The Sharpest Needle Read online

  ‘Nor does mine.’ Hearst deposited his plate and beamed down at it in triumph before pulling out his chair. Selden stared daggers at me and hunted for the next available seat.

  ‘You’re down past the salt, Tony,’ Marion said without a glance at him. Selden slunk off with his salad.

  I raked furrows into my hominy. When I glanced up, Hearst’s eyes were boring into mine. I would have gulped had I any moisture in my mouth.

  ‘Miss Frost,’ our host said in that curiously high-pitched voice. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your stay so far.’

  I nodded repeatedly, throwing in an abundance of yeses for emphasis. I had to do better. ‘May I ask you a question, Mr Hearst? When did you last play the banjo?’

  Hearst blinked several times before responding, no doubt expecting a query about global events or one of the masterpieces adorning his walls. He chuckled, the sound not coming naturally to him. ‘Who told you about that?’

  Silently, I thanked Orson Welles for providing this tidbit. ‘A mutual friend of Ashton Stevens.’

  ‘He taught me, all right. It’s been a while since I picked one up, although there’s one around somewhere. Perhaps I’ll send a search party for it later. I’m afraid I was more enthusiastic than good, and that’s when I was in practice.’ He leaned closer. ‘Don’t let on, but I’ve been known to yodel as well.’

  ‘You’re a cowboy at heart, then.’

  Hearst beamed at the comment and we were off and running, talking mainly about pictures. I let him know how excited I was to see The Cat and the Canary. ‘Got hold of that one in your honor,’ he told me. ‘A tribute to your friend the costume designer at Paramount. She does fine work.’

  ‘I’m impressed you got a copy so early.’

  ‘I’m not saying we screened Gone with the Wind here a few months back.’ Hearst smiled conspiratorially. ‘I’ll only say I expect it will be a triumph in every sense.’

  Before I could inundate him with questions about the much-anticipated film version of Margaret Mitchell’s novel, Selden bellowed from further down the table. He’d have been better off using Western Union. ‘Are we discussing the arts?’

  Hearst angled his head toward him. ‘You have a contribution to make, Anthony?’

  ‘Only the one I’ve been making for weeks, W.R. Now that you’ve chosen to liquidate some of your singular collection’ – Selden raised his hands to take in the condiment bottles and the tapestries, as if the whole lot would be going on the block – ‘why not select buyers with the same care? No point holding an auction when the right people can be brought directly to you.’

  ‘We’re going to unload the whole kit and caboodle through department stores,’ Marion chimed in. Several of the guests tittered. ‘Someone suggested it, and it sounds eminently practical to me. Who wouldn’t want to pick up a nice canvas with their satin panties?’

  Hearst scowled, whether at the risqué comment or something else, I couldn’t tell. Selden chuckled automatically at the line then switched to a serious face with lightning speed.

  ‘I could find buyers for you at this very table. I was speaking to someone willing to purchase your Montsalvo.’

  Marion’s fork dropped to her plate with a clatter. Hearst sat back, his interest piqued. ‘You don’t say. Who is it?’

  Addison, beet-red, set down his cutlery in preparation for raising his hand.

  Then Walter Kehoe spoke up. ‘I am.’

  An amused Hearst pivoted toward him. ‘Didn’t figure you for an art lover, Walter.’

  ‘I like some of it. Don’t know as much as you, of course.’ Kehoe paid the compliment grudgingly. ‘What I do know is Mussolini likes this Montsalvo fella, and I’m interested in getting a hold of that painting as a peace offering. I feel badly about that deal I made with his son and those Eye-talian bankers going south. I understand the old man blames me for it.’

  ‘Vittorio can’t explain the facts to his father?’ Hearst tutted. ‘He doesn’t sound like much of a partner.’

  ‘The facts don’t matter. Feelings do. In politics and in pictures. It’s all the same.’ Kehoe poked his chest with his thumb. ‘I should know. If war breaks out in Europe—’

  ‘When.’ The word came like a whipcrack from the fireplace end of the table. The duke’s first contribution to the conversation was a good one. Timothy, seated next to him, snorted.

  ‘If.’ Kehoe hammered the syllable home. ‘It won’t last long. And somebody’s got to make pictures with the Eye-talians.’

  ‘Must they?’ Hearst said with merriment in his eyes.

  ‘I got raked over the coals for trying to close that deal.’ Now Kehoe drummed the table, a prisoner pleading his case from the dock. ‘By short-sighted people who don’t know how to read the situation. Are things bad over there? Of course they are. If I were a Jew, I’d be worried. I’d be damned worried. Which is why you’d think these people would want someone who’s on their side working with Mussolini. So I can be a voice in his ear. Advocating on behalf of the Jews and, and …’ His words failed him. ‘And whoever else needs it.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Vera said. A raucous laugh erupted from the duke’s end of the table.

  ‘The painting’s not for sale.’ Hearst’s lips curdled. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Besides, you don’t need it, Walter,’ Marion said soothingly. ‘Or some silly deal with the Italians. When the history of Hollywood is written, you’ll be in it.’

  ‘Who’s worrying about history?’ Kehoe fumed. ‘I’m here right now.’

  ‘I sketched some Montsalvos when I was in Europe,’ Timothy said with a bored sigh. ‘Have to say, he’s not much of a painter.’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, Timothy,’ Vera said.

  Marion recovered her fork and clanged it against her glass. ‘Yes. Do shut up, everyone.’

  As the luncheon wound down, talk turned to plans for the rest of the afternoon.

  ‘You all have run of the grounds, of course,’ Hearst said, bowing his head slightly in recognition of his own magnanimity. ‘I encourage you to take advantage. Be vigorous!’

  ‘Lillian and I will be going down the hill.’ Marion uttered the words almost as a personal aside to him.

  ‘Yes. I thought I’d come with you.’

  Marion’s face blanched. ‘With us?’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you? A ride would be just the thing today.’

  ‘We’re not taking a ride. I want to show Lillian the beach.’

  ‘Easy enough to ride there.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s too far, it’s too steep, it’s worse coming back up, you go entirely too fast, and you expect everyone to keep pace with you. It’s why no one enjoys these rides of yours, no matter how many tents and picnics and minstrels you include in the package.’ Marion ended this tirade with a desperate pull on her glass. Hearst kept his eyes on that vessel and not on Marion, holding its contents responsible for her outburst.

  Addison, without a horse, rode to the rescue. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve been riding, W.R. Why don’t we hit the trail together? Provided you have a steed capable of supporting me, that is. And we stick to level ground.’

  ‘Not much level ground here, but I’m sure we can find terrain that won’t be too challenging.’ Hearst grinned, regaining his optimism. ‘Any other takers?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a ride,’ Timothy said.

  ‘Splendid. How about it, Walter? Anthony? Get me out under that hot sun and I might promise you anything.’

  The two men spoke over each other in their haste to agree to the gallop. Marion winked across the table at me. Our plans remained intact. The hunt would soon be on.

  SIXTEEN

  The car Marion had requisitioned drove through the remains of the ranch’s private zoo. The animals, like that cranky camel waiting for its close-up at Paramount, had been the first of Hearst’s possessions sold off to ease his financial crunch. We passed one empty cage after another along the narrow road. I’d never seen an abandoned menagerie before
. I was unprepared for how sad a sight it was.

  ‘There are still animals roaming around,’ Marion strove to reassure me. ‘Rams and zebras and things. It’s fun to see them milling with the cows like they belong there. Reminds me of when the day players would mingle with the leads at MGM. Everyone dressed differently, but soon we’d all be griping about the coffee.’

  She whimpered as the car tooled past one desolate paddock. ‘The polar bears lived here. I miss them the most. Always such fun, those bears. Born entertainers. They should have been in pictures instead of me.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You were wonderful in pictures.’

  ‘That’s not how the critics saw it. W.R. used to tell me not to read the bad notices, only the good ones. I’d rather read the lousy reviews. At least there are more of them.’ She forced a laugh. ‘Soon W.R. will be out here gallivanting.’

  ‘With Addison in tow. I don’t know if the man’s ever been on a horse.’

  ‘Here’s hoping W.R. goes easy on him. You’d think a man his age wouldn’t be up to much riding, but the old fellow still thunders around like Tom Mix.’ She leaned forward to speak to the driver. ‘How you doing, Freddy? How’s tricks?’

  I couldn’t quite make out his upbeat response. Marion cackled at it. ‘That’s swell. Can you pull over after this bend? I want to stretch my legs.’

  Freddy did as asked. ‘Shake and a half of a lamb’s tail, I promise,’ Marion said, cracking her door open. She ambled to the edge of a small creek and sighed with contentment.

  I seized on the time alone to continue unraveling the knot that had vexed me since lunch. Anthony Selden had arrived at San Simeon with the intent of discussing Hearst’s holdings of Paolo Montsalvo; his reaction to Addison’s question about the painter proved that. Walter Kehoe, meanwhile, had bestowed near-talismanic properties upon the artwork, viewing it as a means to heal the rift that had erupted between him and Benito Mussolini – how foolish did I feel letting those words parade across my mind for even a moment? – and to restore his status in Hollywood. Both clearly craved the canvas, and with Hearst’s vast trove of art about to be put up for bid, they feared losing out. Would either man have resorted to preying on Marion in order to secure what they sought?

  Mustn’t leave out Vera and Timothy. I knew from their furtive fumblings that they were already deceiving Kehoe. Could they have a motive for seeking the Montsalvo? Dejectedly, I realized that any of the guests at the ranch could in theory be Argus – except for the duke and duchess, who didn’t seem to possess the energy. Or Argus could be nowhere near San Simeon. He could be back in Los Angeles, concealing any trace of his role in Clarence Baird’s murder with the hapless Carter Muncy on his trail, while I traipsed around with Marion.

  I turned to look at her. Having crouched to rinse her hands in the creek, Marion now rose and slipped her delicate white gloves on again. She marched back to us, waving Freddy off as he moved to open the car’s door. ‘I’m a grown woman with all my own teeth, Freddy. I’m familiar with how these contraptions work.’

  As we rolled forward, Marion waggled something at me, the object catching the light. It was a bottle of gin, slick with creek water, the length of string that had fixed it to the shore still knotted around its throat. I shook my head, declining a sip.

  ‘Told you I have my ways,’ Marion said, slipping the bottle into her purse.

  When we reached the foot of the hill, Marion instructed, ‘Stop at the store, Freddy. I want to show the town off to Lillian.’

  The quaint clapboard structure housing Sebastian’s, San Simeon’s general store, looked like a set from every Western I’d ever seen. Marion and I wandered around it, the locals treating her like one of their own. ‘Freddy doesn’t need to know why we came down here,’ she said. ‘Let’s keep our little clique intimate.’

  Close to the general store was a warren of buildings, many in the same Spanish style I’d seen on the hilltop. ‘Does W.R. own all this too?’ I asked.

  ‘Everything except the sunlight and the sea air. A holding company has the papers on those.’ She pointed at the closest building, about the size of Addison’s cottage. ‘One of Ol’ Sourpuss’s warehouses. Here’s hoping what we’re after is within.’

  At least a dozen identical crates had been stacked outside, each tattooed with writing in a language I couldn’t comprehend. Marion caught me tilting my head to decipher it. ‘Part of the monastery, I think.’

  ‘Very funny. What is it?’

  ‘I’m serious. It’s an actual monastery. W.R. saw it in Spain and decided it would look perfect here, so he bought it. Had the whole thing broken down into pieces and shipped over. There’s a few hundred more boxes around someplace. I hope they remembered to send the instructions. I love a jigsaw puzzle, but those at least come with a picture.’

  Marion took several steps forward before realizing I was still staring dumbfounded at the crates. ‘All of this,’ I said slowly, ‘is a monastery. Where monks used to live.’

  ‘Is it only monks in a monastery? No nuns?’

  I let Marion’s comment bake in the afternoon heat. ‘When is it going to be reassembled?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s been here quite a while.’

  I could only nod and wave at the warehouse door.

  It wasn’t any cooler inside, only darker. A man met us at the entryway. He didn’t appear to be sweating at all. Perhaps his body had simply given up. He scratched his light stubble with one hand and gripped his cap with the other, some emotion preventing him from meeting Marion’s gaze.

  ‘Hot enough for ya, Sam?’ Marion gave the line an exaggerated reading, rolling her eyes at her own theatrics. ‘Thought I’d give you one you hadn’t heard before.’

  ‘Very funny, ma’am.’ Now both hands throttled the cap.

  ‘“Ma’am”? I don’t like how this is starting off, Sam.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but … I can’t find the painting you asked about. The one you wanted for the ranch.’ Sam shrugged helplessly. ‘I checked the registry again, and it was here. But quite a few pieces have been moved the last few months owing to …’ He trailed off, not wanting to mention his benefactor’s financial woes in the temple.

  Marion nodded crisply, then said the name of the painting and the artist again for confirmation. Sam winced as he shook his head. ‘If it isn’t here,’ Marion asked, ‘where is it?’

  ‘Almost certainly at the Shasta warehouse, ma’am. I was going to telephone you, but you indicated this was to be a surprise for the Chief, so I—’

  ‘Did exactly the right thing, Sam.’ Marion managed a smile. ‘Don’t bother the folks up at Shasta. We’ll be heading to Wyntoon shortly and I can check in person. Lillian and I will take a look around anyway, see if there’s anything we like. You can box it up for us when we’re done.’

  Sam laughed weakly in relief and stepped aside, in a hurry to give Marion free rein of the warehouse. As if she didn’t have it anyway.

  ‘Dammit,’ Marion said when we were alone. The word still echoed. ‘Argus would have to ask for something I can’t put a hand to.’

  ‘What’s Wyntoon?’

  ‘W.R.’s house up the coast. A big sort of Bavarian spread. A lot less formal than the ranch. It figures that’s where the painting must be. Of all the luck. Now I’ve got to connive an excuse to go up there, then scheme to get away from W.R. and track the blasted thing down. Suppose there’s another letter in the meantime? This Argus could want the painting right away while I’m stranded up there at Spittoon …’ Her eyes widened as she worked herself into a frenzy.

  ‘Whoever’s behind this knows how much work is involved in tracking down the Montsalvo,’ I told her, projecting a wholly unearned confidence in a schoolteacher’s voice. ‘It’s like looking for a needle in a stack of needles. That’s why he needs you to do it. You’re the one person who has access to W.R.’s collection before anything’s put up for sale. Argus will wait until you have the painting. I guarantee it.’

 
; ‘Isn’t that charitable of him?’ Marion flounced. ‘We might as well have a gander while we’re here, in case Sam’s wrong. Maybe we’ll find it misfiled with the Montblancs or something.’

  Saddles, some ornate, some downright gaudy, lined the width of the warehouse. Statues of varying heights stood draped under sheets, their forms unknowable and menacing. What the warehouse held in abundance were crates. Many marked Fragile, most bearing stamps and brands from foreign climes, with numbers stenciled on every last one. I scanned them for any sense of what they might contain. Stained-Glass Window – 3 of 4. I didn’t spot the other three boxes; perhaps those windows had broken. One crate simply read Titian. Color, I thought, or artist? We turned a corner to discover a row of seemingly identical cubes labelled Old English Barn.

  ‘Is that—’ I began.

  Marion nodded.

  I hurried on, no longer seeing prizes of antiquity waiting to be unearthed but possessions taking up space. William Randolph Hearst had an entire complex of warehouses here, more up in Wyntoon – or Spittoon as Marion had called it – and surely others scattered across the map. What treasures had he locked away, even from himself? His extravagance seemed like a true waste because no one, not even Hearst, was enjoying what he’d gathered. I found myself thinking of Mrs Dunphy, who lived downstairs from us in Flushing. She’d lost her husband at sea and four of her sons in the Great War. My aunt Joyce would stop by her apartment ‘to check on the poor creature’, bringing soda bread for sustenance and me as a safety precaution. Piles of newspapers, many taller than seven-year-old me, cluttered the room, with trails blazed to the sagging couch, the long-shuttered window, the dingy kitchen. We’d offer to help get rid of some of the stacks, but she’d cluck at us and say, ‘I’m going through that one now’, then return to nibbling on her soda bread. Her affliction, whatever it was, wasn’t the same as Hearst’s, but it wasn’t that different, either.

  I heard a clatter behind me and turned. The aisle stretched out, barren of people, full of plunder. I’d wandered the warehouse in a daze and lost sight of Marion entirely. It took me several moments to find her, brushing dust from her gloves.