The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  ‘I’m flabbergasted. Honestly. Any hints about your get-up?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see. Detective Morrow has been most diligent in our conversations, particularly in light of his orders to proceed with caution. Have you two spoken lately?’

  ‘Yes,’ I allowed. ‘He’s been diligent in our conversations, as well.’

  Edith wisely decided to leave the subject alone after that.

  The first floor of Paramount’s dressing room building was where the biggest stars hung their hats – and occasionally hairpieces, given the comic actor Jack Oakie’s predilection for pilfering the studio’s wigs and nailing them to the dressing room ceilings of whoever had worn them last. Edith said the second floor was home to promising talent on the rise, so I was pleased to spy a door with the name of my friend, starlet Brenda Baines. Winded, we reached the third, topmost level, the bulk of which had been given over to Wally Westmore’s domain, the Makeup Department.

  The slender, ascetic Westmore greeted us in his office. Edith pointed to a golf club in the corner. ‘Mr Hope or Mr Crosby?’

  ‘Both. They’re arguing over that putter and apparently the grain of my carpet is splendid.’

  Edith swiftly laid out her case to a skeptical Westmore. ‘Only finishing touches required,’ she assured him. ‘A few minutes of your time at most.’

  Westmore sighed. ‘Will I be paid for these few minutes?’

  ‘You’ll be aiding the Police Department, Wally. And I’d consider it a personal favor.’

  ‘You had to say those two words, didn’t you? Very well. My department will be at your disposal. You’re not trying to fool the camera, the toughest audience of all, so you won’t require all the artistry we can bring to bear. A few little tricks will suffice. It’s amazing how simple they can be.’ Westmore lifted a coffee cup from a saucer on his desk. Instead of sipping from it, he held it out, expecting me to take it. I begrudgingly did so. Westmore then picked up the saucer and lit a match underneath it, letting it burn several inches beneath the saucer for a few seconds. He blew out the match and flipped the dish over, revealing a black smudge in the saucer’s divot.

  ‘Carbon. Add a few drops of baby oil. Apply the mixture above the eyelashes and blend to the edge of the eyebrow. All the cosmetics and technique in the world will not frame an eye more perfectly. What could be easier?’ He wiped the carbon away and set the saucer down brusquely, as if it had insulted him. ‘You know who taught me that? Dietrich.’

  ‘Ah, Marlene,’ Edith sighed. ‘We should all follow her beauty advice.’

  ‘No, we shouldn’t,’ Westmore said. ‘I’d be out of a job. Who doesn’t have a kitchen match?’

  I held the coffee cup out to him. He didn’t take it. I set it on the saucer with a gentle, satisfying click.

  I peppered Edith with questions about her own festive garb as we returned to Wardrobe, but she yielded not an iota of information. We turned a corner and saw two people who wouldn’t be out of place at a saints and sinners gathering: Mitchell Leisen, looking roguish, and studio security chief Barney Groff, more purely demonic. Edith muttered a rare oath under her breath then mustered a coolly competent look. ‘Mitch. Mr Groff.’

  Neither man acknowledged me, as usual; I might as well have been a dressmaker’s dummy Edith was bringing upstairs. Leisen wagged a finger at Edith. ‘I was just telling Barney about the Agoura shoot. The heat, those cows – and that hat of yours.’

  The dig didn’t dent Edith’s equanimity. ‘Knowing you, Mitch, I’m sure you got some good footage out of it.’

  ‘What’s there is salvageable. I’m trying to scare up Sturges for new dialogue. I’m cutting more pages.’

  Groff aimed the wet end of his cigar at Edith. ‘You had Marion Davies in your office today. Why?’

  ‘She sought some advice about costumes for a party she’s throwing. Also …’ She leaned toward Groff, which had the effect of shutting Leisen out of the conversation. ‘There’s always a chance she’ll come out of retirement. I thought it couldn’t hurt to keep the lines of communication open.’

  ‘Forget it. The last thing we need is her and Hearst back on this lot after twenty years, with Hearst still trying to throw his weight around. Davies isn’t who she used to be, and I never cared for who she was. Now she’s just older, thicker and drunker.’

  I thought of how she had charmed the grips that morning and couldn’t hold my tongue. ‘She’s still a wonderful presence,’ I said somewhat defensively.

  Groff didn’t turn his head. He flicked his eyes toward me, and only for an instant. ‘Then you pay everyone’s salary while she takes a three-hour lunch with lobster thermidor and petit-fours. Let Hearst know you’ll cover the tab for that orchestra he had play for her on set while you’re at it. I’m sure he’ll be glad of the money.’ He jabbed his cigar at Edith again. ‘We’re not in that racket anymore. Those days are dead and gone and good riddance to them. Mitch, we’d better go talk to that guy.’ He strode off, leaving a pungent trail of tobacco in his wake.

  Leisen lingered. ‘I have to agree with him, Edith. And frankly, I’m a little surprised. I trust you’re doing a better job of staying on top of fashions.’ With that final twist of the knife he took his leave, following the scent of smoke.

  Back upstairs, Edith remained slightly flustered. Her doe-eyed secretary was even more so. ‘You have a visitor. I said you’d be right back and he went in to wait.’

  With drawn breath, we proceeded on, unsure what to expect. Certainly not Orson Welles, appraising himself in the full-length mirror with a frown on his bearded face. ‘I’m eating too well these days,’ he boomed as he spotted our reflections. ‘Have to keep the weight off, but we’re not ready to shoot Heart of Darkness yet, so I have to keep my strength up. It’s quite the conundrum.’ He slapped his stomach and turned to us with a grin. ‘Speaking of food, I’m supposed to see Preston Sturges for lunch but for the life of me I can’t remember when or where. Thought I’d pop in, Edith, and say hello. Did I hear a story Marion Davies was in here?’

  I marveled that any work got done on the lot with all the gossiping going on. Edith nodded. ‘Yes, just briefly.’

  ‘A few years ago she’d have been perfect for something I’m working on. Little gimcrack thriller to keep idle hands occupied in case Heart of Darkness is delayed. Needs a beautiful woman who’s funny, truly funny. Like Marion was. Thinking maybe Carole Lombard. Aphrodite with pinpoint timing. And if not her, then an actress RKO has under contract, Lucille Ball. Women like that need stewardship into the right roles. Poor Marion let all her talent get swallowed up by Hearst’s ambition and gold plating. Ah, well. He’s a millionaire. Men don’t accumulate all that money without hurting a lot of people, one way or another.’ His inflection gave the last sentence the rhythm of a quote we were meant to recognize.

  Edith made sounds of agreement as she tucked away the invitation to Marion’s party she had left on her desk.

  ‘Incidentally, I saw the Montsalvo.’ Welles pointed at the painting, mostly concealed by the costumes on the rack. I looked at Edith in a panic, but she never gazed in my direction. She opened her mouth, a convenient explanation ready on her lips.

  But Welles wasn’t done talking. ‘Or what’s meant to be a Montsalvo, at any rate. An absolutely terrible imitation.’

  That ruptured Edith’s reserve. She turned to me blankly.

  And still Welles held forth. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by forgeries. Sort of a pet interest of mine. Now whoever did that has definitely seen a Paolo Montsalvo. Just not recently.’ He gave out with one of his seismic laughs. ‘As if it matters. It’s for a picture, I presume. That’s why you asked about him the other day. Why the painting is here with the costumes.’

  Edith said nothing. So I supplied the first thing that came to mind. ‘Exactly. We’re not trying to fool the camera, the toughest audience of all.’

  Welles beamed at me. ‘Precisely, Lillian! How is it with such wisdom you’re not in pictures? That’s
exactly why I wonder sometimes if I shouldn’t just stay on the radio, where I’m at home. The microphone, it’s a friend, while the camera is a critic.’ His eye returned to the canvas. ‘Still, it did strike me as odd to not just copy a specific artist, but a specific painting. Why not mock up something in that particular style?’

  ‘A joke on the part of the production designer, I suspect.’ Edith had rejoined the conversation in full command of her faculties. ‘Lillian and I saw Preston with Mitch Leisen a moment ago. I’m sure you can catch them.’

  ‘Leisen, eh? I’ve seen some of his pictures. Seems a real craftsman. Let me try to run them down.’

  When the door shut behind Welles, Edith and I ran to the costume rack and pulled the painting free. We propped it against the wall and studied it for several seconds in silence.

  ‘Could it be a forgery?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘How would I know? I’ve never seen a real Montsalvo.’

  I lowered myself to one knee. Up close, Mary appeared more buxom than in the photo I’d seen, while the Baby Jesus seemed to be winking at me.

  ‘All this time I’ve been wondering why the hubbub over the work of a lesser-known artist. But if this painting isn’t even by him …’ I trailed off then finished the thought, feeling more sinner than saint. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Paramount commissary sent over chicken salad sandwiches. ‘I seldom resort to this,’ Edith said before tucking in. ‘It’s better for appearances’ sake to be seen, no matter how busy you are.’ But we couldn’t miss Bill Ihnen’s arrival.

  Previously, we had been awaiting word from Marion. We’d left an urgent message for her to telephone as soon as she returned home – provided, of course, that’s where she was going. She finally called an hour later.

  Edith phrased the question as delicately as she could. ‘Is it possible Mr Hearst might have purchased a forgery?’

  ‘I want to say no. W.R. is so knowledgeable about art. You should hear him hold forth on it.’

  The hemming and hawing indicated a ‘but’ would soon follow.

  ‘Still,’ Marion continued, ‘he is a bit – oh, what’s the word? I learned it from one of the papers he doesn’t own. Profligate, that’s it. And he often uses agents to buy artwork for him, so he doesn’t see it until it arrives.’

  Sometimes not even then, I thought, picturing the vast warehouse in San Simeon.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Marion demanded. ‘Don’t tell me the Montsalvo’s a phony. My heart can’t take it.’

  ‘There’s some evidence to that effect,’ Edith said guardedly. ‘We’ll know more after consulting our expert.’

  Bill had been press-ganged into serving as that expert. ‘He’s the one person I can think of,’ Edith explained. ‘If he can’t help, he’ll suggest someone who can.’ Bill told us he needed to finish up some work and consult a few references, then would be by as soon as possible.

  Having set wheels in motion, Edith returned to the grindstone. I decamped to her outer office as a procession of sketch artists and executives trooped in, with Edith frequently popping out to observe a fitting in the adjacent salon or gauge the progress of a dress in the workroom. I lacked such distractions. After telephoning Addison to beg off work for the day – while keeping his car and driver, just in case – I occupied myself by skimming the Paramount magazine and taking a brisk walk. I glimpsed Mitchell Leisen as I lapped the lot and bared my claws at him once he’d vanished from view.

  Edith and I were finishing up lunch when Bill Ihnen poked his bald head into the office. He had a wooden box tucked underneath one arm.

  ‘At last!’ Edith cried. ‘What kept you?’

  ‘I had to do my homework first. I want to have some chance of delivering what you’re after.’

  ‘I told Lillian you were our authority on painting as you dabble in it.’

  ‘I like to think I do more than dabble,’ Bill said as he hunkered before the questionable canvas. Almost at once, he frowned. ‘This doesn’t look right. I stopped by the museum, then the library to do some research.’ From the wooden box he extracted a tape measure. He took the painting’s dimensions, jotting the figures in a pad and comparing them to a set he’d already scribbled.

  ‘Orson was right. The figures don’t jibe. This painting’s too small to be Montsalvo’s Madonna.’

  Edith clucked. ‘That’s an obvious mistake.’

  ‘It may not be a mistake. It may have been a necessity. I wonder if this piece is as heavy as it is for a reason.’ He sat back on his haunches. ‘Do you mind if I perform a little surgery in here?’

  ‘Will it damage the painting?’ Edith asked.

  ‘I’ll do my best not to. I have the feeling it won’t make any difference.’

  Edith spread some cloth on the office floor. Bill and I lowered the painting face-down on top of it. Using tools from his wooden box, Bill set about removing the frame. As he worked, he chatted casually with Edith, as if they were shooting the breeze in the commissary. ‘How’s it going with Mitch?’

  ‘He’s up to his usual undermining. He did so in front of no less than Barney Groff today.’

  ‘Mitch has been a handful since his heart attack. A brush with mortality will do that to a body.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought it would make you a better person, not a worse one.’

  Bill chuckled and focused his energies on another corner of the painting’s frame.

  Edith sighed. ‘Mitch takes every opportunity to remind me and anyone within earshot that I don’t possess his talent, his taste, or his training. He doesn’t think I’m worthy of this job.’

  ‘Yet you have it. It’s your name on the door. I saw it when I came in. Mitch is a fine director, but he was like this when we all did Cradle Song together and he’s only gotten worse. He wants to be a one-man band, do every job himself. Only he knows he can’t, so he runs down whoever fills his shoes. The man’s insecure. You can’t let it bother you. Mainly because you don’t have any choice.’ He spoke with such clarity and wisdom I wished I had someone like him to turn to in moments of need.

  Soon, the surgery was complete. Time to evaluate the patient. Bill gingerly extracted the painting from its frame and chuckled in astonishment. ‘Whoever painted this didn’t waste a brushstroke. It was made to order for this frame.’

  ‘“Whoever?”’ I said. ‘So, it’s a phony.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. Lillian, can you help me? There’s something underneath this canvas.’ With abundant caution, we removed the painting formerly identified as a Montsalvo, draping it over a bare clothes rack.

  Beneath it lay another artwork. In contrast to the ersatz Madonna of the Hills, it was shockingly modern. An abstract oil painting in brown and tan with angry slashes of gray, all of it broken up by sharp black lines like nails scattered on a construction site floor. I couldn’t begin to guess what it was meant to depict. I could only absorb its vivid, seething energy. A barely legible signature at the bottom of the canvas read Haas.

  ‘I’m unfamiliar with this artist,’ Bill said.

  ‘Am I correct in thinking that this piece’ – Edith gestured at the mock Montsalvo hanging over us – ‘is merely the wrapper for Mr Haas’s work?’

  ‘It could be a Miss Haas, I suppose,’ Bill said. ‘But yes.’

  ‘I’m confused.’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘Did Mr Hearst buy a fake painting?’

  ‘I can’t say without seeing the bill of sale. Or the bill of lading from when the painting was shipped from Europe. But it’s my guess the Montsalvo was never meant to fool the eye, certainly not that of an expert. It’s entirely possible Hearst bought and paid for the authentic Madonna of the Hills by Paolo Montsalvo. Everything aboveboard. Then, somewhere between Europe and California, the ringer was substituted.’

  ‘In order to smuggle Mister or Miss Haas’s work undetected,’ Edith said.

  I continued to stare at the painting. The real one, by Mister or Miss Haas. Its severity, potent and unsettling,
exerted a peculiar hold. As well as a tremor of recognition.

  Mr Haas, I thought. Definitely.

  ‘I’ve seen this before,’ I said. ‘Or something close to it.’ I told Bill and Edith about the catalogue the art dealer Anthony Selden had proudly displayed on the train ride up to Hearst’s ranch.

  Bill snapped his fingers. ‘The Degenerate Art exhibition. The Nazis are selling most of those pieces. The ones they aren’t hoarding for themselves, anyway.’

  Nazis. All at once, Kaspar Biel’s errand made sense.

  ‘They didn’t get this one,’ Edith said, considering the Haas painting with fresh eyes. ‘Someone managed to sneak it out of Germany.’

  ‘Using Hearst’s extravagance to spirit it away from under Hitler’s nose.’ Bill grinned broadly. ‘Rather a neat trick.’

  ‘Yes,’ Edith agreed. ‘But the question is: do the people seeking this painting believe it to be a Montsalvo? Or do they know it’s a Haas?’

  An uneasy silence descended on Edith’s office. Somewhere outside, a telephone trilled.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Bill said. ‘I only just got here.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rogers, per his standard practice when driving me around Los Angeles, had shed his chauffeur’s cap. Thanks to the heat, he’d also doffed his gray jacket and unbuttoned his shirt collar. I climbed out of Addison’s Cadillac expecting to find him on my return behind the wheel in his undershirt. He said nothing to me, pulling a folded newspaper out of the glove box and setting to work on the crossword puzzle. In pencil.

  Anthony Selden had opened his gallery near a stretch of Hollywood Boulevard I knew well. Until recently it had been the home of the Stanley Rose Bookshop. Before it shuttered earlier that summer, Rose’s emporium did a brisk business in art books and esoteric prints – not to mention turning a tidy sum in erotica, plain brown wrappers no extra charge. Had the doors still been open, the store would have been my first destination for information on the unknown Mr Haas. Several other art galleries and stores catering to the intelligentsia were in the neighborhood; Selden had chosen well. He’d hung out his shingle on a side street a few yards from the hurly-burly of the main drag, in a low building with wilted ivy clinging to its walls. The brass plate on the door read only Selden in engraved script. You had to know who you were calling upon.