Hollywood Buzz (21 page)

The stuff mentioned in the secret dispatch I’d found at the Dunns’. I leaned forward in
my
chair.

“Riefenstahl’s
Triumph of the Will
set the standard for Nazi propaganda films.” Gunnar frowned. “Whole thing was staged to lionize Nazi strength and discipline, create the impression of a ‘super-race.’ Riefenstahl did so well that German children would go anywhere, do anything for Hitler.Yes, maybe even die for him.”

Gunnar pulled a UFA reel out of his leather briefcase. The cans I’d seen in Della’s closet, he explained, were the actual pilfered lot that had been delivered originally to Brody. Somewhere along the route from Cairo to Orlando to here, German operatives picked up the trail. They wanted the film back—or destroyed. They found Brody’s Achilles heel—his affair—gathered evidence and sent a note. “Give us the films; we’ll give you the negatives.”

Brody confided in Gunnar. Certain that an insider was part of the ring, they were cautious choosing a team and making copies that might or might not hold up after an initial screening. When Brody got the call, Gunnar would follow him to the drop point. They’d keep the copied film under surveillance and catch the bad guys. If it seemed too simple, it was. When Brody got the call, Gunnar had been with me, having dinner with the Dunns at their house. His counterpart, assigned in Gunnar’s absence to trail Brody, lost him turning out of MGM onto Washington.

My jaw dropped. “What happened?”

“Fate—or I should say a drunk driver—intervened. The agent was keeping a safe distance, in case the blackmailers were tailing Brody. The inebriated driver was coming from the opposite direction. Crashed head-on into the car directly in front of my colleague. Blocked the street. Brody was enough ahead, kept going.”

I sighed, shook my head. “The photo in Della’s closet. The lady with Brody…his lover?”

“Yes, but she’s been cleared.”

“She looked familiar. Who is she?”

“No need for you to know.”

I was about to blurt, How can you be so sure? but caught his look.
Don’t push your luck
.

“Brody had a similar envelope. He was examining it–and the contents–while I was in his MGM office at a story meeting, hours before he died.”

Gunnar arched an eyebrow. “The envelope in Della’s closet, one and the same. We removed it from the crime scene.”

They could do that?

“In his office, Brody removed a letter from the envelope. What did it say? A pink satin ribbon was tied around the photo…”

Gunnar’s eyes narrowed. “We didn’t find a ribbon. I’d guess it belonged to a daughter. More pressure for him to cooperate. There was no note, either. Only the photo of Brody and the woman.”

Gunnar flipped the UFA film can from hand to hand adding, “Chalmers told us he met with Brody at MGM early the evening of the murder. When Chalmers started in on his beefs about the adaptation of his novel, Brody said, ‘Russell you’re dealing in fiction. Here’s the reality I’m dealing in.’ He showed Chalmers the incriminating photo, adding, ‘They snapped us checking into a hotel. They’ve got other compromising shots too. I think I know who’s behind it.’

“Brody had just figured it out. He didn’t tell Chalmers what had tipped him, and he was killed before he could relay the information to me or the others on our team. But based on what Chalmers told us—that Brody had just returned from Fort Roach where he’d made a delivery—”

Gunnar raked his fingers through his thick sandy hair. “Drop site must have been somewhere here, right under our noses.”

I bounced up, practically knocking over my chair. “Have the cans been moved from Della’s closet?” Gunnar looked at me like I was crazy. “If they weren’t, then I know where the drop site was—is—or at least where someone is storing the copies.”

Gunnar’s lips curled in a sly smile as I revealed what I’d uncovered in the hamper in Miss Landis’ dressing room.

I frowned. Five cans in Della’s closet; six cans in the dressing room. “What’s that in your hand?”

“This—” Gunnar waved the reel in his hand. “Never leaves my sight.”

“Why? What is it?”

Gunnar smiled coyly. “Reconnaissance film. Care to guess?”

A picture took shape as the puzzle pieces matched up. “UFA,” I whispered.

Gunnar nodded. He spoke softly as well. “Brody was making an absolute top-secret simulated bombing run film. Part of a plan to throw a monkey-wrench in the Propaganda Ministry’s production output.” He tucked the reel back in his case, lifted it off the floor. “I was going to give you a look, but we—I—better get over to that dressing room.”

“B-but
my
part?”

I followed Gunnar to the door. He flipped off the overhead light. Behind him, illumination from the fixtures in the hall created an eerie backdrop as we stood in the shadowy doorway. “Keep an eye on Ilka.”

“Ilka?”

“When Brody died, my blackmail investigation became joined with the murder inquiry. The preliminary findings suggest death was due to a dose of deadly herbs.”

“Ilka and her herbs…” I said in an undertone.

“She’s an expert. The connection is too obvious to ignore.”

I stared at him, letting the implication sink in. “But how do you kill someone with herbs?”

“In a brew.” Gunnar saw my mouth open to ask a follow-on question. “I’ll explain more later, but Brody’s secretary, Myra, knew Brody’s blood pressure was sky-high. She’d been giving him chamomile tea for weeks now to calm his nerves. Doctor’s orders.”

I recalled the story conference meeting in Brody’s office. Myra had brought a cup of it in that day. “So,
tea
killed him?”

“Well, yes, sort of. Myra called Brody’s personal physician the minute she discovered his body. They both assumed he’d had a heart attack. But while the doctor was doing his examination, he picked up a distinct scent from Brody’s mouth. He investigated the tea cup on Brody’s desk. Chamomile has a flowery smell. Myra had left Brody a cup of it a few hours earlier, before leaving for the day. The remnants the doctor found were grassy in odor, different in color, and leaves had accumulated in the bottom of the cup. Myra is a fanatic when it comes to a cup of tea being pure.”

“He drank a different tea? A poisoned tea?”

Gunnar shrugged. “They’re running toxicology tests on the herb—we’ll have that result soon—and there’ll be a report on what was found ingested in another week. But the autopsy shows a healthy heart.”

“In other words, you’re saying—going on Myra’s and the doctor’s observations—evidence points to the herb being some sort of deadly strain.”

Gunnar had started to walk down the hall. I’d stuck with him. He paused, checked over his shoulder, and spoke in a low voice. “The evidence isn’t airtight, I admit, but the Gypsy and herb connections point so clearly to Ilka, I can’t shake off the possibility.”

“The Gypsy and herb theory…” I summarized. Gunnar made a move to go. I grabbed his arm. “I don’t buy it. Why would Ilka murder Brody?”

“Not sure. She didn’t have to brew the tea, hand it to him, to be involved, Pucci. We’re dealing with a ring. Brody got in their way somehow.” He started walking.

I kept pace. “Ilka is a strong, independent woman who’s overcome tremendous difficulties. She’s rebuilding her life. She’s set on an acting career. Why would she risk getting caught up in something illegal now? C’mon. Why?”

We’d reached the exit door. Gunnar halted. His eyes flashed with impatience. “Money. The game. Fascism.”

Now my eyes blazed. “Ilka would never help the Germans. Not for any amount of money. She has friends and family who are being persecuted, slaughtered by the Nazis. Her grandmother is there. A grandmother involved in underground activities, aiding the Allies.”

Gunnar’s brow furrowed. He was unaware of the resistance connection, I gathered.

“I need to get to that dressing room, Pucci.
Now
. I’ll try to get back to the house tonight and we can talk further. If I don’t show—and it’s highly likely given we’ll be setting up surveillance—you’re flying to March Field tomorrow, right?” I nodded. “Mind if I catch a lift?”

“Of course not. But…”

“Money is a powerful motivator, Pucci. Let’s leave it at that for now.”

Chapter Fifteen

My assignment: cover a home front on the home front. Women’s work.

There was a certain irony to being banned by Gunnar from the drop site when I was the person responsible for putting him back in the saddle on his case. Exhausted, emotionally drained, I’d let it go, returning briefly to the typing pool before climbing into the Packard and starting the journey home to the Dunns’. Adding to my day’s downward spiral, Miss C had called while I’d been in the editing studio with Gunnar.
Things are heating up in Washington.
I’m on my way out for the evening.
That was the entirety of her message. No word on whether she’d heard the news of Frankie or whether she’d gotten wind of any developments on the March Field investigation.

Absorbed in the complexities of my situation, I had motored blocks down Washington Boulevard before realizing, almost as if by its own will, the Packard was following a course leading away from the Dunns’ and toward the ocean. I did not want to be alone. My mark, Ilka, was out for the evening at the Hungarian Federation auction. And here I was heading for the Grand Hotel in Santa Monica, where the event was being held.
Ilka a blackmailer?
I shook my head and laughed. It was going to be fun proving Gunnar wrong.

Washington Boulevard ended, and I turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Traffic was light, but with gas rationing in effect it was not so surprising. The hotel was on a side street. At Pico, I turned left and caught a glimpse of the lights of Santa Monica Pier. Then another left, and I was rolling past the Grand Hotel’s canopied entrance.

My home front assignment had just been bumped out of the kitchen and into a luxury seaside hotel. Just past the hotel, I nosed the Packard into a discreet tree- and thicket-enclosed parking lot.

I left the car and meandered along a sidewalk, observing the hotel’s brick and sandstone exterior. Head tilted back, I stared up at the tall building, unable to count, in the dark, the number of floors above. There must have been seven or eight. On the opposite side of the hotel, waves broke against the beach in a continuous rolling crash.

Nearing the entrance, I eyed the uniformed doorman at the entrance and was half-tempted to call it a day. But I’d done enough wallowing in things I could do nothing about. I needed to wrap my mind around other things. Things lively and fun.

The doorman’s shoulders were broad beneath his tailored maroon jacket, distinguished with brass buttons and tails. Drawing closer I could see that the tall formal hat sat above a high forehead, a strong nose, and a neat mustache.

“Ilka Maki said if I was in the neighborhood, I should drop in,” I explained to the intimidating figure, hastily adding, “She’s inside with a mutual friend, Bela Lugosi.”

The guard paused to give my uniform a once-over. He tugged open the door, gesturing for me to enter, but stayed on my tail.

“Wait here, if you please,” he sniffed in a lofty tone. “I shall let the manager know of your request.”

We were in an expansive lobby. A round table with an enormous pastel floral arrangement stood directly before me. Beyond the arrangement, tall west-facing windows that by day would look out to the ocean formed an opaque black backdrop, reflecting patterns of golden light at night. The doorman retreated toward a reception counter on the far end of the room to our right.

I savored the display of Oriental rugs, richly upholstered furniture, brass fixtures and bronze statuary arranged throughout the large space off to my left. An elderly couple, formally dressed—he in dark suit and dark tie, she in powder-blue dress with matching lace jacket—ambled by. They were speaking in the emotionally charged, harsh-sounding Hungarian I’d come to know. The couple paused to smile at me and say hello. It wasn’t much, but I felt encouraged. Glancing toward the reception desk, seeing that the doorman had not reappeared, I followed in the couple’s wake as they crossed into the main area.

A fair distance ahead of us were three sets of doors. The center set was propped open. Party sounds spilled out: disjointed conversations, laughter, clinking glass, frenzied violins playing high discordant notes at a fevered pitch. It was the room where the auction would be held, I assumed.

A pair of lanky legs belonging to a tuxedo-clad gentleman sprawled outward from a tall, wing-back chair positioned against one of two marble pillars. An identical chair sat beside it. Blocking the man’s torso and face from view was a woman in an orange cocktail dress with a full ankle-length skirt, layered with delicate netting. Below the flounced hemline, her feet were clad in orange high-heel shoes. Above the dress’ beaded bodice, on either side of a glamorous blonde upsweep, glittering earrings dangled from her ears.

Beyond the pillars, the elderly couple entered the party room. My plan was to follow them inside, get Ilka’s attention, say hello, and see what developed. Nearing the pillar, I heard the woman in the orange dress speaking in Hungarian to the man slumped in the chair. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but she was definitely lecturing him. Maybe I could pick up a tip on dealing with Gunnar, I thought, passing closer, smiling at the notion.

A large colorful movie poster on a stand near the bank of the doors drew my eye.
Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man
stood out in bold yellow lettering. I’d seen the movie earlier in the year. Above the movie title, a ferocious-looking square-headed Frankenstein raised his fist menacingly before the wolf-faced man, trying to fend him off. A reclining Ilona Massey, looking seductive in a low-cut red dress, filled in the lower corner. Bela Lugosi played Frankenstein; Lon Chaney was Wolf Man. Their names were also on the poster, the lineup supporting what Ilka had said about Lugosi’s career dip. Ilona Massey, Patric Knowles, Lon Chaney had top billing, while Mr. Lugosi’s name, along with Lionel Atwill’s, and Maria Ouspenskaya’s, appeared in smaller lettering sandwiched below those of the stars.

In the open doorway near the poster, a dark-haired barrel-chested man appeared, wearing a white peasant shirt brightly embroidered with flowers at the neckline and hem of its dolman sleeves. The wild violin playing had stopped, but the din of conversation and glass clinking continued.

“Ilona,” he called to the woman in orange as he gestured for her to come inside.

The glamorous woman’s profile clicked. I was standing within a stone’s throw of Ilona Massey! Of course. She was Hungarian. The actress-singer must have agreed to perform for the fundraiser.

The man in the doorway cast a disparaging glance at the back of the chair and urged Miss Massey to come away. She said some departing words, then, squeezing the seated man’s shoulder, started to leave. She must have noticed me out of the corner of her eye. She stopped briefly to take me in, smile, and salute.

I smiled, saluted back. “Good luck in there, Miss Massey.”

She eyed the wings over my breast pocket and pointed skyward. “Thank you. And good luck to you up there.”

Her skirt made a soft swishing noise as she strutted toward the man in the peasant shirt.

The slouched man in the chair propped his elbows on the armrests and clutched his head between his hands. Long-fingered graceful hands, marred by ropey veins and wrinkles, masked his face. But there was no mistaking who it was.

I walked to the chair. “Mr. Lugosi?” There was no response. “Mr. Lugosi?”

The fingers on the side of his face closest to me splayed to let a glazed blue eye with a pinpoint pupil stare blankly up at me.

“Pucci Lewis. We met in the kitchen at the Dunns’. You were with Ilka. And, oh yeah, the other night we crossed paths at their house again. You were walking arm-in-arm with Ilka and a silent film actress wearing a fur coat.”

The fixed vacant stare, reminiscent of Gus’ unseeing glass eye, was giving me the heebie-jeebies, and I was blathering. Luckily, a lightbulb seemed to go on. Lugosi’s hands slid from his face to the armrests. Pressing against them, he squirmed awkwardly, trying to straighten up in the chair. His cape was not helping matters. It was tangled around him, restricting his movement. The high collar was askew, creating a look more zany than macabre.

“Pooo-chi,” Lugosi said in a booming voice. “I am most happy to see you. Sit please a moment, vill you?”

His palm left the armrest to sweep in the general direction of the companion chair. The movement unbalanced him and Lugosi lolled sideways. Again, he fought to right himself.

I glanced toward the entrance. The doorman must have slipped back outside. A stout officious-looking woman stood behind the counter, large horn-rimmed goggles fixed on me like periscopes set to follow my every intruding move. I turned back to Lugosi.

“Thank you. I really shouldn’t. I dropped in, spur of the moment. Thought I might see Ilka, have a little chat. But I had no idea this auction was such an extravaganza. Looks like you have quite the crowd. Cast of thousands?”

Lugosi chortled. “Two hundred, maybe. Big spenders, ve hope.”

“Miss Massey brought in a few, I’ll bet.” I threw an admiring glance toward the now closed doors. “And you? Are you planning to perform?” Regarding his sagging form, I hoped not, for his sake.

Lugosi’s thick eyebrows knitted at the center and he looked momentarily confused. His initial response sounded rote. “I have little act taken from my stage role. Is what I came to do. But sadly…” He shook his head, the tall collar at his neck twisting with the motion. Regret was written on his face. “Tonight Drah-cool-ahhh has been replaced by Gypsy band.” His expression brightened. “Do you like Gypsy music, Pooo-chi?”

“Why yes, I think so.”

“Vell, then ve shall dance, yes?”

He struggled to get up from the chair with vigor. But sheer determination was not enough. Halfway to standing, Lugosi started to collapse. I darted forward, shoring him up by the elbow.

“Sciatica,” he explained.

Or alcohol. Or drugs. Our eyes met and I registered the glazed look and pinpoint pupils again. Perhaps both?

“Oh, Uncle Bela.”

It was Ilka. She’d made a flourishing exit through the double doors, the melancholy high-pitched strains of violins and the pure operatic voice of Ilona Massey bursting out with her. The melodious tune of “At the Balalaika” from the movie of the same name resonated before the doors closed, cutting off the music. The silent film star in the fur coat had also trailed Ilka out into the lobby. She had on dark glasses again. Ilka was wearing a teal cocktail dress with a keyhole neckline. A graceful asymmetrical flounce overlaid the fitted skirt. Her lips pressed into a tight line when she saw me.

“Pucci—” It was all she seemed able to say.

“I-I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” I explained, taking a deep breath before pressing on. “My friend died. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was such a big event. So fancy…”

Ilka’s shoulders rose then fell. She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. That is sad about your friend. Is okay you come. I am happy to see you. It’s just, well, Uncle Bela, he’s having some difficulty tonight.”

“Sciatica?”

Ilka arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “That is at the root, yes.”

“Roots?” Lugosi said, as if just tuning in. “You vant to do another herbal treatment? No, no. Vhy? I have cure of the good doctor. It help me so much, it put me in such a good state of feeling…I am feeling no pain vhatsoever.” His mouth curled into a silly smile. He swooned.

I steadied him. To Ilka, I said, “Can I help?”

Behind her, a slight man in a dark suit exited the party room. He looked our way then turned and made for the nearby hallway with a brass-plated “restroom” sign at its entrance. I didn’t get a look at his face, but he had an olive complexion and a shock of white hair. He used a cane for support as he walked in quick, Chaplinesque movements past the silent film star, swathed in fur. She faced away from him, and us, studying the movie poster. The white-haired gentleman, pausing momentarily in the hallway entrance, glanced back at her before rapidly disappearing down the corridor.

“Pucci?” It was Ilka.

“Oh, sorry.” I was still supporting Lugosi. He listed toward me but caught himself. “Yes?”

“Is okay we go now. Our auction item is delivered as promised. She sits in traditional costume on the silent auction table with the rest. She is lovely, a typical Hungarian beauty.” Ilka patted her waved platinum bang and laughed teasingly. “But in truth, of the dolls, she is drawing the most attractive bids.”

She showed her perfect white teeth again then shot a fleeting glance at the silent film star. Her back was still to us. “Maybe you could help Uncle Bela out to our car. The doorman will direct you. I’ll be right out. My gr—” The word caught. Ilka coughed. “My great admirer needs assistance.” She gestured sideways with her head in the direction of the restrooms.

“Of course, I’d be delighted.” I smiled at Lugosi, gripping his elbow firmly in the manner I’d learned from Sam.

Out front, I looked for the doorman without luck. Afraid to leave Lugosi alone, fearing he might topple or wander off in my absence, I steered him past the front of the building and out into the darkened lot toward the parked cars.

“Pooo-chi, ver are ve going? We did not have our dance. Ahhh—” Lugosi tilted his head, looking skyward. For a moment I thought he would howl. Gazing at the sky he spoke in a mysterious tone, emphasizing his words. “The cloak of night.” His chin dropped and he turned his gaze on me. The queer look in his eyes made me shiver. “You prefer a promenade in the cemetery perhaps?”

I was speechless. Where was the attendant? Ilka and her fan? She said they’d be right out.

Then the sound of footsteps, quick footsteps, but only a single set.

I looked behind us to see who was coming. A long silver blade on the tip of a cane dancing toward us flashed in the headlights of an approaching automobile. Wielding the cane: the man with the wild white hair.

Lugosi surprised me. As the man rushed at us, Lugosi casually reached out his foot and tripped him. The man hurtled to the ground, his arms thrashing. The automobile’s headlamps were blinding and it was hard to get a fix on our attacker. I kicked in the direction of his groin, but booted air. Lugosi’s weight, rebounding from to the effort he’d put forth, shifted, unbalancing us. I stumbled. Before I could kick again, our assailant scrambled to his feet, retrieved his cane, and ran.