The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  ‘Thought I saw Montsalvo on this box and got my hopes up,’ she said. ‘You certainly raised a ruckus.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now. Sounded like you’d knocked over a suit of armor. W.R. has more than one. I’m not sure what he’s planning for.’

  ‘I didn’t knock anything over. I thought you did.’

  ‘Not me. I only—’

  Marion’s eyes widened. I felt mine do likewise. The aisle seemed to elongate before me, the exit now yards further away.

  ‘Sam?’ Marion hollered in a voice loud enough to dispel ghosts. A moment later came a soft rustling at the rear of the structure. Whatever caused it heard a two-woman stampede as Marion and I charged toward the door, getting turned around en route.

  Outside we stumbled upon Sam, checking a crate against a clipboard. He started at our appearance. The perspiration I’d worked up froze against my flesh. I shivered in the sunlight.

  ‘Sam.’ The strain of keeping calm sounded in Marion’s voice. ‘Have you been out there this whole time?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Haven’t moved.’

  ‘Who else is working here?’

  ‘No one, given the hour. Is something wrong?’

  ‘There – there couldn’t be someone inside, could there?’

  Sam set down the clipboard and stormed into the warehouse. Marion opened her purse and removed the bottle of gin, taking a slug before handing it to me. I preferred whiskey on the occasions when I drank, but this was no time to be picky.

  Ten minutes later, Sam emerged, dust crowning his hair like a child portraying an old man in a school play. He looked both sheepish and confident. ‘Not a thing, ma’am.’

  ‘Maybe we heard an animal,’ Marion said.

  Sam frowned. ‘No, Miss Davies. We take care with the chief’s valuables in there. No animals.’

  ‘Is there another door?’ I asked.

  After pursing his lips and turning around to take in the building, Sam said, ‘Yes. But it’s locked, I reckon.’

  ‘An animal.’ Marion offered him the bottle. ‘Squirrels.’

  Sam took a demure belt. What the hell, it was quitting time. ‘Could be, ma’am. Squirrels.’

  SEVENTEEN

  One could never go wrong with a simple black dress at dinner. Simple being the operative word. The garment I’d bought for the occasion had a bow bursting from the back. The saleslady who’d honey-talked me into it insisted that by autumn every stylish lady would have a bow or bustle behind her. Right now, though, I felt like a Christmas gift out of season.

  Thus garbed for battle, I sallied downstairs.

  First stop: the Assembly Room, where we’d assembled earlier. It, too, had an elaborate ceiling, its walls lousy with tapestries. The décor was a hodgepodge of styles spanning centuries and cultures, as if all of European antiquity had piled onto a boat to Ellis Island. Standing in such a chamber was impressive and exhausting all at once.

  For the moment, my only company was a solitary barman at his post and Addison, wincing in his dark suit. ‘Are you all right?’ I inquired. ‘How was your afternoon?’

  ‘Not exactly pleasant. I ache everywhere. And that’s with W.R. taking pity on me, giving me a tame mount and a ride nowhere near as brutal as ones in years past. I don’t know how he does it. He’s got two decades on me at least, but put him on horseback and he’s Gene Autry. And he conducted business while we were out there! Has telephones on the trail so he can check in with the office. Hanging from trees, the cases filled with mothballs to keep wasps from building nests in them.’ He edged closer to me, the movement provoking a grimace. ‘Would it be rude if I ate standing up? Not sure I can manage a chair in this condition. I’m really not accustomed to saddles.’

  ‘Would talcum powder help? I have some with me.’

  The desperation in Addison’s eyes sent me sprinting back to my room like Babe Didrikson. I surreptitiously handed him the tin and he thanked me before limping away to seek relief.

  In my absence, the duke and duchess had claimed a corner table, His Lordship toasting me with his glass. I nodded back and proceeded to the barman, who didn’t ask what I wanted but instead poured a stingy portion of sherry. Say this for Anthony Selden: he was right about the drinks.

  ‘Wasn’t I right?’ Selden appeared at my elbow. He eyed his sherry askance but hoisted the glass anyway. ‘I’d ask for two servings at once, but that would only make it sweeter.’

  ‘How was your ride this afternoon?’ I asked.

  ‘Didn’t go, I’m afraid.’ He sniffed his wine without sipping it. ‘Return wires to deal with. W.R. was rather cross with me.’ He didn’t sound that broken up about it.

  Walter Kehoe barreled in and made for the bar, passing Selden and me wordlessly as if we were two of the room’s many statues. ‘Double whatever you’d normally pour,’ he barked to the barman. Who measured out the exact same dram he’d served me.

  ‘Just the ticket for recuperating from your afternoon,’ I said to Kehoe.

  He peered at me, annoyed. ‘What?’

  ‘Your ride. With Mr Hearst.’

  Kehoe grunted. ‘Yeah. Sure. S’cuse me.’ He made his way toward the duke.

  ‘He didn’t go with W.R. either,’ Selden said softly. ‘I saw him after lunch, getting into his car.’

  So Kehoe could have been searching the warehouse this afternoon, I thought. As could Selden.

  Addison bustled back into the Assembly Room a new man, rubbing his hands together with delight. ‘You’re a godsend, Lillian,’ he said after detouring to pick up his sherry. ‘Though I must say, I think we serve better drinks at our parties.’

  Vera flounced in next, Timothy a bit of louche flotsam in her wake. Against heroic odds, Vera’s dinner dress boasted an even deeper neckline than her daytime number. They flopped into chairs and began playing dominoes like it was a punishment meted out by a particularly cruel nanny. As I walked over, Timothy grinned and held open his coat, revealing a flask tucked into his pocket. ‘Fortification, Miss Frost? Unless Marion’s taken care of you already,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘I missed you both this afternoon,’ I lied. ‘I wish I’d gone along on that ride.’

  Vera sneered as she slapped down a domino. ‘Why should I get coated in dust when that glorious pool is only steps away?’

  ‘She even fell asleep by it.’ Timothy yawned. I bit my tongue to keep from telling Vera she had perhaps gotten too much color. It occurred to me she might have acquired it venturing down the hill to the warehouse, although for the life of me I couldn’t conceive of a reason why she’d go.

  ‘But you went riding,’ I said to Timothy.

  ‘Had a fine time chatting with your Mr Rice and swatting away insects. W.R. wouldn’t tarry with the likes of us.’ He glanced up. ‘Here’s His Majesty now.’

  The door through which Hearst escorted Marion had been cunningly concealed amidst the wood carvings on the rear wall; I’d been standing by it earlier and hadn’t noticed it. Marion looked lovely in a chiffon dress of ocean blues and greens accessorized with gold seashell earrings. Hearst gave the room a courtly bow. Upon spotting Selden, he hailed the duke and duchess, the better to pre-empt the inevitable chinwag with the art dealer.

  Marion bolted to the bar and peered soulfully into the eyes of the man stationed there. He hesitated, then filled a glass to the very brim with sherry. ‘You’re my favorite, George. You always have been.’ She toasted him, wine spilling on to her fingertips.

  ‘There aren’t any squirrels in Casa Grande,’ she said to me. ‘I had ’em check. And nothing new in the post, so our mysterious friend won’t pester us through Monday. Thank the Lord for small favors. Come into the refectory, would you? We have a new guest arriving and I should make sure he’s attended to. A stray shows up on a Saturday night and now we’re thirteen at dinner. Bad form and bad luck.’ Marion drained her glass. ‘Shall I invite chef to join us? Or would a scarecrow do the job?’

  In the dining room I spotted my name car
d, seeing I’d been bumped down a spot from lunch. I couldn’t resist peeking to see who’d become the new favored guest. My money was on the duke.

  Marion said something, her words lost to me. Somehow, I forced an apology and ran to a door leading outside.

  The most extraordinary colors painted the sky as the sun set in the Pacific, the air scented with so many fragrances it was as if all the perfumes in the world had been loosed on the night. A sumptuous repast was moments away. After it, there would be a movie.

  None of it mattered. My heart slammed against my chest as I tried to figure out why I would be sitting next to Kaspar Biel.

  Biel was a loyal Nazi, American-born but raised in Germany. Once he had served on the staff of Georg Gyssling, the Reich’s consul in Los Angeles. His responsibility: monitoring the activities of artists – filmmakers, musicians, writers – who had fled Germany for the sanctuary of Southern California. Our paths had crossed around the time I’d met Simon.

  I had made matters difficult for him. Edith and I had thwarted his efforts to surveil the émigré community, his failure forcing him to leave not only Los Angeles but America.

  And now he was back, about to tuck into roast partridge at my elbow. I’d have to pass him the mustard if he asked for it.

  I raced back into the house. Marion had returned to the Assembly Room to fuss over Gandhi. ‘Why is Kaspar Biel here?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you know him? I don’t.’

  I lowered my voice. ‘He’s a Nazi.’

  ‘That I did know. He can call himself a cultural attaché all he wants, but he can’t hide what culture he’s attaché-ed to.’ Marion looked a trifle unsteady on her pins. She’d had more than sherry this evening. ‘W.R. added him to the guest list at Walter’s insistence. Biel is driving down to Los Angeles from San Francisco and could only stop here this evening.’

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that Kehoe, looking to curry favor with Mussolini, also buddied up to Nazis. Hard on its heels, another thought struck me: If Biel had arrived early enough, it could have been him in the warehouse. The idea seemed equally absurd and commonsensical, but there was no denying that Biel’s presence was a coincidence that couldn’t be ignored. My head swam.

  Marion pecked her pooch on the head and set him down. ‘I didn’t want W.R. to invite him. He’s in enough trouble regarding Europe with everything he says in the newspapers. I don’t want it getting out that this Biel fellow is here.’

  ‘I won’t whisper a word. Especially if I don’t have to sit next to him.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. But you have another problem.’ She leaned in, the smell of sherry heavy on her breath. ‘He just arrived.’

  Kaspar Biel had invaded Casa Grande’s vestibule, seizing the territory with that peculiar stillness he possessed.

  People died on that floor, I thought.

  He looked the same. Blond. Dashing, including the hint of cruelty in his blue eyes. He wore an immaculately cut suit of the same hue. He smiled at me, not remotely thrown by my presence. He’d known I would be here.

  Not that he’d ever admit it. ‘Miss Frost,’ he said, his voice showing no trace of a German accent while not sounding wholly American either. A man of both worlds, which made him uniquely dangerous. ‘Imagine my surprise. How are you?’

  Don’t show any fear, I told myself. Word sadly never reached my knees, knocking like an aggressive Fuller Brush salesman.

  ‘Fine.’ I spoke slowly, to keep my voice level. ‘Barney Groff sends his regards.’

  The playfulness in Biel’s manner died instantly. The last time I’d seen him, Paramount’s pugnacious chief of security had bounced Biel off the lot with force. It was the only time I’d ever liked Groff.

  A butler joined us in the vestibule to announce that dinner was served. Biel stepped forward and, before I could react, took my arm. ‘Allow me,’ he said. Under his grip, my limb felt cold. I couldn’t have pulled away even if I’d wanted to.

  The jousting began at once, Biel showering Hearst with flattery before he’d even taken his seat, praising him as ‘a man who sees the world as it is, with clear eyes.’ Hearst kept his response amiable but noncommittal. Several seats further along, Kehoe beamed, reminding me of a dog expecting to be rewarded for depositing a dead animal at its master’s feet.

  Biel then aimed his charm offensive at Marion, kissing her hand before sitting next to her. ‘To be in the presence of the star of When Knighthood Was in Flower,’ he said rapturously. ‘One of the great tales of chivalry, told with such splendor and charm.’

  Hearst puffed with pride, the acclaim for Marion meaning more to him. Marion herself smiled thinly and concentrated her attention on the waiter, pouring wine into what I took for a water goblet. I checked my own: definitely a water goblet. Marion downed the first serving as the waiter filled her wine glass, a complex ballet the two of them had obviously worked out beforehand. With a faint sigh, she finally acknowledged Biel’s adulation. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps the time has come for you to make it again.’

  Marion frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of sound. To hear the clash of the steel in the dueling sequences. Motion pictures were made for swordfights.’

  ‘I think the picture’s fine as it is,’ Marion said.

  ‘True. But the world has moved on.’ Biel made the whole state of affairs sound deeply regrettable. ‘Films without sound will be seen as relics. Fit only for museums, if that.’

  Marion clutched her wine glass. ‘We did a lot of wonderful work on those pictures.’

  ‘Indeed you did. No one is suggesting otherwise,’ Biel said. ‘But, like our esteemed host, one must view the world as it is. Audiences have embraced new techniques, new stories. I am pleased to say that UFA, our great studio in Germany, is at the forefront of this movement.’

  Or was, until so many of your filmmakers fled the country out of fear. I drowned the thought with some wine.

  Biel was poised to continue, but Marion spoke up, tears sounding in her voice. ‘It’s like it was for nothing, then. All that work we did. It’s being forgotten already.’

  Hearst coughed, discomfited by this display. He looked disapprovingly at the waiter, who rushed toward the nearest water pitcher to fetch a glass for the lady of the house.

  Biel’s voice maintained its genial timbre. ‘It’s fascinating to see this new crop of talent at UFA, one that has come of age in an era where sound films are the norm.’

  Addison chose to wade into the conversation. ‘Hasn’t Germany lost a great deal of its talent?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Rice, America has poached some of our filmmakers.’ Biel wagged a finger, as if it had been done in fun. ‘But their leaving is proof they are not interested in telling German stories. Or working in innovative ways. The filmmakers who remain are in a true partnership. With Germany’s film industry, its government, its people. We shall all benefit when that partnership bears fruit.’

  His words provoked a thought, and I voiced it before I could consider the wisdom of my action. ‘I recently met someone who trained at UFA. Rudiger Vollmer.’

  Biel pivoted toward me, a single line creasing his brow. No doubt he’d expected me to remain mum for the evening. ‘Yes. An accomplished craftsman – in his time, that is. That time has likely passed now. Does he still work in pictures?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted, and Biel smiled, his point made.

  I smiled as well. Admitting he knew Vollmer placed Biel one degree from the late Clarence Baird. We’d each accomplished something.

  ‘We were all accomplished craftsmen.’ Perhaps it was Clarence’s memory – or just anxiety – that made Marion stammer. ‘What difference did it make if the work’s only going to be forgotten? Who’s going to remember me now? And for what?’

  Hearst gave her another look of reproach, and Marion had had enough. She slapped the edge of the table. ‘You have squirrels in your warehouses, W.R. Are you aware of that?’

  The duke got to his feet. ‘I�
�d like to propose a toast.’ Behind him, attendants whisked in to serve roast partridge and some degree of order, with second helpings for all.

  By the end of the meal, Addison had become fast friends with the duke, who, it happened, also fancied ‘the flickers’. They were deep in conversation about Alfred Hitchcock – ‘your Selznick chap took the best we had,’ in the duke’s opinion – when Hearst declared it time to adjourn to the theater for the evening’s entertainment, The Cat and the Canary.

  I asked Marion if I had a few minutes before the show started and, if so, where the nearest of Hearst’s secret telephones was located. Her antenna rose tipsily. ‘What gives?’

  ‘I don’t want Biel or anyone else to overhear my call.’

  She pointed to a grove of trees by the tennis courts. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll hold the curtain.’ I squeezed her arm and darted out into the night. I couldn’t believe I was running the risk of missing an Edith Head picture. But I needed to talk to the woman herself more than admire her craftsmanship right now.

  The scent of mothballs led me to Hearst’s field phone, dangling from a branch. The operator seemed momentarily thrown when she heard my voice, but recognizing her responsibility to Mr Hearst’s guests, she put me through to the number I requested in Los Angeles.

  Edith answered on the fourth ring. ‘I wondered if I’d hear from you before Monday,’ she said. ‘You caught me on my idea of an exciting weekend. I’m washing my hair. How are things going?’

  ‘Not well. No sign of what I came here for. And I’m not the only one who came here for it.’ I swiftly summarized my misadventure with Marion in the warehouse and the positive plethora of suspects. ‘Then to make matters worse, Kaspar Biel showed up.’

  Her sharp intake of breath carried down the wire with impressive clarity. ‘Mr Biel? What on earth does he want?’

  ‘Some kind of business with Mr Hearst.’

  ‘That’s an odd coincidence.’

  ‘Assuming it is a coincidence, which I don’t. Biel also knows Rudi Vollmer. Which could be a second coincidence, but I don’t buy that either. That’s why I’m calling. Is it possible that Biel is after the’ – I almost said ‘painting’ but didn’t want to let anything slip when an operator might be eavesdropping – ‘dingus and had Vollmer send the letters?’