She hooked her arm through mine and led me across the living room’s Oriental carpet through an archway into the dining room, off of which a hallway led into the addition to the house. She had a clean fresh smell about her, soap not perfume, I’d bet.
“Ernie said you’re looking into this,” she said, walking me along. “I know it’s what A. E. will want.”
“Excuse me,” I said, “but you act like she spoke of me often.”
“Not often. But when she did, it was with great affection.” She paused at a closed door. “Let’s go in here—it’s A. E.’s study. I think she’d like us to do our talking in her presence, so to speak.”
I followed her in and she ushered me to a worn, comfy-looking sofa in a corner of a rather spartan study, under a wall of photos that wasn’t as excessive as Paul Mantz’s office display, but close to it: aviation memories and signed movie star mugs. Double windows looked out onto the patio and a well-tended garden; they were open to let in the dry cool evening breeze that had replaced the sweltering day. A centrally placed card table with a typewriter was a typically informal Amelia Earhart “office,” littered with books and typing paper and yellow pads. A more formal desk, a rolltop, took up one wall, and much of another was swallowed up by a trophy cabinet. Standing bookcases, a pair of file cabinets, and an easy chair made up the rest of the room.
“This looks like it might be Mr. Putnam’s study, as well,” I said, sitting down.
“It is—they shared it, but he hasn’t been using it since…well, since.” Margot closed the door. She wrinkled her nose, chipmunk cute, and said, “We’ll opt for privacy. Joe’s nice, but he’s loyal to Mr. Putnam.”
“Joe’s the houseman?”
“Yes. A wonderful gardener, too. He also does the heavy chores; my mother does the rest.”
“Your mother?”
She settled in next to me—not right next to me, but it was a good thing for her I wasn’t Jack the Ripper, because she was assuming the best about me, not always the safest course for a cute kid like this.
“When my mother got the housekeeper position here—I’m a local girl, well, Glendale local—I just went crazy. I’ve been a fan of A. E.’s since I was twelve! I just adore her—you should see my scrapbooks. Did you know she had scrapbooks, too, when she was a girl? Full of stories about women doing work that was supposed to be a man’s domain? And I’d been writing her fan letters since forever, and do you know, she answered every one?”
“Really?”
“So when Mother got this job, I just had to come around and meet A. E., and she was so wonderful, you just wouldn’t believe, well I guess you would knowing her like you do, but I started coming around and, well, maybe I made a pest of myself, telling her how I was a graduate from the business college over in Van Nuys, dropping all kinds of hints, telling her how terrible it must be to be swamped like she was with so much fan mail and all, and anyway, finally she said, A. E. said, I guess I really could use a Girl Friday at that, and ever since then I’ve been in charge of fan letters, filing, and even the household accounts…I studied more than secretarial skills at business college, I have accountancy capability too you know…and I help out in a lot of other ways, meeting airplanes, showing guests around, and entertaining A. E.’s mother, who just went to stay with her other daughter, A. E.’s sister, Muriel, in West Medford, for a while.”
“Is that right?”
“And you know it’s funny, I don’t really think A. E. feels all that close to her real sister, I mean I think she may kind of resent sending her checks all the time, actually I’m the one sending them lately, ever since A. E. disappeared, though I think Mr. Putnam may put a stop to it, but the thing is, we really did get close, we were more like sisters, I think, sometimes, than she was with her real sister, which is why I know what I know about you.”
“What do you know about me?”
“That you love her, too. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
And then she turned away from me in sudden embarrassment and began bawling like a baby. I gathered her up like she was a hurting child, which maybe she was, and held her to me, let her hug me and bury her face in my chest and cry there. I had to wonder when Margot said she loved Amy, if it was the Toni Lake variety; but my hunch was not. This was about hero worship, not hormones.
As she began to settle down, I fished a clean handkerchief out of my pocket and gave it to her; she thanked me, dried her eyes and moved away a little, sitting with her hands in her lap, clenching the hanky. She looked very small, her face devoid of makeup now, a pale cameo.
“But you don’t love G. P., Margot, do you?”
A little humorless smirk dimpled her cheek. “No. Not hardly. At first I accepted him…I mean, after all, A. E. married him, and she doesn’t make many mistakes.”
“That one was a whopper, though.”
“He’s a terrible man. Egotistical. Selfish. He’s nothing more than a publicity-seeker, with no regard for anyone but himself.”
“You’re right.”
She pressed her hands to her bosom and looked across at the trophy case. “A. E. made me feel so good about myself…. She made me feel I could conquer the world.”
Margot had lapsed into the past tense about Amy, too. It was tough not to.
She turned her gaze upon me, and it was so earnest, I wanted to laugh—or cry. She asked, “What can you do about this, Mr. Heller?”
“I figure once I’ve had my arm around a girl, she’s earned the right to use my first name.”
She liked that. “Thanks, Nathan. You’re everything A. E. said you were….”
“Let’s not jump the gun. As for what I can do—I’m not even sure why I came out to California, Margot. It was an impulse.”
I told her about Paul Mantz trying to hire me—weeks ago, while Amy was still on American soil—to look into the funny business surrounding the world flight, and how I turned him down. How I may have missed the chance to head this disaster off before it started.
“Oh dear,” she said, looking at me with tenderness and pity, “you must feel terribly guilty!”
“You really know how to lift a fella’s spirits, Margot…. If the Coast Guard and Navy can’t find her in the ocean, I’m not sure what good I can do in Burbank. But I do know I don’t want G. P. getting away with this.”
Her eyes got teary again and her lower lip quivered. “I don’t think he cares if she comes back…. I don’t think he wants her to come back….”
“I suspect you’re right. But first things first—I’m still trying to piece together what’s really going on here.”
Her expression turned firm; dabbing the new tears away with my hanky, she asked, “How can I help?”
“Tell me what you’ve seen.” I gestured around us.
“What unusual has happened here at the house?”
She drew air in and then blew it out through a Clara Bow pucker. “Ooooh, so many things…. One of the things that struck me was all the military people parading through.”
“What kind of military people?” I sat sideways on the couch, to look right at her. “You mean, like the Navy chauffeur who drove her around in a staff car, sometimes?”
“Well that, but these were very high-ranking officers, Army and Navy both. They’d come over and meet with G. P. and A. E., or sometimes with just G. P.”
“You remember any names, Margot?”
She nodded. “There was a General Arnold, and a General Westover….”
Generals were dropping by?
“This was after Mr. Miller moved in,” she elaborated.
Then she shuddered. “Such a cold man.”
“In what way? Who the hell is he?”
“He’s with the government, too—the Bureau of Air Commerce. I think A. E. put up with him only because she’s so friendly with his superior, Mr. Vidal. Mr. Miller is the ‘coordinator’ of the flight.”
“What does that mean?”
“Who knows? His first name is William, a
nd I’ve never heard him called Bill; G. P. just calls him Miller. Most everybody seems to, although I wasn’t raised that way. I call him Mr. Miller. And other things, to myself.”
“When did he move in here?”
“In April, after the last of the meetings with Mr. Baruch. But he’s not here all the time, he has an office in Oakland—”
“Wait, wait, what meetings with who?”
“There were three meetings between G. P. and A. E. and Mr. Baruch starting in, uh, late March I believe, with the last one in early April.”
“This is Bernard Baruch we’re talking about.”
“Yes. He’s a gentleman in his sixties, early sixties, I would say; somewhat heavy-set but not fat. Beautiful white hair, glasses that sit on his nose. A nice man. Soft spoken, well spoken. Do you know him?”
“Not personally.”
Maybe they didn’t get around to current events at that business college in Van Nuys, but I knew who Bernard Baruch was, even if my newspaper of choice was The Racing News. Self-made Wall Street millionaire, philanthropist, so-called “park bench sage”…and advisor to FDR.
That was Bernard Baruch.
“Margot, did you take notes at these meetings?”
“No, but I was around…I overheard some things, things I probably shouldn’t have. I know A. E. was upset after the meetings, though it was all very…civilized. I don’t think she ever agreed to do what he wanted…or maybe I should say, what the President wanted.”
“What was that?”
She frowned; worry, not anger. “I think he asked her to volunteer to help the government…. What would an ‘intelligence operation’ be exactly?”
“That would be spying, Margot. He must have asked her to use her plane to spy.”
Her eyes widened, in a blend of disbelief and fear. “I can’t believe she’d do that!”
Apparently I had put into words something that she had barely dared think.
Then she released her grip, her eyes hooded now, and the fingers of one hand rose to touch her lips, lightly, and when she spoke, her usual rush of verbiage slowed, as if each word had to work its way around the fingers poised protectively there.
“And, yet,” she said, “it does make sense, with those generals coming around, later. You see, I heard Mr. Baruch say that the military would…what was his language exactly? ‘Assist’ is only part of it, I believe the words were…‘underwrite her enterprise.’ Does that mean…?”
“It means Baruch offered government financial backing to remount the world flight.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I can tell you this, I was the one who handled the accounting on the first try, so I know what kind of money was spent, and on what. This time, the second time around, it was very different—no bills came in at all. Not for aircraft expenses or repairs or hangar storage or even fuel. Nothing.”
I frowned. “Was Amelia aware of this?”
“Yes…. She was really very blue, which was a big contrast from before, when she was flying to Honolulu. She was so enthusiastic, and lighthearted and laughing.”
Amy had always said she flew for the “fun of it.”
I asked, “Did you ever ask her why the military was getting so heavily involved?”
“Yes. Sort of…. I didn’t put it that way exactly, though. I think I was more concerned about the people who’d been close to her who were being driven away, and shut out, her friends, people she trusted.”
“What did she say?”
“She said to me, ‘We can’t always do what we wish.’”
A hell of a statement from a woman who had made a lifelong habit of doing exactly what she wanted.
“Who was getting ‘shut out,’ Margot? Obviously, you kept your job.”
“Oh, there’s a lot of examples. There’s that boy up in Oakland who she took under her wing—Bobby Myers? I know she felt bad about that, but I heard Mr. Putnam tell her he was a ‘snot-nose snoop,’ and to stay away from him.”
“Who is this kid? How old is he?”
“Thirteen, fourteen, maybe? He’s one of the amateur radio buffs that were going to monitor the flight. A man named McMenamy set up a whole network of radio operators, partly to help Mr. Putnam with material for progress-report press releases. He got shut out, too.”
“Who, did? The kid, you mean?”
“Both of them.”
I reached behind me in my hip pocket and pulled out the little notebook I kept tucked next to my wallet; I removed the nubby pencil stuck in the spiral. “What was this guy’s name again?”
“Walter McMenamy. He lives in L.A., some kind of radio expert, works for Mr. Mantz, sometimes.”
I wrote that down. “And the kid’s name?”
“Bobby Myers. I heard Mr. Miller tell Mr. Putnam that he had to ‘pull the plug on those ham radio morons.’ I’ve never heard such cruel things as that man says.”
For hanging out in a house where presidential envoys and generals came constantly calling, this kid led a sheltered life.
She continued: “The list is really long, Nathan, of aides and advisors and volunteers, tossed out with the trash.” A thought flashed through her eyes. “Like Albert Bresniak, the photographer.”
“Spell that name.”
She did, and I wrote it down, and she explained, “Mr. Putnam picked him, personally, to be A. E.’s ‘official photographer.’ Very young, maybe twenty-two, very talented boy. He was supposed to go with her on at least some of the flight.”
That made sense. Putnam had a deal with the Hearst papers—they had been publishing excerpts from Amy’s flight journal that had been cabled and phoned home—and a photographer along on several legs of the flight would mean some nice exclusive photos.
“Was this photographer, Bresniak, scheduled to go on the first attempt?”
“No. Mr. Putnam approached him in April or May, I think. Albert was ready to go along clear up till a few days before A. E. took off. Mr. Miller was furious when he found out about Albert being invited. I heard him really bawling out Mr. Putnam.”
“And then Albert was suddenly part of the legion of the unwanted.”
“Yes…. Nate. There’s something else I need to tell you. It’s quite personal, but I think it’s something you should know.”
“Shoot.”
A knock came at the door, but before either of us could respond to it, Joe—the houseman—leaned in and said, “Miss DeCarrie—Mr. Putnam and Mr. Miller pull in drive.”
“But they’re not due yet!”
“Mr. Putnam pull in drive. Mr. Miller with him.”
And then Joe shut the door and was gone.
“Criminey,” she said. “He wasn’t supposed to come back till tomorrow…”
“We got nothing to hide,” I said. “I’m not going out a window or anything.”
I walked her into the living room, where Putnam—impeccable as always in a double-breasted gray worsted and black and white tie—was just coming in, saying, “What do you expect me to do, Miller? Indulge in public sobbing?”
And the man coming in behind him said, “All I’m saying is, you came off cold-blooded to that reporter. ‘I have confidence in my wife’s ability to handle any situation…’”
Putnam stopped his companion’s conversation with the raised hand of a traffic cop, nodding toward Margot and me.
“We have company,” Putnam said. Behind the rimless glasses, his cold dark eyes were fixed on me in that unblinking gaze of his.
William Miller—looking like an undertaker in a black worsted suit and a black silk tie whose small red polka dots were like drops of blood—formed an immediate smile, a small noncommittal smile developed no doubt as a reflex. He was fairly tall, medium build, his hair prematurely gray and receding on an egg-shaped skull, complexion ashen, eyes dark and intense under dark ridges of eyebrow, his mouth rather full, even sensual, the only hint of emotional content in an otherwise cold countenance.
“Who have we here?” he asked, in a pleasant, even soothing barit
one.
“Heller?” Putnam said, answering Miller as if he weren’t sure he was really recognizing me.
“G. P.,” I said. “You weren’t expected.”
“Neither were you,” he said. “What the hell’s this about?”
We were standing near the entryway, facing each other awkwardly like gunfighters who forgot their six-shooters.
“I’m concerned about your wife,” I said. “I came out here to offer my sympathy and help.”
“Mr. Heller called,” Margot said, with a smile as tellingly strained as Miller’s was ominously casual, “and I invited him over. I hope I wasn’t out of line, Mr. Putnam, but I knew he was a friend of A. E.’s…”
“Why don’t you leave us alone, Margot,” Putnam said. “Go to your quarters.”
She nodded and said, “Yes sir,” flashed me a pained smile, and was gone.
“You want something to drink?” Putnam asked me. He was slipping out of his suitcoat.
“Why not?” The Zombie had pretty well worn off.
“Joe!” he called, and the houseman appeared and took Putnam’s jacket. Miller made no move to remove his, nor did he move to take a seat; just stood there with that small meaningless smile, his arms folded, his weight evenly distributed on both Florsheimed feet.
“Bring Mr. Heller a rum and Coke,” Putnam told Joe. “Manhattans for Mr. Miller and myself.”
Miller gestured, no. “I’ll pass, tonight, thank you, Joe.”
Joe nodded, disappeared, while Putnam loosened his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, saying, “Nate Heller, this is William T. Miller. He’s with, uh…”
He left it for Miller to fill in, which he did: “Bureau of Air Commerce.”
We shook hands; his grip was cool, also firm but he didn’t show off.
“Mr. Heller runs the A-1 Detective Agency in Chicago,” Putnam told Miller. “He did some work for me, a year or two ago. Accompanied A. E. on one of her lecture swings.”
The tiny smile settled in one cheek; like Putnam, Miller rarely blinked. With these two standing staring at me, it was like having a conversation with a wax museum exhibit. “You’re a little off your beat, aren’t you, Mr. Heller?”
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