by Stuart Woods
“I can believe that. You want some dinner?”
“Sure.”
Tom picked up the menus along the wall and handed Schmidt one. They ordered dinner and another drink.
“I guess you’re wondering why I called,” Schmidt said, looking pleased with himself.
“Yeah, I am,” Tom replied.
“I’ve got something for you on those party membership cards your boss received.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I guess you know my boss at the union is a party member.”
“I figured. He’s also chummy with the mob, you know.”
“Yeah, I’ve met Mickey Cohen in the office.”
“Seems like he’s working both sides of the street,” Tom said.
“The party is not above dealing with anybody it finds useful,” Schmidt replied.
“You want to be careful with Cohen,” Tom said. “He’s easy to get chummy with but hard to shake, and he can play rough.”
“That’s good advice I already gave myself,” Schmidt said. “As I was saying, the party will deal with anybody it can use. I made a call to Milwaukee, to a guy I used to know who ran the local office, until recently. A few weeks ago, he heard from a guy at the union named Murray Fox. Now Murray used to live in Milwaukee, too, back when Louise and I were seeing each other, and he knew about my signing her up for the party. He asked my buddy to photostat her party card and send it to him.”
“Aha,” Tom said. “Progress. Did he give it to somebody at Centurion?”
“Hang on; I’m not finished. About three months ago, the party sent Murray to New York for some special indoctrination. They do that from time to time. He was based in the local office there, and he would have had access to the membership files. Now, I don’t know for a fact that he was the one who copied the other guy’s card, but he’s a very good bet.”
“Okay. Let’s assume he got hold of both Louise’s and the other guy’s cards. Who did he give them to?”
“Hang onto your hat, Tom.”
“Come on, Hal; the suspense is killing me.”
“He gave them to Leo Goldman.”
Tom sat back and shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense at all, Hal. We both know that Goldman is playing for the other team. How would he even know this Murray Fox?”
“He doesn’t know him; Murray just mailed the two photostats to Goldman.”
“This still doesn’t make any sense, Hal.”
“It does if you know how the party works, and you obviously don’t.”
“God knows, that’s true.”
“I already told you the party would use anybody to further its ends, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, for some reason not known to me or, probably, to Murray either, the party wanted it known that Louise and your other guy…what’s his name?”
“Sidney Brooks.”
“Yeah, Sidney Brooks, the writer. For some reason, the party wanted it known that these two people are party members.”
“But why would they want that? You’d think they’d protect their members.”
“This was around the time when the subpoenas went out, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. I guess it was.”
“Well, try this for a scenario: the party knows HUAC is investigating Hollywood, and they don’t necessarily view that as a bad thing. Maybe they want it known that prominent members of the Hollywood community are Communists or fellow travelers, because it makes the party look good for the public to know that well-known Americans in a glamorous field see things the party’s way.”
“Boy, if I was a Communist Party official, that’s not how I would run things. Don’t they have any interest in protecting their members?”
“Not necessarily. You remember how the hearings went, right?”
“Yeah. A whole bunch of people got cited for contempt of Congress and are going to go to prison, unless the Supreme Court saves them.”
“Right. Now the reason that happened is because the two party lawyers advising the twenty or so people who got subpoenaed, told them to use the First Amendment as a defense. If they had told them to use the Fifth Amendment, instead, they wouldn’t be facing prison, because taking the Fifth can’t be construed as contempt.”
“So, you’re telling me that the party wants a bunch of its most prominent members to go to prison?”
“Yeah, and to get blacklisted, too. What’s better publicity than a martyr? I’ll tell you: ten martyrs. If they’d taken the Fifth at the hearings, it would all be over. Okay, maybe they would have been blacklisted anyway, but they wouldn’t go to jail and become martyrs.”
“So why did they pick Leo Goldman to send the party cards to?”
“My guess is they did the same thing at other studios, too; maybe all of them. Leo is just the noisiest anti-Communist at Centurion.”
“Hal,” Tom said, calling for the check, “I owe you one.”
Driving home, Tom’s excitement turned to anxiety. How was he going to tell Rick Barron that the guy he had just promoted to a big job was the guy who sent him his wife’s Communist Party membership card? Certainly, if he did that and word got back to Leo, he’d make an enemy of Leo Goldman. And, Tom reflected, in this town, word always got back.
52
Rick Barron sat at a table with the two stars and the director of Greenwich Village Girl and listened to the first read-through of the script. As the picture’s producer he was entitled to sit in, but Rick had another reason: he wanted to find out how a director made a script funny or, at least, revealed the humor already there.
Sam Sparrow, the director, had a very simple technique. When the first read-through was done, he said to his two actors, “All right. Let’s do it again but faster, and as the script progresses and the two characters begin to argue and snipe at each other, I want you to play it very fast. In fact, I want you to step on each other’s lines. Got it?”
The two actors nodded, and Rick sat back and tried to see it on the screen. Pretty soon he was laughing, and soon after that he nearly had to leave the room, because he was laughing so hard. By the time they had finished, the director was laughing, too.
Rick stood up. “Well, thanks for the entertainment, folks,” he said. “I’m obviously not needed here, so I think I’ll go and scare up some work for myself.” Sparrow looked pleased. As Rick left the building and started to walk toward his office he remembered that, although Hattie Carson was reading from her script most of the time, Vance Calder had never once looked at his and not once had he blown a line. Where had he learned to do that?
Rick looked up as Tom Terry drove up to him in an electric cart. “Can I give you a lift, Rick?”
“Sure, Tom.” Rick got into the cart.
“I’ve got some news for you.”
“What about?”
“About the Communist Party cards you got in the mail. And it comes from our old friend, Hal Schmidt.”
“Tell me.”
Rick listened as Tom ran through the story of how Murray Fox had gotten hold of the two cards and mailed them.
“Who did he mail them to?”
“I don’t know,” Tom replied. “Fox wouldn’t tell him, but Schmidt said he wouldn’t be surprised if Fox had done the same with other cards mailed to other studios.”
“You think we have any chance of finding out who got the cards at Centurion, then sent them to me?”
“Frankly, no. I mean, what we’ve got came from a source inside the party, and we were very lucky to have that source. If he can’t find out, I don’t think we can find out without him.”
“Well, I guess this is one we should just put behind us,” Rick said. “After all, Sid Brooks has already been publicly humiliated, and you’ve destroyed any record of Glenna at the Milwaukee party office, so it seems unlikely that any further harm can be done.”
“That’s the way I look at it, Rick. Just forget about it.”
Tom stopped the cart at the door of the main bu
ilding, and Rick got out. “By the way, Tom, did you see the story by Hedda Hopper in the paper yesterday?”
“Yeah, and there was another one this morning.”
“What did that one say?”
“Apparently Hank Harmon fled her apartment ahead of the press and moved in with a friend out in the valley, but they caught up with her there, too.”
“With what result?”
“No result; she refused to come to the door. They’ve got her pretty well staked out, though, I would imagine.”
“Tom, did you give Hedda the first story about Harmon?”
“No, Rick. I didn’t.”
“What’s your best guess as to where it came from?”
“My best guess? From the LAPD, although somebody at RKO would run a close second. It may be that the studio wanted people to know that they’d fired Hank, but they didn’t want to make any kind of official statement.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Rick said. “Thanks for the lift, Tom.”
Tom waved good-bye and started back toward his office. As he drove along, a big, black Packard pulled alongside him.
“Hey, Mr. Terry!” the driver yelled.
Tom looked over at the man. “Morning.”
“Remember me?”
Tom stopped and looked closer. “Oh, yeah. You’re the studio driver I met at Vance Calder’s house; you’re the one who was supposed to drive Susan Stafford to the airport, right?”
“That’s right. I was just wondering if anything new had come up in the investigation. I mean, I saw the stuff in the papers about the script girl at RKO, but I wondered if there was anything else.”
“It’s Jerry, right?”
“That’s right.”
“No, Jerry. Nothing new at all, and believe me, I’ve been keeping tabs on the investigation. I think that, short of a confession from Hank Harmon, the police are not going to get any further.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks a lot, and take care.”
The Packard pulled away, and Tom started for his office again.
53
Sid Brooks sat on a stool at the counter of the diner in Santa Monica where he had lunch nearly every day. He needed a midday break from his work, since he was at the typewriter for eight hours a day, compared to the four hours he had been working before he had been blacklisted.
He was deep into a bowl of homemade clam chowder and paid little attention when someone took the stool next to him.
“You’re a real piece of work, Brooks,” a voice to his right said.
Sid turned and looked at the man. He recognized him as Fred Blair, another blacklisted writer. He knew the man only from the meetings of the nineteen subpoenaed writers when they were discussing their legal defense. “Hello, Fred,” Sid said. “What are you talking about?”
“We’ve heard what you’re planning to do,” Blair said.
“Who is ‘we,’ and what am I planning to do?”
“You’re going to purge yourself before the committee, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re going to rat us out.”
“I’m not going to rat anybody out,” Sid said and turned back to his chowder.
“So, you’re a liar as well as a rat.”
“Did you hear what Billy Wilder said about us, Fred?”
“Huh?”
“Wilder said, ‘Of the unfriendly ten, only two had any talent; the others were just unfriendly.’ There’s not much doubt which group you belong to. You have nothing to lose, because you were doing shitty work all along. Somebody always had to be hired to clean up after you.”
Blair stood up and squared off. “You lousy son of a bitch. Stand up, and I’ll make you eat those words.”
Sid ate the last spoonful of his chowder, laid a dollar and a half on the counter, stood up and faced Blair. “Why don’t you grow up, Fred?” He brushed past Blair and walked out of the diner.
Blair caught up to him in the parking lot. “Just a minute, you coward,” he yelled and grabbed at Sid’s shoulder.
Sid took a step away from him and turned; he saw it coming. Blair started at him and drew back his right hand. As he swung, Sid stepped inside the punch, blocked it and drove his right fist into the man’s solar plexus.
Blair sat down on the pavement, clutching his midriff, and vomited into his lap. Sid wanted to hit him again, but he was too pathetic. He turned and walked toward his car, mentally thanking the instructor at the Lower East Side settlement house who, when he was twelve, had taught him to box, a handy skill for a Jewish boy in a public school.
“We’re gonna get you!” Blair yelled from behind him.
Sid turned and used his whole arm in a very satisfying obscene gesture. He got into his car and drove away, thinking that any remaining doubts he had about testifying had been resolved.
Hank Harmon left her upstairs bedroom in her friend Sylvia’s house and went downstairs in search of a pen. She went into the den and began opening desk drawers, finding all sorts of things, including a snub-nosed revolver, before finally finding a pen. She borrowed some stationery, went back upstairs and peeked through the drawn venetian blinds. They were still out there with their cameras. She sat down and started writing.
She had written, sealed and stamped her letters when, a little after six, she heard a car door slam outside. She peeked outside again and saw Sylvia elbowing her way through the little mob of reporters, then she heard the front door slam. Hank went downstairs.
“Hi,” she said to Sylvia. “Did you have a good day?”
Sylvia sank into the sofa, not looking at her. “Sit down, please, Hank.”
Hank sat down.
Sylvia looked up. “To answer your question: no, I didn’t have a good day. First of all, when I left for work this morning, I had to wade through that bunch outside. Then, when I got to work, my boss showed me a newspaper article by Hedda Hopper that mentioned my name and address and that said you were hiding out here. I was pretty much told that if he read anything like that again, I’d be out of the studio on my ass.”
“Sylvia…”
“I’m not through. Then I came home from work, and I had to wade through the reporters again.” She held up a batch of mail. “I never get this much mail.” She riffled through the envelopes. “All of it is from my neighbors on this street.” She chose one and ripped it open. “Dear Miss Pound,” she read, “We would appreciate it if you would come to a neighborhood association meeting at the school at seven-thirty this evening to discuss with us the ruckus outside your house and your choice of houseguests. And I would advise you to read the bylaws of the neighborhood association before you come.” Sylvia tossed the letter aside. “I’m sure the others say pretty much the same thing, and I don’t need to read the bylaws to know that there is a clause stating that any resident who is a bad neighbor for any one of a number of reasons can be voted out. They can actually force me, legally, to sell my house.”
“Sylvia…”
“I’m not finished. When you called and said you needed a place to stay, you didn’t mention that you were the chief suspect in a murder investigation and that the press would follow you to my house.”
“Sylvia, I’m so sorry.”
“Hank, I’d like you to leave tonight. You can go late, when those people have finally decided to go home and go to sleep.” She went to her desk, rummaged in a drawer, came back with a brochure and handed it to Hank. “That’s a seaside hotel in Santa Barbara that is friendly to sisters; I’d recommend it as a good hiding place until all this dies down.”
Hank nodded. “All right. I’ll go tonight. There’s something I want you to know, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t kill Susie.”
“I never thought you did, Hank, and I would have been happy for you to stay here if you hadn’t brought the entourage with you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to have a shower and wash my hair before this meeting tonight, and I think I’m going to have to wear a skirt, too, and my wedding ring. The n
eighbors all think I’m a divorcee.” She got up and went upstairs.
Hank slept until the alarm woke her at two A.M. She got up and peeked through the blinds. The front yard and the street in both directions seemed clear. She got dressed, carried her bags downstairs, went into the garage and put them into her car. She put the top up, then went back inside for her handbag, which she had left on the desk in the den. She picked it up, then stopped and thought for a moment. She turned, opened a desk drawer, took the snub-nosed revolver and put it into her handbag.
She went back to the garage and opened the door. She backed out her car, got out and closed the door, then backed into the street and drove away. On the main road she found a mailbox and mailed her letters.
At the top of the mountain, instead of continuing down the other side, she turned right on Mulholland Drive.
54
Rick and Eddie were going over budgets in Rick’s office when his secretary buzzed him. He pressed the button. “Yes?”
“There’s a Lieutenant Morrison of the Los Angeles Police Department on line one,” she said.
Rick picked up the phone. “Ben?”
“Yes, Rick. I’m sorry to disturb you; I tried Tom Terry first, but he was out, and I thought you should know about this.”
“Know about what?”
“This morning a sheriff’s patrol car found a car parked way out on Mulholland where that dump was where Susan Stafford’s body was found. Inside was a young woman, dead, apparently of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. She’s been identified by the contents of her handbag as Hank Harmon.”
“Oh,” Rick said, unable to think of anything else to say.
Eddie spoke up. “What is it?”
“Hank Harmon has committed suicide.” He turned back to the phone. “Ben, is there any doubt that it was suicide?”
“None; everything added up. The gun belonged to a friend of hers, a Sylvia Pound. Harmon had been staying with her, and it was reported in the papers. I talked to Miss Pound, and she claimed ownership of the gun, said Harmon must have taken it from a desk drawer in her home.”
