks, and our ride got a little rougher. But it was not the time or place to speed. We crawled along, passing gift shops, food stands, and cafés, looking for signs of our mark among the pedestrians, couples smooching, and individuals looking over the pier’s railing.

  We were coming up on a vast white structure.

  “The La Monica Ballroom,” Ilka whispered, interrupting our silence. I was mesmerized by the grandeur of the freshly painted building.

  Rolling the two side windows down, we surveilled the passing scene to the rhythm of tires softly thumping against uneven wood.

  The pier was not just a recreational mecca. It also serviced Santa Monica’s mackerel fleet, sustaining the nation’s war effort. Our headlamps picked up a fisherman enjoying a cigarette leaning with his back against the railing, his pole at attention by his side. He turned away, adjusting the floppy brim of his hat and flicking his smoke to the ground as we slowly cruised past.

  I felt a quick spasm of recognition. That’s no fisherman. His face was too smooth, and an earring—a swastika earring?

  “Stop!”

  Lugosi stood on the brake.

  Leaping out, he shoved forward the driver’s seat, extended a graceful hand. I eagerly grasped it.

  I panned the shadowy area where I’d seen the fisherwoman. The pole was there, but she had vanished. A dim street lamp showed an opening in the railing near where she had been standing. I squinted into the dark, sick with panic. That had been Cardillac. I wasn’t losing her this time.

  I pounded down the wooden planks. Behind me, the harsh sounds of heated Hungarian grew fainter as I tore away from my friends.

  At the edge, I surveyed an expansive railed deck below. A boom and rigging for moving cargo and small boats jutted from the far end of the pier. Just short of the tall boom, I found an opening that gave me access to the water. “You won’t get away,” I vowed clambering down a short metal stairway. “Not this time.”

  I leapt off the bottom step. The deck was not lit—moonlight was not enough. A thick iron ring caught my toe. I belly-flopped to the deck. Pain smashed through my knee.

  “Pooo-chi,” Lugosi called, his feet clunking heavily as he started carefully down the stairs. Behind him, Ilka’s voice carried loudly. “We are coming.”

  Either my body was adapting to physical abuse or I had less air left to expel. In the hush that followed, my ears picked up the starting sound of a small outboard motor. Seized with adrenaline, I stumbled upright and charged from the platform, bolting down a gangplank to a small floating dock. A line of thick rope was thrown carelessly along the dock’s edge, but the puttering motor was gone. I stared into the shadowy moonlit expanse straining to see the boat, appalled and helpless as a dinghy, manned by a passenger in a floppy hat and oversized life vest, churned out to sea.

  It was like watching the final scene of a gripping movie and knowing the director had chosen the wrong ending. I wanted to rewind the scene playing out before me, return the boat here, to the dock, apply the skills I’d absorbed from Sam, rewrite the scene, put in the proper ending. Cameras rolling, I’d make it to the pier on time.

  The dock rocked with the motion of the water. I could change the ending. I drew my gun.

  “Cardillac!” I shouted with all the force in me.

  She faced out to sea, gripping the outboard motor’s handle. At my shout, the boat veered leeward. She turned and looked toward shore.

  “Pucci!” Her voice was recognizable even at a distance. “Come to see me off?”

  A lilting laugh I’d once considered charming tinkled through the cool night air. Like chalk on a blackboard, it raked my spine, raising goose bumps along my shoulders.

  I shot, shot again, and again.

  No luck. The boat continued its course.

  Outside the breakwater, a powerful beam flicked on, illuminating Cardillac. A mighty engine roared. The ominous black outline of a large cruiser powered in on the path of the dinghy. The deep rumbling increased.

  The spotlight remained on my mark. Cutting the dinghy’s motor, she stood. A breeze stole the hat away. The hair, the smirk, made me grind my teeth.

  She waved a festively dressed doll at me before stuffing it in her life vest then she pulled a Walther. “You’ll never catch me!”

  Now or never. Steadying my .38, as best I could on Cardillac, I pulled the trigger. She reeled and fell overboard with a splash.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Miss C’s call came through early the next morning.

  “It’s truly sad,” Miss C said, her voice catching. “We’d just located Frankie’s uncle, were cutting the red tape to bring him home when I got word. He’s put us onto another relative stateside, and she’s been contacted as well. Funeral arrangements are underway. Her uncle will get to Hollywood in a day or two to accompany the body back home. I gave him your name as a contact.”

  “So you’re suggesting I stay on here?”

  “You’re expected to remain there. There’s an investigation—investigations—to wrap up. You’ll be summoned to the inquest at March. Can’t believe that goon of an officer tried to cover up the incident. He’ll be facing a court martial for what he did…didn’t do. What was he thinking? You could have been killed, too!”

  The officer hadn’t been involved in the s
abotage of my flight, but I didn’t bother correcting her, since his lack of action had contributed to all the events that followed. She’d spoken of investigations in the plural, and it was likely she’d already been briefed. But Gunnar was running the other case involving the blackmail and murder of Brody, and she was sensitive about my nonflying duties. Last night Gunnar had been consumed with activity, dealing with the enemy triumvirate Winwar, Abbado (deceased), and Lorenz. I didn’t know how much she’d been told about them or even about my face-off with Cardillac, and I wasn’t sure how much I should say.

  I began a different tack. “Your Staggerwing…”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Bulk’s taken a look. She’ll be fine.” She cleared her throat. “Rask called. You didn’t stop at putting us on the right track with Frankie’s incident; you helped take down another enemy cabal like you did in Detroit.” Clear across the country, I could feel the warmth of her approval pulsing through the telephone line as she added, “You know, Lewis, these are just the sort of direct—and indirect—contributions that will have a positive impact on my…our program.”

  Before I could get in a “thank you,” she let me know she’d also spoken with Della.

  Admitting she had no business talking to me about such things over the telephone, she lowered her voice to a confidential tone and told me what she’d learned. Did I know that Della’s friend Bela Lugosi was orchestrating Hollywood types to record messages for Allied patriots in Hungary? It was hush-hush and that was all she could say except it was rumored that besides Lugosi, Bela Bartok, Charles Vidor, Ilona Massey, and Zoltan Korda were all planning to broadcast personal appeals to native Hungarians in the underground to resist the Germans. Della’s housekeeper’s seventy-something grandmother was in on it. Who would have thought? “Our kind of gal, right Lewis? Did you meet her?”

  I was speechless. I’d never bumped up against this side of Miss C. Besides, as an intelligence operative I was sworn to secrecy. Was this some sort of test?

  Ignoring the barrage concerning Magyar Amerika, I thanked her for the earlier compliments relating to my work. Then I got down to the disheartening business preying on my mind since last night.

  “Miss C, Cardillac’s body has not been recovered. The Coast Guard searched the waters all night. The beaches in the area are still being combed. The doll washed up with the diamonds still in it, but as of this morning, there’s been no sign of her. I can’t figure it out.”

  There was a moment of silence. My heart thumped loudly. Had I spoken out of turn?

  “Lewis, all that can be done is being done. It’s highly possible Cardillac has been carried out to sea or that sharks or such have taken care of the matter. The situation is out of your hands. We can’t control everything.”

  Her search for Earhart, mine for Cardillac.

  “I read your script revisions,” she continued, “they arrived by courier pouch last night. I also had a long chat with Novara. You’ve done an excellent job in turning the film—and him—around. Thank you. I’d like to rely on you to complete the ferrying and towing scenes, oversee the rough cut of the film. And…show off the P-51. Will you agree?”

  I wasn’t looking forward to an extended tutelage in filmmaking under Novara, in spite of the long way he’d come. I’d rather fly, or do more undercover work. But on the bright side, there was the promised ride in the P-51.

  “Fine,” I said, evenly. “And can I get your go-ahead to convince Novara to dedicate the Victory film to Frankie, and to the memory of the other nine WASPs who’ve gone before her?”

  “Of course. Now why didn’t I think of that?” She paused. “Lewis, it’s clear you have talents beyond being a pilot. Talents needed by our country. Delicate matters, with many layers of complexities and subtleties…” She cleared her throat. “Be assured, if while working on the WASP film something comes up where your skills are absolutely needed, I’ll be in touch.” Then, as if she’d been holding back a laugh, like we were in on a private joke together, she chuckled. “Oh, and I suspect you’ll find it easier to walk in Novara’s shoes now…” Another chortle. “Now that he’s wearing made-in-America.”

  I laughed out loud.

  Factual Postscript

  The WASP program met its objective in showing that women could serve as military pilots. Their statistics compared favorably with those of their male counterparts: the women had as much endurance, were no more subject to fatigue, flew as regularly and for as many hours as the men.

  More than 25,000 women applied to become WASPs, 1,830 were accepted for training, and 1,074 won their wings. In all, thirty-eight WASPs died in service of their country.

  The WASP program existed from November 1942 to December 1944. The women exceeded expectations and made a huge contribution to the war effort, yet were not militarized during the time they served. Indeed, until 1979, the nation refused to recognize WASP as veterans for purpose of disability and other benefits. March 8, 1979, Congress at last passed the GI Improvement Act which authorized the Secretary of Defense to determine that WASP duty was active military service.

  ***

  Jackie Cochran went on to become The First Lady of Flight.

  According to the National Air and Space Museum exhibit, Smithsonian Institution, 1981:

  At the time of her death on August 9, 1980, Jacqueline Cochran held more speed, altitude and distance records than any other pilot, male or female, in aviation history. Her career spanned 40 years, from the Golden Age of the 1930s as a racing pilot, through the turbulent years of World War II as founder and head of the Women’s Air Force Service Pilot WASP program, into the jet age, when she became the first female pilot to fly faster than the speed of sound. She was a 14-time winner of the Harmon trophy for the outstanding female pilot of the year and was accorded numerous other awards and honors in addition to the trophies she won with her flying skills.”

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