The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  ‘That’s no reason to act reckless. You should have called me.’

  ‘I was going to, after I found out what he wanted to say.’ Gene started to interrupt. I didn’t let him. ‘He would have clammed up if you were there. I had to talk to him while he still thought I was on the hook. I got there too late, that’s all.’

  ‘And alone. We’d talked about Muncy, Lillian. Neither of us trusted him. And you went to his place alone?’

  I came perilously close to wavering then, when he called me Lillian instead of his typical jocular Frost. I didn’t want to mislead Gene, and all the nuns at Saint Mary’s who’d threatened eternal damnation for possessing a false tongue didn’t want me to, either. Every fiber of my being longed to make a clean breast of it, no matter how painful the ensuing revelations. I’m not that foolish, Gene, although I very nearly was. I persuaded Simon to come with me. I sent him away to spare him aggravation. Later, he thanked me for that. He’s not threatened by my helping him, the way you apparently are. After that I went home with him, because you and I aren’t seeing each other anymore. And I’m still sorting out how I feel about that.

  No. To protect Simon and Gene both, I’d stick to the story I’d told last night and explain myself to the sisters later.

  Another deep breath, then I looked Gene in the eye and said, ‘It was stupid. I don’t know what came over me.’

  He stared at me for several agonizing moments. ‘Promise me you won’t be that stupid again.’

  ‘I can promise to try.’

  ‘Suppose I’ll have to settle for that.’

  He bought it. My cheeks hadn’t traitorously blushed, an errant crack in my voice hadn’t blown the gaff. I had at last succeeded in telling a plausible lie, and to someone who knew me well, at that. I felt proud and nauseous at the same time.

  Gene carried on. ‘The second I put both deaths together, Captain Frady requested my presence. He’s running herd on this, hand-picked by Chief Hohmann. I’m not sure what the brass are more terrified of, arousing the ire of Hearst’s papers or leaks to the rest smearing Marion Davies. Whole thing’s a mess.’

  ‘What does my friend Captain Frady suggest happened?’

  ‘Whatever causes the least problems. I can tell you his theory once he hears about the letters Edith dug up. Speaking of which, I should get those.’ He dragged his notebook out of his pocket and spoke to it as he scribbled. ‘He’ll say Argus was Muncy and Baird and no one else. He’ll suggest Muncy needed cash. That’s why he started writing Marion, to prime the pump for blackmail. Baird got suspicious, so Muncy killed him. And whoever Muncy owed took care of him Sunday night. The end.’

  I said nothing, but my face must have communicated my misgivings because Gene added, ‘That’s not me talking, it’s him. Or at least it’s what he might say. I don’t know.’ He yawned again. ‘Any other surprises to spring on me?’

  ‘One, actually.’ I told him about my San Simeon encounter with Kaspar Biel, acknowledging it could easily be perverse happenstance.

  Gene made an additional note in his book. ‘That’s right. I never got to ask about your trip to Hearst’s paradise.’ We had a few desultory exchanges about my weekend, then Gene donned his hat and moved toward the door. Where he paused. ‘Everything all right, Frost? Anything else bothering you?’

  ‘Does it seem like my pins aren’t under me?’

  ‘Yes, if I’m being honest. You seem a touch … frazzled, and it’s not just finding Muncy in that state. You haven’t been yourself the last few days. You sure you’re OK?’

  I had no idea why I told him. Perhaps it was simply that he’d asked.

  ‘I received some bad news. My father passed.’

  ‘Jesus, Lillian, I—’ He cut himself off and glanced heavenward. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’ He then placed a hand on my shoulder. A well-judged, comforting gesture, one I’d bet he used regularly in his work. That didn’t diminish its effectiveness. ‘My condolences. I know you and your father were never close. I know that doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Thank you. I think maybe that’s why I’ve been off lately. Kind of …’ I waved my hand futilely.

  ‘Unmoored. I’m familiar with the feeling. I can’t say it passes. It’s more like you find your bearings again. A different star to steer by.’ He took his hand away. I instantly missed it. ‘Anything comes up related to Marion, get in touch tout suite. In the meantime, if you need anything – anything at all – let me know.’ He gave me a kiss on the cheek so chaste, you’d think we’d just met.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Edith did not provide the sympathetic ear I sought. She paced the perimeter of her desk, frowning. ‘You should have waited for me.’

  To keep my story straight I’d again omitted that I had enlisted Simon to serve as my shadow – and had then gone to his apartment and spent several hours in his company. ‘I agree. I wasn’t thinking straight.’ I said it to myself as much as Edith.

  ‘That’s no excuse.’ Edith was upset – with me, herself, and one other person. ‘If only Mitch Leisen hadn’t browbeaten me about that hat last night, I would have been free to help you.’

  ‘You’re free to help me now,’ I said. ‘Explain again what you think is going on, because I’m officially at sea.’

  Edith sat at her desk, her mind ticking as steadily as a sewing machine. ‘This has always been about the Montsalvo, from the very outset. Someone has engaged in diabolical planning to possess that painting. Someone who knows that Mr Hearst owns it, and that Miss Davies represented a vulnerability. This individual induced two people to act as accomplices. First Mr Muncy, then Mr Baird.’

  ‘Neither of whom knew the point was the painting.’

  ‘This explanation is hypothetical, you understand, but I believe my reasoning to be sound. Our culprit, Argus, convinced Mr Muncy to exploit Mr Baird for specifics on Miss Davies’s indiscretion. The initial Argus letters were written by Mr Muncy with Mr Baird’s knowledge, creating the impression of a campaign that Miss Davies would be unable to ignore. When Mr Baird realized she had received additional Argus letters, he confronted Mr Muncy. Who then told Argus.’

  ‘So Argus killed Clarence,’ I said, ‘in a phony suicide that didn’t fool Muncy. That’s why he tried to ingratiate himself with us – to protect himself.’

  ‘Argus still had to demand the painting from Miss Davies. That he didn’t have Mr Muncy write that letter strongly suggests Mr Muncy was never privy to the endgame: the acquisition of the artwork. And Mr Muncy’s suspicions about Mr Baird’s death made him a threat.’ Edith shrugged. ‘Again, I stress this is all conjecture.’

  ‘Conject away. Muncy was Argus’s accomplice, and Baird the pawn used by both of them. Then the question is: Who’s Argus? Who’s behind this?’

  Before Edith could reply, the door to the outer office opened just wide enough for a secretary to peek inside. She had the skittishness of a new girl, and her eyes were agog in amazement; surely no one warranted such saucer-sized orbs once you’d reached the studio’s loftier precincts. ‘Umm, Mrs Head?’

  ‘Miss,’ Edith corrected, a little sharply.

  The girl chewed her lower lip, painted a too-bold shade of red. ‘Miss. Sorry. Umm, Miss Goddard is here.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Edith nodded at the girl, who retreated. ‘Unfortunate timing. Paulette Goddard has questions about her wardrobe for the publicity shoot for The Cat and the Canary.’ Edith said ‘questions’ the way you’d pronounce the name on the label of a bottle of poison. ‘One can never tell how long these conversations will take.’

  Throwing the door wide, Paulette Goddard breezed into the office. Her dark hair cascaded onto a brilliant white blouse, which she wore with a lavender and yellow checked skirt tailored tightly to her frame. There was an edge to her presence, a flinty air of calculation. She came across as a woman who knew what she wanted and took the necessary steps to get it. I recalled a fan magazine profile I’d read of her: born in New York (a point in her favor), she
’d become a showgirl and married then divorced a wealthy man several decades her senior. She and Marion had been cut from the same cloth, the only difference being Marion had never gotten a wedding ring and had stayed with her man.

  Edith introduced me. I told Goddard how much I’d enjoyed The Cat and the Canary.

  ‘Speaking of that film,’ Edith said, ‘you wanted to discuss your wardrobe for the photography session coming up.’

  Goddard waved indifferently. ‘It’s fine. I just thought the clothes could use some more business.’

  ‘Business,’ Edith repeated.

  ‘You know, frills and excitement.’

  Edith spotted her opportunity. ‘Surely you provide that.’

  Goddard responded with a wry smile as I moved to make myself scarce. ‘I’m going to provide some right now, I’ll tell you that. Don’t go anywhere, Miss Frost.’ She then opened the door to admit her husband.

  Through the grace of Edith and Addison, I’d met luminaries before. But Charlie Chaplin was another order of magnitude entirely. No wonder the secretary had entered all atwitter.

  Initially, I found myself underwhelmed. Chaplin wore a conservative gray three-piece suit with a wilted bowtie. While I didn’t exactly tower over him, I was definitely a few inches taller. I’d noticed that many film stars possessed large heads – a prerequisite for the post, I’d supposed – but Chaplin’s cranium was enormous, precariously balanced atop his shoulders; it seemed to pull him into the room. Graying but full hair capped a face with strong features. His vibrant blue eyes projected a steely intelligence. But underneath lurked exhaustion, spiritual and bone-deep. Being fawned over must be draining, I thought as I looked at the most famous man in the entire world. Better known than kings and presidents and captains of industry.

  All the more reason, then, to perk up that tie.

  A cigarette smoldered in Chaplin’s left hand. He swung it behind him as he bowed to us. ‘Miss Head. And you must be Miss Frost.’ His speaking voice stunned me. Not the accent – I’d known he was English – but the simple hearing of it. For any voice to emanate from that face, even when it lacked the trademark mustache, felt tantamount to a miracle. As Chaplin registered my reaction, his weariness grew. ‘I apologize for the ruse, but I wanted to speak with you both without drawing undue attention. Therefore, I enrolled my good lady wife in a bit of deception.’

  ‘Happy to oblige.’ Goddard settled herself on the divan. ‘Though you really might want to think about some more business for my clothes, Edith.’

  Chaplin moved to the center of the room, instinctively claiming it as his birthright. ‘I’d like to speak to you ladies about your efforts on behalf of Miss Davies. Marion.’

  Goddard picked up a magazine. ‘Carry on as if I’m not here, kids.’

  ‘You know about that?’ I asked Chaplin.

  ‘One hears the occasional rumor. And Paulette has kept me apprised of—’

  ‘Studio gossip.’ Another cynical smile from Goddard. ‘I’m good at that.’

  ‘Miss Davies told us she had contacted you once she started receiving these letters,’ Edith said.

  ‘Yes. We … had been close a number of years ago. A gifted natural comedienne, with great charm. I still feel tremendous affection for her. Anyone who comes to know Marion does.’

  Goddard turned a page of the magazine with uncommon zeal.

  ‘Hearst himself is also fascinating.’ Chaplin spoke faster as he puffed on his cigarette. ‘Something of an enigma, boyish and ruthless at the same time. I enjoyed the time I spent with them, so it grieved me that Marion had been subjected to this violation. I did what I could to help. I told her that I had not received any such correspondence myself. Which I must admit I found rather suspicious.’

  Edith’s eyes flicked over to mine. She’d made the same observation, and had been proven right.

  ‘I felt there was more I could do to aid Marion. But I understood the need for secrecy, to keep both the hounds of the press and W.R. himself in the dark. So I took the next step on my own initiative.’ Chaplin paused, as if the next necessary word eluded him. Then he walked to the door, opened it, and gestured at someone to come forward.

  The woman had lank brown hair tucked under a cloche hat and wore a navy crepe dress with a collarless neckline. Everything about her seemed unremarkable, down to her sturdy black shoes, which at least bore a high shine.

  My breath caught as the penny – more an entire pocketful of change – dropped.

  ‘Shoes,’ I said. ‘I know you. You were outside Muncy’s house yesterday when I tried to leave.’

  ‘That’s right.’ The woman tugged the narrow brim of her cloche. ‘Margaret Duval. With the Osborne Investigation Bureau.’

  ‘You’re a private detective,’ Edith said.

  ‘In my employ.’ Chaplin shrugged. ‘As I said, I wished to provide further, discreet service to Marion. I engaged an agency to determine who was responsible for these vile letters. Doing so without Marion’s knowledge compounded the difficulty of the task, but I’m pleased to say the Osborne Agency has made substantial headway.’ He beamed to prove the point, looking for the first time like the famed figure from the silver screen. ‘I selected the firm partly because of Miss Duval. When we were starting United Artists, we became convinced the various film companies were clandestinely organizing a colossal merger, in order to restrict the salaries they paid us performers. My brother Sydney and I, along with Douglas Fairbanks, hired detectives in the hope of monitoring their scheme. The firm we selected also used a female operative, very clever and attractive. Her approach proved most efficacious.’

  ‘I’ll bet it did.’ Goddard squinted at a photo in her magazine.

  Suffused by deep foreboding, I looked at Duval. ‘Did you follow me to Muncy’s house?’

  ‘No. I was there when you arrived. In the taxi.’

  Her pause before the last three words told all. Margaret Duval had witnessed my entire charade. She’d seen Simon – and, what’s more, she let me know she’d seen him, without informing anyone else.

  Edith, for instance, had no inkling of what had passed between us. ‘Why were you there?’ she asked.

  ‘I was watching Muncy on the theory he’d sent the letters.’

  ‘How did you reach that conclusion?’

  ‘I hadn’t.’ Duval shrugged. ‘As I say, just a theory.’

  ‘It’s the correct one. We’ve discovered evidence to that effect. It will be turned over to the police shortly.’

  Duval responded with a single raised eyebrow. Chaplin, meanwhile, grinned at his hire with the fervor of one who’d spent his money well. ‘Then Argus is no more. At least Marion has heard the last from her unwanted correspondent.’

  Edith and I said nothing. If the Osborne Investigation Bureau didn’t know about the demand for the Montsalvo painting, we weren’t about to enlighten them.

  ‘How long were you at Muncy’s house?’ I asked Duval.

  She shook her head, sensing where I was going. ‘I set up on the house around noon, thinking Muncy was out. You were the only person who went near the place. Wish I’d been there Sunday night. My police sources tell me that’s when he was killed.’

  Police sources. She definitely knew I’d fudged the truth.

  ‘Now I have a question,’ she said. ‘Did you find anything in Carter Muncy’s house?’

  ‘I’m not sure Carter Muncy could find anything in it.’

  Duval glanced at Chaplin. He seemed pained, but that might have been because his face had expressed that emotion so often in the movies. Paulette Goddard, meanwhile, merely turned another page in the magazine. Never had I encountered such casual worldliness. Goddard was fast becoming my role model.

  ‘Ah. That is rather unfortunate,’ Chaplin said softly.

  ‘Tell them why, Charlie,’ Goddard counseled.

  Chaplin wrinkled his nose, perhaps forgetting he wasn’t wearing his toothbrush mustache. ‘Marion has told you what these letters refer to, yes? It seem
s that, well, our little bit of fun on the set that evening was … it was filmed. ’Twas foolish, really, indulging in such japery on a soundstage. With cameras in such abundance, it stands to reason one would be put to use. I tried to acquire the reel in 1924 when I first heard tell of it, but nothing came from my efforts. Over time, I forgot about it. Or believed it to be the stuff of myth. Then Marion began receiving these letters, and I thought perhaps someone had proof.’

  He lowered his gaze in embarrassment. Duval took over. ‘We fear Carter Muncy somehow got hold of the film reel, given his interests and his collection. We had hoped you’d seen it in the house, Miss Frost.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think to look.’

  ‘Our concern now is the police may find it when they search the cottage.’

  ‘From what I saw,’ I said, ‘if it’s there, no one will be able to tell what it is.’

  ‘That might be worse.’ Duval frowned. ‘If Muncy did have it, and his possessions are thrown out … someone else could find the film, and this could start over again.’

  Chaplin sighed. ‘The film simply cannot come out. It would destroy Marion.’

  ‘And you, Charlie.’ Goddard set the magazine aside. ‘You’re making a picture about Adolf Hitler. People are already telling you to keep quiet about politics. A few frames of you in a sham wedding with Marion on a set Hearst paid for will really set the world ablaze, even if there is a war on.’

  ‘Paulette, please.’

  ‘Someone’s got to be an adult about this.’

  Before the bickering could escalate, Edith stepped in to soothe feathers. ‘There’s every possibility you’re correct, Mr Chaplin, about the film being mere fancy. Mr Muncy could have gleaned all he needed to compose these letters from Mr Baird.’

  ‘Who was rather talkative,’ I added.

  Duval nodded in agreement. Chaplin remained dubious. ‘I certainly hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘Miss Duval and her associates are at my disposal and yours should Marion require further assistance. Now, if there’s nothing more, the three of us must leave together, as we arrived.’