14
The mural behind the Cine-Gril bar depicted early Hollywood days, Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, way back when movies couldn’t talk, a dozen years ago. The soothingly air-conditioned lounge was cozy but large enough for a bandstand and postage-stamp dance floor (Russ Columbo’s radio show was broadcast out of here) and the lighting was subdued, but not so much so that you couldn’t be seen if you wanted to. That ultramodern material, Formica, covered the front of the bar in deep red, with horizontal stripes of chrome and indirect lighting from under the lip of the mahogany countertop. The blue leather and chrome stools were shaped like champagne glasses and I was perched on one of them, sipping a rum and Coke.
I was a little early—the meeting was set for four-thirty, and I’d arrived here at the Roosevelt Hotel, by cab, having arrived by train at the impressive new Union Station on North Alameda around three. Checking in, washing up, and slipping into my Miami white suit, black-and-white-checkered tie, and black-banded straw fedora, I’d ambled through the pale chamber of the impressively decorative, Spanish Colonial-style lobby trying to inconspicuously spot movie stars among the potted palms, plush armchairs and overstuffed couches. I’d made several trips to Hollywood—including one late last year—and my pals at the Barney Ross Cocktail Lounge and the Dill Pickle deli always looked forward to my blasé rundown on any Tinseltown somebodies I’d set eyes on. The joke was the few starlets, would-be matinee idols, and low-rent agents clustered here and there, chatting—not a seat taken, no one wanting to be seen “waiting”—were sneaking peeks at me, not realizing I was nobody.
The first person in Hollywood I recognized was in the movies all right, but most tourists wouldn’t have known his name any more than his Gable-mustached, nearly handsome face: Paul Mantz—in a single-breasted hunter green sport jacket with gathered waist and double-patch pockets, a yellow open-neck shirt, and light green slacks—sauntered into the Cine-Gril, put his hand on my shoulder, ordered a martini in a frosted glass from the black-jacketed bartender, and then said hello.
Other than a touch of gray at the temples and perhaps a slight further receding of his hairline, Mantz looked the same: dark alert eyes, familiar cocky set to his thin mouth, and jutting jaw.
“How’s married life?” I asked him, as he stood next to me, not taking a stool.
“Much better the second time around,” he said. “I’m a dad now, you know.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said. I’d had my own ruminations over fatherhood since I’d seen him last. “Congratulations.”
“Well, two kids were part of the package,” he said, accepting the frosted martini from the bartender, finally sliding up onto a stool. “Terry was Roy Minor’s widow, y’know, the racing pilot? His kids, good kids, Tenita and Roy Jr., are mine, now…but Terry and me have our own boy—Paul Jr. He’ll be two in August.”
“Hope business is good, with all those mouths to feed.”
Half a smile dimpled one cheek. “Real boom in war pictures. The country may not wanna get into this scrap, but they sure like to see it at the movies. Also, test flights and aerial camera jobs for Lockheed. Charter service is doin’ great, including a branch in San Francisco—set up two amphibians at the Golden Gate Expo and flew thousands of gawking Midwest bumpkins like you over the fair. Oh, and the Vega crashed—ground accident, I was fully covered.”
“No more Honeymoon Express?”
“Oh, sure, but it’s a Lockheed Orion, now. You keepin’ busy?”
I shrugged. “Retail credit, divorce work, a little industrial espionage now and then.”
“Industrial spying? You doin’ it, or stoppin’ it?”
I let him have half a smile. “I’m a priest to my clients, Paul. Don’t expect me to violate a sacred trust.”
“Unless there’s a buck in it…. Don’t look so hurt.”
“That was acting,” I said. “When in Hollywood…. What can you tell me about this little business conference?”
He swirled his martini in its glass. “What have they told you?”
“Not a damn thing. Margot DeCarrie called, asked if I’d come out here and listen to a business proposition; she offered train fare, two nights’ lodging and meals, plus a C-note and a half for my trouble and other expenses.”
“And that’s all she told you?”
“She said she represented the Amelia Earhart Foundation. Does that mean she’s working for Purdue University?”
“Naw. Purdue set up the Amelia Earhart Research Foundation, but that was active only when Amelia was alive.”
“You think she’s dead, Paul?”
He didn’t quite look at me. “Probably. I think she probably crashed into the sea. She bit off more than she could chew, Noonan missed the island, she was tired, and tried to land too high over clear water, or misjudged the distance and flew into a heavy roller. Either one would’ve killed them instantly.”
I didn’t tell him what I knew; the confidentiality clause in the agreement I’d signed with Uncle Sam precluded that. In fact, according to the terms of my contract, I hadn’t even been in California in 1937.
“But ‘probably’ isn’t ‘absolutely,’ is it, Paul?”
He nodded, gazed into his martini, as if an answer might be floating there. “She was a great lady,” he said. “It’s hard to let go.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“I should leave the particulars to the others,” he said. “Margot and the rest’ll be here soon enough.”
“This, uh, Amelia Earhart Foundation…. Does G. P. have anything to do with it?”
“Hell no!” Mantz’s chuckle was edged with bitterness. “Not with me involved.”
“You two were never exactly bosom buddies. Do I detect a further deterioration in the relationship?”
He sipped the martini. “Amelia and I were involved in several businesses, including my charter service. But we both signed a contract that gave the surviving partner the entire business. Gippy, as executor of the Amelia Earhart Estate, is suing for half, just the same.”
I frowned. “How the hell can there be an estate? Doesn’t it take seven years to be declared legally dead, anymore?”
Mantz raised an eyebrow. “Not if you’re married to Gippy Putnam. I don’t know what kind of strings he and his lawyers pulled, but Amelia’s been legally dead since late ’38, I think, or early ’39. Gippy’s been screwing over Amelia’s mother and sister, too, makin’ sure they don’t get a share.”
“He always was a classy guy.”
“Well, he’s scramblin’ for dough. The estate was smaller than you’d think, at least that’s what I hear. They had a lot of their own money tied up in the world flight. I heard he had to sell the house in Rye; the book ‘by’ Amelia, about the last flight, got rushed out but didn’t do so hot. You do know he remarried, don’t ya?”
“No!”
My response seemed to surprise Mantz, who shrugged and said, “Got a good amount of play in the papers out here.”
“Not in Chicago. Remarried…”
Mantz was nodding. “Last year about this time, to a good-looking brunette who got a divorce from a successful lawyer in town—one of these Beverly Hills housewives who hit the garden club circuit. I hear Gippy picked her up at one of his ‘Amelia’ lectures…that’s how he’s makin’ most of his money these days.”
“Didn’t take him long to get back in circulation.”
“Hey, just a few months after Amelia disappeared, he went off on one of his ‘expeditions’ and took this other good-lookin’ gal along for company…. They say he was shacked up with her for months, after they got back from the Galapagos or wherever the hell. Till she got sick of his browbeating and foul temper.”
“Jeez, Paul—you turned into a regular Hedda Hopper.”
That made him smile. “Hey, I figure you might enjoy the dirt on Gippy, since you love him about as much as I do.”
“Maybe more,” I said.
“Ah,” Mantz said, swiveling o
n his stool, “here’s our little party now….”
In a white frock with a cardigan collar and white buttons down to the navy and white polka-dot sash that served as her belt, pretty Margot DeCarrie had just entered the Cine-Gril, and behind and on either side of her were two well-dressed gents who each carried the unmistakable air of the business executive.
Margot—brunette hair longer now, a sea of curls nestled under a white beret—beamed upon seeing me; her cutie-pie heart-shaped face, its babyish mouth turned cherry red by lipstick, not to mention her Betty Grable frame, would have been the envy of many a starlet, white high-heel pumps doing nice things to her bare, untanned legs. She was hugging a patent leather bag under one arm, a small briefcase in her other hand.
“Nathan, it’s so wonderful to see you,” she said as she approached; some of the chirpiness had matured out of her voice. “Paul, I’m glad you could make it…. Nathan, this is Elmer Dimity, the manufacturer and inventor.”
This was said as if I was supposed to recognize the name, so I said, “Oh, yes.”
Dimity was solidly built and rather tall, in a dark suit whose lapels were trimmed with scarlet suede, and his scarlet tie bore a diamond stickpin, an ensemble that sent a mixed message of austerity and flash, solemnity and goofiness. His dark hair was combed back, his face a long oval, his nose a beak dropping over a small, indecisive mouth, his chin rather weak as well; but the eyes behind the wire-frame glasses were strong and alert, and his expression was open, friendly.
“Heard a lot about you, sir,” he said, in a somewhat high-pitched, clear voice.
We shook hands and there was power in it, but no showing off.
Dimity picked up the introductions from Margot, gesturing to the other man, saying, “And this is James Forrestal, late of Wall Street.”
“Make it Jim,” Forrestal said, stepping forward to present a small hand for me to shake. His grip tried a little too hard to impress.
He was much smaller than Dimity, and in fact was shorter than Margot, yet his frame was slimly athletic within a pinstriped vested gray serge suit with four-in-hand black-and-gray-striped tie, apparel that made no allowance for the Southern California weather.
“And I’m Nate,” I said.
Forrestal’s spade-shaped face had a combative Irish look, dominated by the flattened nose of a pug; but his features otherwise reflected business-executive restraint: intense blue-gray eyes, thin lips compressed into an uncompromising line, and a ball-like cleft chin. His iron-gray hair was cut short and swept neatly back.
His small hard eyes appraising me, Forrestal asked, “Are you a Jewish fella, Nate? You don’t mind my saying so, you have an Irish cast.”
“So do you, Jim,” I said. “My looks are my mother’s fault. The name’s my father’s, but he wasn’t raised Jewish and neither was I.”
“Were you raised in your mother’s faith?” Forrestal asked. “Are you a Catholic, then?”
Margot and Dimity were clearly embarrassed by this line of questioning.
“No, Jim,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m not much of anything. The only time I pray is when I’m in a jam, and then it’s pretty nondenominational.”
“Like most people,” Mantz said with a nervous chuckle.
“I’m not a religious man myself,” Forrestal said, rendering our conversation even more oblique.
Mantz gestured toward the grill, which was sparsely populated this time of day. “Shall we find a table?”
Soon, our drink orders placed, we were gathered at a red Formica-topped table, settled on chrome-tubing chairs along a beige-drapery-flanked wall of mirrored Venetian blinds that allowed us to watch the world pass by along Hollywood Boulevard; Grauman’s Chinese was just across the way, that grandiose pagoda with movie star foot-and handprints at its gates, the mysteries of the East Americanized into a tourist mecca. I sat near the window with Mantz beside me; Forrestal was directly across from me, his gaze unnervingly steady, Dimity next to him. Margot sat at the head of the table, facing the mirrored blinds.
She tented her fingers—the nails of which, I noticed, were the same cherry red as her lipstick—and began: “As I’m sure you know, Nathan, Mr. Dimity…”
“Elmer,” he interrupted cheerfully. “I can’t be the only ‘mister’ at the table.”
“Well,” Margot said, touching his hand, “I’m going to call you Mr. Dimity because you’re my boss…. And Mr. Dimity is my boss, Nate, and a wonderful one—I’m working full-time for the Amelia Earhart Foundation, as executive secretary.”
“This little whirlwind is our only full-time employee,” Dimity added. “And the only person on the payroll. I’m the chairman of the board, and strictly a volunteer. Jim here is a board member, though he’s asked not to have his name on the letterhead, so that there’s, uh…no misunderstanding.”
That was provocative; but I let it go for the moment.
“Mr. Dimity is also founder of the Foundation,” Margot said proudly.
“Swell,” I said, getting a little weary of this mutual admiration society. “What is it?”
“The Foundation?” Dimity asked. “Well, our mandate is to ‘inspire the study of aeronautical navigation and the sciences akin thereto.’”
“Ah,” I said, as if that had answered it.
A white-jacketed waiter brought us our drinks. Actually, I’d held onto my rum and Coke, but Mantz was onto a second martini. Dimity had ordered a Gilbert, Forrestal a whiskey sour, and Margot a stinger.
Then Dimity jumped back in: “But our primary objective is to conduct an expedition to clear up Amelia’s disappearance.”
“An expedition?”
“Yes. We hope to send a search and rescue team to the Pacific to discover whether our friend is still alive, and if not, find an explanation to the mystery of her disappearance.”
I couldn’t tell them what I knew, which was that to find Amy, going into Japanese-held taboo territory would be a necessity.
Instead I merely said, “That would be extremely expensive.”
“Yes, we know,” Dimity said, and sipped his Gilbert. “Tens of thousands of dollars, which we intend to raise. I’m not the only friend Amelia had in business and industry, and in the higher echelons of society and finance. We already have the blessing of Amelia’s mother, and of course Mr. Mantz here, and the President and Mrs. Roosevelt.”
The latter surprised me. Why would the government sanction an excursion into its most embarrassing, top-secret impropriety?
I played a hunch. “Uh, Mr. Forrestal…Jim. What does that mean, exactly—‘late of Wall Street’?”
He lowered his whiskey sour and his mouth tightened into a slash of a non-smile. “I recently resigned as president of an investment banking firm, Dillon, Read, and Company.”
“And what are you doing now?”
Forrestal’s smile froze and he waited several long seconds before replying, “I’m with the administration.”
Knowing, I asked, “What administration would that be?”
“The Roosevelt administration.” He took another sip of the whiskey sour, perhaps to provide time to see if his answer would be enough to satisfy me; my gaze was still on him, so he finally added, “I’m, uh…an administrative assistant to the President.”
“Sort of a troubleshooter.”
“You might say.”
“And you flew here, from Washington, D.C., to take this meeting with me?”
“I had several other meetings here, but yes, primarily. The President, and particularly Eleanor, were close friends of Amelia’s, and they are wholly supportive of the Foundation’s efforts.”
Even if they didn’t want their man’s name on the Foundation letterhead.
“I take it, then, Jim, that you were also a personal friend of Amelia’s…”
“I knew G. P. and his wife, yes. We traveled in something of the same social circles, in New York.”
Smiling innocently at Dimity, I asked, “And you, Elmer? You have a great passion for this cau
se, obviously. What was your connection to Amelia?”
But it was Margot who answered, leaning forward, reaching past Mantz, to touch my hand. “That’s what I started to say, before I got off the track…. I thought you knew, Nathan, that Mr. Dimity was one of Amelia’s closest friends and business associates.”
“No I didn’t,” I admitted.
Margot continued: “Mr. Dimity developed a training unit for parachute jumpers….”
“It’s a two-hundred-foot tower,” Dimity interjected, “with a safety line attached to a standard parachute harness. Designed primarily for military use. Amelia helped me out by taking the first public jump from one of my towers.”
This was ringing a bell. Amy had told me that after G. P. had left Paramount, and needed some cash flow, he’d involved her with several publicity campaigns for a parachute company; she had also fondly mentioned the well-intentioned owner of the firm, who had become a supporter and something of a hanger-on.
“Amelia helped me gain public attention for several other of my aeronautics inventions,” Dimity said, then had another taste of his Gilbert. Behind the wire frames, his eyes were distant with memory, his voice soft as he said: “I owe much of the success of my company to that kind and generous lady.”
“Well, I know you didn’t pay my way out here to ask me for a contribution,” I said, which got a chortle out of Dimity and a smile from Margot. Forrestal’s reaction was only a little less expressive than a cigar store Indian’s. “And adding my name to your membership board sure won’t gain you any prestige.”
“We have a job for you,” Dimity said. “We are probably at least a year away from mounting our expedition, hiring a ship and crew…. This is no idle effort, Nate, it’s my intention to go along, and Miss DeCarrie feels the same way. Having Amelia’s personal secretary aboard will lend our expedition credibility.”
This was starting to sound about as credible to me as launching an expedition to the Island of Lost Boys to look for Peter Pan.
“Of course,” Dimity was saying, “this assumes that all goes well with fundraising.”
Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 10 Page 24
