Hollywood Buzz (24 page)

“But did you find out his name? Where he lives?”

Ilka looked crushed. “No, I did not. I was too shocked to ask. Our doll, it disappeared.”

“You mean it was snatched? Before the money was collected? How could that be?”

“A waste basket on the stage in front it caught fire. Naturally, people, they were looking there. While they look, the doll it vanish.”

Arson on the
Resisting
Enemy Interrogation
set. Now fire at a fundraiser. A wild-haired eccentric…

The news vendor was an eccentric. But he wasn’t Italian, he was Hungarian. Or was he? I’d just assumed from his accent he was Eastern Bloc.

Ilka’s face filled with concern. “Pucci, you all right?”

I cleared my throat. “Ilka, the collector. Did he have different colored eyes? One false?”

“I cannot say. The lights in the room, they were dim.”

The director’s voice boomed through the bullhorn. “Back to your places everyone!”

“Ilka, I’m sorry.” I scrambled out of my seat. “I need to get to March Field for my film shoot. Gotta run.”

Chapter Seventeen

The Santa Monica residential area gave way to the camouflaged perimeters of Clover Field. I swung the Packard up a side street, following it to the south end of the field where Miss C’s Staggerwing was being stored. At the small hangar, I climbed out, immediately noticing the canary yellow plane perched near the flight line.

On the field, cadets in dark coveralls were sopping up their lessons on the tarmac-campus. I wove through the small student groups stationed at models of airplane sections while keeping an eye out for Gunnar. He’d asked to hitch a ride out to March Field; now where was he? The flight to March would take only about a half hour, but I had an 0930 appointment to keep with the P-51 test pilot. He needed to brief me on the plane’s special features before I could take the new fighter up. And I wanted to leave enough time for practicing a few maneuvers before the actual shoot.
After
Max and I went over the plane with a fine-toothed comb.

I checked my watch, hoping he still planned to show up. Some critical new and unfinished business needed our attention.

At last I spotted him walking out of one of the half-hangars at the Douglas facility. Bulk, the AAF mechanic-instructor keeping an eye on Miss C’s Staggerwing, was with him. They skirted a Havoc, a side section of its fuselage pulled apart for repair, saw me, and waved.

Locked in amiable discussion, walking more briskly now, the two men skirted the end of the runway. Gunnar wore a leather flight jacket, dungarees, and the beat-up cowboy boots he favored. Tall and fit, his bearing casual, he strode as if at ease with himself and the world. Bulk, who was medium height and barrel-chested, wore grease-stained coveralls stretched taut over his stout physique. He swaggered with the effort of moving his full frame, especially at the stepped-up pace, but he appeared perfectly satisfied with the man he was, as well.

They drew near. Bulk removed his billed cap. “Great day for blasting off into the wild blue,” he said, brushing a hand over a bristly crew cut. “Gunnar tells me you’ll be flying the P-51 later today. That’s some hot plane. Impressive they’ve agreed to let you fly it.”

His admiring look and the reminder of the impending flight sent blood rushing to my face.

“Taking the P-51 up is an honor, all right. Kind of bowled me over, too, getting the nod.” I checked the cloudless azure sky. “Yup, perfect day. But this is the hot machine I’m going up in first, right?” I nodded to the Staggerwing.

Bulk sensed my impatience to get underway. He flashed an okay sign and lumbered over to the plane. With a grunt, he mounted the wing and climbed into the cockpit to inspect the interior. Gunnar and I remained on the ground.

“You’re too modest,” Gunnar said. “Getting approved on the P-51 is a huge privilege only an ace pilot would have been allotted.”

I shrugged and began my walk-around check. Gunnar stayed with me. “You’re an ace saleswoman to boot. The Pentagon isn’t usually looking for publicity for a prototype plane. In fact, the strategy is generally the opposite. Keep the enemy in the dark whenever possible.” Gunnar’s mouth spread into a slow grin that dimpled a tiny spot on his cheek.

“Miss Cochran called the base commander. She secured the P-51.”

Gunnar shook his head. “Miss Cochran’s support carries weight. Not in this instance, though. Decision to extend you permission for the P-51 had already been made by the time her call came through.”

I started to ask where he had gotten his information then realized: Gunnar had an inside track to the brass. I continued checking the landing gear and other inspection points. Gunnar followed along, observing. At last, walking to the front, patting the plane affectionately on the nose, I turned to face him.

“Why are we talking about the P-51? What’s going on with drop site? Any developments? Did the minnow take the bait?”

Gunnar’s shoulders fell. “No. No activity. It’s almost as if he’s been tipped off.”

I took a big breath. “Gunnar, I think I had a brush with the minnow. Possibly
one
of the big fishes.”

Gunnar’s sandy eyebrows peaked in the center. He stared as I told him about the attack at the club.

“We nearly had him, but he bolted before I could even get a good look at his face.”

“How do you know he was trying to skewer you, not Lugosi?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I don’t trust the coincidence…”

There was a slight thump as Bulk dropped from the wing. A Hershey’s wrapper escaped his pocket. While he bent to pick it up, Gunnar leaned close to my ear. “To be continued,” he murmured.

“Everything checks out inside,” Bulk called out. “You two ready?”

I pulled the speed prop a few times to clear it. “Yup. Ready.”

***

Gunnar and I strapped in, then taxied away from the hangar. I spun the radio’s dial to the proper frequency and called the tower. A reply crackled from the plane’s receiver.

“Beech one-three one-three able. You’re cleared to runway One-Niner. Wind’s from the southeast at fifteen knots. Altimeter setting, two-niner-eight-six.”

I rolled to the end of the strip, turned into the wind, and paused to do my pre-takeoff run-up. Instruments, controls, engine magnetos “checked.” Fuel mixture, nose trim, carburetor heat, throttle “adjusted.”

Cleared for takeoff, I advanced the throttle. My feet dropped from the brakes, the Staggerwing lunged forward, and we sped down the runway. A quick climb to cruising altitude and I banked sharply, taking up a course to the east. Easing the power back, I leveled off, scanning the instrument panel and rotating the wheels to adjust the trim tabs with the engine speed. The Pratt & Whitney hummed low and even. A few more alignments and I turned to Gunnar. He was staring over the side.

“That camouflage netting. Incredible.”

I looked out my window. “Yeah. The Ocean Park Boulevard painted across the top of the Douglas plant blends so perfectly with the pavement at each end, it’s impossible to tell where the fake street stops and the real one begins. Look, oil streaks and tire marks even.”

I banked the plane giving Gunnar a clear view of the cloth and framework reproduction of the Santa Monica Douglas aircraft plant nearby. “And there’s the dummy Douglas plant—fake field and all.”

Once the U.S. Army Engineers had successfully obscured the real factory with the camouflage netting, making it look like an extension of the surrounding residential neighborhood, they realized the unmistakable bulk of the big hangar was impossible to completely disguise. So, a dummy plant was built as a more obvious diversion. Only a short distance away from the real thing, the fake facility was dominated by an imitation of the big hangar and flanked by a perfect—but bogus—airfield.

“Brilliant,” Gunnar said. “Shrouding the fake facility with shoddy camouflaging to catch the eye of an alert bombardier.”

I nodded, maneuvering the plane back on course. “The effort and skill that it took to disguise the real plant is one thing. But think of the thousands and thousands of dollars that went into making the reproduction.”

“In the bookkeeping of war, it’s a small price to pay. Throwing an invader into momentary confusion and jumbling his plan of attack gives defending planes and gunners their chance.”

At a sputtering in the engine’s sound, my grip on the throttle tightened. I held my breath, listening. A pilot’s ear, like that of a symphony conductor’s, is constantly tuned to perfect pitch. The slightest deviation is jarring.

Gunnar looked over. He’d heard it, too.

A scan of the instruments read normal and the engine’s hum was smooth again, yet neither of us spoke. We remained all ears, concentrating on the powerful vibration of the Pratt & Whitney and the normal hiss of airflow seeping into the cabin through vents and joints in the fuselage.

I made a few adjustments to keep us on course.

Finally, Gunnar let out a long breath. “What do you think it was?”

I looked over with a blasé smile. “That little hiccup?” My voice sounded calmer than I felt. “Probably nothing. A random, normal sputter.” Of course, sputters weren’t the norm. But we were 9,300 feet up, and that’s what I was willing it to be.

I entertained thoughts of heading back to Clover Field. But so much was riding on our getting to March Field on schedule, I quickly ditched the idea. Bulk had gone over the plane and I’d personally conducted the preflight inspection. There was nothing to be jittery about.

Except that a saboteur may be lurking about.

Shoving the thought aside, I said, “We were discussing camouflage. This morning I bumped into Wilma Wallace. She looked different. A stop in the make-up department, she said.” I looked over. “She was Brody’s lover.” Gunnar nodded. “You said she was questioned and cleared. Did you know she’s planning to leave town? Possibly the country?”

Gunnar gathered his thoughts for a moment. “It’s a complex matter, but yes. She’s enlisted in the WACs, a good place for her to be.”

“Chalmers is off the hook, so’s Wallace. Brody’s secretary, Myra? What about her?”

The possibility that she might somehow be mixed up in Brody’s death had occurred to me immediately, and I was somewhat shocked to learn Gunnar did not consider her a suspect. I told him what Wallace had said about the likelihood of Myra knowing about the affair.

“So Myra could have been blackmailing him.” I looked over. Gunnar nodded, but he was holding something back. “You don’t still suspect Ilka, do you?”

He didn’t answer. We hit a few bumps. My stomach knotted as we rode out the turbulence, then uncoiled as the air settled again almost immediately. I adjusted the trim tabs. The bar on the artificial horizon gauge leveled out.

Gunnar sent me a wan smile. “This is getting to be an interesting flight.”

My eyebrow lifted. “I was asking about Ilka.”

“Yes, she’s still a suspect. The herb found in Brody’s cup, remember? Got a message as I was leaving that the toxicology tests are in. Haven’t followed up, but I’ll know more soon.”

“You said money was her motive. Ilka’s got a job. Three jobs, if you count palm reading and acting. Why would she need more money?”

Gunnar shifted in his seat. “Family back home.”

I bit my lip, recalling Ilka proclaiming she would use the money she made as an actress to help friends in the old country. Help Lugosi. Could Ilka have gotten involved in a crime ring as part of a desperate attempt to raise funds to help secure the release of her Grandmother Roza and other relatives in Hungary? Was that what Gunnar suspected?

“But you don’t have any evidence.”

Gunnar shrugged. “I’ll let you know what toxicology says.”

“Identifying the herb won’t be proof.”

“Pucci, Ilka has access to film studios and sets. She was there last night when you were attacked. Ilka’s a Gypsy…”

I interrupted. “Hold it. Enough with the stereotype…”

Even as I was saying the words, I was remembering what Ilka had said about her Gypsy heritage this morning on the set.
I come from phony.
She’d admitted criminal activities were part of the Gypsy culture. Hadn’t she even acknowledged that she’d personally lied and stolen many times? What if she’d been tantalized by something irresistible? Something like getting family out of harm’s way?

I concentrated on the instruments and checked our course. Gunnar was completely silent. “Have you talked to your
sister
about this? Della has complete faith in Ilka.”

“I would if I knew where she was.” He smiled, but I was not in the least bit charmed. The smile faded. “Pucci, don’t look so distressed. She’s only a suspect. One suspect. And now you’ve served up other leads. We’ll look into the news vendor. And Winwar. I’m also going to delve deeper into the secretary’s background.” He scratched his neck near his Adam’s apple. “You know, there’s something else it might make sense to reopen.”

Gunnar at last came clean about his reasons for wanting the film segment of Frankie crying. In the clip, he’d picked out a woman’s image in the background. On a wild hunch, he thought he might turn up a connection to Brody’s blackmailers. A cameraman from the P-51 film crew had caught the scenario. It was taken just before Frankie went up. The image was fuzzy, and it was not possible to make out who else was in the shot. With nothing else relevant to go on, he’d dropped the thread. Now, building on my suspicions about Myra and keeping in mind she would have had access to the hangar, he would check back with the cameraman to see what he remembered.

Goosebumps rose up and down my arms as Gunnar talked. Could the woman in the background be the culprit who’d put sugar in the A-24’s tank?

Argh! There it was again. A momentary roughness in the engine hum. Barely perceptible. Gunnar’s “son of a bitch” was drowned out by yet another sputter.

A hot rush of adrenaline charged through my veins. “Dammit,” I muttered before I could catch myself, “they’ve gone and sabotaged this plane, too.”

I scanned the instruments.

“What’s going on?” Gunnar asked, clearly alarmed.

Preoccupied with weighing what to do about the situation, I didn’t answer right away. I looked out my window. The rugged peaks of the San Bernardino Mountains cut a jagged line against the horizon to the north. We were maybe ten minutes from March Field. Would we be better off putting down in the sage brush country below and taking our chances on the terrain, or pushing on to where an emergency crew would be on hand if we needed them?

Gunnar picked up on my thoughts. “Think we should get this machine out of the air?”

March Field seemed the right choice. Now all I had to do was to keep Gunnar—and myself—calm until we got there.

“No. No need to panic,” I replied, firmly. “Miss C’s been experimenting with some fancy schmancy high-octane fuel. My guess is that’s what’s going on.”

“You mentioned sabotage,” Gunnar said, evenly, rubbing at a kink in his neck.

Where was that hearing problem when I needed it? I’d hoped he’d missed my slip-up.

The stress of carrying around the secret truth of what happened to Frankie seemed overwhelming all at once. Miss C was not available, but it was definitely time to confide in someone higher up and get some answers. And if anyone could learn why the findings of Frankie’s accident were being kept hush-hush, it’d be Gunnar. He knew Beacock at March; he was G-2; he obviously had an in with the brass hats. But what about my promise to Max? She’d been given orders to remain silent and had gone out on a limb telling first Miss C, then me. Her future was riding on my keeping the secret.