by Peter Corris
Our next caller was Loren Duke. He sat down and took statements from us, writing rapid shorthand. When we'd finished he put the notepad away, accepted a beer and asked us what we wanted to know.
'Will May Lin be in trouble for her activities?' was my first question.
Duke shook his head. 'The US government supports the Nationalist Chinese. 'Course we don't exactly admire to have people running around the country getting up to shenanigans, but I wouldn't worry, Miss Lin.'
'Have you found Hart Sallust?' May Lin said.
'Nope. And I don't reckon we ever will. That Big Sung was a secretive guy. I guess he stashed him somewhere in California. We might run into some of the boys who worked for him and get some information. But it'd be a long shot.'
'Pete McVey and Beatrice Trudeau,' I said. 'Have they been . . .?'
Duke sipped beer and nodded. 'Cousin of Miss Trudeau came forward, got herself a lawyer and things are getting sorted out. Mr McVey has family in Idaho. They're looking after it.'
There was a small silence after that. Then I said, 'What about Joe Herman?'
Duke smiled, glad to be past the sad bit and onto happier topics. 'Well, we interviewed Mr Herman and I have to admit, we kinda snowed him a little. Said his pal Mr Sung had talked to us. Said we had Mr Sallust safe, like that. Mr Herman got confused and scared. He talked a streak.'
'And?' I said.
'And he came round to our way of thinking. Long and the short of it is, he's going to be working for us now instead of the commies. We've got him by the nads—excuse me, Miss—and he knows it.'
'I don't follow,' I said. 'You mean everything goes on as before—the film and everything?'
'Yup. No change, and we've got a little something for you, Mr Browning, by way of thanks for your cooperation and services.'
I glanced uneasily at May Lin. Was this it? The sting in the tail. I hadn't known the FBI to be magnanimous in my dealings with it so far. Duke opened his briefcase, took out some official-looking papers and handed them across. They were application forms for US citizenship, made out in the name of Richard Kelly Browning and endorsed by Loren P. Duke and someone else whose stamp proclaimed him to be a judge of the district court in the County of Los Angeles in the state of California. I hastily covered up the date of my birth, which they'd got right, and shook Loren Duke's hand. He passed over his gold pen and I signed in the appropriate places.
'This is wonderful,' I said.
'Least we could do. And there's more.' He took a slip of paper from his pocket and read, 'I'm able to tell you that a decree of divorce was granted to Elizabeth Browning, nee MacKnight, under the Matrimonial Causes Act, Commonwealth of Australia, on May 8, 1939.'
I'd told May Lin about my Australian marriage and that I didn't know whether it was still in force. I hadn't told her about the next one, but since that was in 1929, it was invalid so it didn't matter28. I reached over and took her hand and didn't say a word. Loren Duke raised his beer in a toast and we drank. He said he'd file the citizenship papers and I could expect a ceremony 'pretty damn soon'. He didn't apologise for saying damn and I let it pass. May Lin and I went to bed and made love for about the fiftieth time, although it felt like the first.
I did some more nonsense at the studio over the next few weeks. Then May Lin and I got married. The Reverend Peter Moon performed the ceremony in a little church off Venice Boulevard. Mrs Tan was there along with Singapore Sam and some more of May Lin's relatives and friends. Loren Duke was my best man and there was a scattering of movie people and journalists and gamblers and drinkers I'd got to know over the years. After a party at Sam's place we drove to Palm Springs for the honeymoon.
The Desert Sands hotel was a series of well-appointed cabins set around a large swimming pool and surrounded by lush, tropical gardens. It must have taken a million gallons of water a day to get it like that. God knows where they got it from. May Lin and I made love morning, noon and night, took drives out into the desert, ate in the Palm Springs restaurants, played a little golf and swam in the pool. After a week in the sun I was as dark as a Latin. May Lin's smooth ivory skin took on a light tan and that was all. We walked, talked and spent every second together. She admired me and I admired her and we admired ourselves.
One morning I went down to the pool and swam a few laps before lying in the sun with the morning paper. A guy came down in a bathrobe, peeled it off to reveal a stocky, slightly flabby body which looked a lot better when he began doing fancy dives into the pool from the low board. It was Raymond Chandler. When he stopped diving I went up and we got to talking. He'd heard about Pete but didn't know the details. He said he'd miss him and had been sorry to hear what had happened.
'You were more or less right about Hart Sallust's hiding place,' I said. 'He had his jug under some burlap sacks in the garage. He hid other things there, too.'
Chandler puffed on his pipe and nodded. 'I should write something about that one of these days29.'
'Raymio,' a chirpy voice said, 'who's your young friend?'
Cissie Chandler was wearing a flowing white frock with a wide-brimmed hat and carrying a parasol. She sat down next to Chandler under the sun umbrella and put a camera on the slatted table.
Chandler locked his right index finger around hers, which was cased in a white lace glove. 'This is Mr Browning, darling. I think he came to the house once.'
Cissie peered at me through her tinted spectacles. 'Oh yes,' she said. 'I sent him off to look for you at that awful party from which you returned very drunk.'
Chandler coughed. 'Drying out down here, Browning. Before getting back to work. What brings you here?'
'Just a holiday,' I said. There was something so awful-seeming about the Chandler marriage that I didn't want to refer to mine.
'Uh huh. Where's Taki, darling?'
Cissie ordered an iced tea from the waiter who drifted up. Chandler did the same and I ordered coffee, although I felt like a double scotch.
'Here he is,' Cissie said.
A large, black Persian cat sprang onto the table. It scowled at the waiter when he distributed the cups and glasses. Cissie Chandler took a sip of her iced tea and reached for her camera.
'Let me get one of you and Mr Browning and Taki,' she said. 'You make such a lovely trio.'
I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could, so I reached for the cat. The brute scratched me. I heard Chandler chuckle just as Cissie snapped the picture. I said the scratch was nothing, drank my coffee and said goodbye. I gave them my address at the Bryson and promised to visit them in LA. I felt a bit guilty about not honouring the promise when I got a copy of the snapshot in the mail a few weeks later, but I still did nothing about it. I heard they moved to La Jolla.
Back in Hollywood, May Lin got work as a script editor and I continued to meet with Herman and John Farrow and play charades. The war started to go better for our side. My citizenship came through and May Lin and I started to talk about buying a house. Towards the end of the year I got a call from Farrow at the Bryson.
'Browning, this is Farrow.'
'Yes, mate?'
He sighed. 'You don't have to lay it on for me. Good news, or bad, depending on how you look at it.'
'Yeah?' I said.
He laughed. 'Yes. Get packed, cobber. You're going to Australia.'
24
Now that we had really got to it, I wasn't so sure. I'd be going to Australia, where there were at least a couple of major criminal charges pending against me, not to mention civil matters, on the say-so of the FBI. Experience had taught me what that was worth. I went home in a state of considerable agitation. May Lin was still at work and I managed to get drunker than I'd intended. When she arrived, she was less than pleased to find me reeling around the apartment babbling about my past misfortunes and present problems.
I don't remember much about the fight we had. I guess I must have spilled too many beans—told her my age, something of my war history, maybe. Unheroic stuff anyway. I don't know what I coul
d have been uncomplimentary about, because I loved her to distraction. Everything she did was fine by me, although I might have said something about her habit of leaving cigarette butts in the bathroom, the smell of the incense she was always burning and the cousins in white suits who kept turning up and borrowing money. The upshot was she walked out, calling me an old, drunken fool. I proceeded to prove her right that night and for the next few following.
She moved back into her Venice apartment. One of the bigger white-suited cousins came and collected her things. I didn't argue. What was the point? I was sick at heart about losing her and scared to death about flying in a military aircraft to Australia. Which pain was the greatest was hard to say. I drank a lot and gambled and quarrelled with people. I was a mess. Bobby Silk offered to fix me up with a girl.
'A redhead,' he said. 'Jugs like this and legs on her like you wouldn't believe.'
'You screw her then,' I said. 'Or is she one of your cast-offs?'
Bobby shrugged. His narrow shoulders were starting to get padded with fat. I wondered if he'd end up a blimp like his old man. 'Suit yourself, Dick. What can I do for you?'
I was due to fly out in two days. We were in his office. The décor was Chinese that season. It didn't help my mood. 'Is there any way I can get out of this piece of bullshit?'
Bobby examined his manicure. 'Don't even think about it. Hey, Dick, you're looking older. That's great for the part.'
'Have I got any money coming?'
'You mean now?'
'Yes.'
Bobby let go a high-pitched laugh which he quickly cut off in favour of a deeper chuckle. 'What you've got is debts, unearned advances, obligations. Polish up your saluting, Dick. That's my advice to you.'
He demonstrated what he meant by snapping off a smart one from where he sat behind his big desk. I nearly hit him.
The B-52 took off from Burbank at 0530 hours, which is early in anybody's language and damn early in mine. Needless to say, there were no movie people on board. Farrow and Herman had said their goodbyes the day before and there was no sign of Spencer Tracy or Bette Davis. I was decked out in the uniform of a US army captain. Don't ask me why. My travelling companions were a Colonel Westmacott from Alabama, a Major Smith from Washington and a few lower ranks who seemed to be along to keep the brass happy and comfortable. There was the air crew, of course, smooth, confident types as I recall. I was introduced to them but I can't remember their names. The navigator looked like Errol Flynn. That might account for the lapse of memory.
I hadn't done much passenger flying and my own days at the stick were a long way behind me, but nothing seemed to have changed. The plane was noisy, smelly, uncomfortable and cold. We sat strapped into metal and webbing seats, and for amenities we had army blankets, thermos coffee and sandwiches.
'What's our route?' I shouted to Major Smith over the din of the engine and the rattling rivets.
'Hawaii, then Bris-bane.' He produced a map and drew two lines on it with a ballpoint pen. I think this was the first time I'd seen one of these and I guess Major Smith seized every opportunity to demonstrate his. You needed clout to get hold of one. I was too worried to be impressed. I looked at the speck in the middle of the vast ocean, joined by a thin line to the solid mass of Australia. It looked like a hell of a long way. I started to listen to the notes of the engines, worrying when I fancied I could hear a missed beat. But my ears were popping so much and my teeth were chattering so hard I couldn't be sure of anything.
'Understand you're a movie star,' Colonel Westmacott said. 'Brave man to be coming out to the Pacific. Should be more like you 'n' Gable. Have a drink.'
He uncorked a fifth of Early Times bourbon and the trip took an upswing right then. The colonel, the major and the captain flew in to Hawaii the best of friends, toasting Patton and Ike, cursing Hitler and Tojo, and agreeing that we might have to stop the Russkies at the Rhine. In Hawaii I got my first real experience of the American military in operation, as far as the serving officer is concerned. In my time I'd soldiered in Australian, British, Mexican and Canadian armies and I have to say that the Americans put them all to shame—for laying on the good things of life, that is. What the Yanks were like in the field I never found out, thank God.
I was given hot food, beer, coffee and brandy and a cot in a fan-cooled room while they got the plane ready for the next leg. After a quick shower I was feeling in fine fettle as we took off for the hop to Queensland. I was a little surprised to find that Colonel Westmacott wasn't joining us for the flight to Australia. He'd been very enthusiastic about harrying the Japs out of the Pacific.
'Colonel's a desk man essentially,' the major said. 'Me, I'm hoping to see action.'
I nodded. 'Me, too, in a manner of speaking.' I was thinking about the lines on his map. Well south of the Solomons, and the Japs were beaten there anyway, weren't they? This is a milk run.
We struck some turbulence six hours out.
The navigator stuck his head out through the cockpit door. 'Hey, guys,' he drawled, 'little dirty weather around here. Buckle up tight and hang on to your drinks.'
I tried to look through the small window behind me but it was running with moisture. We seemed to be in the middle of an endless cloud. It muffled the sound of the engine and I had the feeling that I was floating through space, cut adrift from everything and everybody. Lightning flashed around us and thunder claps shook the plane. It was weird: every man in the personnel section, wedged in between the flight control cabin and the cargo hold, lit a cigarette, simultaneously.
As the tobacco fug mounted the plane began to shake and buck. I wanted to rush into the cockpit and tell these greenhorns what to do, but fear kept me plastered to my seat. Bottles magically appeared, quite a few of them. We passed them backwards and forwards and the cigarettes and differences in rank seemed to disappear. We were all bent on demonstrating our lack of fear. My guts were churning and my hands shook. One of the Yanks started singing 'Begin the Beguine' and I joined in. Then I realised that my voice had developed a squeak and I shut up.
After a while everyone fell silent. The plane dropped, sickeningly, through hundred-foot air pockets and was buffeted by screaming winds. The noise of the storm drowned out the engines. From time to time the windows were filled with blue and yellow lightning from flashes that seemed to miss us by inches. Then there was a crash and the plane seemed to twist on its axis and drop a thousand feet in a second. The lights in the cabin went out.
Someone said, 'Lightning strike,' and the next sound I heard was two fear-choked voices praying.
The nose had dropped and we were heading down, but not spinning. Some instinct told me not to stay there buckled into a metal seat with the resistance of a soup can. I undid my belt and felt my way back towards the cargo hold. The payload was bolted to stanchions riveted to the floor and strapped down with metal hawsers. I found a space between two large, anchored and lashed-down crates. I crawled in there and crouched with my head on my knees.
The storm howled and the engines screamed. Lightning crackled; my hidey-hole was lit up for brief, flaring seconds. I could read the stencilling on the crates—US NAVY, BELT FEED, .45, × 50000. Crouched there in the dark, I wondered what the hell it meant. It came to me at the moment the plane shuddered from end to end as if a rocket had hit it. Ammunition! I was wedged in between thousands of rounds of live ammunition. It was almost funny. I almost laughed. Then all sound ceased; there was a gliding sensation that was more frightening than the deafening noise. I curled up like a foetus. I might have prayed, I don't remember. I heard a noise like the crack of a thousand stockwhips and everything went dead silent, still and black.
I sometimes think that death is the only significant experience I've not had—ecstasy, misery, wealth, impoverishment, imprisonment, torture, critical illness, brilliant success—I've had 'em all, except the big one. I thought I'd had it then, when the B-52 came down and, as I slowly came back to my senses, my first reaction was almost of irritation. Jesus Chris
t, I thought muddle-headedly, will I have to go through all this again? This was replaced quickly by relief. Then terror. The plane was down and I was still cuddled up to several tons of explosive substance. I wriggled out of the space without even wondering whether any part of me was broken. Nothing was. I had a stiff neck, a sore shoulder and a pounding headache, but I was intact. I was drenched in sweat but I couldn't feel any flowing blood.
I crawled out. The front section of the plane was a mausoleum. The cockpit had been driven back into the personnel section, which had been penetrated by several tree branches. The metal seats had come adrift and the ribs of the aircraft had collapsed inwards, slicing and spearing men. I saw three bodies and parts of several more. I was whimpering with fear as I crawled past them towards a faint light—a gaping hole in the side above the port wing, or where the wing should have been. It had been sheared off on impact. I heaved myself up to the hole and gazed through it at dense jungle, shrouded in grey mist. The edges of the hole were razor sharp and I'm pretty sure I was weeping as I draped a couple of blankets and major Smith's greatcoat over the metal. I knew the major wouldn't be needing it—his head was no longer attached to his body.
Somehow I managed to climb out, steady myself on the stub of the wing and work my way back to where I could jump to the ground. If I was game. It was almost dark and I'd be jumping an uncertain distance onto an uncertain surface. Then I thought about the ammo and I jumped. I came down on a huge springy fern, fought free of its damp, sticky fronds and got my feet onto solid ground. In the last of the daylight I could see that the plane had clipped a big outcrop of rocks, slewed around and ploughed its way down through a thick stand of towering trees. It had come to rest with its nose flat against more rocks. The body of the plane, minus one wing and penetrated in various places by tree trunks and branches, lay on a high rock shelf . From my flying days I knew that the only sensible thing to do with downed aircraft was to get clear of them. Fuel leaks, sparks, electrical connections, hot metal ignition—anything could happen at any time.