Hollywood Buzz (20 page)

We looked at Frankie. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like a long time, but could only have been moments. I took a deep breath and glimpsed my watch. I could not be here when the authorities arrived. I would need a sabotage update from Miss C first. They’d get to me soon enough anyway, I suspected.

I squeezed the nurse’s shoulder. “I’m expected at the studio. I’ll check back with you soon.”

Turning to leave, the sight of Frankie’s flight jacket, hanging inside the closet, stopped me. The leather was badly shredded. Blood stains marred her saddle shoes. There was something so personal about the shoes and something so ominous about seeing the spilled blood on them. The times I’d been with Frankie, she’d been wearing those shoes. That’s how I remembered her. Full of life. Walking around in saddle shoes. Not some cold lifeless form lying in a sterile hospital bed, the victim of some crazed fanatic.

I marched back to her and gulped down the lump forming in my throat. “Who could have done this to you Frankie?” My voice cracked. I took a deep breath. When I spoke again, my voice was resolute. “Frankie, we’re going to find the person who did this. We’ll get the guy. He’ll pay. That’s a promise.”

I brushed her forehead ever so lightly with a kiss. My eyelashes skimmed the sutures of the gash. The angry red scar—now purple—the black sutures, the crusted bleeding points filled my vision. I knew the sight would remain in my mind forever. So would the spilled blood I’d seen on Frankie’s shoes.

***

If the typing pool gals were curious about my swollen eyes and scratched face, they said nothing. Several sets of peepers flicked up from whatever project they’d been concentrating on as I whisked by. My grim persona might have warned them off or it could have been my determined pace, but not a peep as I weaved through the warren of desks to get to the hall.

It was beyond me how I would make it through the day, but I’d made a promise to Frankie. And each step I took, each task I finished, each clue I uncovered, would bring me closer to unmasking the saboteur, who it now appeared had decisively finished the job.

First up, I needed to talk with Miss C. In the booth, I placed my call. The receptionist at the hotel where she was staying—the appointed place for reaching her—reported she was out for the day. “It’s absolutely not possible to contact her,” said an annoying child-like voice on the other end. “She did not leave word where she was going.”

I slammed the receiver into its cradle, slid to the wooden seat, and sighed. “Curses.”

I heaved myself up. If Miss C could stay the course no matter what else might be going on, so could I.

***

A telephone slip with a message from Ilka sat propped on my desk. The note said that the filming of her movie, in truth only a “briefie,” would take place the next morning at MGM. She hoped I could make it.

Ilka had already made the point that hers was not a speaking part. Now I thought she might be trying to set my expectations. A briefie, as the name suggested, wouldn’t be much of a film production. In purpose, briefies were similar to Victory shorts—they showed citizens how to conserve, assist, and sacrifice for the war effort, or they conveyed celebrity pleas on behalf of war charities. But while Victory shorts such as the one we were making about the WASP ran about twenty minutes in length, briefies—more of an announcement than anything—were only about one or two minutes.

Still, seeing Ilka in action was a bright spot to look forward to. I checked my calendar. I could do it, but it’d be tight. The ferrying shoot was scheduled later in the day.

A second part to Ilka’s message reminded me that tonight was the Hungarian Federation auction at the Grand Hotel. I would be on my own for dinner.

My thoughts skipped back to the P-51 ferrying shoot and I slumped in my seat, picking at my cuticles. I had a lot riding on the segment. If I wanted to have a hand in developing and producing other ideas I’d proposed for improving
Sky Belles
, Novara had to be impressed with how this came off. That meant my performance and the production logistics had to be flawless.

Before going to the hospital, I’d feared my life could be on the line doing the sequence. Far as I knew, the saboteur was still on the loose. But now that it looked like he’d been after Frankie all along, could I take the P-51 up without worry? No, someone had wanted to send a message that women should not be flying military planes. A message meant to frighten us off. Which circled back to would he try to eliminate other WASPs who would dare to flaunt what they did before a camera?

I recoiled in pain. I’d torn a cuticle. As if my hands didn’t look bad enough! Immediately, I was ashamed. I was worried about appearance? Frankie had lost her life. Why had Miss C left the decision up to me?

Mad Max! Maybe she’d heard something further.

I dashed back to the pay phone and got through to Max directly. That was as far as my good fortune would extend. It didn’t occur to me until she picked up that Max wouldn’t have yet heard about Frankie. It took a little time—I started crying more than once—but I told her what had happened. Afterwards, a few empty seconds passed while neither of us felt like speaking.

Max broke the silence. “So the bastard thought she knew something. Was afraid she’d talk if she pulled through.”

My heart pounded. “Wha-what are you saying? He thought she knew who did it? That’s the motive?”

“Yeah, but seems strange to take the risk, given her already near-death condition.”

Recalling how proud I’d been over Frankie’s small breakthrough in muttering some incomprehensible sounds, I felt sick. Had she been trying to give me a name? Who had I bragged to? The nurse. Sam. Gus. Miss C…Had they told others? Had I? Had word that she’d “talked” reached the killer?

It was too much to even suppose I might have unintentionally triggered Frankie’s demise. I forced the nightmarish proposition from my mind.

We turned to whether I should fly. Max had seen or heard nothing to suggest that an official investigation into Frankie’s crash was underway. So was it still open season?

Miss C would take the P-51 up, I reminded myself. And in the hospital, I’d had the idea of honoring Frankie by dedicating my flight—and the film—to her.

I resolved to go ahead.

After telling Max my decision, we agreed on a slight compromise. Following Miss C’s suggestion, Max would conduct the P-51’s final inspection. She’d test the fuel. We’d also go over the plane as a team, eyes peeled for signs of tampering.

We hung up, and I began wrestling with the next problem.

Novara had given Sam and me joint responsibility for writing up all the new segments I’d recommended. Last night, after drafting the basics of the ferrying scenario, Sam had said he’d place a call to get us the necessary technical crew and film equipment. I’d volunteered to check in with March Field to be certain all flight arrangements and protocol requirements were adequately covered. As a last step in our plan, we’d agreed on reconnoitering in Sam’s office later this morning to type up the ferrying scene in script format, then go as a team to see Novara for final approval.

That had been the plan before the unexpected disastrous end to our evening. Sam had been so weird when he threw me out of his house, I wasn’t sure what to expect now. Would he come through with his side of the arrangements? Would he do something to make me look bad?

I stared at the cracks in the plaster ceiling, looking for an alternative course of action. Preferably one that sidestepped my having contact with Sam Lorenz.

I got to work. First, I had to tie up the loose ends of the improvement measures I’d proposed.

Back in the telephone booth, I made the necessary calls to nail down the people I wanted to cast. I enlisted the commander of the New Castle AAF Base in Wilmington, Delaware. As someone who had more planes to move than he could handle, the WASP had come through for him time and time again. A staunch supporter, he was delighted for the chance to share his experiences.

I also got in touch with a number of pilots who offered to relay their experiences of flying with a WASP copilot. Most effective, I thought, would be an interview with the pilot who’d offered to talk about a heavy bomber experience. The positive things he had to say—especially since the plane he and a WASP had jointly flown was a B-24, a flying monster known for being notoriously hard to handle—was the exact kind of acclaim Miss C wanted our movie to project.

Highly regarded ground crewmen said they’d be happy to go before a camera and discuss their encounters with WASP. Their crew chief had enormous potential. He told me openly how, early in the war, he’d thought,
and hoped
, his dealings with women pilots would be short-lived. Instead, after working with WASP on a regular basis for the past year and a half, he’d had a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree change of heart. He raved about the professionalism, competence, and dedication he’d encountered. We needed to get it on film.

After securing permission to borrow an idle typewriter, I shouldered a borrowed canvas tote filled with carbon sheets and a ream of paper, then trudged with my load to my private dressing room office. The machine fit perfectly on Carole Landis’ dressing table.

Chapter Fourteen

Perched on the vanity bench in Landis’ dressing room, I pounded out each of the concepts in script form. For the first time in my life, I created dialogue, narrative for voice-overs, and scene descriptions. I was no screen writer, but the format Sam and I had laid out for the ferrying segment helped. So did the original script.

At last, a rough shooting script for every one of the new or revamped scenarios had been completed. There was an original and one carbon copy each for Roland Novara, Sam Lorenz, and Miss C. I even mapped out a shooting schedule, including alternative dates, which I typed up for everyone as well.

It was late afternoon when I finished. Tempted to rest my tired bones and drained psyche across the room on the inviting blue satin couch, I resisted. Instead I gathered the discarded sheets of paper from the floor, scrunching them in my hands as I strolled to a wicker clothes hamper in the room’s far corner. My plan was to stash the discards until later when, less burdened by the items I’d hauled over from administration, I could dispose of the trash properly. I opened the lid. Someone else had gotten the brainstorm before me. Only it wasn’t stored rubbish I was looking at, but film cans.

Crunched paper cradled in one arm, I lifted the top reel out. My breath caught. UFA film. I peered deeper into the bin and saw five additional reels. What were German film cans doing inside a clothes hamper in Carole Landis’ dressing room? A version of the question and its ominous undertones had come to me in the hidden alcove off Della’s closet. Had someone moved the cans from the Dunns’ to here?

I returned the reel, flipped the lid of the hamper closed, and walked in a bewildered state toward the sofa. I spilled my crunched pages onto the satin cushions, unsure what to do next. The appearance in the doorway of MP Sergeant Winwar made my decision easy.

His gaze volleyed from the mess on the sofa to the typewriter on the vanity to me.

“These walls are thin,” he said, nodding to the blue-flocked wallpapered panel at my back. “Heard a tapping noise clear outside.” Tugging up his pistol belt, giving me a once over so slow and intense it was obscene, he took a few steps toward me. “Then I ain’t the one who should be doin’ the explainin’, am I?”

Be grateful for small things, I told myself. He’s not the least bit interested in what’s above your shoulders, including your scratched up face.

My brightest smile in place, honey-trap training engaged, I returned the lecherous gaze.

“How great you came by, Sergeant. I’m finished here”—I glimpsed my watch—“just under deadline. Gotta run.” With haste, I packed my satchel, slung it on my shoulder, picked up the typewriter. “Got a meeting at administration…with Reagan.” It was a strain, especially loaded down the way I was, but, channeling Mae West, I batted my eyes, sidling close to him. “Care to accompany me, Sergeant?” I drawled.

“
Molto bello
…sure.”

He reached to hitch his belt. I got there with the typewriter first. Thrusting it into his hands, I savored the shock on his face before turning for the door.

***

Back in the secretarial pool, after asking one of the gals to air mail Miss C’s packet and to arrange hand delivery to Novara and Sam, I sagged back in my chair, exhausted. Hopefully, by putting everything on paper, I’d bypassed—or minimized—any future association with Sam.

I sent a little prayer to the Woman upstairs. If today’s efforts paid off, the Victory short would be a giant step closer to a successful conclusion. I’d get the chance to fly a plane of my dreams and pay small tribute to my sister WASP.

A glance at the time catapulted me from my chair. Gunnar and I had agreed I’d stop by before the end of the day. He’d promised to let me preview the training film that included Frankie’s crash scene.

Winwar had been target practice for what else was on my agenda with Gunnar. He had some explaining to do, ready or not.

***

Moments later, I arrived at the two-story brick editing building. An exterior staircase led to the second floor where Gunnar said I’d find his office.

I skipped up the stairs, entering directly into a long corridor. Most of the doors were shut, but the door of one brightly lit room stood invitingly open.

I looked in and saw an airy space with tall windows and a high ceiling. “Artist’s garret” immediately came to mind. But rather than smocked painters dabbing brush to canvas, a dozen or so men in uniform manned assorted film processing equipment.

Ordered chaos. Strips of film were everywhere. They adorned the necks of the soldiers, they were clipped to shelving, they dangled from large garbage bins placed strategically around the room. Men held them up to ceiling lights or over light panels built into their desks. And film cans everywhere, stacked on the desks and on the floor; filling racks along the walls.

I started back down the hall to the office I thought was Gunnar’s. The door was slightly ajar. I rapped lightly, then stepped into a long, narrow room not much larger than Della’s walk-in closet.

Editing equipment and film reels cluttered two desks pushed end-to-end along the wall immediately to my left. A narrow table with a radio speaker and other sound gear was flush to the wall at the room’s far end. Orderly rows of film cans in a metal shelf unit ran the length of the room directly ahead.

Another table occupied the room’s center. It held a machine like a projector, but bigger and with more gadgetry. Gunnar stood beside it, a long length of film draping his neck like a stole. He held an end section of film between white-gloved hands, studying it.

“Pucci, glad you could make it.” He sounded genuinely pleased to see me.

The friendly welcome and change of scenery were heartening after my brutal day. Yet I was all business. “I’m here to see the training film with the clip of Frankie’s accident.”

“Right. The demonstration of the new fire-fighting equipment. I’ll get it.”

He removed the loop from around his neck, slipping it into a nearby bin, and walked over to the wall unit. He glanced casually over his shoulder. “What happened to your face?”

My hand flew to the telltale marks. “Nothing interesting.” I gingerly smoothed the raw skin. “How do you keep track of all these pieces of film? They’re all over the place.”

“There’s a method to the madness. The tins are numbered, there’s a card index, and script secretaries record what goes on at every set. They give us detailed notes of each day’s work. In there.” He gestured to a large notebook on the nearby desk, then pulled one of the round tins from the shelf, waving it. “Every foot of film in this can is numbered and registered.”

He snapped the reel from the can, and began stringing it through the machine. “This is a movieola…”

“But what exactly do you do? In layman’s terms, that is.”

Gunnar stopped threading film for a moment. “A film editor joins together sections of footage to make a lucid, dramatic, and emotional whole.”

“Emotional? An Army training film, emotional?”

Gunnar nodded. “It’s why the Pentagon enlisted Hollywood for the war effort. Washington believes soldiers are getting the kind of training in three weeks that prewar and pre-Hollywood used to take thirteen. Know-how, especially good editing, livens up the dull subject matter. A good number of our soldiers are eighteen year olds, remember. And we’re dealing in technical, often difficult, subject matter. Background music, crisp narration, bits of comedy—it’s what’s needed to maintain attention and retention.”

I regarded Gunnar’s face as he spoke. It was a kind face, and his features were strong and handsome. For the first time, I noticed the sensual curve of his lips. I blinked and tuned back in to what he was saying.

“If an editor’s any good he can turn a yawning subject into something powerful.” He paused abruptly. “Sorry. Sounds like I’m bragging again, huh?”

He smiled. It was a smile that under different circumstances might have melted my heart. But at the moment my heart felt bruised and numb.

Gunnar slipped the celluloid strip through the final slot. “Here, take a look.”

I put on a headset. Gunnar flipped a switch and the film began. After a few minutes, I understood what he was talking about.

The training segment began in the traditional manner—a classroom scene with an instructor showing and telling about the new firefighting product, but soon an A-24 towing a target was crossing the sky. It was what I’d come to see. My stomach flip-flopped. I stared into the viewer stupefied, as Frankie’s plane stalled, then plummeted out of control to earth.

I couldn’t pull my eyes away. I continued to stare even after the plane hit the ground. When the crash was on the screen in the rushes, I’d been so sickened by the sight that I could hardly watch. I’d missed much of the ground crew’s efforts as they brought Frankie out and tried salvaging the plane, but I had a good recollection of the scene. What was rolling now was not footage of Frankie’s A-24.

I watched the fire fighters emerge from the wreck leading the pilot, dazed but ambulatory, to safety. Incredible. The pilot was not Frankie. She’d been taken away by stretcher.

I didn’t need to see more. The piece was professional and effective, a good teaching tool. Most important, Frankie was in no way identified with the crash.

I straightened up. “It’s good. Frankie would have been proud.” The predictable happened. My voice caught.

Gunnar looked at me. His dusk-sky blue eyes caught mine. He hesitated, concern written all over his face.

I pushed on fast, fighting the wave of emotion threatening to wash over me. “Frankie’s dead.” Tears flooded my vision.

Gunnar produced a handkerchief. I wiped my eyes.

There was no point in bringing up the likelihood that Frankie had been murdered. The details surrounding the means of death, while suspicious, had not yet been determined. In any event, his case involving Brody was separate from mine involving Frankie. And I was here to find some answers from him.

Gunnar lifted my chin. His voice was sad, sweet. “Hey, Frankie has gone on to a bigger adventure.”

I couldn’t resist a small smile. “Thanks. A comforting thought.”

Gunnar cleared his throat. “Ah, there’s something else.” I looked at him. He patted the movieola. “This footage just helped convince a certain Admiral to send thousands of tons of the foam material to the Pacific.”

“Really? Why?”

“The Japs have been dropping Baka bombs on our aircraft carriers. We haven’t seen bombs like these before. They cause such extensive and extraordinary damage that ordinary fire-fighting equipment can’t put the fires out fast enough. Casualties have been much higher…Men have suffered horrible deaths.” Gunnar paused. “After seeing this film, the Admiral believes the foam will help resolve the problem.

“So you see, the camera and the right footage—the clip of Frankie’s accident, in this instance—they’re as important to the war effort as any high-powered weapon the military has at its disposal.”

“Right,” I replied softly. I nodded to the machine. “Tell me, I have to know. How did you make it appear Frankie’s plane was in flames? Her plane was badly damaged, but it never caught fire. And that wasn’t Frankie being led away from the wreckage.”

“The downed pilot was an actor and the rescue staged. But that was her A-24—what remained of it. After the official accident inspection, all salvageable parts were removed and allotted to special use. That’s us. It was really just a skeleton, but we doused it with gasoline, then—with a fire-fighting team and the new foam at the ready—we tossed a match, and ‘Roll em.’

“Afterwards, it was a matter of splicing and combining clips.” Gunnar motioned toward the assortment of equipment on the adjoining desks, then swept the room with a broader gesture. “We’re lucky to have superior equipment. Trick photography, dubbing, sound effects, we’ll use whatever it takes to drive home our message.”

“Enemy footage, too?”

Gunnar gave me a long, calculating look. “Of course.”

“The Germans, the Japs, they don’t just hand it over. We steal it, right?”

Gunnar gave a small shrug.

“Isn’t there a German film studio…er, one called UFA Studio?” I smiled guilelessly. “One of your sources?”

Gunnar seemed to be weighing something. “Pucci, you’ve been cleared. I’m just not sure yet how we’re going to enlist your help. There was a foul-up. Things changed, I told you that.”

“You’ll never know ‘how’ until you take me into your confidence. For all you know, I might already be on to something.”

Had he not looked so skeptical, I might have been more restrained. But after the day I’d had, I decided Vesuvius had it right.

“Tell me what UFA film cans are doing in your sister’s closet. And the envelope. There was a photo of Brody and a woman inside. You said he was being blackmailed. Is she the reason why? And what did the blackmailer want?” It all boiled up to the surface. “Your sister is in possession of a top secret communiqué from someone in Cairo sowing seeds about using enemy film for propaganda purposes here. What do you know about that?”

Gunnar looked startled then impressed. “I’ll brief you on what I can.”

“What you can? How about what you know!”

“Have a seat?” Gunnar pulled out one of the desk chairs. I sat, struggling to regain my composure. Sliding out a chair for himself, he spun it around, straddled it, and faced me, quickly explaining that the UFA film was obtained from a raid at the German site. Della, who was not actually his sister but an OSS operative, recently retrieved the film from Cairo on one of her and D.B.’s regular trips there. They also escorted back to the States two of our downed flyboys who had escaped from the Nazis—the airmen who were currently advising on the
Resisting Enemy Interrogation
training picture.

“Before the war, government wasn’t involved in filmmaking, and Hollywood didn’t film for political indoctrination. But in fascist Germany, the motion picture industry has been under government control since ’37. And they have Goebbels, the propaganda maestro, controlling all mass media.”

Gunnar leaned toward me over the back of the chair. He fixed me in a steadfast stare. “Goebbels saw immediately how topnotch films could be used to soften up or even intimidate movie audiences into opening their minds to Nazi ideals. He converted the UFA studio into an assembly operation for glorifying the cause.”