Outdoors, I took a deep breath and let the mild air soothe me. A slight breeze had kicked up and I lifted my face to greet it. In the west, the sky was deepening to slate-blue, the color reminiscent of Gunnar Rask’s eyes. Maybe a stroll to the editing building to see if he was in was the ticket. Maybe he knew the story behind his sister’s sudden departure this morning. At least one curiosity consuming my overloaded brain would be put to rest.
A short walk later, I was in front of one of the clapboard buildings Sam had pointed out on our walk through the lot the other day. I paused, trying to remember what he’d said the building was used for. A slightly ajar wooden screen door, caught in a gentle gust, flapped softly. Behind the screen, the solid closure had been left open—my invitation to go inside. Looking around, I saw no one to object.
Sam had said some of the old studio structures now served as barracks, but peering into a few of the rooms near the entry it appeared this building was full of unoccupied dressing rooms. I proceeded along a hall and came to a door with the sign CAROLE LANDIS on it. I knocked. No response. I gingerly cracked the door. A couch with a blue satin covering and pillows was positioned along the wall directly across from me. Beside it, a matching blue satin easy chair.
I ventured inside. Blue-flocked wallpaper lent a pleasant homey feel to the space. I sniffed the air. A trace of perfume. Fresh? The studio had not produced a commercial film in over two years. I took another whiff. The scent was musky, heavier than what a woman would wear. Men’s cologne, more likely.
I sat on the bench at the vanity table. As I stared in the makeup mirror, my mind conjured up the image of Miss Landis staring in Topper Returns, the Roach comedy-mystery picture I’d seen not long ago. In the movie, the beautiful blonde star played the best friend of a gal who got murdered while the two were staying in a creepy mansion. I shivered thinking of the mysterious hooded assailant intending to murder Miss Landis’ character but mistakenly killing her friend. Morbid was not the point of this sort of picture, and seconds later, the girl’s ghost arose from her body and from there on it was nonstop slapstick as Mr. and Mrs. Topper tried to rescue Landis’ character from a similar fate. Just the sort of frothy entertainment I liked for escape.
And escapism was what I needed. I ruffled my short locks and headed back outdoors, on a beeline for the Packard. Time to go home.
***
I rolled the general’s automobile into my usual spot in the courtyard in front of the Dunns’ mansion. I heard the fountain’s delicate trickle echoing softly through the quiet of the night, peaceful accompaniment for my stroll to the back entrance. Along the portico, I paused beside the climbing jasmine vines, drawing in deep whiffs of the heavenly scent. Before long, a wistful yearning for my lost date with Sam returned.
All at once, my insecurities skyrocketed like a widget walloped up a Strength-O-Meter scale by Paul Bunyan. I was taken with Sam, but how did he feel about me? He’d come to the hospital to break our date, but he hadn’t asked for a rain check.
I shook my head. What selfish, off-the-wall thoughts. He didn’t feel good. He wanted to go home, be alone. Be glad he cared enough to tell you in person.
As I reached the side door, my outlook brightened. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have supper with Ilka. I’d nixed my intended visit to Gunnar’s editing studio, but hadn’t she said this morning that he was joining her for dinner?
“Anyone home?” I called, passing through the brightly lit empty kitchen.
I stepped into the corridor of the main part of the house. Lights had been left on everywhere, and the house was so still that, in the distance, I heard the cawing of D.B.’s cockatoo in the atrium.
I returned to the kitchen. A piece of paper was propped against a bowl on the work table in the middle of the room. It had slipped to one side and I’d missed seeing it when I arrived.
Dear Pucci,
Hope your date it was good, though if you are reading this, you are home before me.
Gunnar he could not be here for dinner. I called Bela and he invited me. Some Hungarian friends are gathering at his home. See you in the morning.
Ilka
P.S. Édesem, maybe your date it made you too excited to eat much. Food is in the icebox, in case.
Well, that explained the empty house. But not the lights.
I went in search of the promised food. From a tray of pre-made sandwiches, I selected a cheese and lettuce on white bread, and poured a glass of milk. Plate in one hand, glass in the other, I started down the corridor toward the living room, my heels clicking briskly on the tile floor.
Suddenly the house was plunged into darkness. I froze. Stopped breathing, listening for any telltale noise. Hearing only my pulse beating loudly in my ears, I edged slowly in the direction of the nearest wall. Get a grip, Pucci, I whispered into the black void. You’re a pilot, trained to react calmly in a flying emergency. Think. Stay cool.
My shoulder, at last, met with smooth plaster. Pressed flush to the wall, I slid to the floor, anxious to rid myself of the glass and plate before I dropped them. The dishes rattled loudly as they slipped from my grasp to the tile.
Flashing into mind came Carole Landis, her friend, and the hooded assailant in the creepy mansion, the images setting me further on edge. Every muscle rigid, I waited in the dark silent void, anticipating the worst: the sound of heavy footsteps; the sudden grip of a hand on my arm.
I took a few deep breaths, forcing my muscles to relax.
Was that a shuffling noise on the other side the wall? I put my ear to cool plaster. Then I pulled away, listening in the direction of the darkened corridor instead. The house was completely still, not even a peep from the parrot down the hall.
As quickly as the lights had gone out, they came back on. I blinked, then got up, willing my vision to adjust, uncertain whether the movement I detected near the far end of the hall was real. The flap of a cape? An apparition?
I turned and started back toward the living room.
“Pucci! Wait!” a voice behind me shouted.
It was Gunnar. Where had he come from? I noticed he was carrying a flashlight.
Gunnar guided me into the living room, explaining he’d been pulling up when the lights went out. He kept a flashlight in his automobile. He’d taken it with him to check the fuse box. “A few fuses were loose. I tightened them.”
By the time we reached the sofa my shock had turned to embarrassment.
“Mother always said I’d regret my addiction to horror movies,” I said, breezily. Regrettably, the laugh I tagged on had an unnatural ring.
Seated next to me on the sofa, Gunnar smiled. “Well, you’re no lily-livered lightweight, I know that. Not with what it takes to make the grade as ferry pilot.”
The compliment was genuine, yet it made me feel uneasy. Praise generally did. I started to look away.
“You were singled out from a thousand-plus women for special assignment in Hollywood. That says a lot, too,” he added. “Besides, I’m the one who should be apologizing. Our first meeting at the rush theater…All that hooey about comparing myself to a Stuka pilot.” He smoothed his thick sandy hair and chuckled. “I was trying to make light of my hearing problem, but well…” Gunnar pulled his face into an exaggerated grimace. “You must have pegged me as a real palooka.”
He’d gotten that right. I started to make a flip retort, but caught myself. I worked at a job where the accolades were few and far between, and I tended to be hard on myself besides. The pat on the back was a nice treat. And I suspected that in calling attention to his foible he’d wanted to make me feel better about mine. That was special, wasn’t it?
Bit by bit, because of Gunnar, my built-in bias against handsome men was faltering.
“You’re no palooka,” I said. Our eyes met and I felt momentarily hypnotized by his gaze. I cleared my throat. “And thanks for coming to the rescue. So you didn’t see anything—anyone—when you entered the house? Hear anything?” Blood rushed to my cheek
s. Gunnar had a hearing problem.
He shook his head and I rushed to another topic on my mind. “Where did D.B. and Della go?”
Gunnar cocked his eyebrow. “Didn’t they leave a note? I thought Ilka said they had.”
I nodded. “But it doesn’t explain anything.”
“They never leave a detailed explanation. They’re used to coming and going as they please.”
All at once a sensation came upon me that I was on to something. “But what kind of fundraising work would require them to leave in such a rush?”
He shrugged. “They don’t fill me in on everything they’re asked to do.”
“You seemed part of their scheming last night.”
Gunnar lifted an eyebrow. “Scheming?” Then he smiled. “What kind of mysterious work do you think a philanthropic couple and a war-injured film editor could be up to?”
“Intelligence,” I replied without missing a beat.
Gunnar stared at me, stone-faced. The telephone rang in the hallway just outside the living room. His gaze remained locked on mine. His eyes began twinkling, but he didn’t bother explaining what was so amusing. The phone continued its incessant ringing. He got up to answer it, returning almost instantly.
“I have to go,” he said, his voice urgent, “but before I do, I need to fill you in on a few things.”
I sat up straight. “Yes? What?”
“We know about your special training, about your work for the FBI on the Detroit case.”
The tiny hairs at the back of my neck prickled. There could be only one reason for Rask to have that sort of information. “I’m right then. G-2?” G-2 was military intelligence.
His nod was barely perceptible. “And what I’m about to tell you goes no further than these walls.”
“I promise.”
He continued. “No doubt you’ve heard the talk going around about Brody’s death.”
“That he was murdered?”
The flashlight thwacked softly as he bounced it against the palm of his hand. “It’s being treated as a suspicious death. We won’t know for sure until we have the autopsy and toxicology report, but yes, murder is a near certainty. He was being blackmailed and I’m willing to bet the blackmailer is also our killer.”
“Blackmail. Really? Why? Over what? How do you know?”
“Whoa. It’s all I can tell you for now. We’re on the case and have already set a trap.”
“And you need my help? What’s my role?”
Merriment flickered in his blue-gray eyes, then he became serious again. “I’ve put in a request. I’ll brief you further once you’re approved. Meanwhile, keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know about anything suspicious.”
A tall order given I didn’t know what I should be looking out for. But I agreed.
“You said we know about your training. Are Della and D.B. in on the investigation?”
Smiling, Gunnar leaned to whisper in my ear, “That’s it for now.”
I snapped away and stared.
He was still smiling. “I’ll let myself in later. Meantime, take care of yourself, okay?” He handed me the flashlight. “And keep this close.”
***
I went to my room and locked the door. My satin pajamas were missing. I retrieved my B-4 bag from under the bed. No p.j.s, but there was Gran Skjold’s .38. I loaded it, placed it under my pillow, and crawled into bed. In the buff.
***
Early the next morning, Ilka stood beneath an overhead lamp in the center of the kitchen, twirling a rolling pin back and forth over a flattened piece of dough that was getting wider and rounder and thinner. The work table’s surface was coated with flour and there were dollops of white on the counter spaces surrounding her. Her long platinum hair was pulled into an upsweep, exposing her forehead and a powdery blotch marring it. The apron covering the front of her peasant blouse and dark skirt appeared to have suffered the least damage. But then it was white.
Ilka’s head swayed from side to side and her arms kept rhythm as she cheerily hummed…drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds…accompanying the radio on the counter behind her. Beside the radio, the lamp’s yellow glow was reflected in the large window above the sink. Outdoors, the sun was not yet up.
The music ended abruptly. A moment of silence preceded the announcements that we’d been listening to the Sons of the Pioneers and that we should stay tuned for Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club. As she sensed my presence Ilka’s mouth stretched into a broad dazzling smile.
“Pucci, édesem,” she said, putting down the rolling pin and brushing herself off. “You are up early.” She wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her blouse. “Anything the matter?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Something to do with the date?”
“Canceled.”
Ilka shot me a sympathetic look. “Is too bad.” She walked over to turn off the radio. “We will have some breakfast. It will help to make you feel better.”
I smiled. “Sure, why not. What are you making?” I inhaled yeasty air.
“Biscuits. Lia, she is off today and I decide, why not try the breakfast selection from the War Time Menu?” Ilka nodded in the direction of the icebox where a newspaper clipping was prominently posted on the door. “The ideas often are good, and it is always a help in how to use the ration stamps.”
I ambled over. The clipping contained recipes for each meal of the day plus ideas for stretching some items into the next day’s fare. The final paragraph tallied up the ration points used if all suggestions were implemented.
Then I caught sight of a menu of a different sort on the counter.
Actually, only the left half of a typed listing protruding from beneath a tin bread box. I had been trained to covertly speed-read during my OSS stint, but spilt flour obliterated most of the text and all I could make out was:
DATE:
FROM: CAI—
TO: I—
ACTION: MO—
The heavy flour shower did not extend to the remainder of the page. The impulses in my brain fired, capturing the visible portion of text:
#29174 REFERENCE MY LETTER OF—
1. KINDLY PLACE ADVERTISEMENTS IN H—
2. START TO OBTAIN MESSAGES RECORD—
33, 1/3 REVOLUTIONS PER MINUTE.
3. ASSEMBLE A COLLECTION OF MUSIC D—
SEND THE ABOVE MATERIAL BY AIRP—
Not much to go on. But I knew what MO stood for—Morale Operations, the intelligence unit I’d been assigned to at OSS school. Black psychological warfare. The art of influencing enemy thinking by means of subtle propaganda. Rumor, lies, deception. It was all part of the game. The objective: generate confusion and defeatism among the enemy.
What in the world was an MO document doing in the Dunn’s kitchen? Had someone carelessly left it there? Gunnar? Did the memo have to do with his case?
Ilka had come up behind me. “The table it is set, édesem,” she said. “If you will scoop the porridge into these—” She handed me two bowls. “I will bring over the coffee. Ooopla, I have forgotten. I must first remove the biscuits.”
She reached for a hot pad next to the bread box. I watched, wondering if she would shove the memo deeper under the tin. But she was oblivious. She picked up the hot pad, actually exposing more of the page—blank unfortunately—and headed for the stove, leaving me free to ogle all I wanted.
It was a delicate dance. I didn’t want to risk exposing Gunnar’s true identity—or the memo, if he was the person who’d left it there—but I wanted to learn what Ilka knew about it. She had to have seen it at some point.
Ilka was opening the oven door. “Did you notice anything strange when you returned home last night?” I asked, wandering to the stove, beginning the dance.
“No, why?”
Ilka put biscuits in a cloth-lined basket while I ladled oatmeal into the bowls and explained about the lights going out and Gunnar’s arrival.
Her hand,whisking a biscuit from a cookie sheet to the basket, paused mid-chore. “Hmm. There was a problem much the same with the lights not so long ago. The Mr., he had to fuss with the fuses, too. That antique in your room it too was acting up…”
Ilka passed beneath the ceiling lamp. The beam shone on her silvery blonde hair, like a klieg light, creating a luminous halo effect and sparking my memory.
“Your audition is today. What are you doing cooking? Aren’t you nervous? Shouldn’t you be rehearsing your lines?” I wanted to bite back the words. It was a nonspeaking role.
Ignoring the blunder, Ilka sat across from me at the table. “Yes, today is big day. I cook, it helps me to relax. Uncle Bela, he is picking me up and will drive me to MGM.”
“How was the gathering at his place last night? Any stars?”
“Uncle Bela, he does not entertain the movie crowd at home,” she said, pouring coffee for me. “Mainly they are artists, writers, musicians and dancers who come.” She seemed unable to resist a modest smile. “Well…I have met there the directors Charles Vidor and Zoltan Korda. Last night Ervin Nyiregyhazi, the concert pianist. Bela loves a happy party and often there is Gypsy music…Hungarian friends. Transplants from the old country…” Ilka frowned. “It is expensive to entertain and Uncle Bela, sometimes he is too easy maybe, in handing money to those friends.”
I’d taken a few spoonfuls of porridge while Ilka talked. I reached for my coffee. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” she said, but then quickly added, “Uncle Bela he has always been generous, even when times are bad. Two years ago, when I arrive, the horror industry it had dried up. He lost his home, his cars, he went on relief. Borrow from the Actor’s Fund to pay bills. Imagine.” She shook her head. A silvery strand pulled free. “He take me in anyway. ‘Tomorrow will take care of itself,’ he like to say.” She twisted the loose lock with her finger. “Think this, it may one day haunt him…”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” she said, this time with finality. “He is doing B pictures now. Anyone they can tell you, there is not much money in this.”
Hollywood Buzz Page 13
