EQMM, January 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Copyright © Jon L. Breen

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  GARBO'S KNEES by Terence Faherty

  Terence Faherty recently received a nomination for the Shamus Award for his 128-page novella In a Teapot, from his Scott Elliott series published in hardcover by The Mystery Company. The other four nominees for the award, for best hardcover of 2005, are all full-length novels. Hats off to Mr. Faherty for proving that short fiction can compete with popular novels! Scott Elliott also features in this new story.

  1.

  I reached the offices of the Hollywood Security Agency a little before nine, as I usually did. A guy with two kids and a working wife hardly ever oversleeps. As I pulled up in front of the agency's little building on Roe, I got a surprise. It turned out to be the first of a full day's worth.

  My boss, Patrick J. Maguire, no early riser, was up and waiting for me. He was pacing the front walk, to be exact, and using all of it, as he was also no scarecrow. At the sight of me, he tossed the cigar he'd been smoking at the nearest palm tree.

  "Keep the motor running, Scotty,” Paddy called to me. “We're late for an appointment."

  By then he was climbing into the gray and red Edsel Corsair I was driving that year.

  "Where?” I asked.

  "Grauman's. Not the Chinese Theatre. Grauman's warehouse. On Seward. That headstone you've been fussing over's been stolen."

  "Gabrielle's?"

  "I thought that would get your attention. It got mine, too. I see a nice payday ahead for us. And maybe a chance to do a good turn for your old friend."

  That old friend was Gabrielle Nouveau, real name Annie Kovacs, a silent-movie star who'd befriended me when I'd landed in Hollywood in the thirties. Now, in 1959, she was long dead and nearly forgotten. Worse, her grave had been desecrated.

  Not her real grave, which was safe and sound in Forest Lawn. The one that had been disturbed was the grave of her stardom. As everyone knows, Grauman's Chinese has a unique collection of stars’ autographs. They reside in the cement of the theater's forecourt, right up against Hollywood Boulevard. The practice started in 1927 when Norma Talmadge, an old rival of Gabrielle's, accidentally stepped in wet cement while touring the new theater. She'd added her name, and a tradition had been born. Not every star did footprints. Some left handprints, some both, some were more creative. Groucho Marx, for example, had imprinted his cigar, and Sonja Henie her skates.

  Gabrielle Nouveau had left the standard signature and footprints way back in 1929, when the future had looked rosy for her and just about everyone else. Her little slab had stayed put until 1956, when it and a second one had been “temporarily” removed as part of a renovation to the theater's box office. The two slabs had never been replaced, despite letter-writing and petition campaigns organized by Gabrielle's old friends, including my wife Ella and me. That hunk of concrete was the “headstone” Paddy had mentioned.

  "Was the other slab taken too?” I asked.

  "Yes, I think it was,” Paddy said, playing coy. He was silver-haired, now that he was pushing sixty. But he was still a flashy dresser. Today's tie was a collection of red, green, and blue triangles. They were fluttering in the breeze from the Corsair's open window like a string of pennants. A small-craft warning, I decided.

  "How did anyone know the slabs were there to steal?” I asked. Then the answer came to me. “That television spot."

  A local station had recently done a piece on the Grauman's warehouse that had included shots of the two displaced squares. I'd missed the story, but Ella hadn't. It had inspired her to start another petition drive.

  "If it was that TV piece,” Paddy said, “Grauman's brought this on themselves, by going after a little free publicity. Now they want it hushed up. Hence their call to us."

  Hollywood Security had gotten more than its share of that kind of call. They were usually placed by vaguely titled studio executives who wanted us to put in a fix or twist an arm or closely examine a keyhole.

  "Hushed up? Why?"

  Paddy chuckled. “Ever played the tourist, Scotty? Ever gone to Grauman's and compared your shoe size with William Powell's? Sure you have. You probably did it within twenty-four hours of stepping off your train back in the ‘thirties, all star struck, with the hay still sticking out of your ears. Then when you signed with Paramount, I'll bet you went back there and picked out the very square of concrete where your footprints were going to be someday."

  As Paddy knew all too well, I was an ex-actor, emphasis on the ex. And, as it happened, I had staked out a stretch of Grauman's forecourt for my very own, once upon a time. That claim had since been jumped by Van Johnson, not that I held a grudge.

  Paddy was breezing on. “And when you got out of the service after the war, I'll bet the Chinese Theater was one of the first places you went. Hell, it was probably one of the things you'd been fighting for."

  "So what if it was?” I asked politely.

  "So, in all those visits you made, real and imaginary, did you ever happen to see a slab belonging to the great Greta Garbo?"

  "No,” I said. “There isn't one. That kind of stunt was beneath Garbo's dignity."

  Paddy beamed at me. “The guy who said a person's education never really ends must have had your picture on his desk."

  * * * *

  2.

  Grauman's Chinese Theatre looked like the MGM set department's idea of a chop suey house, with its jade green pagoda roof, red pillars, and its dragons, large and small. Grauman's warehouse, on the other hand, was strictly out of Omaha, Nebraska, its facade lacking any decorations whatsoever, unless you counted the oversize garage doors. The walls were poured concrete, naturally. Grauman's used so much of the stuff, they probably got a discount. I wondered if the workmen who'd built the place had signed their names before it dried.

  The pedestrian entrance had a doorbell, but Paddy tried the knob first. It turned in his hand, and we waltzed on in. The first thing we came to was a giant gorilla's foot, cut off at the ankle and big enough inside for Paddy to use it as a bathtub.

  "Forgot they did the King Kong premiere,” he said as we circled the prop. “That was a night."

  Beyond the foot were racks holding scenery flats and enough spotlights for a chain of theaters. Four very special lights came next, the giant, wheeled searchlights Grauman's used to light up the night sky during big events.

  Paddy kicked the nearest searchlight's tire and said, “If the Japanese bombers had made it over here, old Sid Grauman would have been ready for them."

  We heard voices and saw a trio of men standing in a sunny square beneath a skylight. One of them saw us back and hurried to meet us, a very thin man with sunken cheeks, big sad eyes, and wavy hair that looked like it had been pulled at recently.

  "Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said, sounding as sincere as the greeter at a funeral parlor. “I'm Frank Findley, vice president of public relations. The police are still here—” he gestured toward the men he'd just left—"so maybe you'd like to wait outside."

  "The police are old friends of ours,” Paddy assured him. “We've helped them out any number of times. Before we join them, why don't you tell my associate, Mr. Elliott, about what happened last night."

  Findley blinked. “You haven't briefed him? I must say I'm surprised."

  Welcome to the club, I thought, though it had actually been years since I'd been surprised by Paddy's managerial style.

  "I wanted him to hear it from you,” the great man said. “I was afraid he'd start theorizing before he had all the data. That's a big mistake in our business."

  "He keeps his cigars in a coal scuttle, too,” I told Findley, but the allusion sailed over his head.

  He blinked again, focused on me, and began. “Last night someone broke in here and stole three concrete slabs we had in storage."

  "Three? I thought only two had been yanked when the box office was renovated."

  Findley was impressed. “Two of the slabs were ones we'd removed for t
hose box-office repairs. They belonged to actresses of no consequence. The third was quite different."

  Paddy didn't nudge me in the ribs, but I felt it anyway.

  The theater representative cleared his throat. “Please understand that what I'm about to tell you is in the strictest confidence, Mr. Elliott. The third slab belonged to Miss Greta Garbo. It contained imprints of her hands and her signature. She made them in 1929, at the premiere of the film A Woman of Affairs. Shortly afterward, the slab was removed and put into storage here. It remained here until last night."

  "Removed why?” I asked.

  "Miss Garbo requested it. She wasn't pleased with the slab. I've heard several explanations. One was that she'd accidentally knelt in the cement while signing her name, leaving an imprint of her knees."

  "Years before Al Jolson thought of doing it,” Paddy observed.

  "Er, yes. There certainly were impressions of her knees in our slab. I've seen them. So maybe she'd expected them to be smoothed over and was unhappy that they hadn't been. Another story was that Miss Garbo was upset over comments made about the slab.” Findley checked for eavesdroppers. “She was known for having somewhat large feet. The wags supposedly said that she'd imprinted her knees because her feet wouldn't fit. Things like that.

  "Mr. Grauman,” Findley continued, reverently referring to Sid Grauman, the late theater owner Paddy had mentioned earlier, “made a deal with her. He agreed to remove and destroy the slab if she would come and do another one, without knees. She said she would. But she was already becoming shy and reclusive. She never fulfilled her part of the bargain."

  "Neither did Mr. Grauman,” I pointed out. “He didn't destroy the slab."

  "No,” Findley admitted.

  "Why didn't he threaten to stick it back in?” Paddy asked, describing what might be called the Maguire approach. “That would have gotten her attention."

  "Mr. Grauman would never have threatened anyone. He held on to the slab for sentimental reasons."

  "How long does sentiment last around here?” I asked. “He's been dead quite awhile."

  "Nine years,” Findley said for the record. “Obviously we retained the slab after Mr. Grauman's death. There was always a chance that it could be restored without offending Miss Garbo. If she..."

  "Stepped in front of a bus?” Paddy suggested.

  Findley nodded guiltily. “After Miss Garbo passes on,” he said, sounding like a funeral director again, “the slab could be ... rediscovered. That is, it could have been before last night. Now it may be gone forever. And all because of that television crew."

  "Television,” Paddy said, all but spitting for emphasis. “What good has ever come of that?"

  * * * *

  3.

  We were interrupted at that point by a police detective named Hughes, one of the pair who'd been hogging the square of sunlight. I'd recognized him as soon as we'd entered, and he'd recognized us. Even in a dimly lit warehouse, there was no mistaking Paddy. Hughes, a shorter than standard guy with a bony brow, may have been waiting for us to come over and pay our respects. We hadn't, and he seemed a little hurt about it.

  "Should have known you vultures would be circling the water hole,” he said pleasantly. Like a lot of us just then, he was watching too many Westerns.

  "Nice to see you too, Detective,” Paddy said and offered him a cigar. He held it well down, underscoring Hughes's lack of height.

  Hughes ignored the cigar but not the slight. “This may actually be your kind of job, Maguire, though I would have expected your outfit to be on the other side of it, the taking side. Or on both, the taking side and the miraculously recovering side. Anyone ask you for an estimate in the last week or so for a lift-and-carry job?"

  "I'll check our phone log,” Paddy said. “In the meantime, Mr. Findley was about to tell us how word of the Garbo slab leaked out."

  Hughes's kind remarks about Hollywood Security had made the public relations man even more nervous. He collected himself a little and said, “It was the television crew. It had to be. They came by here last week to do a story on the memorabilia stored here. The person from my office who set it up wasn't familiar with the Garbo situation. The warehouse manager thought the visit had been cleared by upper management, which it hadn't been. He showed the film crew back here.” Findley pointed to a stretch of floor currently occupied by nothing at all. “They saw and photographed the Garbo artifact."

  "It didn't make the evening news,” I said. Ella would certainly have mentioned that.

  "No,” Findley said. “Luckily, the owner of the station belongs to several of the same civic organizations as our current president. He agreed to respect our privacy. The story as broadcast did not mention Greta Garbo. But word got out somehow. Someone at the station must have leaked it."

  Paddy said, “I assume we're discounting the possibility of a tip-off from one of your people because they've all been with you for donkey's years. And because of the timing, the theft coming right on the heels of the newspeople's visit. Fine. How did our thieves go about it?"

  Hughes actually jumped in to answer that, maybe because Findley and Paddy weren't leaving him any lines. “Door over there was broken open. There are footprints outside, enough for four men, it looks like. It would have taken at least four linebackers to heft one of those things. And there are tire marks from a flatbed in the alley."

  "The alarm didn't go off?” I asked.

  Findley looked sheepish. “We've never had one."

  Paddy tsked at him. “Surprised King Kong's foot's still here. What's your thinking on why all three were taken?"

  He asked this of Detective Hughes, who said, “They took all three to hide their interest in the one they really wanted, the only valuable one, the Garbo slab."

  "It didn't work worth a damn,” I said.

  "What?” Hughes growled.

  "He's congratulating you on seeing through it so quickly,” Paddy said.

  Just then, the ringing of a phone in some distant corner took Findley away from us. Hughes saw an opportunity for a heart-to-heart.

  "Listen, Maguire. For once you're welcome to stick your nose in. We don't have much interest in this. That Garbo thing is on its way to some nutball collector who'll either sleep with it or have it set in the floor of his bathtub. The other two are already on the bottom of Santa Monica Bay. We're only making this much effort because Grauman's is still a big noise at the chamber of commerce. So if you can keep them out of our hair, fine. Just don't soak them for too much, or we'll come by to see you."

  "You're always welcome,” Paddy said.

  Hughes stalked off, followed by his bashful partner, a guy who looked like he'd be billed as “second policeman” for the rest of his life.

  Findley was disappointed to find them gone when he trotted back.

  "They knew you were in good hands,” Paddy assured him. “Any news?"

  "The phone call? No. It was the theater management, hoping for news from me. Why?"

  "One possibility we have to face is that your mementos are being held for ransom. If that's the case, we should be hearing from the, ah, kidnappers shortly."

  "What will we do then?"

  "You'll leave everything to us, of course. In fact, maybe you and I should go over to your offices right now and put your superiors’ collective mind at rest. Meanwhile, Mr. Elliott here will initiate inquiries. Any thoughts on that, Scotty?"

  I had one, which took the form of a question. “One of the other slabs belonged to Gabrielle Nouveau,” I said, impressing Findley a second time. “Who autographed the third one?"

  "Another silent-movie actress, Nola Nielsen."

  It seemed to me that Findley sniffed a little before pronouncing the name. I felt I should know why he would, too, but I couldn't quite remember.

  While I puzzled over it, Findley told Paddy that his car was in the alley.

  "Fine. Pick me up out front. I want to give my operative here some final instructions."

  * * * *
/>
  4.

  "I take it that you're less than impressed with Detective Hughes's analysis of the case,” Paddy said as he walked me out the way we'd come in.

  "I like it fine,” I said. “He's just wearing it inside out. Gabrielle's slab and the other one weren't taken as camouflage for the Garbo heist. It was the other way around. One of the unknown slabs was the real target. You can't disguise your interest in a diamond by adding a couple of aquamarines to your haul. But grab a diamond and nobody will remember what small change you took."

  Paddy wasn't buying, but that only made me sell harder. “Look how much simpler it is my way. You don't need a leak at the television station or anywhere else. Someone saw the news story as broadcast and decided he had to have one of those two slabs. Some nutball fan, in Hughes's words, or someone with a connection to one of those forgotten actresses."

  "'Actresses of no consequence’ was how our friend Findley described them,” Paddy said. “I'm tempted to see it your way just for the chance to make Findley eat that slight. But things aren't as simple as you make them sound. If you don't have a leak, the thieves don't know about the Garbo doohickey. If they don't know about it, how can they plan to steal it to cover up their real crime?"

  "They didn't plan that part,” I said. “They planned to grab both slabs from the television story so the police wouldn't focus on the one they really wanted. When they got here, they found a third one. Naturally, they took that, too."

  Paddy was scratching at his forelock or what was left of it. I was responsible for a considerable thinning of that patch of hair over the years.

  "Isn't it far likelier,” he asked, “that the thieves just got confused? The Moe, Larry, Curly, and Shemp types who go in for this kind of work confuse pretty easily. They may have come for the Garbo slab and taken all three just to be sure they got the right one."