The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  ‘Just a lazy Sunday then?’

  ‘Indeed. Do you have plans?’

  ‘Evening mass, then putting away everything I didn’t get a chance to wear. Will you be taking your sister home?’

  He peered at me, briefly forgetting the charade he and Vera were acting out to keep Kehoe in the dark. Then, as if an unseen prompter fed him his line, he said, ‘Probably, unless she’s going to be a grump as usual. Has a headache, the poor dear. I imagine we’ll spend the rest of our lazy Sunday together.’

  Yes, I thought. I imagine you will.

  Addison discreetly pantomimed his panic to me, and I left Timothy to rush to his side. ‘You must sit with me,’ my boss implored. ‘Pretend to take dictation, say. Selden is relentless. He’s on my ear about buying art, naming painters and grilling me about what I have hanging. I took the man’s card, I’m not sure what more I can do.’

  ‘I’ll stay right here until we reach Union Station. Did you enjoy your weekend?’

  ‘I did and I didn’t. Marion seems awfully sad to me. Did she strike you that way?’

  I observed that she had a lot on her mind.

  ‘It’s more than that. The conversation with that German fellow last night stood out. It’s ridiculous how those wonderful early films of hers will be forgotten. A whole chunk of your past, vanishing without a trace. What must that feel like?’

  I thought of my father, and realized I could tell him.

  Instead, I said, ‘At least she’s throwing another party. Fitting end to the summer.’

  Addison’s eyes gleamed. ‘Yes, one like she used to. One for the ages.’ For the rest of the train ride we talked about the past and the future, as if both were barreling toward us.

  Los Angeles Register August 28, 1939

  LORNA WHITCOMB’S

  EYES ON HOLLYWOOD

  It seems the reason Addison Rice changed his weekend plans was simple: a summons to the summit of San Simeon. Hollywood’s biggest film fan (and we don’t just mean his girth) was seen boarding a train for Hearst Castle. Among the other guests: Walter Kehoe, famed comedy producer now plying his trade at Lodestar. Perhaps he and Miss Davies, the lady of the manor, can reminisce about cutting Kapers in the good old silent movie days … Speaking of Lodestar, we hear Madge Granger is in a lather after being called back from her Honolulu vacation for reshoots on A Woman’s Tears. Courage, Madge. If Charles Laughton can work an extra week in full make-up for The Hunchback of Notre Dame, you can stand a few days … Not many of his fans know one of Hollywood’s nicest guys has a way with a gun. Fred ‘Eagle-Eye’ MacMurray is the best shot in Hollywood and captain of the Santa Monica Skeet Club.

  NINETEEN

  Few pleasures in life equal that of waking in your own bed after a trip, however much you’ve enjoyed your travels. No goddess mooning over a shepherd awaited me on my ceiling at home. I had to settle for a water stain that resembled Jimmy Durante in profile.

  Downstairs, I stopped to swap inscrutable looks with Miss Sarah Bernhardt. Mrs Quigley rushed out and barred the front door. ‘I was so eager to hear about your time with Marion I forgot to give you your telephone messages last night!’ From the capacious pockets of her housecoat came numerous tissues, a selection of hard candies, several of what looked like betting slips, and three scraps of paper. One of them was a shopping list, which I handed back.

  The other two had Mr Carter bannered across them; Muncy had been trying to raise me all weekend. I deciphered my landlady’s chicken-scratch handwriting. ‘What does “sat something” mean? And is that a two?’

  ‘It means he phoned twice on Saturday with something important to tell you.’ She sounded disappointed that I’d muffed such an easy one. I held up the second note in surrender.

  ‘That’s from Sunday morning. Quite early, I should add. He wanted to know if you were coming to what he called movie club.’

  At least my would-be protégé had been incommunicado all of yesterday, bouncing from one theater to another. He’d eat his heart out when he learned I’d gotten a sneak peek at The Cat and the Canary. I dialed his number, curious about his ‘something important’, certain he’d ignored my advice and started investigating Clarence Baird’s death on his own. He didn’t answer, so I’d have to wait to find out.

  I’d almost made it to the door when the telephone rang. ‘Don’t know why I’m bothering,’ Mrs Q grumbled. ‘It’ll be for you.’ Sure enough, a moment later she was handing me the receiver.

  As I raised it, I could hear the wet hen squawking of Kay Dambach, erstwhile friend and gossip columnist on the make. ‘You went to San Simeon!’ she said, already in full ‘J’Accuse!’ mode. ‘I asked what Addison was up to, and you lied to my face.’

  Now I lied to her ear. ‘I was invited at the last minute. I didn’t know about the trip when we talked. I swear.’

  ‘You’re going to have to make this up to me.’ Her voice took on a merciless edge. ‘You’d better dish on Marion and Hearst. I want to know all about the party she’s throwing this weekend, for starters. And whatever else you can give me.’

  ‘How about this as an exclusive?’ I bargained. ‘The Cat and the Canary will be one of the biggest hits of the year.’

  Addison tented his hands over his not-inconsiderable belly. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it, how the ranch lingers? Like a luscious dream. I close my eyes and I’m still there. I can see it all – the grounds, the flowers, those heart-stopping views.’

  I waved at the enviable environs of his own residence. ‘What you’ve got is nothing to cry about.’

  ‘True. But W.R. has created something from another world.’

  ‘Maybe you should try to picture sleeping on that Cardinal Richelieu bed.’

  That ended his woolgathering. He sat up straight. ‘Perhaps it’s the nagging sense it was the last time I’ll visit the place. Something about the whole weekend felt … valedictory. Like the end of an era.’

  That morning’s paper brought word that civilians were being advised to leave Paris before the European crisis grew worse.

  ‘I had that thought myself,’ I said.

  After plowing through the weekend’s correspondence, making a dent in Monday’s, and placing various orders for the week, I left for Paramount to update Edith. On my way into the Wardrobe building, I spied a familiar figure on a bench. Billy Wilder’s features, usually alight with mischief, were downcast. Even his trilby slumped. So dark was the cloud over the scriptwriter’s head I steeled myself to walk past him, but then I caught his eye and he waved weakly.

  ‘Everything OK, Mr Wilder?’

  He grunted. ‘We had a screening of Ninotchka in Long Beach. It did not go well. The Russians are not so funny all of a sudden. And my mother is in Krakow, under the threat of invasion.’ The merest flicker of a smile appeared on his face. ‘You wonder why I said that second. You think I am a bad son. But while I cannot deliver my mother from Krakow or get heads of state to listen to reason, I can at least fix the picture. I put my problems in the correct order.’ He pointed at me as if I’d interrupted him. ‘Edith mentioned the two of you met some people from the early days of the business.’

  I filled in the details, leaving Marion and blackmail out while trying to paint an amusing picture. Wilder didn’t laugh as I spoke. He merely nodded, thinking. ‘You still see D.W. Griffith out, from time to time,’ he said sadly. ‘Fine suit in tatters, drinking those dreadful Orange Blossoms he likes. No one recognizes him. All of us cribbing from his work, completely unaware he’s next to us at the bar.’ Wilder shuddered as if someone – maybe the great director D.W. Griffith himself – had walked over his grave. ‘The films from that time are already being treated like cave paintings. And the people who made them are living fossils. Waxworks.’

  He nudged his trilby back with his thumb and grunted softly. ‘I should go back to work. I have loafed long enough.’ He strode off in a better mood.

  Edith practically faded into the background of her office, her new gray suit so closely ma
tching the walls I assumed she’d brought a paint sample to the fabric store.

  ‘Welcome back!’ she said cheerfully. ‘You remember Mr Rudi Vollmer.’

  Taken aback by Vollmer’s presence, I frantically pasted on a smile too bright for the circumstances; even he found it strange for me to be that happy to see him again. He wore the same dark suit from our earlier meeting, the same impenetrably placid expression. He bowed in my direction.

  ‘I asked him here to express my condolences about Mr Baird,’ Edith explained. ‘We got into a fascinating conversation about his years in the film industry in Germany.’

  ‘Not so fascinating.’ Vollmer shrugged, the greatest display of emotion I’d yet seen from him. ‘I left ages ago. Before the Nazis, before the putsch. UFA was still new. Lubitsch was there. He knew my work, a little. I came to America because … well, because of a woman. By the time we had gotten to the Mississippi River, we realized we had made a great mistake. Not in coming to America, but in believing we were fated to be together. Still, that childish romance was the impetus that brought us both here. She is fat and happy in Kansas City now. We send each other Christmas cards. I came to Los Angeles and found work. Lubitsch vouched for me, thank God.’ He peered at Edith. ‘He is not still here, is he? Ernst?’

  ‘Sadly, no. He’s at MGM now. A wonderful man.’

  His new picture didn’t test well in Long Beach, I thought.

  ‘And your family?’ Edith asked. ‘Are they in Germany?’

  ‘Fortunately, no. My brother Curt, he is all the family I have, he left in 1933. He lives outside Paris. Perhaps not as safe as it could be, but certainly safer than where he was.’

  I cast a sidelong glance at Edith. She was telling me – or having Vollmer himself tell me – how unlikely it was for him to be in league with Kaspar Biel and his masters in Berlin. Vollmer had been in America too long, with no vulnerable family members on whom the Nazis could apply pressure. Biel knew Vollmer because tracking every German émigré employed in pictures had been his brief when he’d been assigned to Reich Consul Gyssling’s detail in Los Angeles.

  Still, I wasn’t prepared to rule out the possibility of Biel being Argus, with Vollmer providing the damning testimony against Marion.

  Edith expressed a few appropriate concerns about the current political situation, which I reinforced with somber nods. I almost got whiplash when she changed the subject.

  ‘I was sorry I didn’t get to speak to Mr Baird’s young friend. Mr Muncy, wasn’t it?’

  Vollmer stiffened so slightly that had I not been watching him, I would have missed it. ‘Yes. A nice enough young man.’

  Enough. The most damning modifier in the English language. Good enough. Cheap enough. Pretty enough.

  Edith let the silence expand until Vollmer felt obligated to continue. ‘A most inquisitive fellow.’

  ‘How inquisitive?’ I asked. ‘Nosy inquisitive?’

  Vollmer didn’t smile, he more acknowledged that this was the moment when a smile would be customary. ‘I find Carter curious. In every sense. He knows a great deal about motion pictures, but he pressed to find out more. He pressed rather hard. He attached himself to Clarence and refused to let go.’

  For Vollmer, this was a dam breaking. Edith encouraged him. ‘Did he ask either of you about Miss Davies?’

  ‘Yes, but then he asked about everyone we worked with. He knew my history, which I confess was flattering, and inquired about each name of note, whether living or dead.’ A second shrug, this one seasoned with pride. ‘But I keep confidences.’

  ‘Would Mr Baird?’ I asked.

  Vollmer shifted position, and for an instant I feared he was about to flee. ‘I do not wish to speak ill of my friend,’ he began slowly. ‘But he was lonely in a way that I myself am not. I understood the film industry had passed me by. It stung, but I made my peace with it. I have my shop, my friends. I am part of the world in a way, whereas Clarence was not. He sealed himself off, took to living in the past. This, I fear, is why he wrote those foolish and hurtful letters to Marion. To convince her – and himself – of his worth.’

  I’d almost forgotten. Vollmer seemed unaware that an Argus letter had been sent after Baird’s death, and consequently still believed Baird had been Marion’s poison pen correspondent. The man could be on the level after all.

  ‘This is also why,’ he continued, ‘I never warmed to Carter. He encouraged Clarence to continue living in the past. He spoke to him in a way that drew him out of his shell, yes. But it also made the shell thicker. Harder to penetrate. Harder to escape.’

  We chatted for a few more minutes, then Edith subtly aimed Vollmer toward the door. As soon as he was gone, she rushed to my side. ‘How are you? None the worse, I hope, for your encounter with Mr Biel?’

  ‘I was shaken, I must admit. But what’s all this about? Why did you have Vollmer here?’

  ‘Because I agree with you. Given Mr Vollmer’s involvement, Mr Biel’s arrival is a coincidence that bears inspection. But I also wanted his opinion of Mr Muncy.’

  ‘Why?’

  She returned to her desk, removed a letter from the center drawer, and wordlessly slid it across to me.

  August 20, 1939

  Dear Miss Colbert,

  I am compelled to write you upon seeing your miraculous film Midnight for a third time. The charm and vivacity of your performance leave no doubt in my mind that you are a true star, at a time when we need them most.

  If you would be so kind as to send me a photograph bearing your signature, I would be forever in your debt.

  I had the pleasure of seeing you in person outside The Players a week ago. May I say that the beaded evening jacket you wore was breathtaking.

  With all warmest regards,

  Carter Muncy

  The words had been in etched in a telltale purple ink, a few of them – Midnight, star, breathtaking – written with such ardor they’d become exaggerated, engorged with feeling. It was a style I had seen several times before.

  I read the letter several times before mustering the will to speak. ‘He’s a Claudette Colbert fan, then.’

  Edith nodded. ‘Purple, the color of royalty. Claudette would appreciate that.’

  ‘How … how did you get this?’

  ‘I asked the people who receive the fan mail at the studio to keep an eye out for anything in purple ink, on the off chance our scribe is so besotted with pictures he sends letters to his favorite performers. I also may have mentioned Mr Muncy’s name, as I had my suspicions about him. This came over this morning, along with a letter addressed to your friend Brenda Baines. Mr Muncy seems taken with her latest performance. Would you care to see that?’

  ‘No thank you.’ I returned the first missive. ‘Then Muncy wrote the Argus letters.’

  ‘Most assuredly. You heard Mr Vollmer. Mr Muncy is a true fanatic, obsessed with pictures to the extent that he sought out Mr Baird and others who worked in the industry. Mr Baird undoubtedly told him about the faux wedding between Miss Davies and Mr Chaplin. Mr Baird thought it a bit of salacious gossip, while Mr Muncy clearly saw it as an opportunity, one providing leverage on Miss Davies. He convinced Mr Baird that the poison pen letters would be an avenue back into Miss Davies’s good graces, so as to extract every detail of the story. Mr Muncy then proceeded to use the letters to his own ends.’

  ‘But what are they?’ Sense eluded me. ‘Muncy only cares about movies but suddenly decides he wants an eighteenth-century painting? Why? And’ – my voice leapt an octave as I grew angry – ‘that means he lied to me. Telling me Clarence was quiet on the ride from Clifton’s when they must have been arguing all the way home. He gave me a whole song and dance about how he’s itching to help us investigate Clarence Baird’s murder, and even telephoned me over the weekend saying he’d discovered something. Why put on that act if he killed Baird himself?’

  ‘I see two possibilities.’ Edith ticked them off on her fingers, the red Bakelite bracelets on her wrist clicking. ‘One, M
r Muncy acted alone. He wants information on the police’s efforts and views you as a means of acquiring it. Two, he is not acting alone. He has an associate.’

  ‘Who’s after the Montsalvo,’ I breathed.

  ‘And that person – the real Argus – is responsible for Mr Baird’s apparent suicide. Mr Muncy, now unsure whether he can trust this partner and fearing for his own life, plans to seed information through us, resulting in his associate’s arrest.’

  The combined weight of both prospects pressed me back in my chair. ‘You … you really think someone was stringing along both Baird and Muncy?’

  ‘It would explain why this latest letter to Marion was typewritten. Argus himself composed it. He’s revealing his true agenda – the Montsalvo – and no longer needs Mr Muncy.’

  ‘That’s why Muncy is all fired to lend us a hand. He’s afraid he’ll be next.’ I whistled. ‘Silly me. I thought it was because he wanted to meet you.’

  ‘Why don’t we oblige him?’ Edith stood up. ‘Right now.’

  We had reached her outer office when Mitchell Leisen burst in looking peevish. ‘Good, you’re here,’ he said, paying no attention to me. ‘We have to talk about the wardrobe for the Agoura scenes. Especially the hat, which is not working.’

  Edith crossed her arms and gripped her handbag. ‘Of course, Mitch. But now’s not the best time.’

  ‘It’s the only time I have,’ he said, in a tone indicating he would brook no arguments.

  Correcting course at once, Edith said, ‘Then by all means. Lillian, if you wouldn’t mind waiting—’

  Leisen made a noise as if his back had gone out. ‘We might be a while. The hat must be just so.’

  ‘That’s all right, Edith,’ I said loudly. ‘I’ll go on ahead and get us a table.’

  Edith’s look communicated in no uncertain terms, Don’t talk to Muncy without me. My innocent glance in response said, I make no promises. I slipped out before she could issue a silent rebuke. Carter Muncy hadn’t deceived her. She hadn’t been the target of his elaborate charade. I had and, by God, I was going to ask him about it.