The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  ‘Because somebody who attended the wedding on the Zander the Great set has to be involved.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Edith tapped the sheet of paper. ‘The writer of this letter, this second Argus, wants the Montsalvo painting. He knows Mr Hearst owns it and fears it will be put up for sale to alleviate Mr Hearst’s financial woes. If so, he could be outbid. He can’t apply pressure to a man of Mr Hearst’s standing, so he begins to look, as they say, for another angle.’

  ‘Marion. He somehow connects with Baird, who tells him the story about Marion and Chaplin. Having found her vulnerability, he squeezes.’

  ‘The plan, as I see it, is quite fiendish. The letters instill a mounting dread in Miss Davies. Argus knows she’s so fearful of compounding Mr Hearst’s recent negative publicity that she won’t inform the authorities. The demand for the painting will almost come as a relief to her. The weak link is Mr Baird. Once he suspects there’s an ulterior motive to the letters, he becomes a liability.’

  ‘You really think Baird didn’t know the true scope of the plan involving the painting?’

  ‘Yes, although that’s a guess based on our brief conversation with him. I truly believe Mr Baird’s intent was to instigate a minor crisis that would allow him to insinuate his way into Miss Davies’s circle again. He provided the information and consented to the sending of additional letters to himself and Mr Vollmer as a blind.’

  ‘Unless Vollmer has been Argus all along. And still is.’

  ‘Possible.’ Edith sat back to ponder the idea. ‘It would be rather devious, enlisting Mr Baird in one subterfuge to cloak another. Though Mr Vollmer did seem genuinely taken aback to learn Miss Davies had received multiple letters.’

  I tapped the tabletop. ‘Carter Muncy is part of this equation somehow. I don’t care about this movie club he’s in, although I want to join one. Something about that fellow rubs me the wrong way, and not just that he knows more than he’s letting on. He said he’d heard about us. And our investigations.’

  ‘Mr Muncy strikes me as an all-too-common type. He’s a fan. He became an ardent, awestruck admirer of Mr Baird’s. Perhaps you have an admirer, too.’

  Our lunches arrived. I set upon my omelette, all at once ravenous. ‘Do you know anything about this Montsalvo character?’ I asked after several indelicate bites. ‘I’ve never heard of him, which is no surprise. Art history wasn’t on the curriculum at Saint Mary’s.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with his work as well. I should ask Bill about him. He’s something of a painter himself.’

  ‘I’m happy to help Marion search for the painting. But going up to the ranch has loosed every butterfly in my stomach.’

  ‘I think it’s a splendid idea, and at the perfect time, too. You could use a distraction.’

  ‘True. But what do I wear?’

  ‘Let informality be your watchword. It’s my understanding that Mr Hearst treats his ranch like a ranch. You’ll dress for dinner, obviously, but simply. Nothing ostentatious.’

  ‘A grip full of dungarees, then.’

  After Edith offered a few additional wardrobe pointers, I said, ‘Now it’s your turn. Preston made it sound like Mitch Leisen continues to give you grief.’

  ‘Mitch gives the world grief. It’s my misfortune to toil in the field he regards as his area of expertise.’ She raised her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. ‘We disagree over what his leading lady should wear.’

  ‘You mean Stany?’

  She lowered her specs to stare at me icily. ‘I don’t call her that.’

  ‘Then I won’t either.’

  ‘Barbara is very forthright about her, shall we say, figure flaws. It’s my responsibility to camouflage them. She has gorgeous legs – better than Dietrich’s, although you can never tell Marlene I said so – but a longish waist and a …’ She startled me by making a series of imprecise hand gestures. ‘A derriere that’s rather, it’s …’

  ‘Flat?’ I suggested.

  ‘I’d never use that term.’ She smiled slyly. ‘Barbara wears clothes beautifully, although she never gives her appearance a moment’s thought. I want to make her feel beautiful in them. So I’ve taken care with her wardrobe on the picture. Elevating her waistlines, adding fullness to the skirts. Mitch is grumbling about it all. And I’ve been making a hat for what seems like months. Don’t get me started on it.’

  I didn’t have the opportunity. Orson Welles sauntered into the restaurant. He yawned mightily, one of his massive hands palming both face and beard. The unknotted bowtie around his neck only augmented the impression he’d yet to go to bed, burning midnight and midday oil in equal measure. He approached our table, flaunting an abashed grin. ‘Ladies! Good day to you! Felt like stretching the old legs and getting a cup of coffee, so high time I hied myself to the unofficial clubhouse.’ He took a seat at our table, a presumptuous gesture that would have been charming had he not used the movement to disguise pulling a vial of pills from his pocket. He surreptitiously shook one into his hand and swallowed it while pretending to stifle another yawn. ‘I’ve been meaning to come back over the wall to your side and visit an old mate from Chicago. Preston Sturges?’

  An enormous pampered child. Insufferable.

  ‘We know him,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll let him know you’re looking for him,’ Edith added.

  Welles flagged down a waitress and ordered his coffee. ‘Along with something to accompany it. Steak, rare, I think, with a baked potato. And make that coffee a Scotch, would you?’

  I didn’t know what possessed me to pose my next question. ‘Have you been to Europe, Mr Welles?’ I knew he had; I’d read it in one of the many profiles of him.

  ‘I have indeed.’ Welles intoned the words, taking such pleasure in his deep and sonorous voice you couldn’t help doing likewise. ‘Funny you should ask that. I’ve been thinking of my time there a great deal recently. I was in a beer hall in Munich and this little fellow, seated next to me, had a toothbrush mustache, you know, a style I’ve never cared for, he gets to his feet and starts a harangue the likes of which I’ve never heard. Fulminating, he was. Only later did it dawn on me the man was Adolf Hitler.’

  ‘Heavens,’ Edith said, but Welles was on to his next yarn.

  ‘I made my directorial debut on the Continent, not that any of the gossip columnists or the pashas at RKO know. I was in Rome, fooling around with a motion picture camera, and took it upon myself to document our trip to St Peter’s Basilica. Naturally, at the exact moment I ran out of film, the cathedral doors fly open and out comes the pontiff himself, Pius XI. You’d think someone who so clearly enjoys playing dress-up would know his cue!’

  A great, rolling laugh again made his face look impossibly youthful. Perhaps Preston was right, and Orson really was at heart a boy, full of a boy’s passions and curiosities. I was banking on it.

  ‘On your travels, have you ever heard of an artist named Paolo Montsalvo?’ I asked innocently. ‘His name came up today.’

  ‘Montsalvo. Yes, I have. A very middling talent, I must say. I saw some of his work at the Uffizi. I’m not surprised his name came up, given the recent cachet he’s undeservedly gotten.’

  Edith succeeded in getting the question out first.

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ Welles downed another of his pills, not even bothering to conceal the action anymore. ‘He’s from a town called Predappio. Birthplace of Mussolini. Montsalvo has the curse of being Il Duce’s favorite painter.’

  THIRTEEN

  Addison viewed our pending excursion as a working weekend – he planned on watching The 39 Steps again to brush up on his derring-do – so he’d given me Thursday off to prepare. Which meant I had time to chew coffee and drink eggs with Mrs Quigley. She thrilled at the prospect of my socializing with Marion Davies, whom she regarded as a sister in sequins.

  ‘We both put in our time as showgirls. I was a little before Marion, but only a little. The wolves were part of that circus in my day, too. You’d see the
glittering from the stage and not be sure if it was their eyes, their teeth, or the jewels they’d brought to impress one of us on the line. Any of us would do, some nights. I played coy with my share of lotharios, of course.’ Her sweeping gesture took in the entirety of the building, a gift from one of her many dearly departed husbands. ‘But Marion did it right.’

  ‘And how,’ I said. ‘She punched a ticket on the gravy train for life.’

  ‘No!’ My landlady slapped the table with surprising force, calling to mind the nuns who had patrolled the aisles of Saint Mary’s. I sat up straight out of reflex. ‘Do you think a man as accomplished as Mr Hearst would open himself up to the risk of embarrassment? Would Marion have stayed this long if material possessions were all that mattered to her? They are a love match! It’s a fairy tale, and Marion is Cinderella.’

  The verve of her response flustered me. ‘But,’ I said, ‘Marion’s rich.’

  ‘She didn’t start rich! That’s the point of a fairy tale. The happy ending.’

  Some of the Brothers Grimm yarns I’d read as a child didn’t exactly have cheerful climaxes. And Marion wasn’t in an ever-after mood at present. But I didn’t want to tell Mrs Quigley that – and I had to admit she had a point. As penance, I made the supreme sacrifice.

  ‘How about more of that delicious coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘Aren’t I doing a good job?’ my friend Violet Webb asked.

  ‘Of what, packing away that corned beef hash?’

  ‘Holding my jealousy in check. I can’t believe you get to spend the weekend at the Hearst ranch. You sure you can’t stow me in your suitcase? I won’t make a peep.’

  Vi was small enough to make the plan feasible. She and I had met at the boarding house that had been an early home for me in Los Angeles, and we had remained close. Inside her petite blonde frame lurked the lungs of a belter, which she put to use as a band singer. We had met for a bon voyage lunch.

  ‘It’s too bad you’re going away. I was going to ask if you wanted to go out again this weekend. Guy’s friend Hank really likes you.’

  I counted myself lucky. Vi had started seeing a fellow, and I’d reluctantly consented to a few double dates for her sake; Gene and I had, after all, broken up. But Vi and her beau had gotten serious in a hurry, which put ideas in amiable lunkhead Hank’s noggin. I was better off out of it.

  ‘Are you two really an item? I’m still not used to saying Vi and Guy.’

  ‘Isn’t that a scream? We’re working up an act.’

  ‘An act? I thought he was a bookkeeper.’

  ‘He is. But we can’t let a name like that go to waste, so we’ll think of something.’

  She updated me on the latest doings among the girls we’d known at Mrs Lindros’s, now scattered to the four corners of Los Angeles. I told her about my father’s passing. I no longer cried when I talked about it. Not even when Vi squeezed my hand.

  We were back to chattering about San Simeon when we were interrupted. ‘There you are! I heard you two were lurking here.’ Katherine Dambach – Kay to those who knew this butterfly back in her caterpillar stage – had been another denizen of Mrs Lindros’s. Now she was a gossip columnist on the make, looking to move from the second string to the major leagues. As such, she regarded me as a font of information, which had demoted our once-fast friendship to the acquaintance level.

  I pressed on a smile. ‘Won’t you join us?’

  Kay plopped into a seat, grunting against her girdle. ‘Thanks, but I won’t eat. I’m on that new milk and banana schedule. I’m here because an unnamed avian let slip Addison cancelled his plans to attend Mrs Smithers’s party on Saturday at the last minute.’

  Rats. I had to hand it to Kay – she worked at developing her sources. With a casual glance at Vi, I said, ‘That’s true, but there’s nothing going on.’

  ‘Just a quiet weekend at home, then?’

  ‘Exactly. Addison’s concentrating on his technical work these days, with all that’s happening in Europe.’

  ‘So it would be safe to say he’s pausing his party planning for the time being?’

  ‘What? No, that isn’t—’

  A notebook magically appeared in Kay’s hand. ‘He frowns on frivolity in the face of war on the Continent?’

  ‘Not at all. He believes in pictures and parties now more than ever. Close quote.’ I’d only wanted to keep our San Simeon jaunt under wraps, but as my uncle Danny would say, I was making a hames of it. I had to change the subject, and with Kay my best recourse was flattery. ‘I’ve been meaning to call you,’ I said in my best secret-sharing voice. ‘I had a run-in with Walter Kehoe recently, and realized I don’t know a thing about him.’

  ‘And you’re asking me? I write news, dearie, not history. Walt will always be in clover – pulled everything out of the market before the crash, they say – but he hasn’t drawn much water in this town for years.’

  ‘What about the Knight and Daly pictures?’ Vi piped up. ‘His name’s all over those.’

  ‘As a courtesy. Walt’s lost plenty of steps since pictures started talking. Every few years he tries to mount a comeback.’

  ‘Like when he wanted to do a tie-up with Mussolini’s son,’ I said as innocently I could manage.

  ‘Then you do know something about him.’ Kay briefly scrutinized me. ‘Mussolini, Junior was his last big chance. Too bad the deal went further south than Sicily once the bleeding-heart types caught wind of it. Walt ought to rest on his laurels. However pointy they are.’

  ‘He’s got a girl he’s trying to turn into something,’ I said. ‘Named Vera.’

  ‘There’s always a girl.’ Kay slapped her notebook against the table. ‘Why am I telling you things? I’m the one who needs information. Any truth to what I hear about your pal Edith squalling with Mitch Leisen on their latest picture? Is Head butting heads?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Leisen used to be a costume designer himself, so he tends to be … adamant.’

  ‘And double-gaited, they say.’ Kay leaned close to Vi. ‘That means he likes women and men.’

  ‘I know what it means,’ Vi said.

  ‘I’m not learning anything from you two.’ Kay fixed hungry eyes on Vi’s hash, then on me. ‘I may have to feature Addison in my column after all.’

  ‘Or,’ I blurted, ‘you can be the first to have the skinny on a sensational new act. Vi and Guy!’

  By late afternoon I had packed and repacked my suitcase, stocking it with enough clothes for a week of both sun and rain when I’d be in San Simeon for less than forty-eight hours. I was debating whether to add a pair of rubber boots for splashing around in puddles when Mrs Quigley summoned me to the phone.

  Simon’s voice, low and easy in my ear, conjured an image of him slouching in a telephone booth, a shine on his shoes and a gleam in his eye. ‘I’ve worked up some new pages. Taking your advice to heart. Say the word and I can show them to you.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I have to accompany Addison on a trip out of town.’

  ‘A short one, I hope.’

  ‘Just the weekend.’ I refused to divulge more details.

  ‘Next week, then. How’s it going otherwise?’

  My father died. ‘Just fine.’

  As we said our goodbyes, Mrs Quigley maundered out of her apartment. ‘Good. He called you back.’

  ‘Did Simon call before?’

  ‘Land sakes, I forgot to give you that message.’ She walked over to the telephone and pointed to a scrap of paper. The spidery writing made no mention of Simon. It read ‘Mr Carter’. I stared at it a moment before comprehending the caller had been Carter Muncy. Faithful friend to the late Clarence Baird. The man who, I’d wager my eyeteeth, was neck-deep in this Argus business.

  Curious, I dialed the number scrawled below his name. He answered at once, sounding agitated, as if he’d been wearing down the linoleum awaiting my reply. ‘I’m sorry,’ he began. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Clarence’s death.’

  ‘Why, e
xactly?’

  ‘They’re calling it a suicide, but … frankly, I have questions.’

  As do I, Carter. Many of them for you. I didn’t wait for my better judgment to weigh in. ‘Have you had dinner?’ I asked. ‘I never had the opportunity to buy you a meal at Clifton’s.’

  Once again, I gladly overpaid for the grub. I threaded my way through the crowd packed into the cafeteria. It seemed half of Los Angeles had turned up at Clifton’s: families huddled over hearty, inexpensive meals; clusters of strangers debating what might happen next in Europe; isolated city dwellers who couldn’t bear being alone in spare apartments and rented rooms on a night when history’s wheel was turning. All of them out, determined to demonstrate they were here and alive.

  Carter Muncy had attempted to dress for the occasion, but as soon as I seized a table by one of the faux forest glens, he shucked his garish green sweater vest. The day’s heat had only intensified with the crush of bodies. We sized each other up over steaming plates of macaroni and cheese.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me. And for dinner.’ He gulped nervously from a glass of Clifton’s famous free limeade. ‘I need to talk to you about Clarence.’

  ‘Of course. You said you had questions.’

  He nodded rapidly, then almost lunged across the table to address me in a near-whisper. ‘He wouldn’t have killed himself. I don’t care what the police or the newspapers say. He wouldn’t have.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can help you. I only know what the police told the newspapers.’ I spoke slowly so the lie could find purchase on my tongue.

  Muncy flicked away my falsehood. ‘You can’t fool me. I told you, I’ve heard all about you and Miss Head. People talk. You’re investigating what happened to Clarence. I know you are. You have to let me help you.’

  Hardly the overture I’d anticipated. Edith’s words came back to me: Perhaps you have an admirer, too.

  Good Lord. Muncy wasn’t really my fan, was he?

  I shook my head, at the thought and at him. ‘Help us? I’m afraid you have the wrong idea. We’re not—’

  Muncy’s hands gripped the table. ‘Please. Don’t pretend. This is too important to me. I can do all kinds of good. I can find things out, from other people who knew Clarence. I might have the answers you’re looking for already! You have to let me help you.’