The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  Barbara kicked off her galoshes. ‘That, and it’s awful hot.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I was spent by the time I reached home, thanks to the unrelenting heat and the ride in Edith’s roadster: bone-rattling on our way out of the hills, hell-for-leather all the way to Los Angeles. A subdued Edith had taken the wheel after a lengthy conversation with Mitchell Leisen. He’d kept her waiting while he discharged the crew and sent Barbara Stanwyck off with a wardrobe assistant carrying each article of winter clothing she could at last mercifully shed. Edith never hinted at the subject of Leisen’s latest harangue. All she’d said was, ‘Preston will demand a full report on how his script is being butchered. At least I can relay that Barbara and Fred have marvelous chemistry. The studio should reteam them.’

  Somehow, it was hotter inside my building than out. The temperature had even gotten to Miss Sarah Bernhardt. She lay in the coolest patch of the lobby, limbs extended to claim every inch of shade.

  ‘I’ll bet you wish you were one of those hairless cats,’ I told her. ‘I can’t think of the breed right now. They’re ugly, but they’re comfortable. Not in winter, maybe, but then winters are so mild here.’

  The cat stared back in sleepy wonderment, astounded that I expected her to answer.

  Mrs Quigley clanged around her kitchen, singing along with Kay Kyser’s Kollege of Musical Knowledge. ‘Can I fix you a cup of tea, Lillian?’

  ‘With all due respect, Mrs Q, that’s batty. I was thinking about having ice cubes for dinner with a side of sherbet.’

  ‘Nonsense. Raise the internal temperature, that’s the thing. Heat plus heat is how you cope. Learned that on the stage.’

  I declined, but consented to sit a while and listen to the radio. Soon we were both belting out tunes. With klass dismissed at Kyser’s Kollege, the news came on. There were glimmers of hope in Europe, with Germany open to negotiation, but you’d never know it from the announcer’s voice.

  Hearing a car ease to a halt outside, I nudged the curtain aside. Two men sat inside a black sedan hard against the curb. I recognized the one closer to me.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I told Mrs Quigley. ‘If I’m not, telephone the police.’

  ‘All right, dear,’ she said.

  I couldn’t tell if the heat had broken or if I had. The evening air was still. There were no sounds of children playing. Nearby a dog barked mournfully, regretting the choices it had made in its life. Only when I set foot on the sidewalk did Kaspar Biel emerge from the sedan, cool and relaxed in his pin-striped suit.

  ‘How are you, Miss Frost? I would suggest a rematch of our tennis game, but these conditions would be unforgiving.’

  I said nothing, too nervous for banter.

  Biel waved at my building as if it were a quaint set at the Paramount Ranch. ‘Still living here, I see. I thought you might have moved to larger quarters.’

  He knew exactly how large my quarters were. He’d broken into my apartment once to search for something I didn’t possess. A fact I remembered every time I heard a floorboard creak, or spied a shadow that turned out to be Miss Sarah on her nocturnal prowls.

  I blotted my temples with a handkerchief. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is the heat too much? I find it invigorating myself. We could adjourn to a soda fountain, if you prefer.’

  ‘I’d prefer to keep this brief.’

  ‘Fair enough. You are of the Roman Catholic faith, I believe. Perhaps you have made the acquaintance of the Madonna of the Hills. Has she been located at last?’

  The smart play was to play dumb. But it had been a long day, and I didn’t have it in me to concentrate. ‘You mean the painting by Paolo Montsalvo.’

  ‘Indeed. Has Miss Davies tracked it down?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘She did not invite you to spend the weekend with her for your company, sprightly though it may be. She sought your help, along with that of your confederate, Miss Head. Not that either of you could assist her in the immediate task of sorting Mr Hearst’s plunder. Truly a shame, is it not? Marvels of antiquity moldering in packing crates.’ Biel arranged his features in a show of synthetic sympathy. ‘Tell me, has she found it?’

  ‘What’s the big noise about this painting, anyway? Why’s half the world so hot for it? It can’t just be because it’s the perfect thing to give Mussolini for his birthday.’

  Biel cocked his head quizzically. ‘Half the world? You have met others who seek it?’

  ‘Everybody and his brother. Or her brother. Are you behind the letters to Marion?’

  ‘Letters to Miss Davies? Naturally, I have corresponded with her.’ Biel leaned against the sedan’s fender. ‘I sent many letters to stars of the screen during my impressionable youth. Such towering personages demand love. Some warrant reverence, like our own Emil Jannings. He has returned to Germany and German films, I am pleased to report. Miss Davies deigned to respond to my childish entreaty with a signed photograph.’

  I refrained from my rolling my eyes, mainly to conserve energy. ‘Probably some studio flunky’s signature.’

  ‘Yes, but one can appreciate the thought. She was a favorite of mine and, I daresay, of yours. Her pluck. Her indomitable nature. I prefer the role she played in real life – and, I suppose, in Blondie of the Follies. The woman who uses her wiles to attain riches and proximity to great men. Alas, all she does is breathe gin into their faces. A sloppy drinker, Miss Davies. Proof she has been indulged too long. She should return to the screen, for her own sake. Play society matrons, well-intentioned but coddled women. The aging mother who has led a life of debauchery her children cannot imagine.’

  His needling of Marion got my back up. ‘You didn’t hesitate to take advantage of her hospitality.’

  ‘I had to seize my opportunity to meet Mr Hearst. I have some measure of respect for him, as one of the few Americans to grasp that what is transpiring in Europe is a regional conflict of no interest to the United States. Aside from that, he is a pitiable figure, don’t you think? He failed in his dream to be elected president of this country. He failed in his more meager dream to transform his mistress into a great star. And now his once-mighty empire is collapsing. Born a wealthy man, yet his ultimate accomplishment is spending himself into an opulent and garish poorhouse.’

  ‘Still, he has what you want.’

  ‘True. The Montsalvo. Bringing me to my question once again. Has Miss Davies found it?’

  ‘Somebody searched for it while we were in San Simeon over the weekend. I think it was you.’

  ‘Yes. I confess. I was, in Miss Davies’s words, the squirrel in the warehouse, taking advantage of the time I had before presenting myself for dinner. Foolhardy, perhaps, but I must have that painting, Miss Frost. Do you know why?’ He launched himself off the car’s fender. Before I could blink, he stood inches from my face, the thin veneer of his manners cracking. ‘So I can leave this fatuous place behind. Once I did not object to being in Los Angeles. It is the capital of cinema, where movies are made. But at the moment when great things are afoot in Europe, when vital work is to be done there, history to be made, I find myself dispatched here by my superiors to demonstrate my worth. An errand boy, sent to obtain a canvas. Every second I am in this benighted city is one I am not fulfilling my destiny. I put it to you one final time. Has Miss Davies located the painting?’

  Beads of perspiration popped on his forehead, resentment annihilating his self-possession. At least he was sweating now.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I lied. ‘I haven’t heard from Marion.’

  Biel eyed me up and down, nostrils flaring as he tested the air for any hint of fear. ‘She is returning to host her party, so she will be contacting you shortly.’ He handed me a card bearing only a telephone number. ‘You will call me whenever you speak to Miss Davies. If you are thinking of the last time our paths crossed, believing you will once again be delivered at the last moment … I beg you, Miss Frost, do not confuse then and now. We are in a differen
t world, facing different circumstances. I cannot be here chasing a painting when Germany is days away from becoming a colossus. Do you understand?’

  I nodded, too readily, too fervently. Biel pressed a cloth to his head, his movements precise. ‘You realize Germany will not only be a political force, but a cultural one. Berlin will supplant Los Angeles to become the new capital of cinema. A city of artisans using film to propagate ideas and influence thought. A movement I intend to be part of.’ He smiled, his sinister sangfroid regained. ‘You must visit. I will introduce you to Emil Jannings. I’ll have him sign a photograph for you. Before your very eyes, so there will be no doubt.’

  Inside, I slumped against the door, as if the weight of my body could keep the world’s insanity outside. I let my heartbeat slow to its normal tempo as I pondered a question: Why the frenzy over this painting? Why would Biel have been ordered to retrieve it? Why were the likes of Walter Kehoe and Anthony Selden so keen to possess it? Surely it couldn’t be that Il Duce had a taste for it. There had to be something more to the Montsalvo. But what?

  I looked at the telephone. Was there anyone I could call? Gene was busy with Marion. Simon would either drive to the German consulate and demand satisfaction, or crack open a bottle of whiskey and tell me to forget about it. This peril I would face alone.

  First, I planned on taking Mrs Quigley up on her offer of hot tea. Maybe the old girl was onto something.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Taking a break from Addison’s correspondence, a steady barrage of thank-you notes and I-couldn’t-possibly letters, I made a few telephone calls. One resulted in news sufficiently grim that I sought out my employer. He was leafing through a movie magazine in a library full of leather-bound books.

  ‘Mind if I interrupt, Chief?’

  ‘Chief. I quite like that, even if it is W.R.’s nickname.’

  ‘Speaking of W.R., we’ve hit a snag with your costume.’

  ‘No, my costume’s sorted. I’m putting a premium on comfort and going as an angel. I already have the robe from a previous event.’

  I had no intention of asking for specifics on that. ‘Yes, and we were going to get the accoutrements from Allied Costume. I’d reserved wings, a halo, and a harp for you. I spoke to them about the delivery time, and … there’s been a mix-up.’

  Addison turned whiter than the robe he planned to wear. ‘A mix-up?’

  ‘Turns out their entire supply of angel accessories is spoken for this weekend. That might be Marion and W.R.’s doing. At their past parties, they’d lay on a choice of costumes for their guests. They may be doing that again.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t help me. I can’t attend in only a fluffy white robe! People will think I’m a houseguest who got lost on the way back to my room. Or worse, some cultist who wandered down from a commune in the mountains.’

  ‘Would that be a saint or a sinner? Here’s a thought. Mr Hearst can’t have bought out Paramount. Maybe Edith can help you join the ranks of the seraphim.’

  ‘What an odd coincidence,’ Edith said when I called her. ‘I was about to telephone you. Miss Davies asked to see me. She should be here later this morning. She sounded rather alarmed.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Edith waved at the rack of costumes she’d had wheeled into her office. ‘As you can see, we have flights of angels’ wings. Would Mr Rice prefer a mighty, biblical set or something daintier for comic effect?’

  ‘Comedy wings, please. How are you for harps and halos?’

  ‘Bumper crops of both. I’ll have some sent over to Mr Rice. How about you? What will your costume be?’

  ‘I was thinking Florence Nightingale. The Lady with the Lamp. It means figuring out how to hold a lamp and a champagne glass at the same time. It’s really just an excuse to wear sensible shoes all night.’

  Edith nodded politely, rattling her necklace of dimpled white beads resembling miniature golf balls. ‘That’s a nice thought. It should make for a nice costume.’

  Nice didn’t sound so nice the way Edith said it.

  Following a brief commotion at the door, Marion was shown into Edith’s office. She made a most becoming nervous wreck in a yellow dress with a green scarf knotted around her hair. She sank into a chair, already speaking a mile a minute. ‘What a week. Usually, I can relax at Wyntoon. It’s so serene even W.R. gets a little less involved with his business. But I’ve been positively on edge searching for that painting. And then to receive another letter, which I had to keep hidden from W.R.’

  ‘That was quite fortuitous,’ Edith said, ‘Argus knowing he’d be able to reach you there.’

  Marion balled up her fists, pressing them to her chin. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Who knew you’d be going to Wyntoon from the ranch?’

  ‘Everyone at San Simeon over the weekend.’ Marion nodded at me. ‘I mentioned it once or twice.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s of no significance.’ Edith favored Marion with one of her opaque close-lipped smiles. ‘You said you had to see me?’

  ‘It’s that damned painting!’ Marion flopped against her chair, the strain suddenly too great to bear. ‘I thought the hard part would be getting it down here, but that was a snap. The problem is W.R. He’s forever puttering around, looking for things to change. Furniture, art, a wall he can knock down and move back five inches. If I leave the Montsalvo in the beach house, he might find it. I can’t have that. I want whoever is sending these letters to be caught, so I can return the painting to Wyntoon with W.R. none the wiser. Let him dig it up himself when he’s ready to sell it to that art dealer Anthony Selden or whoever. But what do I do with it in the meantime?’

  ‘Where is it now?’ I asked.

  ‘Downstairs in my car! I can hardly leave it there!’

  ‘Why not store it in my office overnight?’ Edith suggested. ‘No one would think to look here, and I can have it delivered for tomorrow’s party.’

  ‘What a smashing idea!’ Marion’s joy was short-lived. She pressed a single manicured finger to her lips. ‘Only … how do we get it up here?’

  I invoked the names of several saints and quite a few sinners aloud.

  ‘Yeah,’ Marion said. ‘It’s awful heavy.’

  She and I had spirited the rolling rack of angel attire down to her car. Her driver and I tried to jockey the crate containing the Montsalvo onto the cart, but it was proving difficult.

  Marion spotted a trio of burly grips ambling across the lot. She waved her emerald scarf at them. ‘Howdy, fellas! Care to help a lady down on her luck?’

  ‘Sure thing, Miss Davies.’ The barrel-chested man at the head of the pack turned as red as a Baldwin apple. In short order, he and his cronies were heaving the box into position. ‘Good thing we came by, Miss Davies. This weighs a ton.’

  ‘It’s some of Mr Hearst’s spare change. A few gold bars I found in the sofa. You know, walking around money.’ She continued chatting gaily with the grips as her driver and I trundled the cart toward the Wardrobe building, asking them where they were from, cracking jokes at her own expense. From the way the men were eating out of her hand, it was apparent Marion hadn’t lost any of her luster. At long last, she waved goodbye and trotted over to us. ‘That’s what I miss about being on film sets. The people.’

  Collectively, we maneuvered the cart into Edith’s office. The driver removed the painting from the crate, then left us. The three of us stared at The Madonna of the Hills, Paolo Montsalvo’s most sought-after creation. The bushed Blessed Virgin, the impish Christ Child.

  ‘It’s not really much to look at it, is it?’ I ventured.

  ‘That’s what I thought!’ Marion said.

  ‘Surely there’s some historical significance,’ Edith averred.

  ‘There isn’t. Not really. I looked it up.’ Marion shrugged. ‘But then there’s no accounting for taste.’

  ‘It’ll be safe as houses here tonight, and I’ll have it sent over for the party tomorrow,’ Edith said.

>   ‘Just bring it along. You’re coming, aren’t you? I know I already invited you, but let me make it official.’ Marion removed an envelope from her purse and placed it ceremoniously on Edith’s desk. ‘After all this, you both have to be there. I’ll cancel the party if you don’t come.’

  Edith opened the envelope and held the invitation with the tips of her fingers. ‘Thank you so much. I’m touched.’ She did not, I noticed, say she would attend. Edith then nodded at the cart. ‘You’ll see some of these costumes tomorrow. They’re for the police officers Detective Morrow has arranged to be at the party.’

  ‘Angels with not-so-dirty faces,’ I said. ‘Packing heat under their wings.’

  ‘There’s not going to be gunplay at my party, is there?’ Marion appeared woozy again.

  Edith chastised me with a look. ‘Of course not. It’s going to go perfectly. The police will apprehend their man. Mr Hearst will have no idea. His painting will be returned unharmed. And you will preside over the event of the season.’

  Reassured, Marion announced she had to go home to continue the party preparations. She blew us kisses as she left.

  ‘Do you actually believe that?’ I asked Edith.

  She busied herself draping costumes over the Montsalvo. ‘I never do when I say similar claptrap to every actress and director who comes into my office. But I say it anyway. It’s remarkable how often it proves out.’

  Edith asked me to accompany her to the Makeup Department. She had designs on dragooning Wally Westmore into helping with the police officers who’d be attending Marion’s party.

  ‘It’s a shame you won’t be there to see your efforts in action,’ I puffed, trailing after her.

  ‘Who says I won’t?’

  ‘But you never go to these things! Addison’s been inviting you to his soirées for years and you haven’t once shown up!’

  ‘It’s time I remedy that. I certainly wouldn’t miss the last party of the year at Miss Davies’s famous beach house.’