Dangerous to Know Page 22

  Gene pushed out a breath and sat back, having heard the song before.

  “So what did our man do? He made the stop of last resort. A move of pure desperation.” Groff stabbed his finger into his own chest hard enough to bruise. “He came to us. The show business Jews. The pants pressers from back east. Making too much noise and too much money in a low-rent business. But we knew what was going on in Germany from our dealings there. We were awake.”

  He framed the scene between his hands, directing now. “In 1934, he arranged a meeting at the Hillcrest Country Club. The club Jews built, because none of the existing places in town cared for our kind. Everyone was there. Mayer, Thalberg, Selznick. Our own Manny Cohen. Even Lubitsch. And me. We heard what this man learned from veterans brave enough to cozy up to the Krauts. We understood the threat. And we alone stepped up to foot the bill. The men who run the studios spent tens of thousands of dollars on—”

  “A spy ring,” Gene said.

  “A fact-finding operation.” Groff wielded the phrase with the precision of a scalpel. “One that unearthed the truth about the Nazi connection to the Bund years ago. I’ve never been prouder of anything this town has done. Even the downtown Jews are kicking in their fair share now, because of what we’ve learned.” He turned the full force of his righteous fury on me. “And you almost brought it all crashing down.”

  “Mr. Groff, please,” Edith said. “Lillian still doesn’t know what you mean.”

  But I did know. Only one explanation was possible, even if I couldn’t force my mind to accept it.

  Groff stood his ground. “Because of Dietrich and this goddamned Lohse business—some two-bit composer nobody wanted to hire, for Christ’s sake—our efforts are at risk. Because you had to sic your pet cop on our top man.”

  He walked over to the door. Wrenched it open. Gestured into the outer office with exasperation. C’mon, you missed your cue.

  Simon Fischer strolled in. A look of apology on his face.

  * * *

  HE NODDED AT Gene and Groff. Bowed to Edith. Turned to me with an expression saying I can explain.

  “So you’re him.” Groff eyeballed Simon with vague disappointment, the star attraction not living up to his billing. Likely he’d expected a raffish sort with William Powell’s panache, not a slim fellow with a scarred face and a detached disposition. Groff had heard of Simon’s exploits but had never clapped eyes on him before, while Gene and I had been dealing with him for days without understanding who he was. To Edith, he’d merely been a name. Simon was a mystery man to us all, but in different ways.

  “Then you’re a…” I couldn’t say “spy,” knowing the word would provoke Groff’s wrath. “You’re not really in the Bund?”

  “No. As I said, I don’t care for the food.” A smile played beneath Simon’s features without quite surfacing.

  “He’s our man, Miss Frost,” Groff said. “The first line of defense against Nazi agitators. And you damn near had him arrested.”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Quit sweating her. She did nothing wrong. We’re letting the cat out of the bag to a few more people, that’s all.” Simon directed his words at me. Groff might as well have been at the other end of a telephone line. In, say, Scranton.

  “I for one would like to hear more about your efforts,” Edith said to Simon.

  “The group I presume Barney told you about came to me. Said I fit the bill for what the Nazis are looking for, a veteran at a loose end in life. Which is a nice way of saying I didn’t have a job. They put me on at Lodestar. Sure enough, a few weeks later a couple of grips mentioned the Bund meetings. Told me I’d hear some things I agreed with. What I heard I passed along.”

  “To whom?” Gene asked.

  Simon pointed at Groff. “Ask the poo-bah.”

  “Your department,” Groff snapped. “The district attorney. People in Washington. Fat lot of good it did us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it came from Jews.” None of the disdain in Groff’s eyes sounded in his voice. “Nobody in a position of authority cared. They said, ‘Consider the source.’ Plenty of solid citizens think Hitler’s got it figured right. Remember when the Dies Committee people were here back in August? Investigating ‘Un-American activities’? We played ball with them. Opened our books, offered to have our people testify. But Congressman Dies wanted no part of it. To him, ‘Un-American activities’ means communism, and communist means Jewish. You think he wanted a bunch of Jews, in show business at that, telling him to stop waiting for the Reds to holler ‘Boo!’ and concentrate on the Nazis instead? He doesn’t want to hear the Bund is working hand in black leather glove with the Reich, delivering money to Nazi agents and bringing in propaganda.”

  “I hate to sink your U-boat,” Simon said, “but the Bund isn’t the danger you’re making it out to be. Most Germans in the U.S. won’t give those clowns the time of day. And the ones who are in the Bund mainly like sitting around talking about how much better it is in the Fatherland. Those meetings are like listening to ex–New Yorkers say how much they miss the Dodgers and Giants.”

  “They plan kidnappings.” Groff’s finger jabbed the top of Edith’s desk. “They talk about murdering studio executives.”

  “So do writers on every lot in town. They’re a bunch of second-generation burghers marching in circles and shooting off guns in the hills. When the Bund does kill somebody, it’ll be with food poisoning at one of those goddamn Oktoberfest dinners.”

  Groff shook his head as Simon spoke, bridling at being contradicted. On his own lot, yet. “You don’t assess information, Fischer. You collect it.”

  “I was also told to collect it from an actual Nazi spy.”

  “You mean Jens Lohse,” I said.

  Simon’s eyes met mine. “Yes.”

  Gene cleared his throat. “How’d you know he was a spy?”

  “Unlike the blowhards at the Bund, he acted like one. I was taking him to Felix Auerbach’s apartment, and I knew from the questions he asked about Felix what he was after. I arranged to become Felix’s semiofficial driver. I also started watching Jens and building a dossier.”

  “All on his own,” Groff interjected. “No supervision from us.”

  “Once I confirmed my suspicions, I sent word along. You may recall, Barn, I received a commendation for my initiative.”

  “Yeah,” Groff said. “That medal come in the mail yet?”

  Gene positioned himself between the two, prepared to hose them off if need be. To Simon, he said, “Then in your estimation, Jens Lohse was a Nazi spy.”

  “Yes, but small potatoes. He wasn’t in a position to acquire military intelligence or tell you what was rolling off assembly lines at Lockheed. He was a piano player.”

  “But he was spying on the émigré community,” I said. “He had access to the records of the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League.”

  “True.” Simon took pains to sand the harsh edge off his voice when he addressed me. “And Hitler and his cronies are vain enough to want to know what the émigrés are saying about them. But a sewing circle of composers and intellectual novelists isn’t causing the Führer to lose sleep. And you hardly need an inside man in the Anti-Nazi League when their every move is reported in Daily Variety. Jens’s true value was as a go-between. He was always in people’s homes, entertaining at various clubs. That afforded him plenty of opportunities to meet with high-level Nazi assets who can’t risk being seen with the likes of Kaspar Biel. That was my interest in Jens—who did he meet after his regular rendezvous with Biel at Club Fathom?”

  “You knew all along who ‘Peter Ames’ was,” I said. “That’s why Rory Dillon recognized you. You’d been following Jens.”

  “For months. What I didn’t know was who you were, why you were interested in Jens, and why Biel was interested in you.”

  A silence followed. Edith filled it. “You’d tied Mr. Lohse conclusively to the Nazis. Surely you passed that information along to your organization
.”

  “And we told the FBI.” Groff’s smile made me wonder if vultures grinned when they spotted a vulnerable animal below. “They were unmoved.”

  “You’re telling it to the LAPD now.” Gene ignored Groff’s snicker. “You drove Lohse to the cabin the day he was killed.”

  “Yes. He said Felix had moved their lesson there.”

  “Did you see Felix?”

  “No. Not him, not his wife, not a car.”

  I couldn’t contain myself. “Did Jens have his music book?”

  Simon nodded. “I never saw him without it.”

  “You lied when I asked about this,” Gene said.

  “My hands were tied.”

  “Blame us if you must,” Groff said. “We didn’t want Fischer compromised, and Lodestar was already in hot water because the kid was found at Auerbach’s house.”

  “This fact-finding outfit of yours. Is it investigating Nazis or covering your asses?”

  Groff spread his arms, taking in all of creation. “What can I tell ya? Sometimes the twain meets. Point is, we knew Fischer was a dead end, so we saved you some time.”

  Gene clenched his jaw before turning again to Simon. “You’re familiar with all the players. Who killed Lohse?”

  “Best guess? You have her in custody.”

  “It’s Marthe?” I gasped.

  “I’d love to pin it on Biel. Marlene Dietrich had it right, Miss Head. Jens was falling apart. The pressure of spying on his friends had gotten to him. If I could see it, so could Biel. Jens was at the end of his usefulness to the Nazis. They could have killed Jens at the cabin knowing the Auerbachs would take the blame. But Felix’s absence is impossible to ignore. Whatever happened up there comes down to the three of them and intense jealousy. And only Marthe can tell the tale.”

  Gene pinched the bridge of his nose. “Which she has so far refused to do, aside from admitting her guilt.”

  “A-1 job you boys in blue are doing.” Groff chortled. “To date all this mishegas has done is jeopardize the one serious effort to combat the Nazi influence in Los Angeles. On the word of an actress who couldn’t buy a hit. I swear to you, Dietrich will never work in this town again.”

  33

  BARNEY GROFF APPROPRIATED Edith’s office for some final words with Gene and Simon. She and I adjourned to her salon. The waiting racks of Dorothy Lamour gowns visibly calmed her. They did wonders for my constitution as well.

  “We gave Mr. Groff an early gift. He hated having to bottle up that story. I daresay recounting it made his holidays.” Edith peered as if she could see around me into her office. With those glasses, anything was possible. “So that’s Simon.”

  You didn’t need my years in Catholic school to hear the judgment freighting her voice. “You don’t care for him.”

  “On the contrary, I find him impressive. Likely the ideal man for the vital task he’s undertaken. But we heard about the toll such a life had on Mr. Lohse. I can’t conceive how difficult it must be for him.”

  Neither could I.

  Groff summoned Edith back to her office, dismissing the rest of us. Simon approached me, Gene sticking so close I thought they were handcuffed together.

  “You’ll want your usual ride home,” Gene said.

  Simon cleared his throat. “I’m happy to drive Lillian. We haven’t had a chance to speak since she learned the sordid truth about me.”

  I questioned why Simon made his case to Gene, seeking his permission and not mine. Gene stepped back, leaving the decision to me.

  “I should hear him out,” I told Gene.

  “As you wish.” He turned toward Simon. “I don’t envy you your work, Fischer.”

  They shook hands, and with a nod to me Gene headed out. Simon extended his elbow. I thought I saw a glimmer of disapproval in Edith’s eyes as I took his arm.

  Or maybe it was light reflecting off her glasses.

  * * *

  WE SAT ON a secluded bench on the Paramount lot. I gazed up at the pepper trees, thinking they might be the same ones that loomed over George Burns when Customs agents braced him.

  “I’m sorry for deceiving you,” Simon said.

  “You had no choice. It’s your job. It must be lonely.”

  “Actually, it’s the opposite. Always somebody to see, another stein to hoist. These Bund members are eager to talk. It’s why I find it hard to take them seriously.” He cracked a half smile. “Anyway, I don’t have to lie anymore. I can be honest with you, which for me is a great luxury. I like you, Lillian.”

  I resumed my survey of the pepper trees, unable to look at him. “You do?”

  “I told you before. You’re not under any illusions, unlike every other woman in Los Angeles. You see through these people. You’re grounded while everyone else’s head is in the clouds.”

  If he intended his forthrightness to be flattering, he was in for a rude shock. “I see through these people? That sounds like you don’t care for anyone who works in pictures.”

  “I don’t, generally. They’re unserious. They dabble in politics, they judge everything by appearances, they prize their careers above all else.”

  “And I like show people, so I guess I’m unserious, too.” I shook my head as if that would restore order. Simon’s romantic interest had been playacting, a fabrication necessary for his mission. Quandary avoided. I should have been relieved.

  So why, now that I knew Simon played for our side, did I feel put out?

  “Can we talk about Jens?”

  That warranted a full smile from him. “This is what I’m talking about. Always on the job.”

  “You genuinely think Marthe killed him?”

  “Unless Felix miraculously returns to tell me otherwise. I’d give anything to find him.”

  “Too bad Felix’s best friend won’t talk to us.”

  “Who, Gustav Ruehl?”

  “He’s taken an intense dislike to me.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible.” Simon paused. “He may not deal with you, but I might have a chance with him.”

  “I doubt it. Ruehl’s suspicious of everyone. Right now he’s locked in his house puffing on his pipe, waiting for the Nazis or the FBI to beat his door down.”

  “His pipe?”

  “I smelled the tobacco when I was there yesterday. It was a lot like my uncle Danny’s brand, has a vanilla scent.”

  Simon nodded, his eyes on his hands as if watching to see what they’d do. “I did some research on Ruehl when I learned he and Felix were close. You’d never think it to look at him, but he’s one of those German health fanatics. Eats nothing but vegetables, embraces physical culture. He doesn’t smoke a pipe.”

  A chill ran through me. “And Felix?”

  “He’d light up in the car whenever I drove him home. Lovely tobacco. Hint of vanilla.”

  “You don’t think … we have to tell Gene.”

  “Not yet. If Felix is hiding with Ruehl, it’s because he’s afraid of the police. But he knows me. I can convince him to turn himself in.” He took my hand. “Come with me.”

  I waited for the rational side of my brain to weigh in, to counsel patience, to mention Gene again. But that voice didn’t speak up. Instead, the impulsive one took the floor.

  “Where’s your car?” I asked.

  * * *

  I POUNDED ON Gustav Ruehl’s door with a confidence borne of having a man who’d killed while wearing the uniform of his country behind me. No telltale waft of tobacco greeted me when the saturnine scribe jerked his door open. He proceeded to upbraid me in German, his eyebrows ready to shoot their quills. When he halted mid-rant, I knew Simon had emerged from the shadows.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Ruehl. Name’s Simon Fischer. I’m a friend of Felix Auerbach’s. If you’d tell him I’d like to say hello?”

  Ruehl’s eyes scanned the street in panic. No one was paying us any mind. “What do you—I don’t understand.”

  Simon stepped around me, his frame filling the doorway. He spoke as i
f he were on stage, projecting his voice to an unseen audience. “He’ll know me. We listened to the second Louis–Schmeling fight together. Not that it was much of a bout. Felix felt terrible for Schmeling. Not because he lost in one round, but because Schmeling was no Nazi puppet and had to go back to Germany in defeat. Tell Felix. We’ll wait.”

  “Why do you say this? There is no one here. I am alone.” Ruehl threw up his hands and looked at me incredulously, expecting my support.

  At first I thought I imagined the muted whiff of vanilla. Then Ruehl stopped agitating and lowered his arms in surrender. Muttering in German, he beckoned us inside. On my previous visit, I’d attributed the house’s gloom to a decorating sense that reflected the novelist’s outlook on life. Now I understood every curtain was closed to prevent anyone from seeing his guest.

  I heard a door at the end of a corridor creak, followed by footsteps. I recognized Felix Auerbach from the photograph of him and Marthe at their cabin. His skin looked sallow, his bald head more fragile and egglike. As he shook Simon’s hand, he sucked on his briar pipe like he drew his very breath from it. “Another friendly face at last,” he said in a pronounced but navigable German accent. “Someone had to find me. I’m glad it was you.”

  Simon introduced me. Felix executed a sharp bow from the waist. “The woman who discovered poor Jens, and to whom my wife surrendered herself. An overdue honor.”

  * * *

  GUSTAV RUEHL’S BACK garden made an unlikely confessional. Gardenia shrubs surrounded us, scenting the air. When the flowers were buds they resembled seashells, containing secrets. In bloom, they revealed themselves in a fleshy display that would raise hackles at the Breen Office.