He looked awful. His face was haggard, dark circles rimmed his eyes, and I was reminded of his brief appearance at the hospital when he’d claimed he was suffering from some sort of bug. This time without his telling me I thought I knew what had bit him.
Sam was not wearing his glasses. He stirred, squinting against the light’s glare. I turned the shade slightly. His lids slowly opened.
“Sam?” I repeated. He looked at me with a dull stare.
The other evening at the auction, Lugosi had been under the influence of drugs and his pupils had been pinpoints. But unlike Lugosi, whose blue eyes had made the telltale characteristic obvious, Sam’s eyes were dark brown, his pupils barely distinguishable. But the vacant look in them was unmistakable.
“A f-f-fix. Need a f-fix.”
For an instant, my thoughts turned to what it would be like to give him his drugs. An overdose of his drugs. I could almost see his eyes rolling backward in their sockets, see his chin falling limply to his chest. I shook my head. Angry as I was, that would get me nowhere.
“Sure, I’ll give you a fix,” I said agreeably. “Soon as I get some answers. The sugar cubes, the pink dessert cup”—I nodded sideways in the direction of the shrine—“You sabotaged Frankie’s plane and mine. Why?” There was venom in my tone, but gritting my teeth helped keep my voice even. “She’s dead, did you know? Who killed her? You?”
Even in his rough condition, the shock on his face was obvious. “N-no. I didn’t do it. They did. Nazi agents.”
“They’re the saboteurs? They murdered Frankie?”
His gaze shifted and he fought to focus. “Y-yes…I took pictures.”
“Took pictures? To aid the Nazis. The saboteurs. Murderers. That makes you an accomplice.” I took a breath, fought for control. Strange as it may seem, I wanted to know how it could have happened. When we first met, he’d been supportive of me, of women generally, and I sensed—he’d even said—he loved Frankie. “How could you do it? Why?”
“Gave me drugs…”
“But you were clean. You went through rehabilitation.”
He concentrated, then as if remembering the shrine, looked in its direction. “My parents…Spanish…Japanese.”
He shifted slightly in the chair, struggling weakly against his bindings. I checked them. Behind the back of the chair, rough rope encircled his wrists. On the floor, his feet were trussed at the ankles. The ropes did not look tight, in fact I thought they might be too loose, but he grimaced with his effort.
His body grew still again. He looked up. His expression was imploring and he looked so helpless and broken I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“W-when met you, thought you could help me. That night, here, tried to confide—”
What had he said when we were dancing? Don’t worry, I’ll tell you want you want to know. “Why didn’t you then?”
“In too deep. Need drugs. F-f-fix.”
I looked at the photo. His father was Japanese. Not his mother. “Uh-huh, in a minute. Lorenz …you kept your mother’s name?”
Something odd crept into Sam’s expression. There was a strong but almost out-of-body timbre to his voice and it suddenly strengthened considerably. “These are dangerous times for the American Japanese. Remember I told you my mother…” He frowned. “My father worked as a costumer at a movie studio? That he brought me along to work and that I amused myself by reading and writing while he sewed?”
I nodded.
“Ha!” Sam sneered. “That was the Pollyanna side of the American tragedy. My father gave twenty-five years of his life to that studio. Twenty-five years! And when he needed someone to stand by him, stand up for him, IT gave him nothing in return. They call us yellow…”
His face went slack. Then in an angry outburst he told me that the day after Pearl Harbor soldiers had come onto the studio lot and taken his father, forcefully, with them. His father, interned at a camp, committed suicide a year ago.
“I’m sorry.” I sighed. I really was. I gestured to the shrine. “Is that to honor your parents? Him?”
“She made it.” Sam’s lips were raw from the adhesive. He’d ejected the words with such force, a wound opened, and a droplet of blood ran down his lip. He ran his tongue around his mouth. “To focus blame for Frankie’s crash and Brody’s death on me.”
“That’s why you’re tied up? They’ve got the goods and while they make their escape you’ll be left to take the fall?”
“Dead. A suicide note-confession. Ha ha.”
There was no joy in Sam’s laugh.
Beads of perspiration wetted my temples. A Nazi operative would be coming back here. I had to get every scrap of information I could before he did. “You took photos for them—her. Of what?” I scanned the table for the envelope of photos. It wasn’t there. “Brody and Wallace?”
“No, she took that. I took reconnaissance photos. Douglas Manufacturing plant, Fort Roach. For the sub commander…”
I swiped a finger across my moist forehead as the very high stakes involved in what had been going on began at last to sink in. Taking out a plant like Douglas Aircraft would mean not only the loss of a critical manufacturing facility and a large inventory of planes, it would also be a huge blow to the citizenry’s sense of security. Destroying Fort Roach and its vital contribution to the war effort would be a huge coup for the Nazis.
I recalled Frankie had taken a civilian for a joy ride the day before her crash. “And Frankie helped you?”
“No, Frankie tried to stop me. She was there. Heard Frankie say she’d tell the authorities if I didn’t.” His eyes welled up making his glazed look all the more eerie. I pressed on.
Stop Sammy. Frankie’s garbled message was at last clear. “Who do you mean, she?” My breath caught as I made the connection. “She put sugar in the A-24’s fuel to silence Frankie, tampered with my plane…Who is she?”
“Goes by a code name. Can’t remember.” His brow furrowed, then his head lolled sideways again. “Need a fix…”
Code name. The scar on my arm throbbed.
“Okay, I’ll help you. Really, I mean it. But where are the photos now? With her?”
Sam briefly rallied. “No, I outsmarted her.” He smiled then looking down, seemed surprised to see that he was tied up. “Maybe she outsmarted me.”
There was a barely audible rustling of beads.
In one fluid motion, I doubled over and pulled out my gun. The toes of a pair of military boots were visible below the curtain. Springing upright, the revolver secure in my right hand, my left stabilizing the wrist from below, I pointed the barrel, chest level, at the figure behind the beaded veil.
The nose of a Walther P48 emerged, parting the beads. “Ciao, Pucci,” an accented voice said nonchalantly from the other side.
It was Gus. My hands shook, but somehow I mustered a calm demand. “Step through to this side. No funny business. My gun’s aimed straight at your heart.”
If you have one, my mind echoed.
The voice belonged to Gus, but the man who strode through the curtain was younger. Much younger. His hair was not white or fly-away, but jet black and neatly slicked back. The tanned, deep olive hue of his skin was Gus’, except not so deeply lined. Ah, but the eyes were the same. One brown, one blue. It was Gus. The incarnation of Gus who’d also been on the Resisting Enemy Interrogation set and released the canister-missile from the catwalk, narrowly missing Sam’s head. I’d only caught a glimpse of him from the back while trying to chase him down, but there was no doubt in my mind.
“You are not wearing our gift, the earring,” he said, his Walther continuing to hold me in its sights.
“Earring?” I shrugged and smiled. “Oh, you mean that Cracker Jack prize left in my tea cup?
“Let me guess: courtesy of your associate, Myra? Or should I say, Cardillac? Why isn’t she here? Afraid to show her face? And what about yours? Why have you been hiding behind Gus, Tazio?” Tazio was Cardillac’s
Italian boyfriend. We’d never met, but this had to be him. My finger tightened on the trigger. “Did you sneak into a Hollywood hospital and inject a vial of potassium into a patient’s I.V. line? Is that why you were in disguise, Tazio?”
He remained silent, staring at me with a cocky grin. Behind that quiet, dark handsome exterior, I knew, his mind must be racing. It was gunfight at O.K. Corral. We were in a standoff that was sure to end badly for one of us.
What about Sam? Might he rally? Provide a diversion? Dream on. Beside me, Sam was so quiet I feared he’d passed out. No, I had to keep Tazio engaged until I could pull a trick from up my sleeve or until Gunnar or a member of his posse rode in to the rescue.
It’s your chance to learn more about what we’re up against, my pragmatic side chimed in.
“Why’d you…er, Myra kill Brody? Wasn’t he cooperating?”
Tazio’s gaze shifted to the living room area and he slowly sidestepped away from the curtain. “Brody figured out that Myra was running the blackmail scheme. From the shot of him with Wallace when she was posing as a cigarette girl. Director’s eye. He remembered the evening and restaurant from what Wallace was wearing. He also recalled the cigarette girl’s earrings. They were identical to the pair his secretary, Myra, always wore.”
His movement and the taunting tone he used in saying her name, unnerved me a little, but my gun remained steady, fixed on its target. “He told Cardillac this?”
“She’d returned to the office for her house keys. He’d just figured it out.” Tazio smiled. “She offered him a cup of tea.”
“He drank it?”
“She’d brought her stiletto along.”
I struggled to keep my voice even. “So why’d you come here? What you’re really after is at Fort Roach.”
Tazio laughed. “Vinciguerra told me you were in the dressing room. Didn’t want to believe you’d seen the film cans. We suspected differently.” Facing me, he took a couple more cautious sidesteps in the direction of the living room. “Questa è la guerra. This is the war. Why did I come here?” He waved the Walther. “You mean besides to give our friend his fix? His final fix? And now I have a bonus—I can take care of you…”
Moving ever so slowly, keeping his gun level with my heart, Tazio crept closer to the L-shaped sofa. My finger itched against the break-top’s trigger as I watched, helpless to do anything. I could fire, but a reflexive return volley might also mean my end. He shook his head. “Too bad the paper balls did not do their trick.”
I felt a hot flush as anger seized me. “Stop where you are.”
The force in my voice seemed to rouse Sam. He moaned. At the sound, Tazio, gracefully bending at the knees, reached his free hand under the sofa cushion and pulled up a large manila envelope.
“What is that?”
“A piece of the bigger plot to help our side.” His mouth stretched into a smarmy smile. “We’d been counting on the photographs Sam took. He’d also agreed to be our liaison with the sub commander. Our drug fan speaks Japanese, did you know?” For the first time since intruding on the scene, Tazio acknowledged Sam’s presence with a flicked glance. “Shame he changed stripes after learning the truth behind his girl’s crash. Tried to trick us with stock film. Of the Rhine…” Tazio waved the envelope. “Not these.”
So Sam had been playing with fire. Now it was my turn. Where was my break? Where was Gunnar? Had Ilka called him? Would he know to come to Sam’s house?
Tazio’s brash manner, his superior smile, were wearing thin. But I needed to keep stalling.
“So you’ve outmaneuvered Sam. But who’ll be your go-between with the Japanese now?”
“Sam has been under guard. But tonight I—we—discovered a new attraction at the Santa Monica Pier.” Tazio stared at me with a sly smile. “It is why I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived.”
Then Sam lunged for Tazio, a human-chair projectile.
I heard a whistle of air and then the crack of gunfire as the Walther fired wildly. Sam hit the floor near Tazio’s feet, striking his ankles, crashing him to the floor and separating him from his gun.
Sam was out cold, his head at an odd angle, his cheek flat against the area rug. Nearby, Tazio was sprawled in a semi-seated position, his chin against his chest, his back against the sofa.
Gun straight out in front of me, I moved toward him. He rolled sideways. I wasn’t expecting his punch to my stomach. I reeled toward the coffee table, dropping my gun. Doubled over, I held the table’s edge, gasping for air. A hand grabbed my neck firmly from behind. The fingers dug in hard as another hand came around from my left.
My combat training kicked in. Fired by pain and adrenaline, I let loose a scream that rose from my depths and echoed off the walls. “AHHHHH…You killed my friend, you bastard!”
My hand closed over the marble Samurai warrior, swinging it upwards with a force I hadn’t known was in me. One moment, I saw the point of the Samurai’s sword and Tazio’s icy blue glass eye. The next, heavy marble met flesh and bone. The dull crunching sound of the impact paralyzed me.
With a cry, Tazio fell to his knees.
Shattered glass glittered around Tazio’s collapsed socket, spurting blood. Shards pierced his torn skin. A red stream poured from a thin slit between the collapsed lids. Pulses of crimson carried tiny slivers down his cheek. One jagged piece poked grotesquely through his upper lid.
Tazio was screeching, curled like a baby, writhing in anguish on the floor. His bloody hands clutched at his face. No longer sleek and handsome, he had the twisted visage of a horror creature straight out of a Lugosi picture.
My stomach roiling, I forced myself to search out the guns. When I heard rapid footsteps coming through the kitchen, I grabbed the Walther. A muted male voice called, “Pucci!”
It was Gunnar.
“Pucci, are you all right?” His gorgeous gray-blue eyes were filled with concern; above them, his eyebrows were scrunched into a V at the center.
“I’m fine. But they’re not so hot.” I nodded to the two figures on the floor. “One of them’s the big fish you’re after.”
Gunnar glanced at Tazio, then where the bloodied Samurai rested. He lifted an eyebrow and there was something admiring in his glance.
He knelt down. Turning Tazio slightly and carefully pulling a hand from his ruined face, he felt for a pulse. He shook his head. “Gone.”
My knees gave way. I slid to the floor and sat, leaning against Gunnar. My body trembled uncontrollably. “I-I killed h-him.”
Gunnar put his arm around my shoulder, waiting until the trembling subsided. “That’s one for Frankie.”
I’d never killed anyone before. I glanced at Tazio and immediately looked away. “He’s a Fascist…conspiring with Cardillac to take out Douglas…FMPU.” My words, hesitant at first grew stronger. “They murdered Brody, Frankie. Tried to kill us!”
“Good. Get it out, Pucci. This is war. War on the home front. You’ve just helped even out the scales of justice.” He squeezed my shoulder.
Sam, his eyes closed, his cheek plastered against the rug, remained secured to the chair. Gunnar went over to him, gently lifting an eyelid. “He won’t be going anywhere for awhile.”
I still had unfinished business to attend to. I scrambled to me feet.
“Cardillac—she must have the doll, who knows what else. She’s going to meet the Japanese.” In a rush, I told Gunnar about the reconnaissance photos and what Tazio had said about having made contact with their Axis counterparts.
Gunnar stayed calm. “Pucci, I’ve got to call my office. Get help here, incognito, on the double. We’re gonna keep things quiet until we can sort it all out, but you’ve got my assurance. Forget about that sub. The coastline is secure. Also, Winwar’s in custody. He picked up the film and our team nabbed him. Winwar or your pal there”—he gestured in Tazio’s direction—“will lead us to Myra…or Cardillac, if that’s who Myra really is.”
“But the doll. Sh
e must have the Hungarian doll.”
“I know about the doll.”
“It’s got something in it. Probably jewels. Diamonds. If Cardillac has the doll, she needs to captured before she meets up with the Japs. I promised Frankie I would get her and I’m not about to let Frankie down!”
“You won’t, Pucci. Listen…”
Chapter Twenty-two
Gunnar convinced me that there was nothing more I could do for Frankie at the moment. Ilka and Lugosi should be outside Sam’s house waiting in a separate car, at his request.
“They’ll take you to Lugosi’s house.” Worry clouded Gunnar’s dusk-blue eyes. “I’ll feel better knowing you’re together, out of harm’s way.”
My .38 at the ready, I stood guard in the living room while he phoned for help in the kitchen. Returning almost immediately, he glanced at the motionless figures on the floor before walking me to the front door. Lugosi’s sleek silver Lincoln Coupe was parked at the curb. Gunnar signaled with a wave, then lifted my chin till I met his gaze.
He smiled. “Frankie would be proud. I am.” He ran his fingers down the side of my face. The light caress, the tenderness in his eyes, made my heart pound. “How will I ever be able to thank you?”
I gingerly rubbed my bruised stomach and smiled at his suggestive tone. “Once they’re all behind bars and we’ve caught up with Cardillac, how about I let you take me to dinner?”
“You got it.”
“Oh, and maybe you’d like to volunteer for our Victory short? Work with Novara?”
He wasn’t looking so flirty now. But he laughed and shook his head. “I’ll consider it.”
Lugosi locked the back of the driver’s seat into position again after helping me inside. “Comfortable?”
Ilka was in front, riding shotgun. Roza was in back. Her broken-toothed smile greeted me as I squeezed in. She radiated mischief, dark eyes twinkling.
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