by George Baxt
He chose the cabinet closest to the desk. After several tries a key fit and he opened the door. He was faced with a filing cabinet. “Mai Mai certainly believed in security.” He pulled open a drawer and Anna May smiled at the perplexed look on his face. “I told you everything would be in Chinese. Let me have a look.”
Marlene wandered about the room, studying the portraits of relatives and ancestors with which the tables were heavily populated. The family, thought Marlene, the all-important family. The Chinese worshipped their ancestors. Respected them and revered them. It was an honor to be elderly in the Chinese world. The elderly had a vast store of knowledge and shared it with the young. The elderly were not shunted off to nursing homes or abandoned to a miserable lot. The family took care of the elderly and honored them. Not like us, thought Marlene, to whom the elderly are a nuisance. The Eskimos used to set them out on an ice floe to freeze to death. My mother is lucky. Her apartment is steam heated, and there aren’t many of those in Germany.
Jim Mallory dogged Marlene’s trail. They exchanged comments on some of the paintings that hung on the walls. Mai Mai had good taste, not too eclectic, and some of the pieces Marlene judged to be very valuable. She recognized an Ingres and a Picasso of a period unfamiliar to her. The bookcases contained what would prove to be many valuable first editions. There were volumes on astrology that Marlene was sure were priceless. She examined several, the pages yellowed with age. She told Jim Mallory they were priceless. He wanted to tell her so was she, but that took the kind of courage he had yet to develop.
Anna May was dismayed. “This may take forever. These files must contain thousands of charts!”
Marlene and Jim joined Villon and Anna May. Marlene took a chart from Anna May. “How delicate a design.”
“Those aren’t designs. Those are Chinese words. Our alphabet is very complicated. No A to Z for us. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I may have to spend weeks translating these.’’
“We haven’t got weeks,” said Villon. “It’s not going to be easy holding on to the suspects. And I’ve no reason to place them in custody. Tensha’s arm probably reaches into high places in Washington, and I can’t touch the Ivanovs or they’ll claim diplomatic immunity. Don’t you know any people who can help you?”
Marlene had a thought and crossed the room to the bamboo curtain. The beads tinkled a strange tune as she passed through them, or perhaps it was Mai Mai singing a song of encouragement. The kitchen was on the left and her epicurean curiosity got the better of her, delaying briefly the continuation of her mission. It was well furnished with cutlery and beautiful glassware and plates and dishes and bowls of excellent manufacture. There were numerous woks and a shelf of cookbooks of international origins. An herb chest almost brought tears to Marlene’s eyes. There were jars of every exotic herb one might bring to mind. The pantry was small but contained cans and boxes of provisions, most of which were imported.
Finally Marlene stood in front of the refrigerator. It was the latest model, with the engine jutting out from the top and encased in white aluminum. Marlene rubbed her fingers together like a burglar about to attack a safe. She pulled the door open and almost collapsed with laughter. There was a half-eaten ham sandwich on a small dish, a box of chocolate-covered marshmallow cookies, a bowl of what looked like cream of mushroom soup, a half-filled bottle of milk, some jars of jam and peanut butter, and finally, wrapped in wax paper, a potato knish. Sighed Marlene, ah the enigmatic Chinese.
She crossed the hall to what had to be the bedroom. She opened the door and felt as though she was about to enter a shrine. The room was also colorfully decorated, as Marlene had expected it would be, but it was completely feminine. The double bed was covered with a knitted throw, which featured a green dragon, undoubtedly a symbol of protection. Half a dozen pillows were artfully arranged against the headboard and Marlene could tell they were handsewn. Astonishingly enough, they were not emblazoned with the signs of the zodiac. The dressing table was much like one Marlene had in her dressing room. It was a theatrical model with dozens of small bulbs ringing the mirror. There were perfumes from France, from Italy, from Spain, from India, and, of course, from China. Her hairbrush and comb and hand mirror were antique, decorated in pearl. Her closet was a large walk-in with dozens of shoes, magnificent dresses for all occasions, and, surprisingly enough, hats. Oriental women rarely wore hats. Only the peasant women wore the straw hats that tied under the chin to protect them from the brutal sun when working in the rice fields. Next to the bed was a table, which held a night lamp and a telephone extension and a stack of books. The table’s twin was on the other side of the bed. On it was a stack of folders and atop the folders rested what were apparently Mai Mai’s reading glasses. Marlene placed the glasses aside. She opened the top folder. As she expected, it was written in Chinese. Marlene counted eight folders and felt her heartbeat accelerating.
Horoscopes. Eight horoscopes. The seven suspects? Could the eighth be Hitler’s? She lifted the folders and held them as though they were sacred. Before leaving the room, she took one last look, drinking heavily of the atmosphere in which a very great lady had reigned as the royal she deserved to be. Then quietly, as though walking down a church aisle, she went to rejoin the others.
This isn’t chutzpah, thought Monte Trevor, as he guided his rented coupe toward Marlene Dietrich’s estate. This is my European upbringing rising to the surface. In Europe when you have been royally entertained the previous evening, you call on your host or hostess the next day to thank them in person. The hangover that had hammered in his head all morning had blissfully abated, though the memory lingered on. He didn’t remember too much of what had happened to him once he entered the hotel bar, but he did remember phoning the Countess di Frasso and telling her he hungered to nibble on her nipples. This did not sit well with the lady, if he remembered correctly, and damned if that isn’t her coming out of Marlene’s front door. He drove up and managed a small smile as she recognized him. He got out of the car and before he could greet her she snapped, “There’s nothing to nibble around here, Monte, Marlene’s not receiving.”
“Oh? Still recovering from last night?”
“She’s not in. She went out several hours ago. With Anna May Wong and the two detectives who entertained us in the study last night. So you’ll have to go peddle your papers elsewhere.” She walked to her Hispano-Suiza, which to Trevor’s surprise she was driving herself.
Trevor followed her to the car, looking as forlorn as an abandoned lapdog. “The detectives? Were Marlene and Anna May taken into custody?”
She got in behind the wheel. “Don’t be an idiot, though it’s too late for you. From what the butler surmised, and he seems pretty astute at surmising, they were off to investigate Mai Mai’s loft. Searching for horoscope charts is my guess. And don’t tail me, Monte! I loathe being pursued in general, especially by nibblers!”
Monte Trevor stood solemnly in the cloud of dust made by the expensive foreign car as the Countess sped off, undoubtedly to the adventure of somebody’s cocktail party.
Charts! He hurried back to his car and sped off in the direction from which he had just come. A telephone was what he needed, but a telephone in the privacy of his hotel room. Oh Mai Mai, he was thinking, why didn’t you take my advice and destroy those copies? But no, you were adamant, you told me to go do the physically impossible, and now you have suffered the consequences I predicted you would suffer. Now you are officially an ancestor.
* * *
Marlene came through the beaded curtain carrying the folders. “Could these possibly be what we’re looking for? I found them in Mai Mai’s room along with her glasses. It occurred to me that, like so many ladies of a certain age, Mai Mai preferred to work in the comfort of her bed at night.” She placed the folders on a table. “Come on, Anna May. Have a look. Maybe I’ve struck pay dirt. Ah, Jim! What a sweet expression on your face! You must have been a beautiful baby.”
ELEVEN
ANNA MAY EXAMINED the
contents of one of the folders. “This is very complicated. It is not easy to decipher. I will need time with them, but they’re positively the charts we want. This one is Monte Trevor’s. I’ll take them home and start working on them at once.’’
“Just for the hell of it,’’ Marlene asked eagerly, “see if the eighth folder contains Hitler’s chart.”
Anna May examined the title page of each folder. “Bingo. This one’s Hitler’s.”
“I thought one of them would be. Ha! Now I know how a prospector feels when he strikes gold!” Marlene’s eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed; her enthusiasm was infectious. “Have I the makings of a good detective, Herb?”
“That was a damned good deduction thinking the folders would be in Mai Mai’s bedroom.”
“Mai Mai and I were sisters under the skin. I also do my best work in the bedroom.”
Monte Trevor made his phone calls but did not connect with Dong See or Raymond Souvir. Ivar Tensha was surprisingly undisturbed by Trevor’s information. “It was inevitable the police would look for the charts and find them. They are quite innocent. Mine reveals very little that isn’t already public information. It sounded a bit simpleminded when Mai Mai read it to me.”
“Mai Mai was a very complex and a very brilliant woman. She could be very devious, surely you knew that. It’s what she didn’t read to you that’s dangerous.”
“She has been silenced. She can no longer chart, she can no longer read, and, most importantly, she can no longer speak. She had her opportunity and she rejected it. I thought the long period of inactivity before we all met here in Los Angeles might have led her to believe the plot was abandoned. But unfortunately, Fate played a trick. Mai Mai saw us at the party. So her suspicions were restored and deepened. There’s nothing more to say. We’ll speak later, Monte.”
Monte Trevor wasn’t satisfied, but there was nothing he could do. He would have to wait for the police to make the next move. He glanced at his wristwatch. Ramon Novarro’s party must have started by now. No use sitting around a hotel room and stewing. I may as well go there, continue playing the role of an independent film producer on the make. Tomorrow, with the holidays out of the way, business would resume. He had appointments with several of the most powerful men in Hollywood. At least one of would have to be interested in what he had to offer. The studios were badly hit by the Depression. Paramount and Universal were on the brink of bankruptcy. MGM was demanding salary cuts from all employees, especially their stars. The country was in chaos. Jack Warner was banking on his friend Franklin Delano Roosevelt to win the Democratic nomination and the election. Roosevelt had confided in him his planned financial reforms to stabilize the economy and reward his future constituents with a New Deal that promised new prosperity was “Just Around the Corner.”
Herb Villon was hoping the solution to the murders was ‘Just Around the Corner.’ Back at Marlene’s place, Anna May retrieved her car and with the folders resting on the passenger seat dutifully eschewed all New Year’s Day party-going to head for home and get to work translating the charts. Marlene planned to spend some time with her daughter before changing into something stunning for Ramon Novarro’s party. Villon and Jim Mallory were headed back to the precinct. A police team had been left at Morton Duncan’s apartment to dust for fingerprints and the usual routine search for clues. Villon doubted they would turn up anything valuable. He told Marlene he’d probably see her at the Novarro party, which he would attend to keep the peace with Hazel, the quilt hog. Marlene sang to herself as she made her way up the stairs to her boudoir. She rarely used the small elevator the owner of the house had installed at great expense. Climbing stairs was good for the hips, she’d been told by Madam Sylvia, filmdom’s illustrious masseuse, and so Marlene took every opportunity to climb stairs. She went to her room first to select a dress and remembered she had given her maid the day off. No problem. Marlene knew how to look after herself; she’d done it for years before American stardom helped her afford servants. She looked in on the nursery, but Maria and the nurse had not yet returned from Venice Beach. Returning to her suite, she met the butler in the hallway and startled him.
“I didn’t know you were back, Miss Dietrich. The Countess di Frasso stopped in while you were out. And when she left, I saw her encounter Mr. Trevor. She obviously told him you were out and so he promptly left.”
‘‘Did the Countess leave a message?”
“No, madam. She said she’d probably run into you at a party this afternoon.”
“More than likely. I’m not sure if I’ll be in for dinner tonight, but tell the cook not to worry. I enjoy raiding the refrigerator.”
Within a few minutes, Dietrich wore a negligee and sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair. There they were reflected in the mirror, Mai Mai Chu and Morton Duncan.
How glibly he had lied to her and Villon last night. The fool. He might still be alive today had he told the truth. But no, it was not to be. Greed was his undoing. In these terrible times, could you blame the man for wanting to earn some extra cash? He wasn’t even around to blame himself.
And you, delicate Mai Mai Chu. How could so tiny a woman emerge as so huge a threat? What was the link in those eight charts that triggered your suspicion these people were creating a dangerous situation? What an eclectic group. What in the world could bring them together? The Ivanovs aren’t in the same league as the others. She gave that further thought. She replaced the brush with an emery board and went to work on her nails. The Ivanovs. Maybe they are not what we think they are. Maybe they are secret agents. She brushed that thought aside as insignificant. Russian spies were a glut on the market; the whole world knows that and jokes about it. But they’re here and involved in this plot, whatever this plot turns out to be. They are therefore much more important than we think.
Raymond Souvir? From Rouen. His father’s a shopkeeper. Aspires to American stardom. He must be something else, and if he is, he’s giving one hell of a good performance. The fear the studio might cancel his test if Mai Mai’s murder led to scandal was convincingly played by him. Tomorrow I test with him. There will be plenty of time to spend with him and perhaps learn a few things he will inadvertently let slip. That should be amusing if not fruitful.
Monte Trevor. Well, what do I know about him? He has produced films, several of them quite good I’ve been told, so those credentials are credible. He fawns on Tensha, but then, so does everyone else. Tensha is a brilliant financial tactician. She had learned long ago in Europe that people like Tensha used their business organizations as a front. One cannot easily dismiss his role as a foremost munitions dealer, but that is the tip of the iceberg. He’s known to have a network of financial and political interests that spread around the world like one vast spider’s web. What is he doing in this hornet’s nest of seemingly minor characters? And Dorothy di Frasso? Is she involved? She hungers for a share of Tensha’s financial life, and I wouldn’t put it past her to permit herself to become his tool if the rewards were ample and dazzling.
Dong See. Automobile crash. Six months in a Swiss clinic. What was it that Dorothy di Frasso had said when seeing him for the first time in ages? Marlene worried her memory and then it came to her. He’s changed some since then. How changed? wondered Marlene. What a jigsaw puzzle. Was Brunhilde Messer another piece that could fit in here somewhere? Hitler’s errand girl. Hitler. Well, he needs all the help he can get, and he will get it, because he knows how to get it. World domination, a very understandable ambition. It didn’t pan out for Napoleon Bonaparte, but that doesn’t mean another contestant can’t take a stab at it. There’s an awful lot of world out there to dominate. Wasn’t there possibly someone skulking in the wings with an ambition to only rule half the world? Don’t they say ‘The Sun Never Sets on the British Kingdom’? Why aren’t we bellyaching about them? They’re all over the place. Africa, India, the Bahamas, Canada, for Pete’s sake. That’s a lot of domination.
This is all too complex for me. I must give my brain
a rest or it will explode. She went to her wardrobe, selected a dress, took a quick shower, and was sure a cocktail party was what she needed to revive her spirits. Why do they need reviving? You found the charts in Mai Mai’s bedroom. You struck gold. You could tell Herb Villon and that adorable Jim Mallory were quite impressed with your deduction. Deduction my eye. Feminine intuition is more like it. Ah, the water feels wonderful and it’s deliciously warm, but why am I feeling a chill?
Ramon Novarro’s house in Beverly Hills was beautiful in its simplicity of design. A bachelor, Novarro looked after his mother and his many sisters and brothers. He was shrewd with money and owned property in Malibu Beach and downtown Los Angeles. If his star was descending, he would not lack for the wherewithal to continue living in the style to which he was accustomed. His New Year’s Day parties were legendary. Here the biggest stars mingled with those no longer too much in demand. Ramon was loyal to his old friends. Loyal to director Rex Ingram, who gave him his first break and to Ingram’s stunning actress wife, Alice Terry, who wisely turned a deaf ear to the rumor her husband and Novarro were lovers. She liked her marriage; it was comfortable and for years they luxuriated in living and making films in the south of France. Their suns had set in Hollywood, but they, like Novarro, were financially secure. And they, like Novarro, were busy gossiping about the murder at Marlene’s party. In fact, everybody was gossiping about the murder, and Hazel Dickson flitted from group to group like a moth in a closet full of appetizing clothes.
