You and your people must find a way to turn the weapon against him. Unless something is done, the message will spread out of control like a deadly virus.
What do I suggest? I propose that you hijack the Nazis’ own images. Why not draw upon material from UFA newsreels, from captured enemy reports, and from Reichsfilmkammer propaganda films? Take the stolen images and manipulate them in ways that will help obliterate the Nazi mythos by exposing to the American public and its soldiers the real-life horror of Nazi fanaticism. For example, a film clip showing Nazi soldiers smoking American cigarettes with a voice-over explaining that the Camels or Chesterfields being smoked were stolen from dead American soldiers would have tremendous impact. Or, why not incorporate, somewhere, speeded-up goose steppers marching in time to a jaunty dance hall melody? What a boost to morale it would be seeing mighty Nazi storm troopers made to look like imbeciles!
Actual enemy footage incorporated into feature films or training films has terrific potential. But I would caution you as well. Do not allow the images to be distorted in a way that will fail to prepare American soldiers being sent into battle. They must know that the Nazi is vicious, skillful, and dedicated. An opponent as deadly as a cobra.
These observations and thoughts are submitted for your consideration. I am confident you will find a way to build on them and apply them with the effectiveness you are known for. Given the situation as I have found it, I implore you: move swiftly with a counter-strategy, whatever it may be.
As always, I am at your disposal.
The writing sprawled across both sides of the sheet, and the ink on the bottom of the back page was smudged, as though it had been splashed with water. I strained to read what remained. From the looks of it, the obliterated portion had included the date, some additional lines including what appeared to be “Cairo,” and a signature.
The paper continued to tremble in my hand as I stared wide-eyed, uncertain what to do next. Hitler! Goebbels! Seeing the enemy names and the details of what they were doing to promote their heinous belief in German superiority and Germany’s right to rule the world curdled my stomach. I placed a shaky hand over my middle and took several deep breaths.
So much for being appalled with myself for spying on the Dunns. They were real spies.
The revelation about my hosts shocked me only momentarily. I’d suspected them of being involved in intelligence work almost from when we’d first met. Still, the cloak-and-dagger memo maintained its overwhelming hold on me.
The dispatch covered a matter important to the outcome of the war. Its author intended that the intelligence on UFA, as well as his ideas, be used in combating Nazi propaganda. What had the Dunns actually done with the information, I wondered. Had they passed it on up the line, or were they the ones actually responsible for coming up with a motion picture counter-strategy like the missive said should be developed?
A curse on Gunnar. Why hadn’t he leveled with me about his sister? If she was his sister.
A cold chill gripped me. There were no names mentioned in the salutation. I’d been assuming, because of where I’d found it, that the memo had been sent to the Dunns, that they were intelligence agents involved on our side. But “Comrades” could be anyone. What if the letter was in the Dunns’ possession because they’d intercepted it from the loyal American it was actually intended for? What if they were spies for the enemy?
I shook my head. A grotesque idea.
Cairo. The Dunns had recently been to Cairo. I’d seen the tickets—2nd priority—on the table downstairs when I’d first arrived. Enemy spies, I assured my suspicious side, weren’t issued such tickets.
My date with Sam was closing in. I needed to make some decisions. The first one was obvious. There was no ready way to unravel the complexities of what I’d found, particularly since the Dunns were away. I would continue the evening as planned and put my thinking cap on again later.
But what to do with the memo? Keep it? Then where would I put it for safekeeping? Whoever it belonged to would notice it missing sooner or later. What if they traced it to me? My note-nabbing might not be appreciated. I could be in danger. Well, then…what if I took it and handed it off to someone official? Uh-uh. Without understanding who the memo belonged to and what was behind it, best to leave it where I’d found it, for now.
I carefully jimmied the paper into the crack as I’d found it, then gingerly opened the roll-top, leaving only the tiniest tip possible showing. A fair compromise, I concluded. It was where I could readily come upon it again. It was also where anyone else truly interested could find it as well. Maybe.
I bounded down the spiral stairs. A glance at my watch told me that a long soak in the tub was out—a quick shower was more like it. I considered skipping the visit to Della’s closet altogether, but a vision of the Spartan interior of the wardrobe in my room spurred me on.
The long racks on either side and in front of me were chock-full. Without Della’s guidance I hardly knew where to begin, but after some frenzied rummaging, I came upon a crepe dress in a heavenly shade of purple. Aubergine. The color I’d been told brought out the green in my eyes. Best of all, it wouldn’t conflict with the marmalade hue of my hair.
It took some jiggling to get the hanger’s hook off the pole. Then, because the dress was packed in so tightly, I had to pull a few times before it wrenched free of the remaining garments. On the final tug, I heard the barely distinguishable plink of a button hitting the hardwood floor.
I held the dress aloft, giving it a quick once over. It was in good shape; no missing buttons. In fact, the dress had no buttons at all. It zippered in the back.
I looked at the rack. In extricating the aubergine dress, I’d dragged out the sleeve of the black and white print dress that had been next to it. The sleeve rested at a peculiar angle against the packed rack of clothing making it impossible to overlook. H-E-DOUBLE TOOTHPICKS! A button was missing from its white piqué cuff.
My PK, pastor’s kid, conscience kicked in. A proper button was difficult to come by in normal times, but with the shortages these days, finding a replacement would be impossible.
In search of the button, I got down on my knees. Briskly, I shoved a path through the fabric jungle, sweeping the floor with my hands as I went. How curious. There it was, at rest in an ever so slight sliver of light.
It took some maneuvering, but I wedged my way to the rear of the closet. The light was coming through a fissure in the paneled wall. There was enough space between the wall and clothes to stand. The fissure, I discovered, was actually a discreet doorway that had been left ajar. Curling my fingers along the panel’s edge, I slowly pried it open.
Peering in, I saw a roughed-in space about the same size as Della’s walk-in closet. The area would have been ideal for storage, yet it appeared completely empty.
A barren bulb had been left on. In its glare, I recognized another concealed doorway in the wall to my left. It was secured with a padlock. From its location, I surmised the locked panel doorway led to an interior passageway. A shiver skittered up my spine as I envisioned a labyrinth of dark cobwebbed tunnels and the creepy figures that might exist beyond.
Moving quickly to stem the germination of additional gruesome thoughts, I began a situation assessment.
Grand older homes frequently had secret passageways. In this house, for instance, the library downstairs had a bar that swung around to the inside of the wall. And then there were the floorboards in the dining room alcove that parted with the turn of a “gizmo” to reveal or conceal a sunken table. So, why get all worked up about a hidden passageway off the master bedroom?
But why the padlock?
I took a step inside. Immediately, my foot caught. Metal crashed against the floor. I’d tumbled a stack of film cans. My pulse pounding wildly in my ears, I picked one up. From its weight, I knew a reel was housed inside.
The label was in German, but I didn’t need an interpreter to read UFA Studio.
&
nbsp; The thin round can felt suddenly like a hot potato. I was holding something that belonged to the enemy. Something that an enemy had held in his hands. In reflex, I nearly let the tin drop.
Rallying, I dropped to my knees. I began righting the cans, thoughts about the Dunns chasing through my mind. They worked for intelligence, no doubt about it now. But what was this about? What were the classified films doing on the Dunns’ premises?
There were five cans in all. What was this? The bottom tins had toppled atop a large white envelope. For the second time within a quarter of an hour, I stuck my nose into something private. Except this time there was no correspondence, merely a 5x7 glossy. But what an image. Brody with a woman—not his wife. Holding the picture beneath the bare light bulb, I studied it. The woman was likely connected to the blackmail plot, possibly Brody’s murder. But who was she? Why was the photo here?
I returned the photograph to the envelope, the hairs at the back of my neck standing on end. Brody had been distracted by a similar envelope at the meeting I’d attended at MGM, hours before his death. The Cairo note. The UFA films. This photo. Rask simply had to take me into his confidence. He valued my perceptions, but didn’t he understand I could help him more than just by keeping alert for suspicious activity? I was scheduled to meet with him in his studio tomorrow. What better opportunity could there be to straighten him out?
With care, I set the final can on top of the stack, and retreated briskly to my room, a charge of adrenaline propelling me.
***
My shower was replaced by a quick bird bath. Nonetheless I felt refreshed and smelled of strawberries from the soap. Della’s aubergine dress fit perfectly and looked just fine with my standard black patent leather heels. Silk stockings would have been a nice touch, but were a luxury few could afford or find these days. Bare legs with no make up would have to do.
A parting glance in the mirror reflected a complexion aglow with the rush of getting ready and the anticipation of romance in the evening ahead. The high coloring might also have been due to the pressure of getting to the restaurant on time. I really was running late now.
***
Ilka and Bela were coming down the covered walkway as I was making my dash out to the Packard. They walked slowly, arm-in-arm with a woman dressed in a fur coat, scarf, and huge dark glasses.
Sunglasses at night! Wouldn’t you know. They were bringing home an actress on the night I was going out.
Ilka and Bela were on either side of the actress as we closed in on one another. The lamps along the walkway had been turned on, but were so sparsely arranged it was difficult to see much. From their pace and the protective manner of Ilka and Bela, I’d already surmised the woman was elderly. And, though the dimness and her disguise successfully hid whether she was anyone famous, I saw enough to confirm that indeed her face was deeply lined with age. Ahhh. Ilka had said she was going to a palm-reading fundraiser tonight. They’d brought home a movie queen from the past, perhaps a silent film star. Likely in need of a private intensive palm reading. Maybe an herbal treatment of some sort.
“Ilka, Bela,” I called. “Hi!”
The greeting startled the group. They’d been concentrating their attention on chatting and navigating the walkway. Ilka’s mouth hung open and Bella’s eyes remained locked in the wide surprise I remembered from Dracula when Professor Van Helsing, supposedly succumbing to Dracula’s hypnotic spell, suddenly shows a crucifix and drives the vampire away. The elder woman, her lips coated in a red lipstick vivid even in the semi-dark, twisted them nervously.
What had they expected? A tabloid photographer?
The actress ducked her head as I approached, getting closer.
Ilka was first to recover. She stepped so that the actress was blocked almost completely from my view. “Pucci, édesem. On your way out?” The hopeful tone in her voice suggested she’d be disappointed if I wasn’t.
“Uh-huh. I have a date.”
“This is wonderful. You look very nice.” She paused.
“Yes, verr-ry nice,” Bela purred. “Perhaps, Ilka, you must look in your herbs for a branch of volfsbane to give our Pooo-chi. For protection.”
I laughed. Wolfsbane was a poisonous herb Professor Van Helsing found could be used to stop wolves. Another critical discovery: it was effective for vampire protection.
Ilka’s tinkly laugh was almost an afterthought. “Really, Uncle! What time can we expect your return, Pucci?”
“Not sure exactly.” I grinned suggestively. “Late, I hope.”
Ilka and Bela chortled politely; their guest remained silent.
It didn’t strike me as rude that they didn’t rush to introduce her—many stars were fanatics about their privacy after all. Maybe they’d fill me in later.
“I better get a move on,” I said, taking a couple of backward steps. “By the way, Gunnar’s not home. Had to go back to the studio.”
“Too bad.”
Coupled with the relief showing in Ilka’s face, the regretful reply didn’t ring true. I noted that her hair was down tonight. She patted the sweep of platinum and grinned. “Pucci, I got the part.”
“Great news!” I exclaimed. “Congratulations.”
Ilka was beaming now and so was I.
“I should hear tomorrow where the shooting will take place. I will let you know. Perhaps you can stop by.”
I agreed to try.
As I stole off into the dark, I thought I heard Ilka say in an undertone to her companions, “Poisons. Maybe this not something we should joke about…”
Getting into the Packard, I was still trying to interpret what I heard when the sound of tires spinning through scattered loose gravel grabbed my attention. Now what? Celebrity news hounds?
Chapter Twelve
Benedict Canyon to Sunset Boulevard to Beverly. Sam’s directions had been a breeze up until now. The intersection where Sunset met Beverly was crammed with cars and people. I sat waiting for a break, hoping Sam wasn’t the impatient type.
I glanced at the sights. The Garden of Allah. The name conjured up Moroccan architecture, Aladdin and his lamp, belly dancers and someone swooping in on a magic carpet. Yet the style replicated the white stucco and red tile so typical of the Hollywood area. Not that I would term anything else about the place before me “typical.” A grand two-story main building and a maze of one- and two-story private bungalows dominated lush grounds that included colored spotlights angled to show off select buildings and a smattering of palm trees. I’d heard about the complex, a former estate of Alla Nazimova, now a mix of apartments and hotel rooms favored by members of the literary and intellectual film communities. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, and Orson Welles were known to stop by; Greta Garbo and Errol Flynn dashed in for drinks or a meal now and again. I zoomed in on the group milling about near the canopied main entrance, hoping to at least spot a celebrity. Bad luck.
Traffic had begun moving again. Slowly. What I wouldn’t give to trade the Packard for Aladdin’s magic flying carpet.
Back at the Dunns’, when I’d been up in the tower looking down on Hollywood, the lights had seemed bountiful. Street level was different. There was an overall sense the lighting had been dimmed. But what I was observing also made hogwash out of D.B.’s claim the other evening that there’d been a drop in tourism since the start of the war. The sidewalks were teeming, a stream of revelers filing nonstop through the crosswalk, completely oblivious to the backup of cars waiting to cross. What was going on? I scanned the crowd. Lots of uniforms, but plenty were dressed to the nines in evening attire, too. A motion picture premiere, perhaps?
I strained to see if there was a theater letting out nearby. I shrugged. Who knew? Maybe a new club or restaurant.
I crept past the Trocadero Restaurant, LaRue’s Bar, and the El Morocco before the pace finally picked up. At the next intersection, I veered the Packard down a side street, across Santa Monica Boulevard and, a few blocks and tu
rns later, I was in an industrial pocket of small office buildings and warehouses. The area was deserted and a little seedy—quite a comedown from the buzz and glitz I’d just passed through.
Thinking maybe I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, I pulled over to the curb, parked under a street lamp. In the dim light, I strained to read the directions Sam had written out for me. There would be no mainstream Hollywood night life for me, I discovered. I was dead on course and within seconds of the restaurant Sam had selected.
To my further surprise and dismay, the “street” I was looking for was really an alley. I hesitated at its entrance. The passage was pitch black except for a well lit building about three-quarters of the way down the block. A number of cars were parked in front and a prominent sign atop—in English but with Chinese characters stacked to one side—confirmed I’d reached the designated meeting point. MAY Lee’s. I locked the passenger door and maneuvered the Packard slowly down the alleyway to a vacant slot in front. Bamboo shades covered the large front windows, but escaping light and moving shadows assured me that the restaurant was open. I got out and stepped lively to the entrance.
A tug on the heavy glass door released a blast of warm, oily, food-laden air. A small reception area inside was deserted. I hovered at the cash register, waiting for the hostess and scanning the tables for a sign of Sam.
I felt ridiculous in Della’s lovely aubergine frock and my open-toe patent leather heels. Clearly, May Lee’s was a restaurant frequented by workers from the neighborhood businesses who’d come direct from their jobs. It was a male crowd for the most part, but even the two women seated at a small table off to one side were clad in coveralls, their heads wrapped in bandannas.
Compounding my discomfort, rather than the white tablecloths and candle glow I’d been anticipating, the tables were laminated plastic, the room harshly lit. All around me the red-tasseled, pink, green and white Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling looked as if they’d seen better days. Stained red carpet covered the floor.
Hollywood Buzz Page 17
