Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  ‘Darling …’ Eve curled her lips. ‘Every year Earl tries to copy the style of the man who won Best Director from the previous year, but it’s never worked … Then last year a French film was nominated for Best Picture … Jean Renoir’s Grand Illusion. It’s set during the Great War but it’s really about what Hitler and his thugs are doing in Germany now …’ She shrugged. ‘It didn’t win, it is foreign after all, but the Academy still loved it.’

  ‘So today’s debacle on the Gone with the Wind set was about Earl copying Jean Renoir?’

  ‘Darling, like everything to do with Earl, it’s not quite that simple.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Earl took that two-week vacation in Paris so he could drop in on Renoir and see if he could milk him for ideas. Renoir was out of town, so Earl dropped in on Renoir’s friend, that surrealist painter …’

  ‘You mean Alphonse Dada?’ I guessed.

  She nodded.

  ‘Well that explains the gagging vulture in the cuckoo clock.’

  ‘Gagging vulture?’ Eve rolled her eyes. ‘So anyway, Earl came home last month, ready to make his masterpiece … which was supposed to delve into the mind of man and become an instant classic … but instead L.B. Mayer lent him to his son-in-law. And Earl stepped into the maelstrom that is Gone with the Wind …’

  I nodded. ‘So that’s why Earl’s busy turning Gone with the Wind into a Freudian nightmare. But what about Selznick? Why is he letting Earl stuff around with the script? Isn’t Gone with the Wind his baby?’

  ‘Darling, Selznick has no idea.’ The word ‘no’ was stretched out into a whole world of meaning.

  I pointed at the other end of the Administration Building. ‘His office is just there. How can he not know?’

  ‘Selznick still bombards everyone with memos based on what Earl’s shown him but he’s in big trouble. Darling, the week that Earl started here, Selznick International Pictures went bankrupt. Jock Whitney used to be the main backer for Selznick but when he died earlier this year that all stopped.’

  She opened her arms up to embrace the lot. ‘Selznick’s on the verge of losing all this.’

  ‘So Selznick’s busy trying to raise the cash.’

  ‘And keep it on the Q.T. at the same time. He has no idea about Earl’s little experiments. Well, for the moment anyway … Earl’s trying to finish before Selznick finds his new backer. But even then Selznick won’t be able to afford to reshoot. He’ll have to sell his soul just to pay for the present production.’

  ‘Neat. Very neat.’

  Was David O. Selznick now a potential suspect?

  Is this week when he finds out that Earl’s screwed him and he crushes the director’s head in a fit of rage?

  If anyone could organise burying the body here Selznick could …

  ‘There’s Selznick and his travelling mortgage show now,’ said Eve.

  Three men in tuxedos had just strolled out of Selznick’s office headed towards one of the parked limousines.

  The tall, fleshy man was Selznick. He was only middle-aged but moved awkwardly, as though his feet were too big. Even from this distance you could see Selznick was talking at eighty miles an hour and working up a storm on some topic.

  The man on his left was Bernie Jennings, Selznick’s new head of publicity. He was short with sandy hair and a reputation for creating publicity stunts of epic proportions.

  Then I recognised the third man …

  It was Jade-eyes.

  The actor who’d pulled the kicking horse away from me. Strong face, chestnut hair and eyes so bright green they glowed.

  ‘Who’s that with Selznick?’ I asked.

  ‘Wiley Jennings, the new head of publicity. He’s here to make sure Gone with the Wind goes off with a bang.’

  ‘I thought his first name was Bernie?’

  ‘It is to his face, darling, but that man makes snakes seem like cute little puppy dogs, so watch him.’

  ‘Actually, I meant the younger one.’

  We both studied him.

  Jade-eyes was an entirely different kind of animal to the other two. He was fit, sleek …

  Yes, sleek was the word. For such a big man he moved with feline grace.

  No longer sad but in control, confident.

  Whatever Selznick was saying, Jade-eyes was bored and had no qualms about showing it. Maybe that was why Selznick was talking so fast.

  ‘Darling.’ Eve started fanning herself. ‘I think I just felt my hormones click into top gear. That’s Daniel Devereaux, the wealthy Parisian backer Selznick’s trying to reel in like a swordfish.’

  Paris …

  ‘Just how did Selznick find him?’

  ‘He didn’t, Earl did.’

  Earl had been acting strangely ever since he came back from Paris …

  ‘Darling, the party tonight is to impress the gorgeous Daniel.’

  I watched Jade-eyes get into the limo, licking my lips.

  It was time to go stalking.

  16

  PARTY AT THE SELZNICK

  HOUSE

  Earl ignored Eve and ordered me off the porch.

  He didn’t apologise for being late, just marched me to the remaining limousine. I handed the chauffeur my parcel of work clothes and my satchel for storage in the trunk. Then we pulled out into Washington Boulevard and headed for Beverly Hills.

  David O. Selznick lived in Summit Drive, on the hill just above Ceiba House.

  Earl stared out the window.

  I’d ceased to exist, faded into the background as just another underling he needed on-hand for the evening. Narcissists were like that. They blocked out anything they didn’t want to deal with and just focused on their own reflection.

  I was betting it was the reason someone wanted to murder him.

  Earl flicked the back of his fingers on the window, his nails making an irritating tapping sound on the glass. He was agitated but his total lack of self-consciousness meant he didn’t care what I thought.

  What exactly was twisting his tail?

  Sometime this week Earl was due to get that white jaguar tattooed on his chest. If he already had it then that meant he knew he was in danger.

  It could also mean he knew who was about to kill him.

  I checked the road ahead. We had a few minutes left to go.

  ‘What are you worried about, Mr Curtis?’

  He didn’t answer. Just kept tapping. Tick, tick, tick.

  Time to get his attention. ‘Why did you get that tattoo?’

  Earl swung around at that. ‘What d’ya mean?’ The thought that I knew scared the insides out of him.

  ‘The jaguar tattoo. Why did you get it?’

  He cringed away from me, rubbing his chest hard … as though he was erasing a chalk mark on the suit.

  So Earl had the tattoo.

  ‘How do you know about it? Is it you? Are you the one who keeps sending me those …?’ Earl stopped as he recognised my intense curiosity.

  ‘Who keeps sending you what, Mr Curtis? Is someone after you? Are you in danger?’

  Earl just stared at me, goggle-eyed. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘No, it’s not me. I’m on your side, Earl.’

  My attempt to calm him just pushed a different button. The fear flared into a snarl. ‘Then how the fuck do you know about my tattoo?’

  I used a lie, but an informed one. ‘One of the costume people peeked when you were changing in the fitting room yesterday.’ Earl had pressured Eve into making him some suits for his private use.

  He cursed. ‘Who was it? I’ll fire their —’

  ‘Cut the crap, Earl. What’s going on? Is someone threatening you?’

  Earl clammed up and stared out his window. He had the stubborn, frantic expression of a distraught mule.

  Now we were getting somewhere. Earl Curtis had the jaguar tattoo but he didn’t know who was after him.

  Hoooonk. The chauffeur leant on the horn, hard.

  Straight ahead a short man and a slightly
taller woman, both in full evening dress, were having an arm-swinging quarrel right in the middle of Summit Drive.

  They glared, frozen into our oncoming headlights.

  The chauffeur swerved to the left to avoid them.

  There were no seat belts so Earl and I hit my side together. Then I grabbed the door handle and hung on while he slid onto the floor with a heavy thunk.

  At the same time that we swerved the couple unfroze but tumbled in the wrong direction, heading straight for us.

  The chauffeur jammed on his brakes and veered even further to the left. We skidded on something slippery and finished side-on right next to the stunned couple.

  Earl came off the floor, shaken and cursing. ‘You stupid, ignorant bastards!’ He was out of the limo in a second, yelling at the couple as he went.

  Then Earl stopped yelling and stared at the little man. He was middle-aged, grey and white speckling the remaining darker hair.

  Earl immediately turned on his heel and leant into the driver’s side window to vent himself. ‘You idiot! You almost killed these poor people!’

  The little guy we’d nearly run over stepped in to make things right. ‘Earl, you can’t blame him, it was our fault.’

  Charlie Chaplin, fifty years old and a powerful player on the Hollywood A-list, was an English comedian who’d played the Little Tramp in silent movies. A suspected communist with a penchant for much younger women, he lived across the road from David O. Selznick and his wife Irene Mayer Selznick and, more importantly, just up the hill from Earl Curtis.

  Chaplin was on my interrogation list.

  Earl kept yelling at the driver while Chaplin kept insisting it was their fault for having an argument in the middle of the road. But Earl really wanted to yell at someone and the driver had to be it.

  Meanwhile the attractive, brown-haired woman came over to stand next to me.

  Paulette Goddard, twenty-nine years old, shared Chaplin’s house and his left-wing political views, and starred in his films. She’d also been the hot contender for the role of Scarlett right up until Vivien Leigh stole the part away.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Curtis, leave him alone.’ Chaplin grabbed Earl’s arm and dragged him into the big two-storey Georgian house on the corner. It was lit up like a lighthouse on fire and hot swing music poured out into the cool night air.

  The chauffeur tried to apologise to Goddard and me but we wouldn’t let him. He was shaken but said he’d park further up the hill.

  He drove off.

  Paulette Goddard tucked her arm into mine. ‘Sorry about that, honey. I have a bit of a temper and Charlie can be so damned stubborn …’ Her tone was warm and friendly. ‘So who are you?’

  ‘Kay Dupree. I’m Earl Curtis’ new assistant.’

  ‘Not an actress.’ She exhaled in relief. ‘Thank Christ for that. Goddamn! I am so sick of actresses. I’m stuck on a film set full of them. No men at all. It’s called The Women but, for accuracy’s sake, it should be called The Bitches.’

  The front door was wide open and the noise of a successful party streamed out. Loud voices competing with the music, glasses breaking, a laugh, which turned into a shriek, which turned into another laugh. Inside was packed with wall-to-wall glamour. The men were in tailored black tuxedos and the women in long evening gowns frosted at the neck and wrists with glittering jewels.

  It was very chic, very exclusive.

  The shiny metallic look was definitely the fashion; my slinky silver number was repeated on every second woman in shades of gold, bronze and copper. And everyone was talking at the top of their cigarette-smoke-filled lungs.

  Earl Curtis was nowhere in sight.

  ‘Bloody Earl, he’s ditched you already,’ said Paulette. ‘He can be such a surly shit. But he’s always been that way.’

  ‘Er, how long have you known him?’

  ‘Too many years for a woman to admit to, honey-child. We acted together in New York before he became Mr Hollywood Director.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Kay, I’m meeting some of my friends in the tent out on the tennis court. Do you want to come with me?’

  I was tempted but intended to case the joint before I settled in. ‘Thanks, Paulette, but I might just freshen up in the powder room first.’

  I wanted to check the grounds so I waited for Paulette to disappear out the back door then followed her, keeping my distance.

  The back door led onto a patio that looked out over a manicured lawn half covered in tables and chairs. At the far end was a stage where a band in white tuxedos was playing. The temporary wooden dance floor laid in front of them was empty; everyone seemed too busy talking and drinking.

  To the left of the lawn was a swimming pool surrounded by potted palms and shrubs, and beyond that was the tennis court. They’d laid wooden poles across the top of the mesh fence around the court and hung a silky lilac and gold tent over the top. Coloured flags streamed from romantic metal spires.

  The tennis court was now an exotic tent straight out of the Arabian Nights.

  I did the perimeter, carefully keeping my heels out of the dirt, and then came back to the patio. The high walls meant that there was only one easy way in and out: the front door of the house. There was a side door just around the corner from the tennis court but it was locked.

  I like to know my options.

  Now, where was my subject? I intended to keep an eye on Earl while I grilled his friends. He hadn’t been outside so I entered the house again.

  I did a circuit of the ground floor and was eyeing the staircase when I spotted Leslie Howard, the fair-haired British actor who played Ashley Wilkes — the subject of Scarlett O’Hara’s illicit lust. Howard was forty-six years old and doing Gone with the Wind on sufferance. He wasn’t a suspect but Susan had listed him as one of Earl’s drinking buddies … possibly even a confidant.

  He was in a huddle with two other men and all three were knocking back Scotch from a bottle of Glenfiddich handily placed on the sideboard next to them. The lounge room was so packed I could edge closer without being seen.

  ‘So is Clark Gable a fruit or not?’ The tall man on Howard’s left slurred his words ever so slightly. His skin was pitted with acne scars.

  ‘Yeah, Howard, Gable got that other fruit, George Cukor, fired off Gone with the Wind because he knew too much.’ The second man was short but broad, with big biceps that made his tuxedo bulge.

  ‘Too much about what, for God’s sake?’ Leslie Howard took a leisurely sip. He wasn’t taking their claims seriously.

  The shorter one pointed to his friend. ‘Purcell here was told that before Gable made it, he used to work as a male hooker … and that he did Cukor once.’

  Leslie Howard snorted. ‘Look, Sanders, Clark Gable didn’t get Cukor fired because of some dirty secret. Selznick got rid of George himself because George refused to read those bloody memos — let alone follow them.’

  ‘Well, you can’t be too careful,’ said Purcell, his lean, pitted face a nasty mix of righteousness and animosity. ‘There’s too many of that kind around this town … the fruits and the commies. They’ll all have to be purged when the time comes.’

  I edged even closer.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Purcell’s buddy. ‘Like we were telling you, Howard me boy … you should come to our next meeting in Santa Monica. We need people like you.’

  ‘Don’t waste your time fooling around with that German American Bund …’ warned Purcell. ‘They’re rank amateurs compared to us.’

  Howard raised a very British eyebrow. ‘Really? Three months ago the Bund ran a twenty-thousand strong rally in Madison Square Garden. Swastikas and all.’ He took another sip. ‘That doesn’t sound like amateurs to me. Still, I wouldn’t mind coming to your meeting.’

  Swastikas?

  ‘I’ll call you next week,’ said Purcell. ‘I just need to run you past the boss first.’

  ‘Good,’ said Howard amiably. ‘Till next week then.’ He ambled off, taking the Glenfiddich wi
th him.

  I watched Howard leave, puzzled. What was he playing at?

  It wasn’t commonly known now, but Leslie Howard’s real name was Leslie Howard Steiner …

  Both his parents were Jewish.

  I felt a cold hand roughly push down into the low back of my dress, diving for my butt.

  I whirled around and grabbed the paw. It was Purcell.

  He leered into me, coating my face with his putrid breath. ‘Well, what do we have here, Sanders? What’s your name, pretty baby?’

  I flicked his hand away. ‘I’m not your baby.’

  Purcell slid the same hand up my arm, crooning, ‘Oh, but you could be if you tried real hard, little girl. Do you know who I am?’

  ‘No.’ His groping made me itch to slap him, but the PI in me wanted the information. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Robert Purcell, the producer of your next film, baby.’

  He flipped a card out from his coat. It had the MGM logo. His grinning self-satisfaction said he assumed it was going to get him what he wanted.

  I didn’t take it. ‘I’m not an actress, Bob.’

  That didn’t seem to penetrate his self-importance so, using an aikido grip, I twisted his slimy paw off my arm.

  The sudden jolt of pain sent him teetering backwards.

  Riled, Purcell lunged forward again to grab my wrist, digging his fingers in.

  It hurt.

  ‘You little bitch!’ he growled into my face.

  Then Purcell glanced around, remembering where he was. He released his hold.

  I didn’t have time for this.

  Purcell wasn’t going to make a scene so I turned my back on him and made for the stairs.

  Sanders sniggered. ‘She got you good, Purcell. You almost fell on your ass.’

  Purcell cursed. ‘Fuck her!’

  Upstairs seemed empty but I could faintly hear two male voices over the noise of the party.

  I crept down the hall to the end room; the door was ajar.

  ‘We have to find a way to get Devereaux to commit. I can’t meet payroll next week without it!’

  It was Selznick.

  ‘David,’ said Earl, his irritation held to a low simmer. ‘Devereaux’s interested, just not interested enough to rush in. But we wouldn’t be in these dire straits if you hadn’t blown the company’s money at the Clover Club.’