December '41, page 10
Then he saw another familiar name. “Emile Gunst, Dead in Custody.” He was not surprised. He sipped his coffee and wondered: Did they beat him to death? Did he talk first? Or did he have a cyanide capsule in the tin of nitro pills? He didn’t seem the type for suicide. Maybe he really had died of a heart attack.
In any event, the feds were getting closer … much closer. It was good that he had decided to go.
He hurried back to his apartment and got to work with needle, thread, and shears. His father had taught him to pin a waist, hem a cuff, and lengthen a sleeve, skills that helped him when he applied for a job at Mr. Fountain’s Men’s Shop. Now they helped him fashion a hiding place in the lining of the navy-blue overcoat. He’d made a cut through the right inside pocket. A leather strap from an old belt would hold the gun. He hadn’t perfected it yet. But he would. Success lay in preparation.
As the sun reached the south side of the building, he moved to the window in the back bedroom to work in the warmth and light, and from time to time, have a look at Mrs. Sanchez, who came out onto her little patio each morning in a halter top, slathered herself in baby oil, and stretched out on her chaise longue.
He knew she liked the attention. When their eyes met, she smiled.
* * *
VIVIAN HOPEWELL SAT IN her room and gazed out at Grauman’s. The Japanese fleet might be just over the horizon, but people were still stopping in the forecourt to see movie-star footprints. Even on the day after Pearl Harbor, they’d had Abbott and Costello out there, putting handprints in wet cement, signing autographs, cracking wise. In Hollywood, the show had to go on, no matter what.
Well, let it go on without her. Deciding was like having an aching tooth pulled. Whatever the pain of separation, she knew it would all feel better in a day or so.
When Harry called, she said she’d slept on it and was still in. She’d play his wife as long as he wanted. Then she asked him if they could have dinner that night.
“I have much to do,” he said. “I will call if dinner is a possibility.”
He was a strange one, she thought, unpredictable, mysterious, dangerous. The way he swept through that parking lot? Normal men didn’t do things like that. And she didn’t even know where he lived. An apartment house? A mansion in the Hollywood Hills? A fruit crate down by the L.A. River? The truth was that he was the kind of man that mothers always warned their daughters against.
* * *
AGENTS CARTER AND MCDONALD went up the stairs to the LAJCC office on Hollywood Boulevard. They didn’t worry about Nazi spies watching the front door. If enemy intelligence agents didn’t know the local G-men, they didn’t pose much of a threat anyway. And Frank Carter wanted to talk to Leon Lewis.
The LAJCC’s News Research Service was cramped with filing cabinets, noisy typewriters, and mimeograph machines spinning out the news. Sometimes national papers reprinted their stories about Nazis and other fascists without editing. Sometimes only snippets made it into the papers. But one way or another, the LAJCC had been warning the country about the threat to American Jews and everyone else.
Carter sat in Lewis’s little office and got right to the point. “What do you know about the late Emile Gunst?”
“German agent in the last war. Imported German ceramics.” Lewis went into the outer room, returned with a folder, opened it, and read, “‘Emile Gunst: Bund member, Gau West.’” He looked up. “These Nazis treat us as if we were another province of the Fatherland, with Gauleiters and everything.” Then he read on: “‘Immigrated to U.S., 1923, after Beer Hall Putsch. Said he feared Nazis and hated Communists, hated them so much they gave him a heart attack.’”
“You could say he left Germany for his health.”
“I know a lot of Jews who’d like to do the same thing,” said Lewis. “‘Wife Helga died 1938. No children. Joined Bund for social atmosphere, oompah bands, bratwurst. Known to eat nitro pills like breath mints. Hospitalized for chest pain three times.’”
“Anybody talk to his doctor?”
“We’re not that thorough. Especially if our agent says that Gunst is on our side.”
“Agent Twenty-Nine?” said Carter. “Cusack?”
Lewis said nothing, because he never spoke the names of his agents to outsiders.
Carter said, “I think Cusack was wrong about Gunst. He wasn’t on our side.”
“The paper says he died in custody.”
“Heart attack or cyanide. They’re doing the autopsy downtown.”
Lewis nodded. “Twenty-Nine said he’d never seen a man eat so much sausage at a single sitting … or complain so much about indigestion.”
“A good agent, Twenty-Nine.”
Lewis said, “He’s leaving.”
That disappointed Carter, but he wasn’t surprised. “When?”
“Friday night’s Super Chief. He suggested we look into someone named Kessler. A waiter at the Bund.”
“We know Kessler. Small-time.”
“Did you know that he was murdered in Echo Park last night?” Lewis handed Carter a clipping from the Herald. “LAPD said it appeared to be a robbery.”
“I did not know,” said Frank Carter. “And appearances can be deceiving.”
* * *
MARTIN BROWNING SLID THE Mauser C96 from its wooden holster and fitted the metal grooves on the broom handle grip into the grooves on the holster, turning the pistol into a carbine. This would give him much more stability when he took the shot. The Mauser was a fine weapon, accurate and powerful, with an effective range of one hundred meters. If he could get onto the White House lawn on Christmas Eve, he could make the shot from anywhere in the crowd.
He put the gun into the harness he’d fashioned inside the overcoat. Then he stood at the mirror in the front room and practiced: unbutton with the left hand, reach through the lining with the right, keep the gun concealed as long as possible. He even considered sewing in a false lining, so that if he was approached by the Secret Service, he could merely fling the coat open. See? No gun. Would they fall for that?
Consumed by this work, he didn’t hear the tick-tock of heels on the driveway beneath his window. But he heard them on the stairs. And he heard the knock. He pulled off the coat and threw it over a chair. Then he opened the door to Mrs. Sanchez.
She still wore the halter top but had put on a wraparound skirt and mules that showed off her red pedicure. Her brown skin glistened with baby oil. Her eyes glistened, too. She said, “I think you have been working hard this morning. So I have brought you lunch … and sangria.” She held the tray out. Chicken sandwiches, a pitcher of red wine afloat with oranges and ice, two glasses …
Letting her in was a bad idea, but before he could come up with an excuse, she brushed past, went into the dining room, plunked the tray down, then bent over to pour sangria and offer him a nice long look at her ass.
He realized he should have moved the overcoat. He shouldn’t have left Gunst’s Christmas “gift” on the table, either, or the Santa Fe brochure and tickets. But it was too late.
She turned and said, “Wrapped gifts … a winter coat … train tickets. You are going somewhere cold for Christmas?”
“I’ll be back on New Year’s Eve,” he said. “Which reminds me, the rent for January.” He went for the overcoat, as if to get money from one of the pockets.
But she stepped in front of him and offered a glass. “Sangria first.” She also offered a salacious grin. She reminded him of that singer with the voice of an angel and the smile of a lively devil. Lena Horne. She had the same kind of light in her eye, too.
What a sin it would be to put it out. But if she went near the overcoat …
He took the sangria, clinked her glass, and sipped. They were standing close in the midday quiet, in an airy apartment, in a sleepy corner of Los Angeles. And it crossed his mind that controlling himself in a train compartment for forty-two hours might be easier if he surrendered now to the same desires that brought this widow to the door.
So he removed the glass from her hand, reached around her, and placed both glasses on the table. This brought him close enough to kiss her. And it was a sweet, sangria-tinged sensation.
Then he was carrying her down the hallway, past the kitchen, past the room with the desk on which he’d left gun oils and cleaning brushes, back to the sun-filled bedroom.
He dropped her onto the bed and dropped to his knees beside it. He ran his hands along her brown legs and up under the skirting of the bathing suit. She sighed as if to say that whatever he was doing, he should do more. So he leaned forward and kissed her smooth brown thighs. She gasped, so he kissed higher. And again she showed him that she liked what he was doing, that it was all she could hope for on a Wednesday afternoon.
The halter top came off, then the wraparound skirt and the swimsuit bottom.…
When they were done, she pulled up the sheet and lit a cigarette. After a few puffs, she asked him if he would like the lunch she’d brought.
Yes, he would, but he didn’t want her wandering around. So he went naked down the hallway, stopped in the middle room to hide the gun cleaners, then went to the dining room to put the Santa Fe info in the topcoat and hang the topcoat in the closet.
They ate in the sunlight on the bed.
Then she swung a leg over him and … an hour later, after she’d rolled onto her stomach to entice him a third time, he gave her ass a smack and promised he’d be back on New Year’s Eve. It was a lie, of course. And this whole thing might have been a mistake, but it was better than killing her.
* * *
KEVIN CUSACK FINISHED HIS last synopsis around two o’clock. He put a few personal items into a shoebox: a fountain pen; a box of Eberhard Faber No. 2 pencils; a bottle of ink; a notebook. Then he took the synopsis and headed down the hallway.
In the front office, Cheryl Lapiner was hunched over her typewriter, as usual.
He dropped his report on her desk. “They have to make this. It’ll be sensational.”
She read the cover sheet: “Everybody Comes to Rick’s. Terrible title.”
“I suggested calling it Casablanca. It captures the romance and danger.”
“Romance and danger,” she said. “I could use a little of that.”
“Well, next time I invite you to Musso and Frank’s—”
“But you’re leaving.”
He took her hand and said, “Good luck in Hollywood. I’ve had enough.”
She said, “I know you’re angry about Jerry Sloane getting a job first, but—”
“Nobody ever said this town was fair.”
“That’s for sure. Take it from one of the girls.”
As he left the writers’ building, he told himself to look ahead, toward the larger cause facing the country, even if it meant looking homeward. And he walked right into the big guys, Hal Wallis and Jack L. Warner himself.
They were coming back from the set of Yankee Doodle Dandy, the George M. Cohan biopic shooting on Stage 4. Wallis was saying that Cagney could win the Academy Award. Warner was worrying about the box office.
Seeing them, Kevin recalled his excitement that first day on the lot. He remembered passing Queen Bette Davis herself. She was wearing kerchief and flats, and he was awestruck, but she barely glanced at him. So Kevin had decided on his second day to act as if he’d always been there. When he saw Errol Flynn strolling along in Robin Hood’s green tights, with a trench coat thrown over his shoulders and an unlit cigarette in his mouth, Kevin offered him a light. Very cool.
He assumed that Jack Warner, in his five-hundred-dollar suit and fast-clicking hundred-dollar shoes, didn’t have any idea who he was.
But Warner stopped, pivoted, looked at his watch, and said, “I pay you people to work. What are you doing walking around in the middle of the afternoon?”
“Leaving,” answered Kevin.
Hal Wallis looked at the shoebox under Kevin’s arm. “Leaving?”
“I’ve handed in my resignation. No more reports on other people’s screenplays. No more dancing to other people’s tunes. Time to write my own story.”
“You want to write?” asked Wallis.
Kevin jerked a thumb at the writers’ building. “Everyone in there wants to write.”
“Writers”—Warner started walking again—“schmucks with Underwoods.”
Wallis lingered a moment, and Kevin thought, If he offers me a job writing anything, even Rin Tin Tin, I’ll take it. But all Wallis offered was a perfunctory “Good luck.” Not even a handshake. People said he was a cold fish, even if he liked you. Then he followed Warner.
Kevin shouted after them, “The schmucks who wrote Everybody Comes to Rick’s did a helluva job. It’ll make a helluva movie.”
Warner gave him a look, as if to ask, Who is this little pisher giving me advice?
Kevin kept talking. “Find a few schmucks to write the screenplay, except for that no-talent Jerry Sloane. You’ll make a lot of money.” And he went on his way, feeling bigger with every step.
* * *
AROUND FOUR O’CLOCK, MARTIN Browning undid the wrapping on the Hummel box. He removed the tray of figurines and took out the notebook containing the names, addresses, and passwords of the contacts who would spirit him across the country and aid him when he killed Franklin Roosevelt.
Working from a template of code words in the notebook, he wrote two messages:
The first: “Delivery of seed samples Sunday SC. President’s door.” Translation: He would be arriving in Chicago on Sunday aboard the SC, or Super Chief. And he would meet his contact at the Polk Street door.
The second: “Christmas in Connecticut. Arrive 19th at 4 two suitcases zero packages.” This was the location, time, and date of his arrival in Washington. Translation: He would meet his D.C. support team at Dupont Circle, Connecticut Avenue and Nineteenth Street, 4:00 P.M. on two and zero, or December 20.
The Adams Square Pharmacy handled Western Union messages, but Martin didn’t want the locals chattering about seed samples or Christmas in Connecticut. Best if everyone in Glendale forgot about him.
So he drove down to the main office on Brand Boulevard, a busy place that December evening. Telegraphs tapping out dots and dashes … clerks counting words … operators sending, receiving, stuffing yellow telegrams into envelopes … customers shoulder-to-shoulder, wiring money or Christmas plans … the holiday rush, magnified by the crisis of war.
For a few cents, Martin’s first telegram would be delivered to a warehouse in Crete, Illinois, that served as the distribution point for Diebold Seed Company. The second would go to a Western Union office on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, then to an apartment in the Heights. Martin had not checked the “Signature Required” box on either. The fewer personal interactions, the better.
The people who received the telegrams would know what to do. If not, Martin would work as he preferred to—alone.
It was nearly dark when he got back to the apartment.
Mrs. Sanchez was sitting in front of her bungalow with the Jeffries sisters, who’d lived in the complex since it opened in 1927.
During their teen years, Marylea and Kimberlea had been actresses, known as “the poor man’s Gish sisters,” always cast as damsels in distress, bottle-blond Rapunzels at sixteen frames per second. But their movie fame had fled. They were now what Americans called old maids, living with their fading memories and three rambunctious pugs in the second-floor apartment across the driveway from Martin’s.
“Sangria, señor?” said Mrs. Sanchez.
The landlady and her lover had agreed to keep their afternoon tryst a secret, to act in public with the same formality as always. So for a few moments, there was superficial conversation about the war and the challenges that lay ahead.
Then Mrs. Sanchez said, “Of course, we must all enjoy Christmas.”
“Yes,” said Kimberlea, the no-nonsense sister. “You’re very kind to bake us Christmas cookies, despite the national crisis.”
“We do so love the cookies,” said Marylea with an affected Southern accent, and she tossed her curls at Martin. “Don’t you just love cookies, Mr. King?”
“Almost as much as sangria,” he lied.
“You will find a box of cookies in your unit,” said Mrs. Sanchez. “A surprise.”
“Surprise?” Martin tried not to let the light drain out of his eyes. Harold King had lively eyes, smiling eyes.
“I do it for all the neighbors,” she said. “Surprise cookies before Christmas. And since you’re going away—”
Just then one of the pugs began to bark in the Jeffries apartment. So the sisters finished their drinks and announced that it was time to take the dogs for their evening stroll.
Martin watched them go up the back stairs. Then he said to Mrs. Sanchez, “Did you let yourself into my apartment?”
“I have keys. But you can trust me. Our secret’s safe. Yours, too.”
“Mine?”
“That you are a collector of German figurines.”
Martin had not rewrapped the box, a sloppy mistake. He said, “You saw the figurines?”
“I love Hummels … such smiley little things.”
“What else did you see?”
“I saw your train schedule when I brought lunch. You circled the Super Chief on Friday. So where are you really going?” She grinned salaciously. “You can tell your mamasita.”
He smiled and calculated. “Wherever I’m going, you make it hard to leave.”
“Oh, señor,” she whispered, “you make me feel very good.”
And he decided quickly, perhaps too quickly.
He knew that the Jeffries sisters would be walking their dogs soon. If he acted now, they’d make a perfect alibi. So he dumped the last of the sangria into his glass, gulped it down, and said, “We need more to drink. And more fun. More fun tonight.”
“Oh, señor…”
He got up and opened the screen door of her bungalow with the toe of his shoe. “Shall I make more sangria? Or cook? I would love to cook for you.”
“You would cook for me? No man has cooked for me in many years.”
