The Sharpest Needle Page 27

  I opened my mouth. A stunned squeak came out.

  ‘The Montsalvo,’ Hearst continued pleasantly. ‘I do wish Marion hadn’t felt the need to handle this matter on her own. I admit I’ve faced some rough weather lately, but I flatter myself in thinking I’m of some use in a crisis such as this.’

  My voice returned at full strength. ‘You’ve known?’ I yelped. ‘All this time?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Hearst raised an admonitory finger. It trembled, along with its shadow. ‘I have correspondents around the globe. You don’t think I’d have them in my own home? For instance, I know Charlie Chaplin is downstairs right now. His costume strikes me as too clever by half – another great dictator, most amusing – and he enjoys thinking he’s tweaking my nose by being here. But that’s who the man is, how genius operates.’ Another ragged breath, and he sank into a leather chair by the desk. ‘I also know you spoke with him tonight.’

  ‘He only wants to help Marion. He feels terrible.’

  Hearst grunted, and his watery blue eyes fixed on the darkness between us. ‘That’s good of him. Tell me. The film of his … marriage to Marion. Does he think it exists?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said after a moment. ‘Does it?’

  ‘No. Not anymore.’ Hearst shifted and tapped his chest, as if hoping to ease some discomfort there. ‘Some enterprising young whelp got his hands on it and came to me – 1925, it was. Wanted money for it. Can’t say as I blame him. When you possess something of value, you want to determine its worth.’ A sigh. ‘I borrowed one of the screening rooms at Paramount, in fact, where your friend Miss Head works. Watched the film. Saw it was genuine.’

  He lapsed into a silence so long I feared he’d fallen asleep. Finally, I said into the dim room, ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then I paid the young man his money – not what he was asking, mind you, but enough – and I burned the film. It was the original, I made certain of that, and the fellow wasn’t in a position to have duplicates made. Still, the story will always be out there. Changing every time someone tells it. And of course I had them edit that entire sequence out of the picture. Zander the Great. I enjoy watching Marion’s films, and I didn’t care to be reminded of this … incident.’

  Those eyes sought me out. ‘It was a joke, you see. Marion’s “marriage” to Charlie. The days on the set can be so long, and they wanted to have some fun. That’s all it was. I knew it. I wish Marion knew I knew it, but I couldn’t find a way to tell her. Thought it better to let matters lie. Miss Frost, would you be so kind as to hand me my trusty lance? It should be next to you there.’

  I did as he asked. He used the lance to push himself to his feet. ‘I suppose I shall have to be content with Marion knowing I would never allow anyone to harm her. Now. I should make myself ready and greet my guests. War is no excuse for bad manners.’ He gripped the lance by its handle, brandishing it at the darkness, and chuckled. It looked as if St George had it in him to go one final round with the dragon.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I returned to the party on Hearst’s arm. He had donned most but not all of St George’s faux-armor – ‘I’ll forgo the helmet because at my age I can’t abide anything that impedes my vision’ – and pointed the way with the lance. When we stepped into the main hall, the guests descended on us, swarming to pepper him with questions. What did he make of Germany’s action, would the rest of Europe come to Poland’s aid, how long did he think the war would last? Hearst waved off their queries. ‘I’m here to check on provisions. I heard you people were drinking me out of house and home.’ The mild comment earned the uproarious laughter that only a wealthy man entertaining in his own home hears.

  Marion elbowed though the crowd and commenced fussing over him. ‘You’re going to have a cauliflower ear being on that telephone all day. Let the world chug along without you for a few minutes while we get you something to eat.’ Hearst acquiesced, gallantly releasing my arm and taking hers. As they walked away, Marion leaned in close to me. ‘Thanks for getting Droopy Drawers out of his cave to play.’

  The assembled guests were pulled along behind them like iron filings after a magnet. One such hanger-on, Kaspar Biel, removed his turban and held it under his arm, as if he were a conquistador preparing for his audience with the King of Spain.

  Edith waded through the stragglers. ‘My compliments. Not many people can make an entrance when they’re already at a party. Detective Morrow wants us again.’

  I hesitated before going back into the room where Timothy had been slain. Edith placed a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘The young man’s body has been moved.’

  She was right. Timothy’s fallen shield remained, but he was gone. Gene waited inside, along with Walter Kehoe. The aging producer had lit a cigar and puffed it vigorously, as if its sole purpose was to fill the room with smoke.

  ‘Welcome back,’ Gene said, then introduced Edith. ‘I broke the news to Mr Kehoe about Timothy Randolph. He’ll inform Mr Randolph’s sister.’

  I’ve already done that, I thought.

  Kehoe began nodding, nudged by some phantom prompter. ‘Hell of a thing. He seemed like a nice kid.’

  ‘That’s the curse of my job. Always meeting people too late. He was killed right by the couch over there. That’s why I asked you to go no further into this room.’

  Kehoe stiffened and glanced away from the scene. ‘Like I said, hell of a thing.’

  ‘Had you seen Mr Randolph much this evening?’

  ‘Not since he bounded out of my car like a puppy dog. He was excited to see the house.’

  ‘Understandable. You’d already seen the house, of course. Been in this room before?’

  Kehoe spun in a circle to consider all four walls. ‘Maybe. I can’t say for certain. I spend most of my time on the tennis court when I visit Marion.’

  Gene nodded amiably. ‘You weren’t in this room tonight.’

  ‘No. No food, no drink, no people to meet.’

  ‘No costumes to admire.’ Gene pointed across the room at the statue of the fish vaulting out of the water. ‘We suspect that was used to strike Mr Randolph down.’

  ‘The very reason I don’t keep gewgaws like that around.’ Kehoe chuckled, then thought better of it and stopped.

  Gene next indicated the discarded shield. ‘Speaking of costumes … you recognize that, of course.’

  Kehoe took his time examining the shield, suspecting a loaded question. ‘Part of Timothy’s costume. I offered costumes to all my guests, but Vera wasn’t taken with the suggestion.’

  ‘It’s from a picture, then.’

  ‘Knight and Daly of the Round Table, if I’m not mistaken,’ Edith said.

  Kehoe nodded, impressed.

  ‘Yours is also from a picture?’ Gene asked.

  Kehoe extended his arms, the sleeves reflecting the room’s light. ‘I don’t keep this kind of thing hanging in my closet.’

  ‘The Round Table picture was quite elaborate, as I recall,’ Edith chirped. ‘A large ensemble cast.’

  ‘I believe in production value. Especially when it comes to comedies. The bigger the better. We had a bit in the picture where two ranks of soldiers in those costumes were about to cross swords, and both went down like dominoes.’

  I remembered the gag. It was funny, and Kehoe had a point: it had to be big in order to work. I also understood where Edith was going.

  ‘They were different costumes, then,’ Edith said. ‘With different heraldic symbols and the like.’

  ‘I suppose so. That’s your department, not mine.’ Kehoe exhaled twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils, like an angry steam engine.

  ‘I ask because Lillian – I’ve always said she possesses an impressive eye for costume – noticed that this isn’t the shield Mr Randolph had earlier this evening.’

  ‘Did you outfit anyone else tonight, Mr Kehoe?’ Gene lobbed the question at him with casual, lethal precision.

  Puffing his cigar, Kehoe stared at me. ‘Maybe the young lady’s mistaken.’

&nbs
p; He didn’t deny it, I noticed. Instead, he cast aspersions on me. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I thought I’d ask now,’ Gene tossed in smoothly, ‘in advance of the search we’ll conduct of your storage facility. I’ve already made the calls. The inventory of your costumes should be completed by morning.’

  ‘I don’t – why is that necessary?’ Kehoe blustered. ‘A guest of mine – a relative of a young woman I discovered, and have taken under my wing – has been killed and—’

  ‘Exactly why we’re determined to get to the bottom of this, sir. To spare you undue grief. And publicity.’ Gene’s words oozed sincerity. ‘Now that you’ve had a moment to think, is it possible someone else wore a costume from your stock?’

  Kehoe started to take an unsteady step forward. Gene cautioned him. ‘Again, Mr Kehoe, this is a crime scene.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ A spark flared in Kehoe’s eyes. Not of fear, but of hope. He’d spotted a way out. To reach it, he’d have to do what he did best: spin a yarn.

  ‘There is a possibility. Owen. My driver. He may have taken a costume.’

  ‘Owen Dowd,’ Gene amplified. ‘May have.’

  ‘I told Owen if he wanted to come to the party for a moment, he was welcome to.’

  ‘Very egalitarian of you.’

  Kehoe paused, unsure what the word meant. ‘I told him, “You’re going to pick up the costumes. Take one for yourself.” I have no idea if he did.’

  ‘You didn’t specify a costume. So it’s possible Dowd grabbed a second of these …’ Gene waved at the shield.

  ‘Knight,’ Edith supplied.

  ‘… get-ups for himself. In which case, except for a few details, he was dressed the same as Mr Randolph. The two of them almost indistinguishable.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Kehoe huffed. ‘But why the hubbub about this? You’re not suggesting somebody was trying to kill my chauffeur?’

  ‘No, I think your chauffeur wanted to be mistaken for an invited guest so he’d be free to roam the house. Do you know much about Dowd’s background?’

  ‘He keeps both hands on the wheel. That’s all I need to know.’

  Down the hall, the band struck up a fiery and wholly incongruous rendition of ‘Jeepers Creepers’.

  ‘We suspect Mr Randolph was attempting to acquire a painting owned by Mr Hearst.’ Gene consulted his notebook, which I thought was a nice touch. ‘Called Madonna of the Hill by Montsalva.’

  ‘Montsalvo,’ Kehoe corrected. ‘And it’s Madonna of the Hills.’ He paled as he realized what he’d done.

  ‘That’s right, you’ve expressed an interest in buying this painting. Making a gift of it to … who was it again?’

  ‘Benito Mussolini.’ The name sounded nothing like a boast coming from Kehoe’s mouth.

  ‘Any reason why your driver would take it upon himself to acquire this painting? To the extent of orchestrating a criminal plot?’

  ‘Criminal plot?’ Kehoe rubbed his face.

  ‘Yes, involving threatening letters to Marion Davies and two accomplices named Clarence Baird and Carter Muncy, now both dead. Neither of whom knew this was about … Madonna of the Hills, plural, you said?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kehoe said absently, lost in calculation. The preview cards had come in, and the test audience in Long Beach wasn’t buying the ending. Time for a plot twist.

  ‘Owen is … loyal,’ his pitch began. ‘Maybe to a fault. I know he was aware of my interest in the painting. He overheard many discussions about it.’

  ‘Discussions of what nature?’ Gene asked placidly.

  Kehoe splayed his hands, copping to a lesser crime. ‘Exaggerations. I may have said – for effect, you understand – that it was vital I have the painting so I could patch things up with some prospective partners in Europe, or else …’

  He left the rest – Or else I’m washed up in Hollywood, left guzzling Orange Blossoms with D.W. Griffith and the rest of the waxworks – unsaid.

  ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Kehoe continued, ‘Owen decided on his own initiative to get hold of the painting for me.’

  Unbelievable. Kehoe was sacrificing his henchman, throwing Dowd onto the sword that came with his costume.

  ‘On his own initiative?’ Gene repeated.

  ‘I’d never instruct him to break the law,’ Kehoe said haughtily.

  ‘Of course. It’s possible Dowd knew Carter Muncy, who collected old Hollywood mementos, through any dealings you may have had with him. Or Dowd might have sold him some Kehoe’s Kapers mementos on his own. Another thing we can check. We’re cataloging Muncy’s collection now. Anything we find with the Kehoe name on it, we’ll let you know.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, please do.’ Kehoe kept talking, warming to the new angle he’d concocted. It had legs. ‘Owen does occasionally tell stories about his past in Ireland. Claimed to have been an officer in the IRA, hinted he wasn’t in the country legally. I admit I’m susceptible to romanticizing such tales. It’s beneficial for a man in my position to employ someone who can handle himself. I may have made a mistake in that regard.’

  ‘Quite possible,’ Gene said, and opened the door.

  Owen Dowd stood outside, bookended between two policemen. He wore livery and a face purpled with fury. He’d clearly heard his boss sell him out to the authorities.

  ‘Found him stowing this in the car,’ one of the officers said, presenting Gene with a knight’s costume. Green feather on the helmet. The blue griffin on the shield gazed upon me like an old friend. As Gene accepted it, I could see there was no artwork behind it. I moved to call attention to that fact, but Gene warned me with a glare. Not now.

  ‘You son of a bitch.’ Dowd didn’t sound angry. Just tired, which gave his threat greater force. ‘I’ve a story of my own to tell the gentlemen. Not of Ireland. Of the last few weeks. I—’

  Gene flicked his hand, and the officers hauled Dowd away. He went with them like a man who’d been hauled away before.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Gene shut the door.

  Kehoe shook his head. ‘If what you’re saying is true, and Dowd took things too far on his own … I’m stunned. Appalled.’

  ‘We’ll handle this as best we can. This appears to be entirely Dowd’s doing. You were never in this room. Which is true, yes?’

  ‘Never set foot in here until I walked in with you, at your request.’

  Gene nodded, content with the answer. I expected him to brush his palms together, signaling our business was at an end. I couldn’t believe he was buying Kehoe’s bunkum and started to put my foot down verbally—

  ‘May I say, Mr Kehoe,’ Edith said in her most placating voice, ‘how much I admire that suit. Particularly the sequins.’

  Kehoe grunted, anxious to take his leave.

  ‘Sequins are tricky to work with, I don’t mind telling you. You did say the suit’s from a picture?’

  ‘Good Heavens!’ I said. ‘Another Knight and Daly.’

  ‘I was right, then. Those are gelatin sequins. How we did it in the 1920s. They pose their challenges. Impossible to clean. They dissolve in water, melt in the heat. Even a human hand can be hot enough to ruin them. So much easier to work with the metal variety nowadays. And there are promising developments with acetate. Always something new to learn.’

  Kehoe looked from her to Gene, as Gene pulled an envelope from his sleeve in a move befitting a riverboat gambler. ‘Strange. We found some gelatin sequins near the statue. You know, the murder weapon.’

  ‘Is that what you got me in here for?’ Kehoe’s thunderous laugh contained only disdain. ‘Everybody in this place is wearing a damn costume!’

  ‘Yes,’ Edith said. ‘But not many guests are in costumes from the era of gelatin sequins. I happened to notice you’re missing some on your coat when we spoke earlier tonight. Upkeep of vintage costumes is so important.’

  Kehoe stuck the cigar in his mouth. Not to puff on it. To prevent himself for saying another word.

  ‘One more thing we can check,’ G
ene said cheerily. ‘We’ve got a lot to discuss. Right now, though, you have to speak to Miss Randolph. See the lady home. Don’t let us keep you.’

  As Kehoe slunk back toward the party, Gene turned to us. ‘I don’t know what you ladies would like to do—’

  ‘I want to go to a different room with a fainting couch,’ I stated as if for the record.

  Edith touched my shoulder. ‘Do you feel faint?’

  ‘I’ll bet she doesn’t.’ Gene opened a door on the other side of the hall. The room was the mirror image of the one in which Timothy had been killed, with virtually identical ornate furnishings. Only appropriate, I thought as I plunked myself on the sofa, considering my night at Ocean House had become a trip through Lewis Carroll’s Looking-Glass.

  Edith filled a tumbler with clear liquid and pressed it into my hand. ‘This is some of Marion’s gin,’ I said, smelling it.

  ‘I know, dear.’

  Gene lowered himself onto the couch as well. ‘All right. Let’s have it. Both barrels.’

  ‘We don’t have the Otto Haas painting!’

  ‘Not right now. We do, however, have a killer in custody.’

  ‘Who, Owen? You know Kehoe’s responsible.’

  ‘Yes, Frost. I also know men like Kehoe never dirty their hands. That’s Dowd’s job. Dowd killed Baird and Muncy at Kehoe’s direction, and I guarantee he killed Timothy after Kehoe talked to him. We have Dowd, dead to rights and sore enough to squeal. Kehoe knows we have him. I’d call that a good night’s work deserving of some of that gin.’

  ‘But Kehoe has the Haas painting! He may not even know he has it!’

  ‘So? He can’t do anything with it. Not when he’s on thin ice.’

  ‘This is crazy. Can’t you search his car? Can’t you take it from him? Can’t you—’

  ‘No, I can’t. Or, put it this way, I won’t. I’m on that thin ice, too. I’m building up to an arrest of one of Hollywood’s founding fathers, and I will tread carefully every step of the way.’

  My shoulders slumped. I stared into Marion’s gin. ‘Which makes Otto Haas’s painting an afterthought.’