Dangerous to Know Read online

  Scratch that. The garden served as an ideal confessional.

  “Funny, I never cared for this weather.” Felix smiled at the sun as he spoke. “But when you’re trapped inside all day, hiding when the police come to ask questions, you crave warmth and light. Marthe took to it at once. Now she is denied it, too. You have seen her? She is well?”

  “My friend with the police is taking care of her,” I said.

  Felix nodded sadly. “I knew she was having an affair with Jens, but I said nothing. I couldn’t blame her. She is younger than me, living in a foreign land. And my own ego was a factor. I valued being seen as a teacher again. Some days I was certain Jens continued our lessons only to be near Marthe, but other times his work would improve and I would think … I would think I was truly educating him.”

  He stared at the wrought-iron legs of Ruehl’s patio table. “Then came the day I made an impulsive trip to our cabin to work. I arrived to find my prized pupil lying dead on the floor. In my shock I made what seemed a logical assumption, that Marthe had killed Jens and fled.”

  “You saw no one else near the cabin?” Simon asked.

  “No. After the fires the area had been largely quiet.” Felix took a sip of water. “My only instinct was to protect her. I dragged Jens to the balcony and heaved him over the side, hoping his death would be seen as a suicide, and then I cleaned the cabin.” Without thinking he crudely pantomimed disposing of Jens’s body, his gestures making me flinch. “That’s when Marthe came in, expecting Jens. She was, to say the least, surprised to see me. I, in turn, was surprised she said nothing about my discovery. So after brooding for a time, I took her away.”

  I spoke up. “How did you get her to go with you? What did you say?”

  Felix swept a hand over his scalp, smoothing the memory of his hair. “I told her, ‘I know what you’ve done. Come. We must leave.’ She thought I meant the affair, because she had no idea Jens was dead. But she is a good wife, my Marthe, and did as she was told. We drove through the night to a place in the desert I like. Secluded, good for work. And there we sat, in silent recrimination. Marthe believing I was in a rage over her infidelity, me convinced she had murdered her lover.”

  “How long did this … confusion last?” I asked.

  “It shames me to say almost thirty-six hours. I started fumbling toward a reconciliation. I said Jens was dead and Marthe made a logical assumption of her own, that I had killed him in jealousy. So more time passed with us both in the dark. Finally, we came to understand the truth. Someone else had murdered Jens in our home. And in trying to shield my wife from harm, I had unwittingly helped conceal the crime.”

  After a moment, Simon prompted, “What did you next?”

  “We drove back and consulted our dear friend.” He waved at Ruehl, who impassively accepted the tribute like a stone bust of himself. “Gustav said Jens had not been mentioned in the newspapers, meaning it was possible no one yet knew he was dead. At that point, we hatched a scheme. We would return to the desert, only this time we would not stay in secret. We would take pains to be seen, we would talk about the weather for the past week, we would…” He turned to Ruehl. “How did you put it?”

  “Make a big noise. I read it in Black Mask magazine. One of the only publications to tell the truth of the proletariat in this country.”

  “Yes, yes. We would then go to the cabin and find Jens ourselves, telling the authorities we had been on holiday.”

  Ruehl rapped a knobby knuckle on the table in front of me. “But our plan was ruined when first you arrived at Salka’s house searching for Jens, then went to the cabin and found his body. We didn’t have time to establish the, the…” He snapped his fingers, seeking help.

  “Alibi,” Simon said. “I read Black Mask, too.”

  “At that point, we were at a loss,” Felix said. “Gustav was good enough to put us up while we decided what to do.”

  “Why not go to the police?” I asked.

  “Because Felix is too valuable an artist to submit himself to the brainless and corrupt thugs of the state!” Ruehl erupted. “It would be a further blow to the civilized world to subject him to a jury of American nincompoops who think strumming a ukulele while signing about the moon in June is the summit of musical achievement!” Spittle flew from his lips. I almost admired his ability to whip himself into a frenzy. Charting his blood pressure could win a specialist the Nobel Prize.

  Before I could launch a foolhardy defense of Rudy Vallee, Felix spoke. “We were in shock. Then Marthe took matters into her own hands. One morning I awoke to find a note from her. She believed her actions had brought death to Jens and disgrace to me. She wanted to atone. So she stole away and turned herself over to the authorities through you, Miss Frost. She thinks by accepting blame for Jens’s death, I can resume my career. As if I would want to without her by my side.”

  Now he is free, Marthe had said of her husband when she’d surrendered to Gene. Yet here he was, still confined.

  Simon touched Felix’s shoulder. “We’ll make this right. Lillian and I will help you and Marthe with the police. Right now the important question is, who did kill Jens?”

  “Marthe believes it was the Nazis. Soon they will kill everyone, she says. They simply started with him.”

  Ruehl began pleading with him in German, but I wasn’t ready to stop talking. “Was Jens’s music book at the cabin?”

  “Of course. It was his constant companion. I took it when we left. I meant to destroy it, but I couldn’t. It’s all that’s left of the boy.”

  “Could we see it?”

  He went into the house, returning with an object clutched to his chest. After so much talk about the book, I didn’t know what I expected. A jewel-encrusted cover, perhaps, securing vellum parchment. Certainly not the plain brown cardboard monstrosity before me, binding held together with tape, pages jutting out at wild angles. Maybe it was a case of appearances deceiving on purpose. Secrets valuable enough to get Jens killed were within this unassuming collection of potential paper cuts.

  “You’ve looked inside?” I asked.

  “Yes. It was the only music I had to keep me company.” Felix opened the book. I noticed a few crude renderings of crude subjects sketched inside the front cover and flushed with embarrassment.

  “There’s a piece Jens was working on for Marlene Dietrich. He mentioned it a few times. It starts as one of Jens’s silly little songs. Scandalous jokes of the sort he was somewhat known for. But partway through, he stops writing for Dietrich and instead writes to her. The lyrics become a confession. Jens admits he was working for the Nazis as a spy. Likely he told them many things about me. He certainly yielded information on Dietrich to them. He wanted her to know why. It’s actually quite a sad tale.”

  Felix placed some folded sheet music before me. Lyrics—in German, naturally—ran beneath the notes. Felix tapped one page. “Here is where the truth comes out. Rather ingenious. A casual reader would never notice.”

  I picked up Jens’s musical mea culpa, the notes meaningless to me, its words in a language I didn’t comprehend. A smaller sheet of unlined paper fluttered loose. Dezember written across the top, the two columns below a rudimentary calendar. Jens had a busy Christmas season planned. I recognized several names. B. Rathbone, E. Flynn. Fathom appeared several times, and a return engagement on the Lumen had been scheduled. There was something ineffably sad about Jens keeping track of engagements he wouldn’t live to see.

  I flipped through pages dense with music, sometimes in an orderly fashion, more often a dozen or so jumbled measures scrawled in haste. Occasionally I’d find a progression of notes independent of a staff, floating free in space. Words in German marked some of them. Others were preceded by letters or numbers. I couldn’t make head or tail of what I was reading.

  Felix pored over the book with me. “A few grossly simplified arrangements of popular songs. As if Jens heard them on the radio and wanted to remember them. Mostly melodies, a few chords, enough for him to
trick the untrained ear. The rest?” He puffed out a dismissive breath. “Kauderwelsch.”

  “Come again?”

  “Gibberish,” Simon said.

  “Musical nonsense. Well, some of it is music. A few measures that might be the beginnings of a song. But it’s mostly scribblings. Notes jotted at random.”

  “And the other writing? The words, letters, numbers?”

  Felix shrugged. “Only Jens could explain it.”

  A dreadful sinking feeling overwhelmed me. Either I’d been mistaken about the book’s significance or, if I’d indeed found the trove of information Malcolm Drewe had paid good money for, neither he nor I could interpret it.

  “Now if you will excuse me,” Felix said, “I must make myself presentable for the police.” Ruehl protested, but Felix waved him into submission. “What choice do I have? I regret leaving Germany. I wish Marthe and I had never come here.”

  “You can’t mean that,” Simon said.

  “But I do, my friend.” Felix’s smile scarcely concealed his pain. “Germany is full of devils, but they are devils I know. America is a land of demons I have never met.”

  Los Angeles Register

  December 13, 1938

  LORNA WHITCOMB’S

  EYES ON HOLLYWOOD

  FLASH! Selznick has finally settled on his Scarlett. Word is Paulette Goddard, long-rumored front-runner, will be posing in petticoats when cameras roll. And if Mr. S. should need to burn Atlanta again, he has a thousand screen tests he can use for kindling … Marlene Dietrich is no longer carrying a torch for Columbia. The tempestuous Teuton terminated her contract with the studio now that Frank Capra won’t direct her in Chopin. Europe, we’re told, beckons to the actress … Pity the poor toyless tots whose fathers (and even mothers!) are gambling away their Christmas Club savings on those chancy games of chance found floating on the Lumen and its like …

  34

  DETECTIVE HANSEN, GENE’S oh-so-lovable partner, had worn a knothole in the sole of his shoe. I knew this because said footwear was propped on his desk and pointed at me.

  “Tell me why these two always rate special consideration.” He swung his toe from me to Edith, trim in slate gray.

  Gene fashioned an erudite retort. “Pipe down, Roy.”

  Edith opted for a more diplomatic tack. “I’m dressing Dorothy Lamour at the moment, Detective.”

  Hansen, who never missed a picture, tried to mask his enthusiasm. “Lotta sarongs in this one, I hope.”

  Gretchen arrived, all doe eyes and matching tentative footsteps. Visiting a police station was clearly a novel experience for her. I waved her over and made introductions.

  “There’s three of ’em now?” Hansen barked, forcing Gretchen a startled step back. “Why don’t we wait for the tour bus to come through? Anybody else coming?”

  The sight of a naturally prompt Marlene Dietrich shut him up. She looked majestic in a wool suit in black and white stripes, the feather crowning her otherwise modest black hat long enough to pick up radio stations in San Diego. “Hello, boys!” she called in response to the hoots and shouts of her name, snapping off waves like a victorious general in a passing motorcade.

  Box office poison, my aunt Fanny.

  Hansen could only gawp as Dietrich embraced me. In the air around her hung the scent of My Sin, a floral perfume with spice and strength I’d sampled when I worked at Tremayne’s Department Store. I needed a few more sins under my belt to carry it off, so of course it suited Dietrich perfectly.

  I presented Gretchen to Dietrich as “Jens’s dear friend.” Gretchen practically curtsied. “Jens adored playing for you,” she said.

  “I could not have asked for a finer accompanist.”

  “Ladies, if you’d come this way?” Gene opened the door to one of the station’s less scrofulous interview rooms. “The accommodations aren’t much, I’m afraid.”

  Edith drew me aside. “It’s a true kindness on your part, including Gretchen.”

  “It may not be, considering what she’s about to learn. But it seems right she’s here.”

  Dietrich strode around the room, intrigued by her mean surroundings. Gretchen sat meekly at the table. Gene reappeared, carrying Jens’s music book. A panting Hansen stood behind him. He’d dashed down the hall and splashed water on his hair. The improvement was minimal.

  Gene placed the book before an antsy Gretchen. “We’ll leave you to it.”

  “Thank you, detectives.” Dietrich walked up to Hansen, looking him square in the eye. “I appreciate all you do.”

  Gene had to drag his partner bodily from the room.

  “There it is,” Gretchen said softly of the book. Dietrich made a tiny sound of agreement.

  I extracted Jens’s final composition. “I thought it only right you saw this, Marlene, because Jens was writing it for you. And it will answer many of Gretchen’s questions.” I already knew what the pages said, thanks to Simon’s translation. How Dietrich would react to Jens’s confession was the question.

  The actress sat down, hooking her long legs beneath the chair. She chuckled as she read the lyrics. I knew she’d reached the more revelatory passage when she pressed a handkerchief to her face. Even her tears maintained a Prussian sense of order.

  “It’s tragic,” she said. “He stops writing this most amusing song and admits he is coming undone. He has been spying for the Nazi regime against his will for months.”

  Gretchen gasped. “Does he say why?” Edith asked.

  “He left family behind in Austria. A mother too old to travel, a sister ill with consumption. After the Anschluss a Nazi named Biel approached him in Los Angeles and said his family could be made more comfortable if Jens assisted them. Spy on the émigrés, deliver messages to and from those who could not openly meet with their Nazi masters. Jens had no choice but to agree. He invented fictions when he could, told the truth when necessary. He spoke of me to them, and begs my forgiveness. The silly boy.”

  Edith patted Dietrich’s arm, knowing her principal responsibility was to console the star before her. I mirrored the action with Gretchen.

  “But he has decided to end this charade,” Dietrich continued. “He has a plan to raise enough money to move his family to the United States. Then, he will leave Los Angeles forever. The next time he plays for me, he writes, it will be in a free Berlin.” Again she brushed her cheeks with the handkerchief. “I told you I could sense his troubles. These blasted Nazis will never give us any peace. Their shadow falls even here. This is who is responsible for Jens’s death, yes?”

  I spoke up. “The police think it’s a possibility. It’s why they can’t release the papers to you.”

  “I don’t want them. I doubt I could ever perform this song. It’s too personal, too raw. It needs work.” She read the lyrics again, thin eyebrows arcing ever higher as she translated them on the fly. She hummed a melody softly then, to my astonishment, began to sing.

  What have I done to deserve this? You wouldn’t say I had earned this.

  How did this life become mine?

  My lovers sport their darkly tinted glasses when visiting my mansion in the hills.

  Tess is an actress, Bess a designer, Rose is a poet (I pay the bills)

  I cultivate a fashionable skin tone—lightly bronzed is right for ’39

  I’ve built a bungalow down by the seaside, my friends come by to eat (we never dine)

  I live at the beach, lemonade within reach

  I eat only salads and never sing ballads

  What have I done to deserve this? You couldn’t say I had earned this.

  How did this life become mine?

  How did I make my way, without a penny—Berlin to Paris, then across the sea?

  I often think of those I left behind, and hope they have no need to think of me.

  Honest men whose character outshines mine, gentle girls as kind as I am cruel.

  Should they be here enjoying what I savor? Should I be there? Or am I just a fool?

  How
can I frolic in the sun

  When friends are falling one by one?

  Why does Fortune treat me kindly

  Yet punish those I left behind me?

  I would offer to switch places—

  But could I leave such pretty faces?

  What have I done to deserve this? God knows I haven’t earned this.

  Why did this life become mine?

  Edith handed Gretchen a handkerchief while I reached discreetly for one of my own. I knew I’d heard the one and only performance of Jens Lohse’s last song, sung by the very woman for whom it had been composed.

  “It tries too hard,” Dietrich said clinically. “We would have improved it. But his talent was at work. He was writing about his guilt, and mine. He was transforming his pain into art. Until he could write no more.”

  “There will be a venue for that song someday,” Edith said.

  “Much must change first. Jens is an early casualty of what is about to happen. It’s partly why I’m going back.”

  “To Germany?” I couldn’t keep the alarm from my voice.

  “No, not while that man is in charge. I go to France. Close enough to smell my native land, taste its food. Perhaps I will make films there. Word of my catastrophic box office performance has yet to reach those shores.” She smiled. “But I shan’t leave until after Christmas. Earl Carroll’s Vanities Club opens that night. It will be the event of the year. And before then, you must allow me to cook for you. I will prepare a true German Christmas feast. Roast goose, some dumplings.”

  Gretchen smiled for the first time that morning, her reddened eyes alight. “Potato or bread?”

  “Potato. My kartoffelklösse have made many a traveler weep from homesickness. Do you cook, my dear?”

  “All of my mother’s recipes. It wouldn’t be Weihnachten without her gänsebraten and semmelklösse.”

  Dietrich smiled dreamily. “Rotkohl simmering on the stove for hours.”