“What?!”
“Right now. Don’t go home. I know this place in Pasadena. Real quiet and discreet.”
His palm had gotten clammy. She wanted to grab her purse and hightail it into the night, but she knew she couldn’t keep Ben Siegel at bay for long. She had no choice but to put herself in the hands of the guy who a month ago had her convinced he was the embodiment of evil. She closed her fingers around his.
CHAPTER 39
Gwendolyn no longer cared about her store, or job, or her dressmaking business. She had no time for tanked-up neighbors or needy coworkers. All she could think of was Kathryn.
Ten days ago, she found a note slipped under her door.
When you hear a story about my burst appendix, don’t believe it. That bug wasn’t placed by the FBI, but most likely Siegel. He’s intent on tracking Wilkerson down and might very well come after me to do that. At Nelson’s insistence I’ve gone into hiding. I’m at a hotel but will move every three days. Look for a classified ad in the usual place. BURN THIS MESSAGE!
“The usual place” was the Hollywood Citizen-News. Back when they were roommates, they would read the obituaries out loud over breakfast. Whoever wrote them had a wicked sense of humor, usually managing to insert a backhanded compliment to the recently deceased. A private joke evolved between them that if either of them should die unexpectedly, the other must contact the Hollywood Citizen-News, which in time became “the usual place.”
Three days later a classified ad appeared.
Lassie wants Wick to know that she’s comfortable at the Happy Duke.
Lassie rhymed with Massey and Wick with Brick, but it took Gwendolyn and Marcus nearly an hour to figure out she meant the Gaylord Hotel on Wilshire. They were tempted to go see her, but what if Siegel was having them followed, too?
Three days later:
Sassy wants Slick to know she’s lonesome at Mr. Goodbar’s.
Gwendolyn figured that one out in less than ten minutes: the Hershey Arms Hotel, near MacArthur Park. She was tempted to call Kathryn there—especially as that’s where Linc’s dad now lived—but even a public telephone seemed like a risk.
Then, yesterday, a third ad appeared.
Cassie wants Slick to bring books number one two three to the Hamilton.
Gwendolyn decided that one meant that Kathryn was so bored out of her noodle that she wanted her to bring the top three bestsellers to the Alexander Hotel downtown. And that meant she felt safe enough for Gwendolyn to drop them off. So she put together a care package that included The Miracle of the Bells, The Moneyman, and Gentleman’s Agreement, along with some lipstick, cold cream, four packs of Chesterfields, half a dozen back issues of the Hollywood Reporter, and a couple of Mr. Goodbars for a laugh.
The Alexander Hotel had once been the classiest joint in town. So many huge deals had been struck during the silent era that the rug in its Palm Court room was called the “million-dollar carpet.” But its heyday lay behind it, and it was considered a neglected relic—which made it a perfect hiding place.
Gwendolyn approached the front desk and asked for a guest by the name of Cassie. The clerk confirmed they did, but the guest had left word not to be disturbed. Gwendolyn handed over Kathryn’s valise and fled outside into the comforting crowds.
Without caring much where she was going, she charged up Fifth Street until she almost collided with a newsboy. He held up a copy of the Examiner, whose hysterical headline reminded Angelenos that it had been five months since the Black Dahlia was found, and the killer was still at large.
At Pershing Square, she turned down Olive Street in search of a tranquil tea lounge she remembered. She was trying to recall its exact location when she heard her name.
Edith Head was in a black linen suit and a silk blouse with large black-and-white checks. She was holding a bolt of material, four feet long and nearly a foot wide, wrapped in brown paper; it looked dreadfully heavy. She let it slide from her arms as Gwendolyn approached.
“How nice to see you,” Edith panted.
They exchanged cheek kisses, and Gwendolyn asked her what she was doing downtown on a Sunday.
“I’m working on a new Burt Lancaster picture, I Walk Alone. His love interest is this new femme fatale they’ve found, Lizabeth Scott.” Edith rolled her eyes. “Nice enough, but they’re grooming her to be the new Bacall. Big mistake, if you ask me, but what do I know? I’ve only worked on a hundred and fifty pictures.” She thudded her package with a finger. “I couldn’t find the material I wanted for her big scene, so I went looking.” She peered up at Gwendolyn through her tinted glasses. “That story about Kathryn Massey and her appendix, is it true?”
Gwendolyn feigned surprise. “She had a tough time of it at the hospital, but she’s fine now. Or will be, once she’s recuperated in Palm Springs.”
Edith nodded, not entirely convinced. Something behind Gwendolyn caught Edith’s eye; she looked at it a moment and frowned. “It’s just that I heard the wildest rumor at work this week. That Kathryn was the next victim of the Black Dahlia killer.”
Gwendolyn didn’t have to fake her surprise. “How ridiculous!”
“That’s what I thought. But you know how feverish the rumor mill can be.” She looped a fingernail around a button on Gwendolyn’s coat and pulled her closer. “Come with me.”
She herded Gwendolyn inside the Biltmore Hotel. The grand foyer soared two stories up to a vaulted ceiling that resembled a Spanish cathedral; the floor was dotted with gold velvet loveseats. Edith led her to one under an ornate staircase and laid her heavy package on the floor.
“I saw an Imperial roll to a stop at the curb not far from us,” Edith said conspiratorially. “It only stayed there a moment, then took off. A minute or so later, it came around the block again.”
Gwendolyn blinked. “Did you see who was in it?”
“Tinted windows. But between the Black Dahlia and the subpoenas the HUAC keeps issuing like they’re parking tickets, a girl can’t be too careful.” Her pale face took on a pinched look. “Is there any chance someone could be following you?”
Gwendolyn shook her head. “Not that I can think of. But like you said, these days, who knows? I wonder if they’re still there.”
Edith called a waiter over and asked him to check whether a black Imperial limousine was parked out front. He reappeared a few moments later and reported that it was.
“Take the doors on Grand Avenue, out by the Biltmore Bowl.” Edith hefted the roll of material into her arms. “I’ll go back the way we came in and make out like I’m looking for you. Are you sure you don’t know who they are?”
Gwendolyn avoided replying to Edith’s question by thanking her and hurrying up the stairway. She followed the signs to the Biltmore Bowl and headed for the double doors that opened onto Grand.
It was late Sunday afternoon now and the crowds were thinner, and no taxis in sight. She headed down the hill, crossing over Sixth Street, then Seventh, breathing a little bit easier at every intersection.
A black limo, large and expensive, crossed Seventh Street in a hurry, then jammed on the brakes as it came to a stop a little ahead of Gwendolyn. She walked past without acknowledging it. It sped up again, passed her, then came to a stop ten feet down the street.
The driver—a barrel-chested Italian with the florid face of a heavy drinker—stepped out from behind the wheel, around the front of the car, and opened the rear passenger door. He stared at her sullenly.
Fear contracted Gwendolyn’s chest as she approached the car, gripped the top of the open door, and bent down. Inside, Benjamin Siegel motioned for her to join him.
She slid inside; the chauffeur slammed the door behind her.
Siegel chewed on a toothpick, sucking it noisily as he pushed it from side to side with his lips. The car took off. Soon they’d be out of busy downtown and in an industrial area south of the city. On a Sunday. When the factories and streets were deserted. She sat motionless, waiting for him to initiate what was bound to
be an uncomfortable conversation.
They’d gone several blocks before he said, “Now that the mob has seen fit to take the Flamingo out of my hands, I have only one goal: to find Billy Wilkerson. Has Kathryn told you where he’s gone?”
“No.” The word popped out a shrill squeak.
“I’ve had someone check every hospital south of Santa Barbara, and not one female under the age of fifty has been treated for appendicitis. I’m going to ask you again, but only once more. Where is Wilkerson?” He still hadn’t looked at her, but kept his eyes on the front window.
Gwendolyn gripped the armrest. “I asked her where she was, but she refused to tell me. Said it was for my own good.”
He spat his chewed toothpick onto the carpet. “Tell her she’s to be at Virginia Hill’s house in Beverly Hills before midnight tomorrow. Is that clear?”
“But what if I can’t find her?” The question brought no response, so she tried a different tack. The sweet ingénue act had worked with him before. “I’m not trying to get in your way here, truly I’m not,” she said, raising the pitch of her voice and softening it at the same time. “But I’m no Mandrake the Magician. If Kathryn doesn’t want to be found, there ain’t a whole lot I can do about it.”
A hard silence cut the air in the cabin. Siegel didn’t move. He didn’t even appear to be breathing. Without the slightest flicker of warning, his right hand shot out and wrapped around her throat. He pulled her toward him, his mouth barely two inches from her ear. The fuggy stink of cigar swamped her.
“I want her there before midnight. If she’s not, I will come after every person she holds near and dear.” He squeezed her throat a little bit tighter. “Gwendolyn Brick. Marcus Adler. Francine Massey. Oliver Trenton. Bertie Kreuger.” The limo’s shadowy interior started to blur. “I could go on, but the clock is ticking.”
Gwendolyn managed to yelp, “I get it.”
Siegel released her as the car screeched to a halt. Gwendolyn lurched forward and slipped off the seat. Her knees gave out and she crumpled at his feet.
“Get the fuck outta my car.”
When she pried open her eyes, she caught sight of the late afternoon sun slanting in through the open door. She wrapped her fingers around the leather handles of her handbag and crawled on her knees until she tumbled to the unforgiving curb. She felt a whoosh of air, then heard the whamp of a car door. A second or two later, the Imperial’s engine roared and she listened to it recede into traffic. The only thing she could feel was her pulse throbbing in her ear.
CHAPTER 40
Kathryn yanked off her gloves and twisted them around her fingers until they burned. A streetlamp flashed past the window of Marcus’ DeSoto. “I think I’m going to puke.”
As Marcus rounded the gentle curve where Sunset Boulevard entered Beverly Hills, she swallowed hard and focused on the back of his head.
When they passed the brown and gold Beverly Hills shield, Gwendolyn laid a hand on top of Kathryn’s. “We can pull over. Or we can just go home.”
Going home wasn’t an option, and all three of them knew it. She tilted her watch toward the light outside. Nearly eleven thirty. She wished she hadn’t cut it so close, but it had taken all evening to screw up enough courage to simply get into the car.
Marcus pulled to the curb.
Kathryn gripped the back of his seat. “What are you doing? It’s nearly midnight.”
He held up a silver flask and unscrewed the top before handing it to her. The smell of expensive whiskey filled her nostrils.
“I need to keep my head clear.” She brushed the flask away. “Who knows what he might pull.”
“But you’ve got your story straight,” Gwendolyn said. “And it’s the truth. Mainly.”
First thing that morning, Kathryn had gone to an out-of-the-way Western Union to send a telegram to Wilkerson’s Paris hotel:
BEN ON WARPATH STOP LEAVE PARIS IMMEDIATELY STOP
Gwendolyn gently pushed the flask into her hand.
It seared Kathryn’s throat like a brushfire. “Thank you both for being here. This is above and beyond the call of duty.”
“The least we can do is get you there.” Marcus twisted in his seat and took her left hand in his. “You’re the one who has to walk inside.”
“I shouldn’t be leading you into danger like this. I should’ve let Nelson drive me.” Kathryn took a second sip. This time, the burn was comforting.
Marcus restarted his car and pulled into the sparse traffic along Sunset. “But you went to his place and left that note,” he pointed out. “And he never called you back.”
“I should’ve tried the FBI offices downtown.” She handed back the flask.
“You never did tell us how you found Hoyt at the Radio Room.”
Because I avoided telling you. “After Bette laid out a strong case for Siegel planting that bug, I went to his father’s store.”
“So it was dear ol’ dad who told you where to find him?” Marcus’ carefully worded query oozed with suspicion. “That’s some professional-grade sleuthing, Dick Tracy.”
She stared at the back of his head some more and pressed her hands together. “Marcus, honey, pull over again.”
“It’s twenty to midnight.”
“I have something I want—need to say.”
“It can’t wait?”
Her breathless “No!” was enough to convince him to draw alongside the curb out front of the Beverly Hills Hotel, where palm trees swayed in the evening breeze, backlit by artfully placed spotlights.
“I might not come out of that house alive,” Kathryn said.
“Don’t say that!” Gwendolyn cried out. “Don’t even think it.”
Kathryn grabbed both her friends by the hands. “Siegel and his goons, they play for keeps. And they play it with guns. I don’t have the answers he wants, so he won’t be too happy. Things could escalate, and if they do, I don’t want outright lies to be the last thing I say to you two.”
“Outright lies?” Marcus looked at Gwendolyn, then back to Kathryn. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kathryn squeezed Marcus’ hand. He didn’t squeeze it in return. “Nelson Hoyt is one of the good guys.”
“A good guy G-man is a contradiction in terms.” Marcus tried to withdraw his hand, but she didn’t let him.
She had been hoping that the revelation about the Mandeville Canyon raid would have encouraged Marcus to at least give Nelson the benefit of the doubt, especially seeing as how the bug in her villa had nothing to do with the FBI. But she couldn’t blame him for being suspicious.
“He joined the Bureau because he wanted to do his part to keep America a beacon of freedom,” she continued, “but all this anti-Commie Red and Pinko business has disillusioned him. He wants to leave.”
“I thought the only way to leave the Bureau was in a pine box.”
Now that Nelson had Gwendolyn’s 38–38–38 dress, he was setting up his plan to entangle Hoover. He wouldn’t tell Kathryn any of the details, but he promised to share them when the time came. What niggled at her, though, was why he didn’t call her back after she left that note. Where was he? “He has an added extra incentive to leave.” Kathryn was glad she’d downed those two shots.
“What incentive?” Marcus asked.
Kathryn drew in a silent breath. “I told him that I consider the Bureau to be as much an enemy to American freedom as the Communist Party, and that he’d have to be free of the FBI before I’d consider any sort of romantic attachment.”
He jerked his hand from hers. “Hoyt wants to date you? The bastard who forced you into spying on your friends? And you feel the same?”
She couldn’t bear to watch the betrayal fill his eyes. She tried to touch his shoulder, but he pulled away.
“It’s a quarter of,” he said. “You picked a hell of a time to share this.” He started the DeSoto and pulled onto the road, heading for Linden Drive.
“Marcus,” Kathryn pleaded, “it’s been building for a while
, but we haven’t—done anything.”
“You’ll be walking into Ben Siegel’s house in a couple of minutes.” Marcus sounded almost ghostly. “I suggest you focus on how you’re going to handle that.”
“I didn’t want our potentially last words—”
“I heard what you said.” He ground to a stop in front of a small park at Sunset and Whittier Drive. Virginia Hill’s place was just out of sight around the bend, a dozen houses down.
“Just go in there and tell him the truth.” Gwendolyn pressed her cheek against Kathryn’s. It was wet with tears. “We love her, don’t we, Marcus?” she said more loudly.
Marcus continued facing forward. “Of course we do.” His voice was low and breathy. “Just try to stay calm. Keep your wits about you.”
Kathryn opened the door. “If I’m not back in half an hour . . .” Then do what? Call the police? The FBI? Superman?
“We’re not budging,” Gwendolyn said.
“I’ll turn the car around,” Marcus said, “in case we need a fast getaway.”
“MARCUS!” Gwendolyn cuffed him across the head.
“I meant all three of us.”
When Kathryn stepped out into the June night, the reality of the scene she had to face hit her. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . One breath for every step.
“The last time I saw my boss,” she rehearsed out loud, “he was holding a ticket for the Ile de France. So my guess is that he’s in Paris.” In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . “He’s a man of habit, so try the Ritz or the Meurice.”
She shook her hands to free them of the excess adrenaline pumping through her body. She realized she’d left her pocketbook back in Marcus’ car. If she went back for it, she might not summon the courage to return, so she plowed on.
By the time she arrived at the Y-shaped fork, her knees felt like loose balls of cold linguine. She grabbed at the picket fence in front of her and breathed deeply. Three, two, one . . . GO.
Reds in the Beds Page 27
