The Sharpest Needle

by Renee Patrick

  ‘A huge party with multiple fake paintings. Wasn’t that the plot of Animal Crackers with the Marx Brothers?’

  ‘My advice is to forget about this for the time being and relax. There’s nothing more to be done, so get your Florence Nightingale costume in order.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Have you?’ she said without surprise.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to be a saint. Tomorrow night I’m going as a sinner.’

  ‘It’s every woman’s prerogative.’

  ‘I have an idea of what I want to wear. But I need you to help me.’

  ‘Don’t I always? Come by the lot tomorrow morning and we’ll get you sorted.’

  ‘What about you? How’s your costume coming along?’

  ‘I’m looking at it in the mirror now,’ she said teasingly, ‘and I must say, I’m pleased. The full effect is quite startling.’

  ‘What is it? I insist you tell me.’

  ‘You’ll see it tomorrow. Now you take it easy for the rest of the night. Doctor’s orders.’

  She hung up. As I replaced the receiver, Mrs Quigley emerged from her apartment carrying a glass of sherry. ‘Would you care for a bite to eat, Lillian?’

  ‘Just a bite. I’m on strict instructions to relax, so I’m taking myself out on the town.’

  The Carthay Circle Theatre, erected in what had not so long ago been the hinterlands of Los Angeles, aped the style of a Spanish mission. Its mighty alabaster bell tower thrust up into the night sky like a prized pupil trying to get God’s attention. The building’s décor was a fantasia on California’s history, forty-foot murals depicting pioneers taming the land and the construction of the state’s first theater. Bronze busts of Indians watched sternly from atop the newel posts of the stairs. The gold that had drawn so many people west to seek their fortunes had been incorporated into the color of the ceilings and the thick velour drapes that hung from them.

  I found my way to a seat in the vast circular auditorium in the dark. I’d missed the pre-show tunes on the theater’s pipe organ, but the choice had been deliberate. I couldn’t stomach the notion of sitting through a newsreel, so I’d taken my sweet time entering the theater. Edith had advised me to unwind. My prescription for that meant seeing The Wizard of Oz in the most luxurious surroundings imaginable. It was as if I’d saved the picture for this very occasion, and I intended to savor every moment of it.

  I settled into a black velour chair with jaunty orange piping, prepared to laugh, to be thrilled. I did not, however, expect to start sobbing almost immediately. But once I realized Judy Garland was playing an orphan raised by a kindly aunt and uncle, my eyes misted. When it seemed she would lose her only friend, Toto, I drew up my knees and wrapped my arms around them, shrinking myself so the pain couldn’t find me.

  Then Judy sang ‘Over the Rainbow’ and the bawling really started. The couple seated closest to me, who’d side-eyed me during my earlier sniffles, moved to the other end of the row. The lyrics, and Judy’s plaintive way with them, proved almost too much for my heart to bear. Before she started singing, Judy longed for ‘Someplace where there isn’t any trouble.’ No such place existed, not now, with war about to be unleashed. Even the birds couldn’t escape. We were mired in a gray world of our own making, with nowhere else to go.

  Snap out of it, Frost, I ordered. It’s just a movie.

  A movie that then exploded into Technicolor glory. The first sight of the Land of Oz triggered another onslaught of tears, but at least these were joyous ones. Within moments I had forgotten myself completely. I had no weight, no presence. I glided on the breeze behind Dorothy, trailing her and her newfound friends on their adventures in a bright and exotic realm. When the movie ended, I didn’t want to leave. I would have stayed and watched it again, even if it meant sitting through a newsreel, on any other night. But I had a big day ahead.

  I stood up, feeling drained yet curiously renewed. I brushed my eyes a final time.

  ‘Pardon me,’ a voice behind me said. Kaspar Biel offered me his handkerchief.

  ‘My second time seeing this film in less than a week. Beautifully made, is it not? The height of what your studios are capable of.’

  Biel strolled alongside me through the theater’s lobby, as if we were discussing where to stop for a late-night treat before our date ended. I thought about running from him, elbowing and shoving my way through the crowd, but I knew I wouldn’t get away. Instead, I let him drone on.

  ‘You have heard that another performer originally played the Tin Man. Buddy Ebsen.’

  Don’t rise to his bait. Say nothing. Just because he’s talking about movies doesn’t mean you have to—

  ‘He took ill and had to be replaced.’

  What a pillar of strength you are, Lillian. We’ll need that kind of spirit in wartime.

  ‘Ah, but how did he take ill? I have it on unquestionable authority that his makeup did him in. They covered his face with aluminum dust.’ Biel had labored to eliminate any trace of an accent, but he pronounced the metal’s name in European fashion, as if referring to some forgotten MGM character actor. Al U. Minium. ‘The unfortunate Mr Ebsen inhaled the dust and suffered an adverse reaction. The studio replaced him. Never admitted the cause. Never told the actor who took over the role. Jack Haley, who is quite good. Although I understand they did change the makeup for him. As a precaution.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Is it? To contribute to a work of art of such a scale? To be part of a masterpiece that will outlive you? I would say that was worth the sacrifice.’ Biel held the theater door open for me. I hesitated, then stepped out into the still-balmy night. ‘Speaking of sacrifice, I had tickets for the Hollywood Bowl tonight. To see Jascha Heifetz, no less. With the great Klemperer conducting the orchestra. I did not attend, because of your exploits.’

  ‘You’ve been following me.’

  ‘I have been kept apprised of your whereabouts. At least you ended your busy day taking in a film of true quality.’

  It bothered me no end he’d liked the picture. I wished I’d gone to see something else. The Gorilla, maybe, with the Ritz Brothers and Bela Lugosi. I wanted to irk Biel, poke a finger in his eye.

  ‘The great Klemperer fled Germany once the Nazis took over, didn’t he?’ I asked sweetly.

  ‘A lapse in judgment. He makes it a point of pride to play German music still. Brahms, Beethoven. He will soon see a nation on the ascent, and we will welcome him home as an exponent of our native musical genius. Speaking of talented gentlemen named Otto …’ He trailed off, a smile on his face. This time, I managed to prevent myself from talking.

  ‘Come now, Miss Frost. Today you were in the company of the two who, at present, call themselves Timothy and Vera Randolph. I can only assume, therefore, you have learned what is actually at stake here.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  Biel stepped into my path. He took my hands in his and gazed directly into my eyes. ‘Otto Haas.’ He said the name in the manner of an incantation, then smiled again. ‘You could not hide that spark of recognition. You know who he is. May I also say your hands are extraordinarily soft. My compliments to the brothers Westmore.’

  He caressed my forearm. I shook free of his grasp. ‘All right, fine. They told me what they did and why they did it. I can’t say I blame them.’

  ‘Nor can I. But justice must be done. Their accomplices in Germany, Switzerland and France have been taken into custody, their little system smashed. No more Otto Haas paintings will be arriving in America. The original Montsalvos will soon be recovered, and when they are the German government will gladly return them to their rightful owner, Mr Hearst. In exchange for the counterfeits, as they conceal the Otto Haas paintings which are the property of the Reich. This is why I am here, why I visited Hearst’s ranch. My mission is to stop anyone else from taking those paintings. People like the so-called Timothy and Vera. And Mr Kehoe, whom they are exploiti
ng. And the art dealer Mr Selden, whom you also visited today.’

  Biel’s minions had been dogging my footsteps all afternoon. I felt ill. I gazed up at the Carthay Circle’s tower, wishing again in vain for someplace where there isn’t any trouble.

  ‘I understand your reluctance. I even empathize.’ Biel pressed a hand to his chest. ‘Permit me to assuage your fears. Any Haas paintings returned to Germany will not be destroyed. On the contrary. They will be given a good home. Protected. Preserved.’

  ‘Why should I believe you when you couldn’t protect Otto Haas? He was murdered in his own country. By Nazis.’

  ‘Please. Zealots susceptible to frenzy. It is a necessity of politics that, in public, we require enemies. Transgressors, like Mr Haas. But in private, that is another matter. There are men in positions of power – influential men – who admire his genius and wish to keep it safe. I am here to collect his work on behalf of someone who will appreciate it.’

  ‘Making you the servant of a hypocrite.’

  I wanted the words to burn. They bounced harmlessly off him. ‘You understand my situation perfectly. Where is the Madonna of the Hills?’

  ‘The original’s somewhere in Europe. As for the phony, I haven’t the foggiest.’

  ‘Don’t try my patience, Miss Frost. I’m running out of time. As are we all.’ He made a production of looking at his wristwatch. ‘War could be moments away. Once it begins, I will take whatever steps are necessary to return home in the good graces of my superiors. Which means I must arrive bearing gifts. I ask you again.’

  ‘Save your breath. I haven’t seen the painting. I wouldn’t tell you if I had.’

  He stared into my eyes, again searching them for some clue unconsciously revealed. I made sure they communicated a different but very clear message. One that, under the circumstances, I was sure the sisters at St Mary’s would forgive.

  ‘Very well, Miss Frost. Shall I escort you home? I’ll be following you there anyway. We can discuss the film.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  Biel touched the brim of his hat and wandered off whistling ‘If I Only Had a Brain’ from the picture. I waited several minutes for my cab to arrive. As the driver pulled away from the theater, a car rolled into position behind us. Biel didn’t bother to hide himself. I tracked him in the rearview mirror all the way to Mrs Quigley’s.

  Los Angeles Register September 1, 1939

  LORNA WHITCOMB’S

  EYES ON HOLLYWOOD

  If you can’t find a pitchfork in Los Angeles County today, blame Marion Davies. The star’s Saints and Sinners soirée, taking place tonight, has emptied studio wardrobe departments of heavenly and hellish items alike … Don’t bother calling Gilbert Adrian for help with your party togs. The newlywed costume designer has taken bride Janet Gaynor for a month-long honeymoon in Mexico. And does he deserve a rest! Outfitting 135 females for The Women must have been a Herculean task … What to do with a Ritz Brothers comedy set in the trenches of the World War? Honchos at 20th Century Fox will have to decide if audiences are in the mood for service slapstick or if Pack Up Your Troubles gets packed away on a shelf.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Foolishly, I wanted to say it had started while I slept, to absolve myself of any responsibility. But that wasn’t to be the case. The Second World War had commenced while I was awake; I simply didn’t learn about it until the following morning. As best as I could determine from the radio, the war began while I was at the movies. Sometime during the screening of The Wizard of Oz, the Germans had attacked a Polish munitions dump in the harbor of the Free City of Danzig. Around the time I was talking with Kaspar Biel, conceivably at the very moment he’d consulted his watch to warn me the conflagration was imminent, Germany began bombing cities in Poland.

  Announcers delivered the news in strained voices, almost apologizing for the paucity of facts, stating each confirmed piece of information more than once so we could cling to it. For weeks we had wandered through our lives suffused with dread, knowing beyond doubt that the car we were travelling in was about to swerve off the road. Now that the inevitable had come to pass, the impact felt curiously muted, as if we had collectively awakened in the hospital after the accident in intense pain but with no memory of the collision. Perhaps to spare ourselves pointless recriminations; if only we’d acted, if we’d spoken up or seized the wheel, we might have kept the vehicle under control.

  Downstairs, life seemed nearly normal. Mrs Quigley hadn’t opened her door wide as she usually did, but music burbled from her radio and I could hear her puttering around her kitchen, preparing food for any guests that might drop by. But there was no fooling Miss Sarah. The cat lay on her side in a patch of weak sunlight, facing away from the door, in no mood for visitors.

  ‘Marion called first thing,’ Addison said after a hushed good morning. ‘Not her herself, but someone on her staff. Letting us know they would understand if we chose not to attend, but tonight’s party will proceed as planned.’

  ‘Are you going to go?’

  ‘I’m tempted not to, I must admit. But I’d reconsidered even before Marion’s girl called. What else am I going to do? It won’t help anyone, my sitting around waiting for dispatches from Europe. Anyway, something tells me this is going to be the last great party.’

  ‘I agree. I don’t think Marion will be hosting many more.’

  ‘Not just Marion. I mean anyone. It feels like something has shifted, something momentous.’

  Petty personal concerns seized me, my position all at once feeling precarious. ‘You’ll continue throwing parties, won’t you? Someone has to hoist the banner of frivolity high.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll still entertain. That’s in my blood. But I’ll also channel my energies in more fruitful directions.’ He perched on the tiny chair opposite my desk, his features drawn into an unusually somber arrangement. ‘Talking to Marion these last few weeks, hearing about these fellows she used to work with on pictures, has made an impression on me. It’s gotten me thinking about the movies I enjoyed twenty, even ten years ago, and how quickly they’ve been cast aside. Vanishing as though they’d never existed, along with the people who made them. A whole world, gone like that.’

  I pictured Clarence Baird, puffed up with pride and wounded dignity, and nodded.

  ‘It’s tragic,’ Addison continued. ‘Admittedly, in light of this morning’s news, some would say it’s an exaggeration to use that word. Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking the pictures that brought such enjoyment to me and to others said something about who we are. If we survive these travails, future generations might like to know who we were. Instead of throwing these pictures on the scrap heap.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea. What exactly do you propose to do?’

  ‘That I haven’t figured out yet. I only know I ought to do something.’ Addison rubbed his palms together at the prospect. He was simultaneously bubbly and serious, composed yet vibrating with energy. I felt I’d gotten a glimpse of how my employer comported himself in the laboratories of his youth, electrified by the potential before him.

  As if reading my mind, he slapped his hands against his thighs and announced he was off to his workshop. ‘I need to feel useful this morning so I’ll be able to enjoy myself tonight. Because enjoying myself is what I intend to do. Shall we go to Marion’s beach house together?’

  ‘I still have to prepare my costume. I changed my mind about what I’m going to wear.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you at the party. I’m sticking with my costume. We’re going to need all the angels we can get.’

  A pall hung over Los Angeles and, presumably, every other point on the globe that had been alerted to recent events. Perhaps life proceeded as usual on the banks of the Amazon, where no one had heard of the Free City of Danzig, nor of the many towns along the Polish border where fighting now raged. Outside the windows of Addison’s car, however, the day’s activities played out in desultory fashion, everyone certain their actions didn’t matter in the grand s
cheme.

  Rogers fiddled with the radio. He came upon a news report saying New Yorkers were flocking to the Polish pavilion at the World’s Fair in Flushing. The notion that my old neighborhood had become a gathering place where Americans could show their solidarity with the besieged Polish people filled me with emotion. I sobbed softly in the rear of the Cadillac, dabbing my eyes as Rogers watched in mild consternation.

  The malaise lingered at Paramount. The unearthly calm pressing down over the lot stifled the usual bustle. A solitary messenger passed me on a bicycle, pedaling with a strange decorum. Clusters of people gathered outside any open window from which a radio played, absorbing the latest tense updates, repeating the bulletins to those who happened by.

  ‘It’s all anyone’s done today,’ Edith said when I joined her in her office. ‘I saw Charles Brackett, and he said Billy Wilder hasn’t budged from the radio. A whole colony of writers and directors is in his office listening for some word.’

  ‘I keep waiting for the news to change, to hear cooler heads have prevailed.’ I didn’t realize what I’d said until I caught Edith’s small smile. ‘Sorry. Actually, I’m not. You’re the coolest Head I know. Why aren’t you in charge?’

  ‘It’s difficult enough keeping my own department in order. I’m happy to do so today. The women in my workroom need their money, just as the actors need their costumes.’

  ‘And just as Marion needs to host her party. Speaking of which …’

  Edith unlocked the door to her office’s closet. The two of us carefully uncovered the phony Montsalvo painting with the genuine Haas beneath it. Edith held up the cloth that had shielded the canvas. ‘I added this bit of green thread here, so I’d know if anyone moved the painting overnight. It hasn’t been touched. At least we know that much.’

  She relocked the door as we stepped out of the closet. ‘The question is will Argus show his face tonight?’ I said.

  ‘He’s the one guest we can guarantee will put in an appearance.’