Hollywood Buzz (16 page)

Task completed, I returned the documents to the desk. An edge of errant paper protruded from the narrow crevice into which the roll top receded. I tugged. I tugged two more times before the roll top complied, closing over the desk. The paper—actually a letter sized envelope—remained lodged in the crack.

“Come here you little rogue,” I said, grasping its corner with a pinch.

The paper was cream-colored and felt thick in my hand. My first impression was of penmanship, jerky and scrawled. “Which stack do you belong in?” I began reading to uncover the answer. The subject matter had nothing to do with charity matters. Feeling like a spy, and filled with remorse for invading the Dunns’ privacy—yet unable to resist—I quickly read on, the paper shaking in my hand.

The writing sprawled across both sides of the sheet, and the ink on the bottom of the back page was smudged, as though it had been splashed with water. I strained to read what remained. From the looks of it, the obliterated portion had included the date, some additional lines including what appeared to be “Cairo,” and a signature.

The paper continued to tremble in my hand as I stared wide-eyed, uncertain what to do next. Hitler! Goebbels! Seeing the enemy names and the details of what they were doing to promote their heinous belief in German superiority and Germany’s right to rule the world curdled my stomach. I placed a shaky hand over my middle and took several deep breaths.

So much for being appalled with myself for spying on the Dunns. They were
real
spies.

The revelation about my hosts shocked me only momentarily. I’d suspected them of being involved in intelligence work almost from when we’d first met. Still, the cloak-and-dagger memo maintained its overwhelming hold on me.

The dispatch covered a matter important to the outcome of the war. Its author intended that the intelligence on UFA, as well as his ideas, be used in combating Nazi propaganda. What had the Dunns actually done with the information, I wondered. Had they passed it on up the line, or were they the ones actually responsible for coming up with a motion picture counter-strategy like the missive said should be developed?

A curse on Gunnar. Why hadn’t he leveled with me about his sister? If she was his sister.

A cold chill gripped me. There were no names mentioned in the salutation. I’d been assuming, because of where I’d found it, that the memo had been sent to the Dunns, that they were intelligence agents involved on our side. But “Comrades” could be anyone. What if the letter was in the Dunns’ possession because they’d intercepted it from the loyal American it was actually intended for? What if they were spies for the enemy?

I shook my head. A grotesque idea.

Cairo.
The Dunns had recently been to Cairo. I’d seen the tickets—2nd priority—on the table downstairs when I’d first arrived. Enemy spies, I assured my suspicious side, weren’t issued such tickets.

My date with Sam was closing in. I needed to make some decisions. The first one was obvious. There was no ready way to unravel the complexities of what I’d found, particularly since the Dunns were away. I would continue the evening as planned and put my thinking cap on again later.

But what to do with the memo? Keep it? Then where would I put it for safekeeping? Whoever it belonged to would notice it missing sooner or later. What if they traced it to me? My note-nabbing might not be appreciated. I could be in danger. Well, then…what if I took it and handed it off to someone official? Uh-uh. Without understanding who the memo belonged to and what was behind it, best to leave it where I’d found it, for now.

I carefully jimmied the paper into the crack as I’d found it, then gingerly opened the roll-top, leaving only the tiniest tip possible showing. A fair compromise, I concluded. It was where I could readily come upon it again. It was also where anyone else truly interested could find it as well. Maybe.

I bounded down the spiral stairs. A glance at my watch told me that a long soak in the tub was out—a quick shower was more like it. I considered skipping the visit to Della’s closet altogether, but a vision of the Spartan interior of the wardrobe in my room spurred me on.

The long racks on either side and in front of me were chock-f. Without Della’s guidance I hardly knew where to begin, but after some frenzied rummaging, I came upon a crepe dress in a heavenly shade of purple. Aubergine. The color I’d been told brought out the green in my eyes. Best of all, it wouldn’t conflict with the marmalade hue of my hair.

It took some jiggling to get the hanger’s hook off the pole. Then, because the dress was packed in so tightly, I had to pull a few times before it wrenched free of the remaining garments. On the final tug, I heard the barely distinguishable
plink
of a button hitting the hardwood floor.

I held the dress aloft, giving it a quick once over. It was in good shape; no missing buttons. In fact, the dress had no buttons at all. It zippered in the back.

I looked at the rack. In extricating the aubergine dress, I’d dragged out the sleeve of the black and white print dress that had been next to it. The sleeve rested at a peculiar angle against the packed rack of clothing making it impossible to overlook. H-E-DOUBLE TOOTHPICKS! A button was missing from its white piqué cuff.

My PK, pastor’s kid, conscience kicked in. A proper button was difficult to come by in normal times, but with the shortages these days, finding a replacement would be impossible.

In search of the button, I got down on my knees. Briskly, I shoved a path through the fabric jungle, sweeping the floor with my hands as I went. How curious. There it was, at rest in an ever so slight sliver of light.

It took some maneuvering, but I wedged my way to the rear of the closet. The light was coming through a fissure in the paneled wall. There was enough space between the wall and clothes to stand. The fissure, I discovered, was actually a discreet doorway that had been left ajar. Curling my fingers along the panel’s edge, I slowly pried it open.

Peering in, I saw a roughed-in space about the same size as Della’s walk-in closet. The area would have been ideal for storage, yet it appeared completely empty.

A barren bulb had been left on. In its glare, I recognized another concealed doorway in the wall to my left. It was secured with a padlock. From its location, I surmised the locked panel doorway led to an interior passageway. A shiver skittered up my spine as I envisioned a labyrinth of dark cobwebbed tunnels and the creepy figures that might exist beyond.

Moving quickly to stem the germination of additional gruesome thoughts, I began a situation assessment.

Grand older homes frequently had secret passageways. In this house, for instance, the library downstairs had a bar that swung around to the inside of the wall. And then there were the floorboards in the dining room alcove that parted with the turn of a “gizmo” to reveal or conceal a sunken table. So, why get all worked up about a hidden passageway off the master bedroom?

But why the padlock?

I took a step inside. Immediately, my foot caught. Metal crashed against the floor. I’d tumbled a stack of film cans. My pulse pounding wildly in my ears, I picked one up. From its weight, I knew a reel was housed inside.

The label was in German, but I didn’t need an interpreter to read
UFA Studio
.

The thin round can felt suddenly like a hot potato. I was holding something that belonged to the enemy. Something that an enemy had held in his hands. In reflex, I nearly let the tin drop.

Rallying, I dropped to my knees. I began righting the cans, thoughts about the Dunns chasing through my mind. They worked for intelligence, no doubt about it now. But what was this about? What were the classified films doing on the Dunns’ premises?

There were five cans in all. What was this? The bottom tins had toppled atop a large white envelope. For the second time within a quarter of an hour, I stuck my nose into something private. Except this time there was no correspondence, merely a 5x7 glossy. But what an image. Brody with a woman—not his wife. Holding the picture beneath the bare light bulb, I studied it. The woman was likely connected to the blackmail plot, possibly Brody’s murder. But who was she? Why was the photo here?

I returned the photograph to the envelope, the hairs at the back of my neck standing on end. Brody had been distracted by a similar envelope at the meeting I’d attended at MGM, hours before his death. The Cairo note. The UFA films. This photo. Rask simply had to take me into his confidence. He valued my perceptions, but didn’t he understand I could help him more than just by keeping alert for suspicious activity? I was scheduled to meet with him in his studio tomorrow. What better opportunity could there be to straighten him out?

With care, I set the final can on top of the stack, and retreated briskly to my room, a charge of adrenaline propelling me.

***

My shower was replaced by a quick bird bath. Nonetheless I felt refreshed and smelled of strawberries from the soap. Della’s aubergine dress fit perfectly and looked just fine with my standard black patent leather heels. Silk stockings would have been a nice touch, but were a luxury few could afford or find these days. Bare legs with no make up would have to do.

A parting glance in the mirror reflected a complexion aglow with the rush of getting ready and the anticipation of romance in the evening ahead. The high coloring might also have been due to the pressure of getting to the restaurant on time. I really was running late now.

***

Ilka and Bela were coming down the covered walkway as I was making my dash out to the Packard. They walked slowly, arm-in-arm with a woman dressed in a fur coat, scarf, and huge dark glasses.

Sunglasses at night! Wouldn’t you know. They were bringing home an actress on the night I was going out.

Ilka and Bela were on either side of the actress as we closed in on one another. The lamps along the walkway had been turned on, but were so sparsely arranged it was difficult to see much. From their pace and the protective manner of Ilka and Bela, I’d already surmised the woman was elderly. And, though the dimness and her disguise successfully hid whether she was anyone famous, I saw enough to confirm that indeed her face was deeply lined with age. Ahhh. Ilka had said she was going to a palm-reading fundraiser tonight. They’d brought home a movie queen from the past, perhaps a silent film star. Likely in need of a private intensive palm reading. Maybe an herbal treatment of some sort.

“Ilka, Bela,” I called. “Hi!”

The greeting startled the group. They’d been concentrating their attention on chatting and navigating the walkway. Ilka’s mouth hung open and Bella’s eyes remained locked in the wide surprise I remembered from
Dracula
when Professor Van Helsing, supposedly succumbing to Dracula’s hypnotic spell, suddenly shows a crucifix and drives the vampire away. The elder woman, her lips coated in a red lipstick vivid even in the semi-dark, twisted them nervously.

What had they expected? A tabloid photographer?

The actress ducked her head as I approached, getting closer.

Ilka was first to recover. She stepped so that the actress was blocked almost completely from my view. “Pucci,
édesem
. On your way out?” The hopeful tone in her voice suggested she’d be disappointed if I wasn’t.