Hollywood Buzz

by Margit Liesche

  “With Roza?” I inquired.

  Ilka stopped pacing. “No. No.” She shook her head adamantly. “Laszlo, like Grandmamma, has his own Gypsy tribe. Similarly, he transport goods and people. There the similarities they stop. Grandmamma, she take risk because she want to help save lives. Of dissidents and other Magyar who suffer under Hitler. Zolton, though, he involved only in those smugglings which will put money in his pocket.”

  “What are you trying to tell me, Ilka?” I asked, impatience creeping into my tone. “Who is this Zolton Laszlo? Why is he important?”

  After a significant pause, she gave me an even glance. “One incident will tell you all that you need to know about Zolton Laszlo.

  “In September, 1940, Laszlo accept money from underground contact to transport Austrian refugee from Sopron in the north of Hungary down through back country to southern border. There, they are to meet another transport for exit out through Yugoslavia.”

  Ilka’s shoulders slumped a little. She returned to the table, taking the chair opposite me again. “Along the way, Laszlo, he turn refugee over to Germans. Do it to double his money. Can you imagine such treachery?”

  I stared at my empty teacup, fingering its delicate handle, picturing Frankie lying in the hospital bed. “Yes, Ilka, I can.”

  Ilka went on, “This same villain, when he learn Grandmamma was soon to leave with goods to aid Allies, he gives to her—under threat—the doll. Somehow he has put together she will not be coming back. That she will come to Hollywood to join me. Zolton tell her, ‘Take doll with you or I hunt down precious little Ilka, adjust her looks so that never she will be actress. Expect word about what to do next with doll, after you arrive.’”

  A chill moved through me and I shuddered visibly. “What are you saying?” I glanced across the table expectantly. “You weren’t surprised that the doll was snatched?”

  Ilka shrugged. “When we see notice in paper calling all dolls for auction, we know this it. And Grandmamma, she insist she must go to see who is there to take it.”

  “The man with the Einstein hair?”

  Ilka nodded. “Or his associate, the woman playing his wife.”

  I raised my eyebrows. I was back on track.

  I had blamed the secretaries for the swastika earring left in my tea cup. Then Gunnar told me about Myra’s short stint with MGM, and I instinctively knew Cardillac was responsible. She had recognized me that day in Brody’s office. Cardillac, mistress of disguise. The prematurely grey hair could have been a wig or a masterful coloring job. I didn’t get a good look at her eyes, but contact lenses could make them any color she chose. And that overbite? I’d been speculating how to fix her receding chin. Now I’d bet she was using a mouth insert. But it was the name that had really tipped me. The double-entendre was a Cardillac weakness. Or forte? Myra Blade. The scar on my forearm was testament to Cardillac’s pride in her expertise with a stiletto.

  Nazi operatives in Hollywood would need money. The doll likely contained something of value. Jewels, money, drugs. Cardillac had pulled off a similar scheme in Detroit. Cardillac. The archenemy I’d sworn to bring to justice.

  We heard the distant ringing of the telephone.

  “I have to answer it,” I said, leaping to my feet.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was Max.

  When I’d seen her at March Field, there hadn’t been an opportunity to let her know I’d shared her sabotage findings with Gunnar. Initially, Gunnar had been with me when we’d asked Max to go over the Staggerwing, and when I saw her again later, other mechanics had been nearby. The secret slipped out, I hastily explained now, during our close call coming in.

  “Don’t worry, Pucci. Everyone’s gonna know soon enough.” She lowered her voice. “They’re trying to keep a low profile about it, but an inquiry’s finally in the works.”

  “Excellent,” I said, feeling greatly relieved that Max wasn’t upset. Also, that she was already in the know about the investigation. “But how’d you find out?”

  “I was called in for questioning.”

  I gasped. “Really? Why?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Max assured me. “Everything I did was in line with procedure. Turned out the officer in charge had decided, on his own, to keep a lid on my findings. Some perverted idea about scaring women and covering up for one of the guys. Like sabotage was a fraternity prank or something. Can you believe it?”

  My stomach knotted with indignation though I’d already heard the news from Gunnar. “Yeah. Har-har. Real funny.”

  “I’ve finished checking out the Staggerwing,” she said. “Gotta tell ya, someone was watchin’ out for you. Problem was in the fuel-feed, just like you suspected. Switching to a different tank was what saved you and the lieutenant. Switching to the right one that is.”

  “Huh?”

  “You were on a wing tank first, then you switched to the reserve, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Both wing lines weren’t feeding correctly. If you had tried the other wing, you wouldn’t have recovered. Like I said, luckily, you picked the right tank.”

  I let out a low whistle. “So, why weren’t the lines feeding properly?”

  “Paper wads plugging the suction lines.”

  “What?”

  “I was dropping fuel from one of the wing tanks when I noticed the outlet clogging intermittently. I started experimenting. By jiggling the wing, I got the fuel flow to change from heavy to light to nearly nonexistent. I took a closer look-see. Saw a little clump moving in and out of the flow valve. Same thing on the other wing tank.”

  “And…”

  “After fishing around through the filler caps, I pulled several wads of paper—same size, same color—from each of the tanks. They were the culprits interfering with the fuel drainage. When you were in flight, they would have been plugging the suction line.”

  I clutched the receiver tighter. “So, it was sabotage.” A brainwave struck. “Did you keep the wads?”

  “Hold on a minute. They’re nearby. I’ll get one.” The receiver clunked as she set it down. She was back in a minute. “You know something? That was a great question. Wait a sec. I’m trying something.”

  The receiver clunked again. An instant later, Max came back on. “The wads I pulled out were fuel-soaked, but the one I’m looking at has had a chance to dry out. Maybe it’s the texture or coating…it didn’t shred when I unwadded it and smoothed it into its original shape.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Looks like someone had a few cupcakes.” She chuckled wryly. “Hey. Maybe ‘the someone’ had to hide the wrappers in a hurry.”

  “What?”

  “A joke.” Max chuckled again. “I was picturing a mechanic eating a secret stash of cupcakes. Someone comes along—maybe his boss…Wait! Maybe it’s an official from the ration board checking for sugar hoarding!” Another chuckle.

  Max was obviously enjoying her silly fantasy, but I didn’t laugh. I’d been having my own vision involving the Hershey wrapper escaping Bulk’s pocket. Bulk, a saboteur?

  “Max, cut it. It isn’t funny.”

  Max apologized immediately. “You’re absolutely right. Sorry.”

  “You said you were dropping fuel. A mechanic responsible for routine maintenance wouldn’t have gone through that sort of testing, right?”

  “Not unless he had reason to suspect a problem.”

  But what if he had deliberately created a problem? “Tell me more about the wrapper.”

  My suspicions about Bulk fell away and a lump formed in my stomach while I listened to Max describing a pink pleated cup like those that held the custard tarts Sam had ordered “to go” from May Lee’s the night of our disastrous “date.” I remembered the crazed look I’d seen on Sam’s face just before he chucked me out the door of his bungalow. My God! Had Sam tampered with the Staggerwing?

  My hand shook as I hung up. I hadn’t shared my suspicion with Max. I
had to think first. What possible reason could Sam have for wanting to sabotage my plane?

  A scare tactic to frighten off the WASP? Why would Sam give a hoot whether or not women flew for the military?

  “…s-s-…s-s-…ah-ah-aaahh…p-p-p…s-s-mmm…m-e-e…” Frankie’s utterances pierced my thoughts. I tumbled the sounds on my tongue. S-s-…ahh…p-p…s-s-…mmm…me…Had she been saying “Sammy?” What had the cameraman told Gunnar? They’d had a lover’s spat.

  But sabotage? And why me?

  The photos on his dining table that he’d claimed had to do with an upcoming shoot all at once seemed worth another look.

  My mind raced forward with a plan. When I’d called Novara from March Field, he’d mentioned an urgent new film project. Desperate, he was planning to bring Sam on as a writer. Novara had also said they’d be working late into the night. Likely Sam wouldn’t be home. If he was, I’d confront him. Why not? He didn’t frighten me. He was just a druggie. If he wasn’t there, evidence of his guilt might still be lying around.

  At the sound of approaching footsteps, I reeled around. It was Ilka, her forehead furrowed with concern. Before I could second-guess my decision, I started toward the staircase, calling back over my shoulder. “Ilka, can’t explain right now. I have to go.”

  ***

  Upstairs in my room, I dug the B-4 bag out from under the bed and grabbed Gran Skjold’s pocket revolver.

  The blue steel finish of the snub barrel shone dull and menacing in the lamp light as I held the small revolver in my hand, checking it over carefully. I’d fired the gun just once, in Detroit. The memory sent a chill up my spine. Any hesitation passed quickly. Frankie had died; Gunnar and I could have died as well.

  A metal nail file in my cosmetic’s kit caught my eye. I slipped it into a pants pocket then rummaged in the flight bag again, this time for my ankle holster. The strap fitted tight to my left leg, I slid in the break-top. At rest just above the ankle bone, the gun in its case felt awkward. But it always did when I first put it on.

  ***

  Downstairs, I gave the operator Sam’s number. Butterflies flitted in my stomach while I waited. Ten rings later, we gave up. The coast seemed clear.

  I tried Gunnar next. No answer. A call to the duty sergeant’s line was greeted with a busy signal. I headed for the side door exit.

  ***

  Ilka looked up as I entered the kitchen. She was standing at the counter next to the stove, chopping onions. The white pock-skinned breast of a whole uncooked chicken was visible, protruding from a roasting pan resting nearby. The onion’s pungent odor enveloped me when I stopped, a few feet away.

  I was torn. What if Gus or Cardillac or one of their goons showed up here?

  “Ilka, you have to trust me. Promise me that you’ll try to reach Gunnar.” I wrote down two numbers, explaining which was which. “Tell him Della enlisted you for a secret project. Tell him about Cairo and Roza. It’ll explain a lot. He’ll…we’ll all work on a way to turn the investigation away from you.” I didn’t think I had to spell out Gunnar’s ties to intelligence. “Another thing. Let him know I’ve gone to Sam’s house. Something to do with what Max found, tell him. Can you remember all that?”

  Ilka chin shot out. “I am actress. Memorizing lines it is what I do.”

  “One more thing, until Lugosi arrives…even after he arrives…keep the doors locked, stay alert, will you? The thug who came at us the other night in the parking lot might try it again.”

  While I was talking, Ilka’s tawny eyes had skimmed the length of my body, stopping at my ankle. I looked down. My pant leg was bunched at the bottom. My holster was visible.

  Engaging my opposite foot, I quickly worked the fabric back over the holster.

  “Not to worry about us,” Ilka said, looking up. “You had best take good care of yourself.”

  We both heard the rumble of an approaching automobile. Moving quickly, we followed the flagstones to the front of the house and watched, hidden under the archway, as headlight beams crossed through the open gate. I strained to identify the car as it circled the courtyard, its tires rolling along the stone floor in a steady muffled crunch.

  Ilka recognized it first. “It is Uncle Bela’s car. He has returned with Grandmamma.”

  We crossed the courtyard as Lugosi, looking handsome in a dark suit, circled the front of the sleek Lincoln Coupe and opened the door on our side.

  Roza wore the fur coat of the incognito actress, only tonight she wasn’t wearing sunglasses. The muted outdoor lighting cast a feeble glow. Enough to observe her dark complexion, dark eyes, and wizened face as Lugosi helped her out of the car.

  “Grandmamma, meet Pucci Lewis.”

  The woman’s deeply lined face was kindly, especially when she smiled. But unlike her granddaughter’s teeth, hers were not perfect. They were dark and some were broken, others missing. But she wasn’t shy. Ilka repeated my introduction in Hungarian and the smile broadened.

  Lugosi’s one hand supported Roza; his other held a smoldering cigar. The acrid smell traveled through the night air, blanketing us in its heavy aroma. My nose twitched in revulsion.

  “Mr. Lugosi,” I said looking at him. “I need to go, now. I have some urgent business to take care of. I’m a little concerned, though.” I hurriedly explained my fears.

  Lugosi straightened his spine and drew himself up to his full height. Head slightly canted, he said, “Pooo-chi, I once vas cap-i-tan in Hungarian Army. I serve at Russian Front remember? This—” He threw out his arm and waved his cigar in a theatrical sweep. “This is Holly-vood. Kitten’s play in comparison.”

  I smiled. His eyes looked normal and indeed with his proud bearing in place he looked prepared for battle.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I doused the Packard’s headlights, coasting to a stop a block from Sam’s. Unsure of my next move, I sat quietly in the dark, challenging my reasons for breaking and entering. Personal threat, connection to Frankie’s death, evidence. Before my insecurities could regroup, I fished a flashlight from the glove box and exited the car.

  I leaned against the driver’s door, surveying the street. The temperature was mild, yet I shivered. It was darker and quieter than I’d expected. No street lamps, no traffic, no dog walkers. No use fooling myself, either. What I was about to do was dangerous. Knees a little weak, I zipped my leather jacket with a jerk and headed down the street.

  Most of the homes I passed had a light or two on. Sam’s bungalow looked completely dark. No car in the driveway and no garage. My hope that he would not yet be home was playing out.

  My heart beating wildly, I knocked at the front door, ready with some mumbo-jumbo regarding script consultation. There was no answer. Still, I wanted to be certain he wasn’t around. Concealed in the shadows, I rounded the front of the house, keenly aware of the enemy rosebushes and our recent encounter. The scent and related thoughts were so offensive, I began breathing only through my mouth.

  At the driveway, I swept a final look up and down the deserted street. Then, spotting a gap in the shrubs bordering the left side of the house, I ducked through.

  Deep in the foliage, I sidestepped along the stucco wall to the back door. I flicked on the flashlight, running the beam up and down the door jamb. The door opened outward, and there was gap between its edges and the frame. I removed the metal file from my pocket. Flashlight clenched in my teeth, the beam positioned on the crack at the latch, I slipped the file in, sliding it at a downward angle until it met resistance. Then jimmying it, I worked the file deep in behind the latch until there was enough leverage to press it back. Keeping the file tight against the depressed latch, I turned the knob and opened the door.

  Ear cocked, I listened for sounds of life beyond the thumping of my heart. I slipped into kitchen.

  Moonlight washing through the windows over the corner sink permitted a surface view of the room. A wall phone, an orderly lineup of small appliances, a bowl of fruit, a
chopping board leaning against the wall, the tea service Sam had hauled out the other night.

  The dining room table was next. The photos I wanted to look at again had been on the table. But as I parted the veil of beads, I headed instead for the velvet floor-to-ceiling drapes along the interior dining area wall to see what was behind them.

  I tugged a drawstring on the side. A hushed “my God!” escaped my lips.

  On an altar table set into a narrow alcove, a large golden Buddha sat upon an elaborate gold and red lacquer throne. Legs crossed, eyelids shut, the pensive figure was flanked by candles, flat brass discs—one containing a pile of straw-colored twigs and the other a white powdery substance—and a framed photograph of a stiff-looking Asian man and an unsmiling, traditionally dressed Spanish woman. I blinked several times. A small hill of sugar cubes and a pink pleated cup were also part of the shrine arrangement.

  Excitement flooded over me. The incriminating evidence I was after. It would be easy enough to compare the dessert cup before me with one Max had taken from the fuel line of the Staggerwing. And the stack of sugar cubes. We’d thought sugar had been poured into the fuel tank of Frankie’s A-24. Tossing a few cubes in might have been easier, more discreet.

  I took a closer look at the straw-colored twigs. Herbs? Ma huang? And the white substance? I was no drug expert, but heroin perhaps?

  A low moan came from across the room behind me. Every muscle in my body tensed. Twirling around, my arms squared protectively before me, I assumed a semisquatting defensive pose.

  Sam Lorenz, a gag of white tape across his mouth, was bound, his arms behind him, to one of the metal and leather dining chairs.

  I panned the shadowy living room, then relaxed my stance and went over to Sam and yanked the tape from his mouth. His head lolled to the side, but otherwise he did not react. Beside him, the silvery gooseneck lamp had been left on. The flexible neck was bent downward, its shaded bulb creating a globe of light reflected in the glass table-top. Next to the lamp, I could see Sam’s typewriter and a neat stack of papers, but there was no manila envelope. Afraid Sam had slipped into unconsciousness, or worse, I twisted the lamp’s arm, adjusting the shaft of light so it was directed at his face.