The Tinseltown Murderer Page 6

  “It’s all right, Kurt,” said Lawrence with a smile. “Blake and David know I’m a homosexual.”

  “Do they know about Dora being Jewish?”

  “They know that, too.”

  “All right then. I’m definitely against fascists, despite the good beer.”

  “Good,” said David.

  “Kurt,” said Blake. “Do you think you could go to another dinner at the German American League?”

  “I thought you said I shouldn’t go there anymore.”

  “One more time wouldn’t hurt, especially if you bring all of us along as your guests. I think the best way to find out what’s going on is to see for ourselves.”

  “But what will I tell Greta?” asked Kurt.

  Blake smiled. “Tell her your friends would love to spend more time with her. It’s true, just not the way she thinks it is.”

  “Now, can we leave the valley?” asked Kurt.

  “Now we can leave the valley,” said David.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Grant entered the Los Angeles field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, an overcrowded two-story brick building. Its dingy interior was a marked contrast to the blinding light of the day. The southern California weather was one reason Grant much preferred San Francisco. A man could think much clearer with fog overhead and suitably chilly weather all summer long.

  After checking in with one of the supervisors earlier, Grant had taken a small windowless office to use as his base of operations. But his hopes of keeping his work low-key were dashed when he was summoned to Agent Bill Babcock’s office, the assistant director of the L.A. office. After wandering the maze of halls on filthy linoleum floors, he knocked on Babcock’s closed office door.

  “Come in!” yelled Babcock from within.

  As Grant opened the door, the strong smell of cheap cigars wafted out to him. Babcock looked to be in his early-50s, with a florid complexion. He was balding on top, despite a few long strands of hair which had been combed over trying to hide that fact, while only drawing more attention to it. He also had the body of a man who’d spent several years behind a desk, reminding Grant of what could happen if he didn’t spend at least some portion of the day chasing after suspects.

  “You wanted to see me?” asked Grant, as he looked at the papers sprawled all over Babcock’s desk. The ashtray looked like it hadn’t been emptied in three days and a trail of ants was crawling into Babcock’s bottom right drawer, which was likely where he kept his liquor. Grant made a note to himself to avoid getting transferred to Los Angeles.

  “Barker, the San Francisco office gave me a courtesy call to let me know you’d be down here for a few days.”

  “Your office manager was kind enough to give me a desk to use.”

  “Cathy’s got a nice rack, doesn’t she?” said Babcock, demonstrating with his hands just how the woman’s anatomy was arranged.

  And now Grant knew exactly what type of man he was dealing with. “I can’t say I noticed. I do know she was efficient and courteous.”

  “Didn’t notice?” asked Babcock with some disbelief. “What kind of men do they have up there in the San Francisco office?”

  “Ones who do our jobs.”

  “Sit down,” said Babcock, indicating two chairs in front of his desk, both of which were piled high with files.

  Grant moved one stack of files onto the other chair, taking note of their labels, then sat. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I’m curious as to why you’re here. The San Francisco office wasn’t too forthcoming.”

  Grant would commend his colleagues on that when he returned. “I’m running down a few leads and wanted a look at your archives.”

  “A few leads on what?”

  “Political activities.”

  Babcock perked up. “Commies?”

  Grant hedged a bit. “I’m interested in any threat to the United States government.”

  “So, commies. Well, you’ve come to the right place. You can’t swing a dead cat in this place without hitting someone who’s surveilling those rat bastards night and day. We’ve even got a few undercovers getting first-hand accounts of their treachery. We should line ‘em all up against a wall and shoot ‘em.”

  “With or without a trial?”

  “I like your thinking,” said Babcock with a wink and a gun gesture with his hand.

  Grant fought the urge to groan. “What do you know about the Nazis?”

  “Hitler? He’s a blowhard trying to drag Europe into another war.”

  “I meant closer to home. There are posters all over town about the Silver Shirts and the German American League.”

  Babcock waved a hand in dismissal. “Just a bunch of folks wanting to eat sausage and drink beer. But the broads, talk about some nice…” Once again, he used his hands to reinforce his already obvious point.

  Grant ignored him. “Do you have any information on the commies to bring me up to speed?”

  “Now, you’re talking,” said Babcock, as he went through the piles of haphazardly placed files on his desk until he found the one he’d been looking for and handed it to Grant. “These are some of the major cells we’re looking at.”

  Grant glanced through the folder then placed it on the stack of files on the chair next to him. “Do you think there’s a Hollywood connection?”

  “I know there is. The whole town is rotten with reds.” Babcock paused for a moment. “I hope Garbo’s not red. Any of the others, I don’t care. But Garbo would break my heart. She’s another one with some really nice…”

  “Thanks for the file,” said Grant, as he stood and collected his folder from the other chair. “If I come across anything of interest, I’ll let you know.”

  Babcock grunted his farewell and, moments later, Grant found himself walking through the filthy hall, looking at the folder he’d picked up from the other chair. It was about Hollywood studio executives and the German American League.

  * * *

  Josie had never actually followed anyone before, but as she tried to keep Greta in sight, she realized she’d never make a very good private detective. Part of her problem was that she was fascinated by Los Angeles in the 1930s, so she was distracted by every new sight.

  Kurt had told her that Greta would be shopping at the May Company, a huge Beaux Arts building occupying almost an entire downtown block at Broadway and 8th. The building was still standing in modern-day L.A. as part of the revitalized theater district but didn’t compare to the elegance of 1936.

  From across the street, Josie had watched Greta enter the building at just after eleven that morning. Josie carefully ran across the street – there were very few cars compared to modern L.A., but the drivers were just as bad. A doorman ushered Josie into the grand department store, which had The May Co. written in black and white script on the terrazzo floor. Upon entering, Josie had the unusual sensation of feeling underdressed to go shopping, despite wearing one of Dora’s smartest dresses.

  The giant first floor was divided into sections for perfume, handbags, gloves, hats and a concierge desk. At the moment, Greta was admiring an evening bag halfway across the store. Josie didn’t want to get too close, but anonymity was difficult to maintain since every ten feet yet another impeccably-dressed sales clerk asked if she needed help. They all wore dark dresses which hit at mid-calf, with dark nylons, high heels and their hair perfectly styled. Josie rarely looked that good for date night, and this was how these women went to work.

  After asking a clerk to show her several bags, Greta left the handbag department, then walked toward the grand escalator in the middle of the store. Josie watched her go up two flights, then get off. Josie hurried to the escalator to follow.

  A uniformed clerk held out his hand. “May I help you, ma’am?” he asked, as he took her hand, then carefully led her to the escalator. “I know these things can be a bit tricky.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve been on an escalator before.”

  “So, this isn
’t your first trip to the May Company.”

  “Well, it is, but it’s not my first escalator.”

  “Really!” he said, like she’d just announced that she’d been to the moon. “What other escalators have you been on?”

  He was too earnest to be kidding, and Josie had to remind herself that escalators were fairly rare in 1936. “Uh, different places.” She couldn’t very well say she’d been on them in every mall she’d ever visited. She was also a bit irritated that he’d pulled her to the side and she was losing track of Greta.

  “I think it’s wonderful that you’re not afraid of them. Many ladies are.”

  “Yes, well, I should be going,” said Josie glancing up to see if Greta was in sight.

  “I was a bit timid of them myself at first,” said the clerk, as if Josie hadn’t spoken. “But now I’m an old hand at it.”

  “That’s terrific, but if you’ll excuse me, I need to run.”

  “Don’t run!” he said with genuine alarm. “Don’t even walk. Just get on the step, firmly grip the rail and allow this modern marvel to take you upstairs.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” she said, as she all but knocked the poor guy over in her effort to get on the escalator. And once she was there, it was all she could do to just stand there instead of walking. But she had a feeling if she did, there’d be a lecture from some clerk at the top, since The May Company seemed to have a staff of thousands.

  She took the escalator up two flights, then got off on the third, which was where the furrier was, as well as evening gowns. She looked around frantically for Greta but didn’t see her.

  “Josie!”

  Josie turned to see Greta walking toward her.

  “I thought I saw you downstairs and now here you are.”

  Josie really, truly didn’t have a chance of a career as a private detective. “And here I am.”

  “Are you looking for a fur?”

  Josie made a face, before remembering the typical woman in the 1930s would’ve loved to have one. “Not at this time because...” Fur was gross unless it was on an animal. “…I have so many.”

  “I never knew a girl could have too much fur. What are your favorites?”

  “Mink and…” She had to come up with a good answer. “More mink.” So she didn’t come up with a good answer.

  “Your husband must really be doing well financially if you have multiple mink coats. What do you think of the glove department here? Do they run true to size?”

  Josie was only vaguely aware that gloves had sizes. “Yes, they are fairly accurate.”

  “I still get confused with American sizes compared to those we use in Germany. As a means of comparison, what is your glove size?”

  Josie had no idea how to answer that question but had a feeling it was something most women would know. “Why don’t we go for coffee, then you can go to the glovers and they can explain everything to you.”

  “That’s an excellent idea. Where would you like to go for coffee?”

  That was another question Josie couldn’t answer, and she made a note to herself to do more – or, really, any – research before she went out again. All she knew was she couldn’t say Starbucks. Fortunately, Greta answered for her.

  “Why don’t we go to the restaurant here in the store?”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  Ten minutes later they were in the restaurant on the fifth floor at a table with a tablecloth, fresh flowers and fine china. It was a bit much just for coffee.

  “Is something wrong?” Greta asked.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” said Josie, aware of the waiter who stood nearby at attention. “So, what brings you out today, other than wanting to buy gloves?”

  “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know. You must have some reason for following me.”

  Josie thought about denying that she’d been following Greta but feared it would lead to some other question she couldn’t answer, like what her hat size was. So, she decided to try the truth, or at least as close to the truth as she could come. “Kurt’s my friend and I think your relationship with him will derail his career.”

  Greta waited to speak until the white-gloved waiter poured each of them a cup of coffee from a silver pot, then another waiter put cream and sugar on the table in matching china. Greta nodded, then waved them off. “You’re certainly plain-spoken, though it is something I’m learning is an American trait. I care about Kurt and wouldn’t do anything to hurt him or his career. As I said before, I am no Nazi.”

  “If you thought I was plain-spoken before, you’ll really think I am now. I don’t believe you. I don’t believe the apple falls that far from the Nazi tree in the Goebbels family.”

  “Then what is my nefarious purpose?”

  “Honestly?”

  “I would hate for you to go timid on me now. It wouldn’t become you.”

  “I think you’re trying to sway American opinion away from war with Germany.”

  “From what I can see, Americans are already inclined to think that way. The United States only reluctantly entered the Great War, and many still have regrets for doing so. I believe most people want to stay out of any further foreign entanglements. Shouldn’t peace be anyone’s goal?”

  “Tell that to your uncle.”

  Greta smiled just a bit. “What makes you think I haven’t?” She took a sip of her coffee. “Look, we’re having a banquet at the German American League this Saturday night. Why don’t you and your friends come as my guests? You’ll see you have nothing to fear from us.”

  “Are you inviting all of us?”

  “You mean am I also inviting the homosexual and the Jew? Yes, I am. I have nothing against those who are different from me, and I find it distasteful that some of my countrymen do.”

  “Including your uncle.”

  Greta hesitated just a bit. “Even my uncle. I must ask what you hoped to learn by following me. Did you think I’d be having a secret meeting with saboteurs who wished to poison your water supply? Because I really am only here for gloves.”

  “Then I have to wonder why you walked by the gloves counter without stopping,” said Josie. “May I add someone to the guest list? Dora is dating an actor.”

  “The more, the merrier. Quite a few studio men will be there. Perhaps Dora’s struggling actor will make some good contacts.”

  “How do you know he’s struggling?”

  “Aren’t all actors?” She motioned for the waiter to bring the check.

  Josie opened her purse, then realized she had no idea what the tipping customs were.

  “Please, allow me,” said Greta, as she handed the money to the waiter who was happy with whatever she’d given him. “Now, let’s go see about those gloves, shall we? Then you can tell me how they compare to the ones you usually get.”

  Josie followed Greta out of the restaurant, vaguely wondering if Greta had learned just as much about her as Josie had learned about Greta.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “What do you know about Ralph Harris?” Grant asked that night as they were all eating dinner in Lawrence’s dining room.

  Lawrence took a sip of wine. “He’s the head of the Studio Guild and has an office at MGM.”

  “Do you know why he spends so much time at the German American League? I came across a file on studio executives and it says he not only hates communists, but he’s been cozying up to the Germans.”

  Dora refilled her drink from the pitcher on the table. “That doesn’t surprise me too much. He hates unions and has been doing everything he can to make sure actors don’t organize. He’s a huge proponent of the studio system, which keeps stars tied to long contracts, giving them little say in their futures. Blake’s in a ghastly one.”

  “Perhaps we should set up a meeting with him,” said Josie. “It can’t go any worse than the one I had with Greta.”

  “Your meeting didn’t go well?” asked David.

  “It could’ve gone better, but at least Ralph Harris w
on’t ask my glove size.”

  “But he’s dangerous in his own right,” said Dora. “He has wandering hands.”

  Josie shrugged. “I worked in Hollywood for over a decade. It won’t be my first time walking into a room with someone who can’t keep his hands to himself. Tell him I’m a writer who needs advice.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said David

  “He won’t take the meeting if I bring my husband.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me, I know guys like that.”

  David sighed. “I can’t talk you out of this?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll set it up tomorrow,” said Lawrence. “But in the meantime, we have an engagement tonight, though it’s one Grant won’t want to attend.”

  Grant looked up. “Do I even want to hear about this?”

  “Probably not,” said Lawrence. “It’s a meeting of our local communist party.”

  Grant groaned. “Do you have to go?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Lawrence. “We’re bringing pie. And if there’s one thing Hollywood communists hate more than capitalism it’s going to a political meeting without free food.”

  “And booze,” said Dora.

  “Especially the booze,” said Lawrence. “But there’s another reason for us to show up. Our group leader, Caroline Armitage, has been keeping close tabs on the German American League. She might know something of value.”

  “All right,” said Grant begrudgingly. “Just try not to get arrested.”

  “We’ll try our hardest but can’t make any promises.”

  * * *

  “Thanks for making the trip all the way out here,” said Caroline Armitage, as she opened the door to her small bungalow in Venice. “You’d better have a drink before we run out.”

  As Josie followed Dora and Lawrence into the clapboard house, she was struck by how different things were from her years in Los Angeles. The trip to Venice had been amazingly easy as they’d taken a streetcar across the city, avoiding the ninety-minute drive it would’ve been in modern times.

  Venice was filled with neon signs advertising various bars and brands of liquor, and there was little indication of any type of city planning. It was also odd that both Venice and Santa Monica to the north were so sufficiently removed from Hollywood that some considered the journey a trip out of town.