Florey, Ivano, and Van Sloan stand with hands in pockets, looking at one another and the blank screen, as if they hold it responsible for what has taken place on its surface.
“Ivano!”
Lugosi’s loud baritone makes everyone else jump. He is beaming; no one has seen his face split so wide since the first review broke for Dracula in The Hollywood Reporter. “My close-up was magnificent!’’
He thrusts a fistful of cigars into the cameraman’s hand.
Van Sloan, at least, has the presence of mind to respond. “Bela, you were never better.”
Lugosi slaps his back—-the pair were never that close, throughout their Broadway run and the long trek during the road production, but there is something about Hollywood, the scent of the strange flora on the dry desert air, the bankrolls that seem to grow like coconuts from the palms in an impoverished world— and strides out, trailing dollar clouds of smoke.
I never got the habit. Ivano offers the cigars to Florey.
The director keeps his hands in his pockets. “Keep the cigars. Burn the film.”
**
CHAPTER
10
THE SINGLE METALLIC beep fell so far outside the world of 1931 it snatched him from his dream, alert on the instant. He was sitting on the sofa, Bela Lugosi’s biography lying open on his lap to the paragraphs Craig had underlined. The Oracle was dark but for the pool of light belonging to the lamp in the projection booth.
Valentino fumbled his cell phone out of his pocket and read the text message Harriet had left:
2 LATE 2 TALK NITE LUV U
He smiled and began to text her back, but then he saw it was almost 5:00 a.m. If that was late for her, not early, she must have been out all night. He harbored evil thoughts about antiques dealers and ex-FBI agents everywhere, and snapped shut the cell.
To stop thinking about Harriet, he thought about his dream. Harriet had told him he was the only person in the universe who didn’t star in his own fantasies; in this case he hadn’t even appeared, watching the action the way he watched movies. The lines Craig had marked in The Man Behind the Cape dealt with Lugosi’s disastrous screen test for Frankenstein, but had not included details, apart from Junior Laemmle’s laughter when the actor’s made-up face appeared and Lugosi’s gift of cigars to Paul Ivano over his delight regarding his close-up; the rest, including the conversation, had come from Valentino’s own imagination.
Still, the episode must have gone something like what he’d dreamt. Robert Florey had mentioned it a number of times before his death, and Boris Karloff, who had not been present, had provided his own version. Karloff may or may not have seen the test, but he’d described Lugosi’s makeup as “hairy, not at all like our dear Monster.” Florey had compared it to the claylike features and massive wig worn by Paul Wegener in the German silent feature Der Golem in 1920. Whether or not Jack Pierce, the genius who’d created Karloff’s iconic look as the Monster, had indeed tried to fit Lugosi with a similar “square head” was conjecture; James Whale, who replaced Florey as director, later insisted that the final product was the result of a collaboration between himself and Pierce. But it was true the star of Dracula had not gotten along with the makeup man and his arduous procedures, and that upon learning that he would have no lines to speak as the Monster, had left the production abruptly. He and Florey had then teamed on The Murders in the Rue Morgue, a box office bomb in which the star was upstaged by a gorilla. Universal dropped the men and kept the ape.
Robert Florey would have a moderately successful career as an in-house director with other studios, eventually moving to television; but for Bela Lugosi, rejecting the role that made Karloff’s fortune was the beginning of the long slide into Grade Z pictures, drug addiction, unemployment, and a squalid death. He was buried in 1956 in the opera cape he’d worn as Count Dracula, forgotten by Hollywood, while Karloff was enjoying a comfortable and active old age performing in movies and on TV.
No one seemed to know what had happened to that two-reel test. Florey was said to have ordered its destruction, but he himself would not be drawn out when asked about it later. Valentino’s predecessors had hoped it would turn up in the director’s estate after his death in 1979, but it had not.
Now he felt that familiar drumroll of mounting excitement. Had Craig somehow stumbled onto the reels, or guessed they were in Elizabeth Grundage’s possession and offered to cut a deal with her on their sale? Horace Lysander had said her late husband Tony had represented the stagehands’ and projectionists’ unions in Hollywood at the time Frankenstein was in production; had the nameless projectionist who screened the test for Junior Laemmle and the others spirited it away and given it to Tony in return for some favor that would further his career?
The theory (to flatter it with that term) was shaky even if he’d had evidence to corroborate it. Why wouldn’t Tony have sold the reels immediately for whatever they were worth? And if he hadn’t and his widow had them, why would she need a washed-up actor to help her sell them?
There was a possible answer to the second question, but he’d be going out on a limb to secure it without more information.
He had a brainstorm. He flipped open his cell and had speed-dialed Kyle Broadhead at his home before he realized Fanta might be staying over. In the past, he’d been in the habit of calling the professor at all hours, knowing he was an insomniac and likely to be available. But that was in Broadhead’s widower days, before his courtship by a former student who was close to his equal in intelligence and more than his match in spirit. Valentino had his thumb on the end button when someone picked up. He hadn’t heard it ring.
“You’re no fisherman,” Broadhead said in greeting, “so I have to assume you never went to bed. Are you trapped beneath rubble?”
“Rubble, no. Red ink, yes. Are you alone?”
“At this hour a gentleman would answer in the affirmative, regardless of the truth. However, I’m no gentleman. So— yes. My future intended is too busy orchestrating the romantic spectacle of the century to pursue romance. My cardiologist is celebrating.”
Valentino told him his suspicions.
“Unlikely,” said the other when he’d finished.
“But not impossible.”
“I would have said impossible, B.F. But you may take it to mean the same thing now.”
B.F.: Before Fanta. “What do you think those two reels are worth, ballpark?”
“The only pre-production poster known to exist hyping Bela Lugosi as the star of Frankenstein sold at Christie’s a few years ago for a hundred thousand, a record in the escalating vintage-poster market. The possibility that a second might surface kept the bidding from going even higher. But there can’t be two prints of a failed studio test on silver-nitrate. When you factor in inflation, ten times that figure would be conservative.”
“A million dollars.”
“Wizard figure, don’t you agree? Even with tycoons trading in hundreds of billions and governments in trillions, it still casts a spell. A fanatic with Mark David Turkus’ resources would be prepared to pay more.”
“I wish you hadn’t mentioned him. His pit bull was sniffing around my office yesterday, trying to find out what I’m up to. At the time I didn’t know I was up to anything.”
“Teddies more of a ferret. Something in the weasel family, in any case. It isn’t unusual for a creature of her type to suspect your motives before you have them.”
“I can’t fathom a million for thirty minutes of film. Greed ran eight hours, and went for a fraction of that. It barely covered The Oracle’s new roof.”
“Greed was straight drama. Adventure, horror, mystery, and science fiction have always been in greater demand. Give a first edition of Burroughs’s Tarzan another ten years, and it will be worth as much as a Shakespeare First Folio, and that had a three-hundred-year head start. We’re discussing capitalism, not artistic merit.”
Tarzan made him think of Tarzana, and Lorna Hunter the
re mourning Craig. “I feel like I’m exploiting a friend’s tragedy. I didn’t go into this looking for buried treasure.”
“Nothing says you can’t do both. If those reels exist and you manage to get your hands on them, you could write your own ticket with the Turk.”
“I’m bound by my position to offer them to UCLA first. But, Kyle, I have to maintain my focus. If it’s a choice between finding that test and bringing Craig’s murderer to justice—”
“You’re not bound by your position to bring anyone to justice. But if you’re hell-bent on meddling in things man should leave alone, no one is saying you can’t do both. If that material has anything to do with why Hunter was killed, finding the one may include finding the other.”
Valentino hesitated. “I can’t tell if you’re scolding me or giving me your blessing.’’
“I haven’t the moral authority to do either, but if you’re going to play Boston Blackie anyway, I want to be in on the game.”
“But what will Fanta say?”
“I’m a grown man, and reasonably free of dementia. The question is irrelevant.”
“That’s funny. Seriously, what will she say?”
“She’ll say, ‘That’s nice; have fun.’ She’s preoccupied with French lace and baby’s breath, which is the most revolting name for a flower one could possibly imagine. Women have been plotting and planning these barbaric rites since Charlemagne was in short pants; you could unplug one bridegroom and plug another in his place without even slowing the machinery. I’m neglected and bored. Any change of pace is welcome.”
“What about your book?”
“Undiverting. Méliés and Moliere are indistinguishable from each other at this point. My computer program almost crashed the other day, threatening to wipe out the work of months. It was the most entertainment I’d had since I started the book.”
“Kyle, I wouldn’t dream of risking death or imprisonment with anyone else.”
“Thank you, Val.” He sounded genuinely touched. “What will this be, the third police department whose rules we’ve flouted?”
“Yes, but there are so many in the area.” He smiled into the phone. “You know, that speech about meddling in things man should leave alone isn’t from Frankenstein. It’s from The Invisible Man.”
“I was aware of that. I selected it because it was a Whale project.” Broadhead went on without pausing. “If Hunter hoped to enlist Elizabeth Grundage as his partner, he must have had something to bring to the table. A prospective buyer.”
“I thought of that. Could it be Turkus?”
“Not if what you suspected about Teddie is right, and she’s just nosing around. She’d have been in on the deal from the first and way ahead of you. Think of someone else with interest in the subject and the capital required.”
Inspiration flashed. “Who bought that Lugosi Frankenstein poster at Christie’s?”
“I was hoping you’d say that before I suggested it. Collectors are completists: One purchase in a specific area leads inevitably to others. It was J. Arthur Greenwood. I feel certain you know the name.”
“I’ve known it practically all my life. Isn’t he retired?”
“Giving him ample free time to let his collectors’ mania run rampant. His place in Beverly Hills is a museum. Fortunately, you shouldn’t have much trouble wangling an invitation. When these packrats aren’t actually scrounging for more arcane bric-a-brac, they’re hunting for a fresh pair of eyes to appreciate their plunder.”
Valentino knew that feeling. He’d had it himself often, in the days before he began dismantling his collection to raise money to continue work on the theater. “I don’t suppose you have his number.”
“The man is listed, can you believe it? He encourages communication with readers who raised themselves on his magazine. I understand he made personal arrangements with the chamber of commerce to include his address on all the tour bus routes.”
“Thanks, Kyle. I’ll call him later this morning.”
“When you do, remember to keep your eyes on the prize. Once you film freaks get together, you talk about everything but what you came for.”
He thanked him for the advice and said good-bye. Nobody knew more about film than Broadhead, but he parked his interest at the office. Striking up a conversation with him on the subject outside business hours was like trying to hitch a ride with a cab driver after his shift was over.
With a clear course of action ahead of him, Valentino felt drowsy enough to sleep without wrestling the linens. He cleared the rest of the books off the sofa, unfolded it into a bed, undressed, and spent the next two hours in a state of complete unconsciousness, without dreaming about dead actors and real-life episodes he had not witnessed. When he awoke, he remembered Harriet’s text message and frowned. He texted her back:
4:30 2 EARLY 2 B LATE
But he didn’t send it. He cleared the screen and wrote:
LUV U 2 GOT 2 RUN
This one he sent. He could talk to her about her night later. She probably had a good explanation, and if she didn’t, he wasn’t going to be one of those techno-poops who fought by e-mail.
J. Arthur Greenwood was listed, sure enough. The retired publisher had built his empire around Horrorwood, a fan magazine filled with fun facts and iconic stills connected with weird and fantastic movies beginning with the nickelodeon era and continuing through all the Friday the 13ths and Texas Chainsaw Massacres, until the material got too gorily graphic for a man who revered the classics. Many years after he’d sold out to a bigger chain, he’d continued to add to his world-class collection of horror and science fiction film props, posters, and press kits, and corresponded with the children and grandchildren of the original baby boomers who’d discovered their frightening favorites through his publications.
In his eagerness to get to the bottom of the mystery, Valentino dialed the number before he remembered it was seven A.M., far too early to be calling a resident of Beverly Hills. But the voice that came on sounded alert. “Yes?”
“Is Mr. Greenwood available?”
“Speaking.”
The voice was uncannily youthful for a man in his eighties. He proceeded cautiously, in case he’d connected with a son or grandson. “Sir, my name is Valentino.”
“The fashion designer, or another? Certainly not the Valentino. The telephone rates from the Other Side are monstrous on weekdays.”
The pleasant amused rumble convinced him he’d reached J. Arthur himself; his jokey sense of humor and reliance on puns had unnerved his early financial backers, who’d considered his target audience to be dead serious on their subject of interest, but he’d held out, and won the affection of tens of thousands of readers.
Valentino told him who he was. “At the moment, sir, I’m on the trail of a certain film property that you may know something about.”
“That hardly narrows it down. What property?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person, if you don’t mind.”
“You’re with UCLA, you said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hadn’t realized the competition in academics was so cutthroat. Is USC tapping your phone?”
“I’m afraid this has to do with a police case.”
The pause on the other end lasted a nanosecond long enough for Valentino to wonder if he’d frightened Greenwood off. But when he responded, the voice that was so much younger than the man was even.
“If this has to do with Craig Hunter, I can see you here at eight o’clock.”
**
CHAPTER
11
J. ARTHUR GREENWOOD had turned his house into a museum; not that it hadn’t been one for many years before he’d acquired it.
It was one of the few remaining mansions built by a generation of actors who’d earned four-figure salaries by the week and paid very little in income taxes. Most of the silent stars’ homes had been dozed and replaced by housing developments, condos, and
(as was the case in Beverly Hills) even larger and more opulent monstrosities sheltering highly successful producers, dot-com billionaires, and the occasional Arab sheikh, but Specs O’Neill’s sprawling stucco-and-tile Spanish Modern mansion remained, owned and leased by a succession of later movie and television players, some of whom had remodeled the interior beyond all recognition. The ballroom where Nazimova had danced with Rod La Rocque had been partitioned off to make guest suites, the walls of the servants’ quarters had been torn down to create an indoor spa, and the baronial dining hall where Oscar Levant had notoriously thrown a sloe gin fizz into the face of Miriam Hopkins had been retrofitted into a screening room; O’Neill’s original screening room having been converted into several nurseries to stack a later star couple’s litters of children adopted from Third World countries. Upon his retirement, the current owner had realigned everything to display the accumulated memorabilia of a lifetime, most of which had spent decades in storage.
Alive! Page 9
