The Silver Blonde

by Elizabeth Ross

  “Ach so.” A sharp look in his eye. “You’ve been busy, clever girl.” He shook his head. “I haven’t heard of that film in a long time.” He shrugged. “It was just a camera test out in the desert, a small crew. I didn’t know about it at the time. Mr. Pearce kept it a secret.”

  “I asked Miss Simkin about it,” said Clara. “She claimed the reel was melted down for silver—destroyed. I think she’s lying. She pretended it was an old black-and-white picture. But the camera test was shot in color.”

  Max nodded. “You’re right, it was a beautiful color nitrate. They spared no expense.”

  Clara’s mouth fell open. “You’ve seen it?”

  Max removed his glasses and blinked a few times. “The first I heard of it was in December ’41—I remember because it was after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Such a strange time. The US was now at war.” He shook his head, remembering. “It was right before the holidays when Miss Simkin came to me.” He held his glasses up to the light, then cleaned them methodically with the fat of his tie.

  Clara leaned forward. “Go on,” she said, eyes wide.

  “The studio was quiet. Most people had left on vacation. Miss Simkin showed up in the projection room. I remember so clearly because normally she never brought the dailies over herself. But she stood there in the doorway.” He gestured to the door behind Clara. “She was clutching a reel. She told me that Mr. Pearce had asked her to destroy it. She handed it to me and said something like ‘The past shouldn’t be swept under the rug.’ She said I would understand as soon as I saw the footage. If I agreed with her, I was to hang on to it.” He put his glasses back on. “I don’t think Mr. Pearce would ever guess that someone like Miss Simkin would disobey an order. ‘Film widow.’ That’s what they call someone like her, a mature woman who works all her life for the studio—no husband, no children. A stupid expression. But she was someone Pearce trusted.”

  “And—what did you do?” asked Clara, unable to keep the eager note out of her voice.

  “After I watched it, I felt sick to my stomach.” His lips curled. “Leni Riefenstahl, as pretty as a swastika—and in that beautiful color nitrate.” He shook his head.

  “She was in the film?”

  Max nodded. “Oh, yes. Starring role: queen of the Amazons. The whole town was turning her away, and our studio boss was planning Leni Riefenstahl’s Hollywood career. That’s some chutzpah.” He laughed without smiling. “By now it was 1941 and America was at war with Germany. If word of the film got out, it would look very bad for Mr. Pearce.”

  “Wait—why did Simkin bring it to you? Why didn’t she just shelve it somewhere? It would be easy for her to hide it in the vaults,” said Clara.

  Max shook his head. “She didn’t want it in her archive. She never wanted to know where it was. She could tell Pearce, without lying, that the reel was no longer in the vault. You see, her loyalty to the studio, to Pearce, had been tested.” He sighed. “Everyone knew the Pearce family politics, but we ignored it for the most part. Until Riefenstahl’s visit, it didn’t spill over into the running of the studio. I found out later that Simkin’s nephew was killed at Pearl Harbor. I believe that for her to follow orders and destroy that film would have made her feel complicit. She couldn’t do it.”

  Clara thought back to Simkin’s stiff reaction to the missing film. It made sense now. She hadn’t been covering for Pearce, she had disobeyed him. The mention of the film must have brought back memories of her nephew. “Where is it now? Do you still have the reel? It’s solid proof, Pearce’s motive for murdering the stand-in Connie Milligan.”

  “Mr. Pearce?” Max folded his arms. “I don’t admire everything about the man—his politics, for starters—but that’s a big accusation, murder.” The word settled around them, a sour note in the air. “Klara?” He peered at her over his glasses.

  “Why not? You don’t think Pearce would do anything he could to stop a scandal involving Amazon Queen? Connie knew all about it. She witnessed them sign the contract. Her death can’t be a coincidence,” said Clara. “I know that somehow Leni’s visit in 1938 is connected to Connie’s murder. If I could just find the reel of film…”

  Max remained silent.

  “Max, you’ve got to believe me.” Clara kept pushing. “You said you wish you’d stood up to Pearce when he made you screen Olympia. Now’s your chance to do the right thing. Tell me, where is it? Where did you put the reel?”

  Max didn’t have a chance to respond. The screening room door banged open; the projection booth shuddered. Breathless, Walter, the new boy, stepped into the booth laden with reels.

  “Howdy, Max. Oh, hey, Clara,” he said, too upbeat. “Sam was looking for you. Said something about a photographer taking your picture?”

  Clara’s shoulders sank. The “Spotlight” column. Some poster girl for editorial, when she was never at her desk. Could she level with Sam and explain what she was up to—what was at stake?

  Walter held up three canisters. “Here’s the cut footage for the Argentan screening.”

  Max roused himself and put the reels onto his workbench. It felt cramped with the three of them clustered between projectors. Walter grinned, and Clara glared at him, wishing he would leave. She was finally getting somewhere with the search for the missing film, and here was Walter, muscling his way in where he didn’t belong.

  Max squinted at the first canister Walter had brought. “Film trivia for you kids.” He turned to them. “Best Picture 1943?” he asked randomly.

  “What?” said Clara. Where had this non sequitur come from? “What are you talking about?”

  “Best Picture 1943—for the movies released in ’42. You don’t know the answer?” he said with mock outrage.

  “Casablanca,” said Walter, proud of himself.

  Max tutted playfully. “It finally got the statue in ’44. Actually, they submitted it in ’43 as well, but that’s another story.”

  He turned to Clara. She answered automatically. “Best Picture 1943: A Call to Arms. A Silver Pacific film.” Max nodded and smiled knowingly. He turned and plucked a small key off a hook on the wall. “This is your prize, Klara,” he said, handing it to her. He retrieved a duster from the bucket of cleaning supplies under the bench. “The Oscars look dusty. Would you mind cleaning them?” He handed her the cloth.

  Clara bristled. “You want me to clean?” She wrinkled her forehead.

  “Yes, go on.” He nodded to the reels of Argentan. “I’ve got my hands full here.” She stood there dumbfounded. Walter smirked, enjoying her irritation.

  “Go on,” Max whispered, giving her a pointed look.

  Clara stared at the key, a vague idea blooming at the back of her mind. She went to leave. At the door of the projection booth, she paused and looked back at them. Walter had taken her place on the apple box and was stretching out his legs, settling in for a chat. And Max—she was struck with a sudden wave of pity, watching him thread the film, his knobby fingers, thickly veined; glasses perched on the end of his nose; posture hunched, so old suddenly.

  * * *

  —

  The lobby of the executive building was calm. Clara found herself in front of the Oscar display case—an army of gleaming statues, the crushed-red-velvet backdrop—key in one hand, duster in the other. She glanced about her, a knot of nerves in her chest, but then she supposed there was nothing as innocuous as a woman cleaning something.

  Gingerly she unlocked the cabinet and surveyed the awards. The statues shone like liquid; they didn’t need cleaning. She stuffed the duster into the waistband of her skirt and reached for the Best Picture Oscar from 1943, A Call to Arms. It was cool and smooth. She replayed the conversation with Max; the stoic gold man in her hands gave nothing away. Her eyes drifted to the velvet display. Then it hit her in a flash—of course! The Oscars were placed on prop film canisters. She felt a surge of adrenaline, and in
a deft move, she had traded the Oscar for its film canister pedestal. As soon as she held it, she could feel the weight—it was no prop. There was film inside. The statues appeared pretty much as they always had, one a hint less elevated. She swiftly locked the cabinet and turned to cross the lobby, the stolen reel glowing hot in her hands. She hesitated for a second—where to watch the film? She couldn’t go back to Max. He was preparing for a screening with Mr. Pearce, no less. Editorial. Sam needed her back anyway, and she could watch it on his Moviola once he left for the screening.

  Her heart beating like a drum, Clara strode out of the executive building as if she’d just robbed a bank. Scanning her surroundings, alert to danger, she reminded herself that nothing appeared out of the ordinary—she was a vault girl carrying a film canister. No one could guess its significance. The flood of knowledge made her swell. Her strides were long and purposeful—the thrill of the chase, uncovering the truth. Oscar gold was what Pearce would have wanted for Leni. And an army of statuettes had guarded his secret all these years. Until a no-name stand-in had come along. It was the reel Connie had been searching for in the vaults, and Clara had found it. Amazon Queen. It was proof in her grasp, the reason to silence Connie Milligan, the motive for murder.

  Thirty feet from the Writers’ Block, she saw a black Chrysler pulling away. Despite the warm afternoon light, she was filled with dread. As the car sailed past, she saw Detective Ireland at the wheel, and in the backseat sat Gil, flanked by Detective Rivetti. They weren’t smiling. A chill like an encroaching shadow spread down the length of her spine.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Hollywood Precinct

  WHAT HAPPENED NEXT PASSED in a kind of blur. Driven by habit, Clara found herself back at editorial. Thankfully, Sam wasn’t in the cutting room. Perhaps he was next door with the assistant editors. She put the reel of Amazon Queen in her desk drawer, then grabbed her jacket and purse. Minutes later Clara found herself outside the studio gates on Melrose, hailing a cab. “Hollywood precinct,” she told the driver.

  It was late afternoon when the taxi dropped Clara at the white art deco building. The only other time she had been in a police station was when she was thirteen, after her mother’s purse had been snatched. Just sitting in the waiting area under the eyes of so many cops had made her feel small and guilty of something.

  Today was different. She informed the bespectacled desk sergeant that she needed to speak with Detective Ireland right away, and a uniformed officer took her upstairs. She met every pair of eyes, feeling like Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday about to break a scoop and save the day.

  When she entered Ireland’s office, he was on the phone. It was cradled under his chin, and he was flicking through paperwork with one hand, ashing his cigarette with the other. He didn’t appear overly surprised to see her. He gestured with the hand holding the cigarette for her to take a seat.

  She perched on the hard chair, palms clasping her knees, desperate to know what they’d done with Gil. Overhead a ceiling fan sliced through the cigarette smoke and spread it across the already yellowed ceiling. The detective grunted into the receiver every so often. The wait was excruciating. Clara could barely sit still, brimming with her secret knowledge as the ash grew on the detective’s cigarette and the fan lazily spun in circles.

  Ireland nodded. “I’ll call you after it shakes out….Sure. Thank you, sir.” As he hung up the phone, Clara sprang to her feet.

  “Where’s Gil? Did you arrest him?”

  Ireland smashed his cigarette into the ashtray. “Good afternoon, Miss Berg. Why don’t you sit down.” When Clara remained standing, feet planted, he sighed wearily. “Your friend’s next door in an interview room. We haven’t charged him with anything—yet.”

  Clara clenched her fists. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “We have a witness, puts a man of his description in the vicinity of the vaults around the time of the murder. He’s going to have to do a lineup.” Ireland gestured to the chair again.

  “A witness?” Clara sank down onto the chair, the recollection of his changing story nagging her—No answer, miss. “What happens after the lineup?”

  The detective leaned back in his chair like a king on his throne. “If we get a positive ID, we’ll see if he wants to cooperate.”

  “Confess, you mean,” she shot back. Clara shook her head. “He didn’t do this.”

  Ireland gave her an incredulous look. “He was on the lot the night of the murder, just his word that he was alone in his office, no one to vouch for him. He has a romantic history with Barbara Bannon—one he neglected to mention when we questioned him.” Ireland shuffled some papers on his desk, looking for something.

  “That was years ago.” Clara sat forward, her eyes boring into Ireland’s receding hairline. “Babe Bannon is a distraction. Connie Milligan was the victim—not Miss Bannon.”

  Ireland reluctantly looked up. “There was no motive to murder Connie—”

  “Yes, there was,” Clara cut in.

  Ireland raised an eyebrow, almost amused. “I’m listening,” he said, humoring her.

  “Did you know that Connie Milligan worked for Conrad Pearce—years ago, when she was seventeen? She was his secretary for a few weeks, out in Palm Springs.”

  That got the detective’s attention. He straightened, and a small muscle twitched at his eye. “Go on,” he said, serious now.

  In a rush Clara told him about her theory, about Leni Riefenstahl’s visit to California in ’38, about the movie contract and Amazon Queen, about Connie working for Pearce over the vacation, and how Clara had found the magazine article in Connie’s room: “Nazi Pin-Up Girl.” When she finally came to a halt, Clara felt exhilarated, out of breath, heart pounding as though she’d run the trail up to Cedar Grove in Griffith Park. She waited for Ireland to catch up.

  The room was dead silent, as if both he and Clara were holding their breath. Eventually Ireland relaxed back into his chair. “That’s quite a story.” He tented his fingers, contemplating her. “You got any proof?”

  “The magazine article about Leni in Connie’s bedroom. And the test film from 1938—I have it. I think that’s what Connie was looking for in the vaults. And Connie told Bannon she had some leverage, something she could use to get ahead at the studio.”

  Ireland frowned. “Miss Bannon never mentioned that to us. Do you know if there was a blackmail note or any proof of Connie actually meeting with Pearce since she’d started working at Silver Pacific?”

  Clara shrugged. “I haven’t had a chance to figure it all out yet. There could be a note. Pearce’s secretary might know of a meeting.”

  Ireland pressed on. “Why was Connie blackmailing the studio head? I mean, what did she want out of it?”

  “An acting career,” said Clara. “Connie also told Miss Bannon that she could get Bannon out of her contract.”

  “Again, Miss Bannon didn’t mention any of this to us.” Clara’s triumph was fizzling. Ireland thought for a moment. “But for argument’s sake, let’s take a run at it. Let’s say Connie blackmailed Pearce to get a boost for her career or to help Miss Bannon, as you said. So Mr. Pearce has a motive. Does he have means, opportunity?”

  “He’s the head of the studio,” said Clara emphatically. “He could have access to any locked door on the lot—he owns the place.”

  Ireland gave a small shrug. “Possible. And opportunity? Where was he the night in question?”

  Clara flushed. She hadn’t even thought of that. She had been so busy with puzzle pieces and the thrill of the chase, she hadn’t considered the obvious. “I don’t know—I remember when he showed up in his big black car at around ten.”

  Ireland found his notebook and flipped through it. “About three hundred witnesses saw him in Pasadena at the sneak peak of the romantic comedy Two to Tango,” he said, reading from his notes. “The director, the pr
oducer, the other producer, and the writer were all there sitting on the same row. Mr. Pearce didn’t move for a hundred and eighteen minutes, looking sadder than a wet weekend, according to the director. Turns out, a hundred and eighteen minutes is way too long for a romantic comedy.”

  “He has an alibi?” Clara asked, dismayed.

  “It’s airtight.” He kept his eyes on her. “Unless they’re all in on a conspiracy, including the usherettes and the cinema management.” Clara stared, unbelieving, at his jowly face, his skin red like meat. “Conrad Pearce didn’t leave the theater.” Ireland closed his notebook and slapped it onto the table. “He couldn’t have done it.”

  Clara slumped back in her chair as though she were a boxer between rounds, on the losing end of a fight. “Mr. Pearce is a powerful man,” she said, refusing to believe that her theory had just collapsed. “What if he hired someone to do it?”

  The detective’s eyes were sharp and watchful. “You really think he’s gonna commit a murder on his own back lot, go to the trouble of making it look like the victim was his contract star?” He shook his head. “Disrupt filming, lose money by putting the crew on hiatus—not to mention it’s bad publicity for the studio? The whole thing is overblown—it’s complicated.”

  Clara flinched. Maybe he was right. She thought back to stage eleven, when Mr. Pearce, immaculately dressed, had made the announcement that Bannon was alive. He’d been polished and professional. She thought about his pristine office, all that white furniture. If a crime had a personality, this murder wasn’t his style. She blinked quickly, trying to think it through. “But the Leni article, the connections between Connie and Mr. Pearce? If he was desperate enough to keep that quiet…”

  “You found some neat coincidences,” Ireland went on, “but let’s face it. It’s all backstory. Nothing—no hard evidence—points to Pearce.” He took a beat. “Seems like you’re hung up on the Nazi filmmaker yourself.”