Hollywood Buzz

by Margit Liesche

  My cheeks felt hot, but I looked him straight on. “I’m not nosin’,” I huffed. “I’ve been stopping here every morning for a week. Curious, is all.”

  Turning on my heel, I marched back to the Packard, my hunch about Gus’ involvement in blackmail, espionage, and possibly murder coming into sharper focus.

  ***

  A ringing telephone greeted me as I entered the side door at the Dunns’.

  “Ilka…” I called, racing down the corridor.

  She didn’t appear and the phone was still ringing when I arrived at the settee near the staircase. “Hello,” I answered breathlessly.

  “Hi, Pucci. Gunnar Rask. Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just got in. What’d you find?”

  “I need you to keep the particulars confidential for a day or two. Agreed?”

  My pulse, which had begun to return to normal after my double-time dash down the hall, speeded up again. I twisted the cord in my hand, pivoting in a circle to glance up the staircase, then into the living room. Coming around full circle, I peered through the open doorway of the library. No one was around. Still, I lowered my voice. “Agreed.”

  “You need to be on alert. We’re zeroing in on the saboteur, but we don’t have him in custody yet.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We’ve talked to the officer who oversaw the accident investigation team. He confirmed what you told me about the mechanic’s findings. The officer decided, on his own, to keep the sabotage conclusion under wraps.” ‘Officer’ came out as more of a snarl than a word.

  “Why’d he bury the findings?”

  “What you suspected. He saw it as a get-back. A chance to rattle some nerves. Ladies’ nerves.”

  Anger was thudding heavily in my chest. All along we’d speculated that an embittered airman at March might be the saboteur. Still, I never really thought we’d be right. In my heart, I didn’t want to believe that a fellow American would be capable of committing such an act. Now I had to believe it. How could someone be so twisted?

  Gunnar continued, “The major claims he doesn’t know who did it. That he merely decided to falsify the cause of the accident by deeming it a ‘mechanical failure’ for the record.” Gunnar cleared his throat. “Said he assumed he was covering up for one of his men. But, supposedly, he doesn’t know which one.

  “His crew, along with anyone else who might have had access to Frankie’s A-24 that day, is being sought for questioning. We’re doing our best to keep the investigation quiet, hoping we’ll catch the rat off guard.”

  I sank to the bench nearby. “I’m not sure Miss Cochran heard about Frankie’s passing. Do you know? Was she informed?”

  “Uh-huh. Within the past hour.”

  I sighed with relief. Gunnar continued. “She asked me to tell you to expect a call from her in the morning. After she’s had a chance to sort things out.”

  I forced myself to remain calm, speak reasonably. “Did you talk to the cameraman who took the footage in the hangar?”

  “Uh-huh. He remembered Frankie had been arguing with Sam Lorenz. A lover’s spat. He turned his camera on her to get a laugh. Got the opposite. Once he stopped filming her, she went back over to Sam. They made up and everything seemed hunky-dory. He also said there might have been a mechanic there, they’re always in and out of the hangars, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “There’s some good news,” Gunnar added. “The insider involved in the blackmail scheme finally showed for the film cans in Landis’ dressing room.”

  It had to be…“Winwar?”

  “Yup. I’ve done some digging. Winwar in Italian is Vinciguerra—”

  Gunnar knew some Italian and pronounced the name “veen chee gwer ah.” He explained the verb vincere was “to win,” and la guerra “the war.” His working theory was that Winwar had Americanized his name.

  Since Pearl Harbor, Italian immigrants living in coastal communities were subject to travel restrictions and a curfew; some had even been forced to move from their homes and relocate inland. Those considered “possibly dangerous” were interned in a camp in Missoula, Montana. Fear of accusation was very real for many innocent Italians; for Winwar, changing his name would have been critical.

  My mind leapfrogged. Had I proven myself? Was Gunnar at last ready to pull me from behind the lines, place me at the front? “So Winwar is our man. What do you want me to do next?”

  “Er, nothing. We’ve got him under surveillance.”

  “And?”

  It wasn’t an assignment as I’d hoped, but Gunnar had another bit of good news. While probing Winwar’s affairs, he had unearthed a black market scheme. Novara had indeed purchased Italian leather shoes through him. But, he cautioned, it was unlikely that charges would be brought. Too difficult to prove Novara knew he was buying contraband.

  “I’ve been doing all the talking,” Gunnar said. “How about you? Any more discoveries?”

  “The vendor I told you about at the kiosk has vamoosed,” I said. “But you already know that. Say…what about Myra? You were going to check into her background.”

  Sounding contrite, Gunnar admitted there’d been another oversight. Myra, whose full name was Myra Blade, had taken a two-day leave for a family emergency. She’d left an address where she could be reached. It was bogus.

  “Er, MGM personnel also told us she’d been with them for only three weeks. Don’t worry, we’ll track her down.”

  Myra Blade? My hand slipped into my pocket. I fingered the swastika earring I’d found in my tea cup. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so sure.

  “Pucci, there’s more.”

  From the tone in his voice, I was glad to be already seated. “Yes.”

  “The leaves in Brody’s teacup have been identified. It’s ma huang.”

  “Ma huang?” I asked, stumbling over the pronunciation.

  “Pharmaceutical name’s herba ephedrae. It’s a Chinese herb.”

  “So it’s true. An herb that kills. How’s it work?”

  “There are plenty of herbs that can kill, Pucci. People have allergic reactions, some are poisonous by nature. Especially in large doses. Ma huang causes constriction of the blood vessels. That brings up blood pressure, which, in turn—in someone susceptible like Brody whose blood pressure was already in the danger zone—can bring down the curtain.”

  “Can anyone get ahold of ma huang? Where do you get it?”

  “Not in a store. The killer most likely obtained it in Chinatown or from some private herb source.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked, already sure of his answer.

  “Just a reminder about Ilka…”

  “Not that again…”

  Footsteps echoed in the corridor that I’d raced down minutes ago. A woman in high heels. I could tell from the click-clacking on the stone.

  “Pucci, I thought I heard you.” Ilka rounded the corner. “I am making tea. Will you join me?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ilka clapped a hand to her cheek when she saw I was on the phone.

  “Sorry,” she mouthed, tiptoeing away.

  “It’s okay Ilka. I was just hanging up.” She waited while I spoke into the mouthpiece again. “Gunnar, I’ve gotta go.”

  “Ilka’s there?” He sounded concerned.

  “Yup. She’s just invited me to join her for tea.” I flashed Ilka a warm smile. “Hopefully chamomile. I could use a relaxant.”

  I pictured Gunnar on the other end of the line, scowling over my being so glib after having just moments ago confirmed that Brody had been killed with a deadly brew. Well, Gunnar might be worried, but I wasn’t. Yes, Ilka had admitted to the misdeed in her past life, but supply a deadly herb knowing it was intended to kill someone? Ilka was a healer. And she despised fascism. No, while I could understand Gunnar’s reasons for suspecting Ilka, I couldn’t go along. In fact, after hearing what he’d learned about Brody’s secretary, Myra, my suspi
cions ran in a different direction. But to prove to Gunnar that he was wrong about Ilka meant digging up some convincing evidence. Sooner rather than later.

  Speaking into the phone, I queried, “Will you be joining us for dinner?”

  “No, I’ll be here late, with luck following our rat to the nest.” He paused. “You know I’m not wild about your being alone with Ilka. Be careful, would you? Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said firmly. “I’ll wait up for you. We can compare notes. Besides, I’ll be on pins and needles until I get word from Max.”

  “Yeah, it’s a long shot, but if someone tampered with the Staggerwing there might be a lead in it to Frankie’s killer. Meantime, call if you need me. Leave a message with the duty sergeant if I’m not here.”

  I wrote down the numbers he gave me. “Got it. See you later then.”

  In the kitchen, a steaming copper kettle simmered at a low whistle on the stove. I sat at the table watching Ilka pour the hot water into a delicate yellow teapot painted with a scrolly green and pink pattern. She placed the lovely china pot on a trivet before me. Fine Oriental lettering, not apparent at a distance, was also part of the design. Next, she set out matching china cups and saucers, sugar, cream, and tiny lemon wedges. After retrieving a plate of orange marmalade and wafer-like biscuits from the counter, she took the chair opposite me.

  Ilka was wearing the simple black dress she’d worn the day we met. The dress’ bodice boasted an asymmetrical sweep of large buttons continuing down the full skirt. The skirt’s side seams were set with deep pockets. A paper that had been partially stuffed inside one of the pockets slipped out, dropping to the floor between us as she sat.

  My hand shot out. It was a typed memo like the one that had been stuffed under the bread box the other morning. Ilka had maintained the earlier memo was a “project list” from Della, not the OSS-MO document I’d initially believed it to be. She’d be hard-pressed to insist that what I was holding in my hand now was anything other than OSS agency correspondence. My grasp was loose and she easily slipped the paper from my fingers, but I’d already noted the words OFFICE OF STRATEGIC SERVICES—CAIRO—SECRET before I gave it up.

  “Ilka, what are you doing with an OSS intelligence memo?”

  She flipped the long platinum swoop off her face. “What? What is it you want to accuse me of?”

  The flowery scent of a garden in bloom drifted up from the teapot’s spout. I stared at the Asian lettering. Ilka was innocent of Brody’s murder, I felt sure. But she was up to something. What?

  She had folded the paper and stuffed it back into her skirt. I looked directly into her tawny eyes. “Ilka, please let me look at the memo.”

  She lifted a manicured eyebrow. A moment of tense silence followed. “It is secret.”

  “Does it have anything to do with a sudden windfall of cash? Or with getting someone out of the old country?”

  Ilka’s eyes widened and she pressed her lips into a tight line.

  Her guilty look surprised me. I’d expected her to answer both questions in the negative.

  “Ilka, it’s best you tell me. The investigation into Brody’s death has revealed he died after drinking tea laced with an Asian herb, ma huang. You’re an expert with herbs. You’re suspected of somehow being involved. I don’t believe you are, but you’ve got to help steer me to the real culprit.”

  “Ma huang? How would a European know about Asian herbs?”

  I clenched my teeth. “Ilka, this is serious. Show me the paper.”

  Reluctantly, Ilka pulled the memo from her pocket. “This will prove I am innocent, but in showing you I am betraying trust of the Mrs. It is secret project to aid the cause. The resistance network in Hungary, it is involved. She has asked for me and Uncle Bela to help. Code name, Magyar Amerika. This is all I will say, no more.”

  Her hand covering the vital information at the top—the “Date”; the “To and From”—she placed the document on the table, turning it so I could read.

  #29174

  KINDLY PLACE ADVERTISEMENTS IN HUNGARIAN NEWSPAPERS.

  START TO OBTAIN MESSAGES RECORDED ON PLATTERS OF 33 1/3 REVOLUTIONS PER MINUTE.

  ASSEMBLE A COLLECTION OF HUNGARIAN MUSIC DISCS. BEGIN TO SEND US THE ABOVE MATERIAL BY AIRPOUCH AS SOON AS IT IS AVAILABLE, AND LET US KNOW HOW YOU ARE PROGRESSING.

  Ilka saw my puzzled expression. “Any questions, you must pose them to the Mrs. But now you know I am not killer. I am helping the U.S. government.”

  This proves nothing other than she got hold of one of those documents stashed in the Dunns’ loft office.

  Really. Had that ratty little voice in my brain been secretly indoctrinated by Gunnar?

  “I’ll check with Della when I see her. She’ll be able to tell me about the note I saw the other day, peeking out from the bread box as well. They seem to go together.”

  A cryptic smile flickered across Ilka’s lips. “I already tell you fibbing it is in my blood. But killer, I am not.”

  Call me crazy, but I believed her.

  Unfortunately, it complicated my speculation about who was behind the blackmail plot, Brody’s death, and also Frankie’s murder. If I was right about the mastermind, the assailant at the club the night of the auction had been after me. But had I been mistaken? Did the attack have to do with the secret MO project? Had Lugosi been his intended victim?

  “Ilka, why would someone steal your doll at the auction?”

  She shrugged. “This I do not know.”

  “Think, Ilka. I may believe you, but they suspect your motive for getting in bed with the enemy is helping family in the old country.”

  “They?”

  Gunnar’s true profession was a sensitive matter. I chose my words carefully. “The investigators. They have the impression that immigrants who have family overseas might be tempted to aid certain enemy operatives stealing movies from our studios in exchange for money—or, for a loved one’s safe passage. Once involved in the operation, they might be asked or forced to do other things.”

  Ilka’s eyes blazed with anger. “What do you say? I would aid the Axis in trade for Roza’s passage out from Hungary? Why? I have no reason. Grandmamma moves with the underground. No trading was necessary. Once in Cairo—” Having unwittingly let the cat out of the bag, Ilka’s sudden rage evaporated.

  I felt my heart thumping wildly in my chest. “Roza’s here?”

  Ilka sighed. “A month ago, it becomes clear Grandmamma must leave Hungary before is too late. Gypsies, Jews, they are being singled out more and more. Grandmamma, she is seventy-three. Her health it is failing.” Ilka pointed to her forehead. “Her mental health, that is.”

  Moved by her sorrowful expression, I reached across the table and patted her arm.

  Ilka cleared her throat. “As you can imagine, it was difficult journey.”

  I nodded. Nearly impossible, considering the Germans now occupied Yugoslavia, the escape route Ilka had used. In fact, every country bordering Hungary was under Axis rule. How had she managed? The Gypsy underground must be powerful indeed.

  Ilka’s lips crept into a wan smile. “She made it. Is so wonderful to see her again.”

  “Where is she staying?”

  Ilka’s smile broadened. “Here. In this house. Actually, she is with Uncle Bela at this moment. But she will be back soon. Lia, she is off tonight. I am making chicken paprikás.” She was suddenly serious. Her eyes held a pleading look. “Please, you must go along. No one can know she is here until the proper paperwork it can be arranged. And hiding her, this sometimes is not so easy.”

  Ilka explained that although she understood the necessity of staying undercover until her immigration status could be resolved, being forced to lay low indoors went against Roza’s Gypsy nature. But then she had discovered the labyrinth of secret passages that ran throughout the Dunns’ home, and her declining mental power became a menace. I learned that though the fuses outside had
indeed been faulty, the lamp in my room had not had a wiring problem at all. Roza had been the culprit behind the strange business of its turning on “by itself.” She’d sneaked in and pulled the chain-switch while I slept. The disappearance of my jade green satin pajamas—and their subsequent reappearance—had been part of Roza’s adventures also.

  I’d seen “Cairo” on the memo in Ilka’s pocket before she grabbed it away. The Dunns traveled there on OSS business regularly. “Do Della and D.B. know that Roza is here?”

  Ilka hesitated but an instant. “Yes, the Mrs. she know. Grandmamma, she help to inspire the secret project.” Ilka flashed a proud smile.

  “When your grandmother traveled to Cairo, did she have with her a couple of escaped prisoners of war? Heisted German film, perhaps? Reconnaissance film?”

  Ilka’s tawny eyes widened. “This you must ask the Mrs.”

  “But if you’re hiding her, what’s she doing out with Lugosi? And what was she doing at the auction last night?”

  “Like I already tell you, at the briefie, there was call for dolls. Grandmamma she bring doll with her from Hungary. We donated…”

  The swastika earring in my pocket felt like it was on fire. “Ilka, this is important. Why did she bring the doll with her?”

  Ilka stood and walked to the sink, leaning over it to peer outdoors. Dusk had fallen and the outside lights were on, but it must have been difficult to see. She shaded her eyes, straining to catch sight of someone or something, probably Roza and Bela.

  Finally, she turned from the window and leaned back against the sink for support. “Morality, it is prewar luxury. Being in underground requires wheeling and dealing. Stealing, lying, cheating, all are part of the game. But those involved they have different motives. Some they are anti-German, some they are profiteers. Others, they are both. So, it would not surprise you, then, that some hard crooks exist in the Gypsy network?” Ilka raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

  I shook my head. “No surprise at all.”

  Ilka began to pace in front of the sink. “This Zolton Laszlo, he is in with many bad characters. To make money, always to make money.”