Be grateful for small things, I told myself. He’s not the least bit interested in what’s above your shoulders, including your scratched up face.
My brightest smile in place, honey-trap training engaged, I returned the lecherous gaze.
“How great you came by, Sergeant. I’m finished here”—I glimpsed my watch—“just under deadline. Gotta run.” With haste, I packed my satchel, slung it on my shoulder, picked up the typewriter. “Got a meeting at administration…with Reagan.” It was a strain, especially loaded down the way I was, but, channeling Mae West, I batted my eyes, sidling close to him. “Care to accompany me, Sergeant?” I drawled.
“Molto bello…sure.”
He reached to hitch his belt. I got there with the typewriter first. Thrusting it into his hands, I savored the shock on his face before turning for the door.
***
Back in the secretarial pool, after asking one of the gals to air mail Miss C’s packet and to arrange hand delivery to Novara and Sam, I sagged back in my chair, exhausted. Hopefully, by putting everything on paper, I’d bypassed—or minimized—any future association with Sam.
I sent a little prayer to the Woman upstairs. If today’s efforts paid off, the Victory short would be a giant step closer to a successful conclusion. I’d get the chance to fly a plane of my dreams and pay small tribute to my sister WASP.
A glance at the time catapulted me from my chair. Gunnar and I had agreed I’d stop by before the end of the day. He’d promised to let me preview the training film that included Frankie’s crash scene.
Winwar had been target practice for what else was on my agenda with Gunnar. He had some explaining to do, ready or not.
***
Moments later, I arrived at the two-story brick editing building. An exterior staircase led to the second floor where Gunnar said I’d find his office.
I skipped up the stairs, entering directly into a long corridor. Most of the doors were shut, but the door of one brightly lit room stood invitingly open.
I looked in and saw an airy space with tall windows and a high ceiling. “Artist’s garret” immediately came to mind. But rather than smocked painters dabbing brush to canvas, a dozen or so men in uniform manned assorted film processing equipment.
Ordered chaos. Strips of film were everywhere. They adorned the necks of the soldiers, they were clipped to shelving, they dangled from large garbage bins placed strategically around the room. Men held them up to ceiling lights or over light panels built into their desks. And film cans everywhere, stacked on the desks and on the floor; filling racks along the walls.
I started back down the hall to the office I thought was Gunnar’s. The door was slightly ajar. I rapped lightly, then stepped into a long, narrow room not much larger than Della’s walk-in closet.
Editing equipment and film reels cluttered two desks pushed end-to-end along the wall immediately to my left. A narrow table with a radio speaker and other sound gear was flush to the wall at the room’s far end. Orderly rows of film cans in a metal shelf unit ran the length of the room directly ahead.
Another table occupied the room’s center. It held a machine like a projector, but bigger and with more gadgetry. Gunnar stood beside it, a long length of film draping his neck like a stole. He held an end section of film between white-gloved hands, studying it.
“Pucci, glad you could make it.” He sounded genuinely pleased to see me.
The friendly welcome and change of scenery were heartening after my brutal day. Yet I was all business. “I’m here to see the training film with the clip of Frankie’s accident.”
“Right. The demonstration of the new fire-fighting equipment. I’ll get it.”
He removed the loop from around his neck, slipping it into a nearby bin, and walked over to the wall unit. He glanced casually over his shoulder. “What happened to your face?”
My hand flew to the telltale marks. “Nothing interesting.” I gingerly smoothed the raw skin. “How do you keep track of all these pieces of film? They’re all over the place.”
“There’s a method to the madness. The tins are numbered, there’s a card index, and script secretaries record what goes on at every set. They give us detailed notes of each day’s work. In there.” He gestured to a large notebook on the nearby desk, then pulled one of the round tins from the shelf, waving it. “Every foot of film in this can is numbered and registered.”
He snapped the reel from the can, and began stringing it through the machine. “This is a movieola…”
“But what exactly do you do? In layman’s terms, that is.”
Gunnar stopped threading film for a moment. “A film editor joins together sections of footage to make a lucid, dramatic, and emotional whole.”
“Emotional? An Army training film, emotional?”
Gunnar nodded. “It’s why the Pentagon enlisted Hollywood for the war effort. Washington believes soldiers are getting the kind of training in three weeks that prewar and pre-Hollywood used to take thirteen. Know-how, especially good editing, livens up the dull subject matter. A good number of our soldiers are eighteen year olds, remember. And we’re dealing in technical, often difficult, subject matter. Background music, crisp narration, bits of comedy—it’s what’s needed to maintain attention and retention.”
I regarded Gunnar’s face as he spoke. It was a kind face, and his features were strong and handsome. For the first time, I noticed the sensual curve of his lips. I blinked and tuned back in to what he was saying.
“If an editor’s any good he can turn a yawning subject into something powerful.” He paused abruptly. “Sorry. Sounds like I’m bragging again, huh?”
He smiled. It was a smile that under different circumstances might have melted my heart. But at the moment my heart felt bruised and numb.
Gunnar slipped the celluloid strip through the final slot. “Here, take a look.”
I put on a headset. Gunnar flipped a switch and the film began. After a few minutes, I understood what he was talking about.
The training segment began in the traditional manner—a classroom scene with an instructor showing and telling about the new firefighting product, but soon an A-24 towing a target was crossing the sky. It was what I’d come to see. My stomach flip-flopped. I stared into the viewer stupefied, as Frankie’s plane stalled, then plummeted out of control to earth.
I couldn’t pull my eyes away. I continued to stare even after the plane hit the ground. When the crash was on the screen in the rushes, I’d been so sickened by the sight that I could hardly watch. I’d missed much of the ground crew’s efforts as they brought Frankie out and tried salvaging the plane, but I had a good recollection of the scene. What was rolling now was not footage of Frankie’s A-24.
I watched the fire fighters emerge from the wreck leading the pilot, dazed but ambulatory, to safety. Incredible. The pilot was not Frankie. She’d been taken away by stretcher.
I didn’t need to see more. The piece was professional and effective, a good teaching tool. Most important, Frankie was in no way identified with the crash.
I straightened up. “It’s good. Frankie would have been proud.” The predictable happened. My voice caught.
Gunnar looked at me. His dusk-sky blue eyes caught mine. He hesitated, concern written all over his face.
I pushed on fast, fighting the wave of emotion threatening to wash over me. “Frankie’s dead.” Tears flooded my vision.
Gunnar produced a handkerchief. I wiped my eyes.
There was no point in bringing up the likelihood that Frankie had been murdered. The details surrounding the means of death, while suspicious, had not yet been determined. In any event, his case involving Brody was separate from mine involving Frankie. And I was here to find some answers from him.
Gunnar lifted my chin. His voice was sad, sweet. “Hey, Frankie has gone on to a bigger adventure.”
I couldn’t resist a small smile. “Thanks. A comforting thought.”
Gunnar cleared his throat. “Ah, there’s something else.” I looked at him. He patted the movieola. “This footage just helped convince a certain Admiral to send thousands of tons of the foam material to the Pacific.”
“Really? Why?”
“The Japs have been dropping Baka bombs on our aircraft carriers. We haven’t seen bombs like these before. They cause such extensive and extraordinary damage that ordinary fire-fighting equipment can’t put the fires out fast enough. Casualties have been much higher…Men have suffered horrible deaths.” Gunnar paused. “After seeing this film, the Admiral believes the foam will help resolve the problem.
“So you see, the camera and the right footage—the clip of Frankie’s accident, in this instance—they’re as important to the war effort as any high-powered weapon the military has at its disposal.”
“Right,” I replied softly. I nodded to the machine. “Tell me, I have to know. How did you make it appear Frankie’s plane was in flames? Her plane was badly damaged, but it never caught fire. And that wasn’t Frankie being led away from the wreckage.”
“The downed pilot was an actor and the rescue staged. But that was her A-24—what remained of it. After the official accident inspection, all salvageable parts were removed and allotted to special use. That’s us. It was really just a skeleton, but we doused it with gasoline, then—with a fire-fighting team and the new foam at the ready—we tossed a match, and ‘Roll em.’
“Afterwards, it was a matter of splicing and combining clips.” Gunnar motioned toward the assortment of equipment on the adjoining desks, then swept the room with a broader gesture. “We’re lucky to have superior equipment. Trick photography, dubbing, sound effects, we’ll use whatever it takes to drive home our message.”
“Enemy footage, too?”
Gunnar gave me a long, calculating look. “Of course.”
“The Germans, the Japs, they don’t just hand it over. We steal it, right?”
Gunnar gave a small shrug.
“Isn’t there a German film studio…er, one called UFA Studio?” I smiled guilelessly. “One of your sources?”
Gunnar seemed to be weighing something. “Pucci, you’ve been cleared. I’m just not sure yet how we’re going to enlist your help. There was a foul-up. Things changed, I told you that.”
“You’ll never know ‘how’ until you take me into your confidence. For all you know, I might already be on to something.”
Had he not looked so skeptical, I might have been more restrained. But after the day I’d had, I decided Vesuvius had it right.
“Tell me what UFA film cans are doing in your sister’s closet. And the envelope. There was a photo of Brody and a woman inside. You said he was being blackmailed. Is she the reason why? And what did the blackmailer want?” It all boiled up to the surface. “Your sister is in possession of a top secret communiqué from someone in Cairo sowing seeds about using enemy film for propaganda purposes here. What do you know about that?”
Gunnar looked startled then impressed. “I’ll brief you on what I can.”
“What you can? How about what you know!”
“Have a seat?” Gunnar pulled out one of the desk chairs. I sat, struggling to regain my composure. Sliding out a chair for himself, he spun it around, straddled it, and faced me, quickly explaining that the UFA film was obtained from a raid at the German site. Della, who was not actually his sister but an OSS operative, recently retrieved the film from Cairo on one of her and D.B.’s regular trips there. They also escorted back to the States two of our downed flyboys who had escaped from the Nazis—the airmen who were currently advising on the Resisting Enemy Interrogation training picture.
“Before the war, government wasn’t involved in filmmaking, and Hollywood didn’t film for political indoctrination. But in fascist Germany, the motion picture industry has been under government control since ’37. And they have Goebbels, the propaganda maestro, controlling all mass media.”
Gunnar leaned toward me over the back of the chair. He fixed me in a steadfast stare. “Goebbels saw immediately how topnotch films could be used to soften up or even intimidate movie audiences into opening their minds to Nazi ideals. He converted the UFA studio into an assembly operation for glorifying the cause.”
The stuff mentioned in the secret dispatch I’d found at the Dunns’. I leaned forward in my chair.
“Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will set the standard for Nazi propaganda films.” Gunnar frowned. “Whole thing was staged to lionize Nazi strength and discipline, create the impression of a ‘super-race.’ Riefenstahl did so well that German children would go anywhere, do anything for Hitler.Yes, maybe even die for him.”
Gunnar pulled a UFA reel out of his leather briefcase. The cans I’d seen in Della’s closet, he explained, were the actual pilfered lot that had been delivered originally to Brody. Somewhere along the route from Cairo to Orlando to here, German operatives picked up the trail. They wanted the film back—or destroyed. They found Brody’s Achilles heel—his affair—gathered evidence and sent a note. “Give us the films; we’ll give you the negatives.”
Brody confided in Gunnar. Certain that an insider was part of the ring, they were cautious choosing a team and making copies that might or might not hold up after an initial screening. When Brody got the call, Gunnar would follow him to the drop point. They’d keep the copied film under surveillance and catch the bad guys. If it seemed too simple, it was. When Brody got the call, Gunnar had been with me, having dinner with the Dunns at their house. His counterpart, assigned in Gunnar’s absence to trail Brody, lost him turning out of MGM onto Washington.
My jaw dropped. “What happened?”
“Fate—or I should say a drunk driver—intervened. The agent was keeping a safe distance, in case the blackmailers were tailing Brody. The inebriated driver was coming from the opposite direction. Crashed head-on into the car directly in front of my colleague. Blocked the street. Brody was enough ahead, kept going.”
I sighed, shook my head. “The photo in Della’s closet. The lady with Brody…his lover?”
“Yes, but she’s been cleared.”
“She looked familiar. Who is she?”
“No need for you to know.”
I was about to blurt, How can you be so sure? but caught his look. Don’t push your luck.
“Brody had a similar envelope. He was examining it–and the contents–while I was in his MGM office at a story meeting, hours before he died.”
Gunnar arched an eyebrow. “The envelope in Della’s closet, one and the same. We removed it from the crime scene.”
They could do that?
“In his office, Brody removed a letter from the envelope. What did it say? A pink satin ribbon was tied around the photo…”
Gunnar’s eyes narrowed. “We didn’t find a ribbon. I’d guess it belonged to a daughter. More pressure for him to cooperate. There was no note, either. Only the photo of Brody and the woman.”
Gunnar flipped the UFA film can from hand to hand adding, “Chalmers told us he met with Brody at MGM early the evening of the murder. When Chalmers started in on his beefs about the adaptation of his novel, Brody said, ‘Russell you’re dealing in fiction. Here’s the reality I’m dealing in.’ He showed Chalmers the incriminating photo, adding, ‘They snapped us checking into a hotel. They’ve got other compromising shots too. I think I know who’s behind it.’
“Brody had just figured it out. He didn’t tell Chalmers what had tipped him, and he was killed before he could relay the information to me or the others on our team. But based on what Chalmers told us—that Brody had just returned from Fort Roach where he’d made a delivery—”
Gunnar raked his fingers through his thick sandy hair. “Drop site must have been somewhere here, right under our noses.”
I bounced up, practically knocking over my chair. “Have the cans been moved from Della’s closet?” Gunnar looked at me like I was crazy. “If they weren’t, t
hen I know where the drop site was—is—or at least where someone is storing the copies.”
Gunnar’s lips curled in a sly smile as I revealed what I’d uncovered in the hamper in Miss Landis’ dressing room.
I frowned. Five cans in Della’s closet; six cans in the dressing room. “What’s that in your hand?”
“This—” Gunnar waved the reel in his hand. “Never leaves my sight.”
“Why? What is it?”
Gunnar smiled coyly. “Reconnaissance film. Care to guess?”
A picture took shape as the puzzle pieces matched up. “UFA,” I whispered.
Gunnar nodded. He spoke softly as well. “Brody was making an absolute top-secret simulated bombing run film. Part of a plan to throw a monkey-wrench in the Propaganda Ministry’s production output.” He tucked the reel back in his case, lifted it off the floor. “I was going to give you a look, but we—I—better get over to that dressing room.”
“B-but my part?”
I followed Gunnar to the door. He flipped off the overhead light. Behind him, illumination from the fixtures in the hall created an eerie backdrop as we stood in the shadowy doorway. “Keep an eye on Ilka.”
“Ilka?”
“When Brody died, my blackmail investigation became joined with the murder inquiry. The preliminary findings suggest death was due to a dose of deadly herbs.”
“Ilka and her herbs…” I said in an undertone.
“She’s an expert. The connection is too obvious to ignore.”
I stared at him, letting the implication sink in. “But how do you kill someone with herbs?”
“In a brew.” Gunnar saw my mouth open to ask a follow-on question. “I’ll explain more later, but Brody’s secretary, Myra, knew Brody’s blood pressure was sky-high. She’d been giving him chamomile tea for weeks now to calm his nerves. Doctor’s orders.”
I recalled the story conference meeting in Brody’s office. Myra had brought a cup of it in that day. “So, tea killed him?”
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