Dangerous to Know Page 25

  “You could bloody run, man!” Smith trumpeted. “Just for appearance’s sake!”

  Dansby-Hall took off at a sprint while fielders chased after the ball. I stopped following the action, my focus now on Flynn, who in turn devoted his energies to a woman at the base of the bleachers. Not his bride Lili Damita, or Millicent from Club Fathom, but a redhead. I wondered if Flynn needed a social secretary to keep his conquests straight, and if I should apply for the job.

  “When was this secret screening?” I asked.

  “Right after Riefenstahl arrived.”

  “Would Nazi agents in Los Angeles have gone?”

  Simon chewed on the idea. “They’d be taking a hell of a chance.”

  “Not so much at the Beverly Hills Hotel. There are meetings and parties there every night. Visiting one of the bungalows without being seen is even easier. Nobody there but other Nazis. You wouldn’t need a go-between.”

  Simon considered Flynn again. “It’s feasible. But would a notable person risk being found out for that?”

  “An exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime screening of a movie featuring a star turn like no other?” I turned to Simon. “I know your opinion of show people. What do you think?”

  * * *

  DREWE, I REALIZED as he lifted finger three, had a better manicure than I did. If I handled that much money, I’d splurge on nail care, too.

  “And finally, lest we forget, Errol’s an actor. Actors always want to prove themselves. You give Errol a chance to do what he does in pictures for real? I don’t think he could resist it, any more than women can resist him. He’s helpless in that way. You know why?” Drewe leaned forward, all three polished digits tapping the tabletop. “The poor bastard has to be Errol Flynn. All day, every day. Even to himself.”

  * * *

  PRACTICE APPEARED TO be over now that the ball had been recovered. Before Simon could stop me, before I could stop myself, I marched down the bleachers toward the field. Smith waved Dansby-Hall closer and studied him up and down. Then, with a hearty bark, the actor thrust out his hand. “Good show. Matches every Sunday. Grand to have you aboard.”

  Unless I was mistaken, Dansby-Hall brushed away a tear.

  Flynn, bidding farewell to his teammates, had draped his blazer over his shoulder and consequently looked even more delectably roguish. I wouldn’t have to fake a swoon, because the genuine article barreled toward me. I braced for impact.

  The crash came when Flynn spotted me, his eyes narrowing in recognition. “Hello,” he said as if he’d just wandered out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, the whole world his hotel room. “Haven’t we met before?”

  “We have. Here and a few other places.” I waved at the field. “I enjoyed watching you.”

  “Cracking good sport, isn’t it? Come again Sunday and you can watch me work up a sweat.”

  Okay, this was getting difficult. I’d have to work fast. Time to pilot the palaver toward the subject of Riefenstahl’s film and see if the actor gave himself away. “Is cricket in the Olympics?”

  “A very good question. I happen to know it isn’t, not since an exhibition match in 1900. High time that changed, don’t you think?”

  “Quite. Do you like the Olympics?”

  “I like all kinds of physical activity. Especially when it’s judged and prizes are awarded.”

  Oh, come on. I was beginning to think if Flynn was a spy he ranked with Allan Pinkerton. Thanks to his one-track mind, he couldn’t be fazed. He glanced past me at the redhead, pouting in wholly nonsuggestive fashion. “Would you excuse me? We’ll continue this conversation on Sunday. Perhaps over a pink gin.”

  Flynn dashed over to his titian-haired temptress. Simon caught up to me as I walked away from the pitch.

  “You’re crazy,” he said, and I detected a hint of admiration. “The verdict?”

  “I have no idea. Flynn could be too smart for me, too dumb for the Germans, or both.”

  “Still, it was a valiant effort. Now what?”

  “Now we go to Fräulein Director and ask her.”

  36

  “I HATE TO sound like one of the scripts I’m too often forced to read,” Edith said, “but I have grave reservations about your plan. And there’s a stain on your shoe.” Nothing related to wardrobe escaped Edith’s vision. I curled up on her office sofa so I could scrub the smudge of grass I’d carried from the cricket field.

  “I’m going to a preview, hoping to wangle a chat with the director. I’ve done it before.”

  “Not in a room full of Nazis.”

  “And Olympians. Stalwart examples of clean living. Johnny Weissmuller will be there. It’s practically a public event.”

  “A screening with minimal publicity is hardly a public event. It is, quite literally, a meeting in a darkened room. You don’t even know you’ll gain entry.”

  I grinned with both pride and exertion; the grass stain on my white leather spectator oxford proved stubborn. “Addison’s a member of the California Club. When his social secretary inquired about the venue, the management was happy to extend an invitation to tonight’s special event.”

  “Very efficient. One might even say ruthless. Please stop rubbing that shoe, Lillian! A little white vinegar and water will remove the stain. Be sure to daub it on.” She exhaled and placed her palms flat on her desk. “I don’t understand why you’re prepared to take this considerable risk.”

  “Because I can’t go on reading papers and watching newsreels hoping everything will work out. I have to do something. I have to act. I mean, the Nazis already invaded my apartment.” Having given voice to the thought, I recoiled from it. “Anyway, it’s not risky. It’s only a movie.”

  Edith nodded, but not in agreement. “What does Detective Morrow think of this proposed derring-do of yours?”

  “I haven’t told him. I already know what he’d say.”

  “Then the sole supporter of this scheme is Simon.”

  “Better than just me.” Only then did I realize Edith regularly referred to Simon by his Christian name. She still called Gene “Detective Morrow” and spoke of me as “my friend, Miss Frost.” That she didn’t extend this formality-as-respect to Mr. Fischer troubled me. “You don’t support it, then.”

  “No, I don’t. It’s potentially dangerous. And Errol Flynn is no Nazi agent. An adventurer and a libertine, but not a spy. It’s my understanding Warners would put him in any movie but wouldn’t trust him with an address book.”

  “If it’s not Flynn, I can persuade Leni to tell me who it is. I know I can.”

  Edith canted her head at a slight angle, which I knew meant Not bloody likely. “If you insist on going ahead, I insist you inform me the instant you’re free. Tell me what if anything you learn from Miss Riefenstahl and I’ll convey it to Mr. Groff. He can deliver the information to more receptive ears in Washington. Don’t telephone. Come directly to the lot.”

  “It’s a long movie, Edith.”

  “I’ll be here. Some of the girls will be working late, and I’m going to demonstrate my solidarity. I may even permit them to chew gum.” A half smile as she shuffled the sketches on her desk. “We have to finish the costumes for Bob Hope’s next picture. Our friend Preston Sturges worked on the script, although he’s disowning the entire enterprise and making noise about directing again. I take it Simon will accompany you tonight?”

  Now that I’d noticed her constant use of his first name, I cringed when she said it. “No. He can’t risk running into anyone from the Bund.”

  “Then who’ll act as translator for you and Miss Riefenstahl?”

  The room went white. “Translator? Doesn’t Leni speak English? She did in S.O.S. Iceberg.”

  “The film with Rod La Rocque? Heavens, you do see everything, don’t you? What little dialogue she had was dubbed. Her command of English, I’m led to believe, isn’t strong. And I imagine nuance will be of the utmost importance.”

  “Then I need an interpreter, fast. What about Marlene?”

&nbs
p; Edith burst out in laughter. “You’d entertain that idea after hearing her plan to assassinate Adolf Hitler? Besides, Miss Riefenstahl would never tell Marlene what you want to know. You must approach Miss Riefenstahl purely as an American admirer of her artistry and craftsmanship.”

  “There’s Gretchen.”

  “Can you trust her, given her feelings toward Mr. Lohse?”

  “I don’t have much choice, given the time constraints.”

  The only problem: Gretchen was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t raise her at Lodestar or at home. I hung up the phone, feeling utterly foolish for not thinking this caper through. “Not to rush you, dear,” Edith said, “but in five minutes I have to meet some cowboys at Western Costume. I regret to say you may not be able to talk to Miss Riefenstahl this evening.”

  “Cowboys.”

  “Yes, we often rent their costumes when there’s no need to have them custom-made.” Edith scrutinized me. “What is it? You’ve thought of something.”

  “I know a cowboy whose fiancée happens to speak German. But do I want her help?”

  * * *

  “MAN SOLL DAS Fell des Bären nicht verteilen, bevor er erlegt ist,” Kay said, unfolding her napkin.

  “That’s why I called you. What’s it mean?”

  “Basically, don’t count your chickens before they hatch. But it’s German, so there’s a bear in it.”

  My one-time chum and I convened at Lucey’s, a restaurant on Melrose directly opposite Paramount. The old world charm and convenient location made it an informal studio clubhouse. I spotted a few faces from the commissary writers’ table surrounded by empty glasses and hoped they’d turned in their pages for the day.

  Kay signaled for coffee. “Before I agree to sit through Leni’s monstrosity—it’s four hours long—I need to know what’s in it for me.”

  Any appeal to our former friendship would fall on deaf ears. Kay put her career first. Our hatchling Hopper wouldn’t be cajoled into cooperating easily.

  “The Olympia screening’s still fairly hush-hush,” I said offhandedly. “Could be an exclusive.”

  “I don’t care for sports.”

  “Any of them? It’s the Olympics. There’s got to be one you like. What about an interview with Leni Riefenstahl?”

  “That I’m in favor of. The press is being unfair to her. She only wants to sell her picture. The town’s high-hatting her because she’s a woman.”

  Who may or may not be der Führer’s girlfriend, I thought, and is certainly his cinematic hagiographer. “It’s an interesting argument.”

  “I made it in print. You do read my column, don’t you?”

  “Never miss it.” I tried to restrain myself and failed dismally. “I saw Addison earned some ink.”

  “Hm? Oh, the Santa Breakfast.” Acting like she didn’t remember. Kay knew she had me in a bind, so out came the saltshaker for my wounds. “That was choice stuff. I could use more of that.” She pointed her coffee spoon at me. “My question is, why are you so hot to talk to Riefenstahl?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Like fun you can’t. This is tied into another juicy murder, isn’t it? That’s why we’re meeting across from Paramount. You were in there huddling with Edith Head.”

  “I was visiting Edith, but about another matter.” No way would I mix Edith’s name up in this muddle now that Kay was involved. But the viper had to be sated somehow. “And yes, there is a murder involved. And yes, there might be implications for a movie studio.”

  “And yes, you’ll give me an exclusive if Leni comes across.”

  I fumed. I debated. I relented.

  “Of course.”

  Kay smiled, growing accustomed to getting her way. “Wunderbar! Lassen sie uns ins Kino gehen!”

  37

  NO ANGRY MOB seethed outside the California Club on South Flower Street, so close to the FBI offices I craned my neck to check Agent Deems’s window. The gracefully imposing Italian Renaissance building looked like where a middling Medici might have stashed ill-gotten gain. Once inside, though, I felt transported to old Heidelberg. A constant low buzz of German coursed through the reception area, barrel-chested men clustered together anxiously.

  “If you see the director, sing out,” I told Kay. “I’m not staying for the picture if I don’t have to.”

  “How about a yodel if I spot Johnny Weissmuller?”

  “Will another Tarzan do?” I indicated a tall man with a shock of dark hair and the air of an animal in a zoo, all coiled swagger and haunted eyes. “Glenn Morris, the decathlon champion. He starred in Tarzan’s Revenge with Hedda Hopper, which was bad even for a Tarzan movie. He’s also in Hold That Co-Ed.”

  “Good Lord, you really do see everything.”

  “Not the first time I’ve heard that today.”

  A commotion erupted as several figures swept into the room. I recognized Georg Gyssling, the Reich’s consul in Los Angeles, from the newspaper. He beamed at a woman with sharp features and an uneasy smile. Judging from her regal manner, she could only be Leni Riefenstahl. Although the close-fitting jacket of her chic black velvet suit was buttoned up to the pointed satin collar, the peplum showcasing her hips made it plain the entire ensemble was designed to seduce.

  Glenn Morris loped toward her but faltered in the face of the crowd. Kay buttonholed him at once. The star of a lousy jungle picture still counted as a star.

  Nearby, a bespectacled man observed the scene with amusement. He wore a tired gray suit, hairline retreating up his forehead like a vanquished army.

  “Always a circus,” I said, affecting a world-weariness.

  “No matter the venue.” A German accent seasoned his English. “Ernst Jäger, Miss Riefenstahl’s publicity chief.”

  “Lillian Frost. I’ve come from Paramount Pictures.” Technically, the Paramount-adjacent Lucey’s if one sought to split hairs. But countless confessional sessions had taught me to phrase falsehoods that would stand up in court.

  Jäger tried to douse his enthusiasm. “Really?” He looked at Riefenstahl, surrounded by admirers. “This is why we came to America. She’s in her element tonight.”

  “And a stunning suit.”

  “Leni is acutely aware of the effect well-chosen garments can have.” He smiled. “You haven’t seen Triumph of the Will. Her film of the party congress in Nuremburg. Leni wore a white great coat so her camera crew could always find her. Even amidst hundreds of thousands, she managed to cut a figure.”

  The guests headed toward a set of double doors. With a promise to introduce me to Riefenstahl, Jäger took his leave. Kay reappeared at my shoulder. “That Morris fellow won’t win any medals for copy, I can tell you that.”

  A ballroom with gold flocked wallpaper had been converted into a theater. “Don’t worry, kid,” Kay said as we settled into chairs in a back row. “I heard tell of a dinner break.”

  A silver-haired gent who never dropped his name rose to say a few words, chief among them a request not to publicize the California Club’s role in the screening. Then the lights went down.

  * * *

  THE OPENING OF Olympia, “Part One: Festival of Nations,” picked up when the director appeared au naturel.

  The sequence had been slow and a touch pretentious, the dramatic music and shots of Greek antiquity not exactly a grabber. Then several women appeared, stretching and posing in the altogether in the out-of-doors. The nudity didn’t seem prurient but strangely mystical, the women engaged in some primitive ritual. For the first time I understood the term “sun worshipper.”

  Then I leaned forward in recognition. One of the women bore familiar features, keen and focused. It was Riefenstahl herself. I risked a look toward the front of the room and saw her gazing at her own body, enraptured.

  Talking to her now, I thought, will certainly be different.

  People continued entering the auditorium, hoping to slip into the screening unseen. I stopped noticing them as Riefenstahl’s film began to exert a peculiar hold. I’d
grown used to hearing snippets of a boxing match or a horserace on the radio, an announcer’s booming voice over a single shot from a ballgame in a newsreel. Riefenstahl deployed a wholly different technique, more fluid and intimate. Her cameras got close to the athletes, capturing their nervousness and determination. Slow motion made sprinters appear to be flying, the hop-step-jump competitors ready to take leave of the earth. I rooted for Jesse Owens, naturally, my heart thrilling each time he breasted the tape. But soon I saw him the way Riefenstahl did, not as an American or a Negro but a magnificent, perfectly tuned machine. The victories didn’t belong only to him but the human form, his every action a triumph of physicality. Several times during the film I sensed where shots of Hitler had been excised, his presence weighty even in its absence. But watching athletes excel at the very thing they had been put on God’s earth to do gave me a childlike feeling of hope, a confidence everything would work out.

  As part one ended, I joined in the applause without thinking. Olympia, I had to admit, was a singular achievement, even if the Reich had bankrolled its production. At least I’d be able to offer words of genuine praise to Riefenstahl, standing at the front of the room accepting the ovation with an entitled expression in her eyes.

  Provided, of course, I didn’t picture her naked.

  * * *

  “THANK GOD HITLER was cut from the picture,” Kay whispered. “We’ll be out of here earlier.”

  The audience milled in the California Club’s forecourt, where a light supper—translucent slices of meat on bread the size of postage stamps—was being served. Not that anyone wanted to eat after studying sculpted bodies for two hours. Better we should run sprints around the buffet tables.

  Grabbing a few moments with Riefenstahl seemed unlikely, given the adulation she was receiving. She positively glowed, especially when speaking with the Olympians in attendance. A preening Georg Gyssling kept bringing dignitaries and club members into her orbit, and the filmmaker would accept their praise then turn back to the closest athlete.