Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 10 (4 page)

Considering publisher McCormick’s legendary hatred for FDR, there had been considerable doubt that the
Tribune
would cover this event, what with Amelia’s well-known connections to the White House, particularly with the First Lady.

But now Putnam’s joy had faded; a frown clenched his high forehead. “This character won’t make us look bad, will he?”

“He looks grouchy,” I said, “and he is grouchy.” I’d known Lee a long time; he’d been in a bad mood ever since his legman Jake Lingle got plugged under his (Lee’s) city editorship. “But the photogravure section’s not exactly where the muckraking stuff gets run. You’re probably safe.”

Suddenly he shook my hand. “You’re doing a great job, Nate. You’re everything Ben said you were.”

He was still gripping my hand; he was trying too hard to show me his strength and his he-man temperament—sort of like using a word like “fucking” in a Marshall Field’s dress salon.

“Ben?” I asked. “Which Ben told you what about me?”

“Hecht,” Putnam said, and at first I thought he’d said “Heck,” which was better than “fucking.” “Aren’t you and Ben Hecht old friends?”

“…Yeah. Sort of…” Former newsman Hecht, who’d long since traded Chicago for Hollywood, had been part of the Bohemian coterie that used to hang around my father’s radical bookshop on the West Side, when I was a kid. “How do you know him, G. P.?”

“I published his first novels,” Putnam said, touching my chest lightly. “Now, when we wrap up here, I want you to accompany A. E. and me out for a late dinner…not as a bodyguard, but as a valued friend.”

And then he got back to gladhanding more important suckers than yours truly, leaving me to wonder who had really recommended me—Hecht or Lindbergh…and what made me such a big deal, anyway? Just what the hell had I accomplished here, tonight, that was so gosh darn fucking phenomenal?

Pretty soon affable Field’s president Simpson was introducing their honored guest.

“As the fashion center of mid-America,” he said, a glass of champagne in hand, Amelia standing shyly just behind him, G. P. looming behind her like a square-shouldered shadow, “we are proud to add to our distinguished list of designers…Hattie Carnegie, Adrian, Norman Norell, Oscar Kiam, and Pauline Trigère…Miss Amelia Earhart!”

More applause followed, and Amelia stepped forward, clearly embarrassed, gesturing for the applause to stop; after a while, it did.

Simpson said, “You know, Miss Earhart, you’ve set many impressive records, but tonight you’ve really pulled off a remarkable feat…. This marks the first time spirits have been served on these premises.”

A mild wave of tittering moved across the room; all present knew of the Field Company’s conservative nature.

“But it was necessary so that we might honor you with a proper toast,” Simpson said, and he raised his glass of champagne. “To Amelia Earhart—Queen of High Flying…and High Fashion.”

At the end of the toast, Amelia—who had no glass of her own—stepped forward and said, “I’m afraid you’ve broken your longstanding rule just to honor a teetotaler.”

More laughter followed.

“I thank you for your gracious introduction, Mr. Simpson, but I’m not here to make a formal speech. I would like to join you for what I understand will be a lovely presentation of the rather simple fashions I’ve come up with…not high fashion, really, but I hope you’ll take a liking to our line of functional clothing for active living.”

With a bashful smile and a step backward, Amelia indicated this was all she had to say.

But a male voice from between two dowagers in tiaras chimed out: “Miss Earhart, you’re of course to be congratulated on your recent success…the first solo flight from Hawaii to California….”

The voice belonged to the
Trib’
s Robert Lee, who stepped forward.

“Thank you,” Amelia said, uneasily. Just behind her, Putnam frowned at this intrusion.

“But this was a very dangerous flight,” Lee said, “already accomplished by a man…and had you been forced down at sea, the search would have cost the taxpayers millions.”

Putnam stepped forward, but Amelia raised a hand gently.

“I wasn’t forced down at sea,” Amelia said, softly, “and the gentleman who preceded me flew with a navigator, not solo. But I do feel, frankly, that the appreciation of my deed is out of proportion to the deed itself…. I’ll be happy if my small exploit draws attention to the fact that women, too, are flying.”

A smattering of applause, accompanied by expressions of irritation turned toward the
Tribune
representative, was interrupted by Lee’s next volley: “Perhaps ‘deed’ isn’t the correct word, Miss Earhart. There are those who say this was a reckless stunt, bankrolled by Hawaiian interests campaigning against the sugar tariff.”

“I assure you that I’m more interested in aviation than sugar,” she said, rather tartly, and G. P. held up a palm like a traffic cop.

“Please,” he said. “This is not a press conference. It’s a social event and you’re quite at risk of spoiling the evening, sir. With all due respect…”

Bob Casey couldn’t resist; he popped out with: “Now that you’ve pulled off a Pacific crossing, is an around-the-world flight next?”

Casey’s tone was friendly enough and Amelia answered, “Everyone has dreams. I like to be ready….”

“We all admire you very much, Miss Earhart,” Casey said. “But I for one would like to see you abandon these dangerous ocean flights.”

“Why?” she asked, as if she and Casey were having a casual conversation over coffee. “Do you think my luck might run out?”

Casey arched an eyebrow. “You have been very lucky, Miss Earhart….”

Nothing defensive in her tone, she asked seriously, “Do you think luck only lasts so long, and then lets a person down?”

Putnam took his wife’s arm and said, “If you gentlemen of the press would like to arrange an interview with my wife, please speak to me, privately. Right now, we have a fashion show to present….”

The press conference was over, the reps from the
Herald-Examiner
and
Times
not even getting in a lick, though I saw them taking Putnam up on his offer, buttonholing him on the sidelines as the guests retreated to the circumference of the room and models began showing off Amelia’s wares, with the designer herself providing a low-key play-by-play.

“The tails of the blouse are long enough,” she said as a slender girl loped through the room in a white blouse and pleated navy slacks, “not to ride up and reveal the midriff…and the silk detailing on the blouse is parachute silk.”

An aviation theme ran cleverly throughout the collection: silver buttons in the shape of tiny propellers; hexagonal nuts fastening a jersey dress; a belt with a parachute buckle. Cool pastels and washable fabrics made for a shockingly sensible fashion show.

“This coat is Harris tweed,” she said, “with an innovation we think will catch on…a zip-in, washable lining.”

The simple, somewhat mannish lines of these practical clothes—broad shoulders, ample sleeves, natural waistlines—had a classic elegance that appealed to the starstruck crowd, and by the end of the evening, Field’s salesgirls were doing a brisk business, with frocks and mix-and-match outfits going for as little as $30.

I asked her about that, at dinner, over my Hungarian goulash with spätzles. “Those upper-crust types aren’t really who you’re aiming for, with your line, are they?”

Amelia, her husband, and I were at a table in the Victorian Room at the Palmer House, the hotel where they were staying. I was a frequent diner at the Palmer House, only normally in the basement lunchroom, at the counter. The plushly elegant white and gold room with its draperies of crimson was dominated by a large oil portrait of Queen Victoria; this was at the other end of the room and did not affect our appetites.

“Not really,” she admitted, touching a napkin to her full lips, having just finished a house specialty, the fried squab Ol’ Man River with pan gravy and pimento. “I think my audience is working women, particularly professional women.”

“Well, we’re not going to last long in the marketplace,” Putnam said, “if you insist on high-quality fabrics and low prices.” He’d been the first of us to finish eating, polishing off the potted brisket of beef like it was his last meal.

“Working women need washable, non-wrinkle materials,” she said, sounding like a cross between a commercial and a political statement—not that there was much difference.

“We’re not making a profit yet,” Putnam said.

She shrugged as she pushed away her plate. “The luggage line is doing well.”

“That’s true,” Putnam granted her, obviously not wanting this to turn into an argument. “Very true, and with the lecture series coming up, we should soon be in better shape.”

She glanced at me, obviously uneasy that their personal business was being discussed in front of a stranger. Like me, she didn’t seem to understand why, exactly, I was here.

“Also,” Putnam said brightly, cold eyes glittering behind the rimless glasses, “there’s something I’d like to show you, dear…perhaps after we’ve had dessert.”

She looked at him with what might have been suspicion. “What?”

His eyebrows went up, then down, like Groucho Marx, only not so funny. “Something you’ll like. Something potentially very profitable.”

“May I ask…” She turned to me again, her smile warm and apologetic. “…and I mean no offense, Mr. Heller…” And now she turned back to her husband. “…if there’s a reason why we’re discussing business in a social setting?”

“I think you probably already know the answer to that one, A. E.”

“Simpkin,” she said to him, a nickname she’d already used several times over our sumptuous, expensive meal, “I’ve told you a dozen times I don’t take any of that seriously. It’s the sort of thing people in the public eye just have to put up with.”

“I disagree,” he said with a frown, then flicked a finger in my direction. “At least you could do me the courtesy of getting a professional opinion from Nate, here. After all, security is his field. Didn’t he do a fine job this evening?”

Amelia smiled and shook her head, then said to me, again, “I mean no offense, Mr. Heller, but—”

“I agree with you,” I told her, giving up on the goulash. “I’ll be damned if I know what your husband is so impressed with about me.”

Putnam’s thin line of a mouth flinched in a momentary scowl; then he said, “To be quite honest, A. E., I did some checking around about our guest.”

“Slim recommended him,” she said, with a tiny shrug. “You told me.”

“Actually,” Putnam said, “it was George Leisure who first mentioned Mr. Heller.”

He really had been checking up on me. “How do you know George Leisure?” I asked, almost irritated.
Who the hell had recommended me to Putnam, anyway?
Leisure, a top Wall Street attorney, had been second chair to Clarence Darrow in the Massie trial in Honolulu in 1932; I’d been Darrow’s investigator.

“Golfing pal,” Putnam said. “Mr. Heller, I’m told you’re discreet, and you have a certain familiarity with the special needs of the famous. Of celebrities.”

There was some truth in that, though the retail credit firms I did the bulk of my work for—not to mention the husbands and/or wives looking to get the dirt on their spouses that made up most of the rest of my accounts receivable book—weren’t exactly household names.

“I suppose so,” I said, just as the waiter arrived with dessert. We had all ordered the house specialty—Creole Juanita, a yam pudding—and Putnam and I were having coffee with it. Amelia had cocoa, explaining she drank neither coffee nor tea. A non-tea-drinking teetotaler.

“My wife has received some threatening letters,” Putnam said, spooning his pudding.

“Everybody in my position receives threatening letters,” she said, mildly impatient.

I touched her sleeve, lightly. “Now it’s my turn to ask you not to take offense…but there is no one in this country, no one in the world, who’s in your position. I’ll be glad to listen to what’s been going on, and give you my best reading…no extra charge, no obligation.”

She had a lot of nice smiles, but this one—faint but fetching—was my favorite so far. “That’s very decent of you, Mr. Heller.”

“Hey, you paid for my services this evening,” I said, dipping a spoon into my Creole Juanita, “and bought me a nice meal. How can I help?”

Putnam didn’t have the notes with him, but as he described them, this seemed fairly typical celebrity harassment—letters were assembled via cut-out words lifted from newspapers and magazines, not asking for a ransom—just hateful, threatening messages:
YOU WILL FALL TO EARTH, THE CRASH IS COMING
.

“How many of these notes have you received?” I asked.

“Three,” Amelia said. She was eating her pudding, not terribly worked up about this subject. The stuff was pretty much pumpkin pie without the crust, by the way.

I asked, “Where did you receive them?”

“At my hotel, in California. Before we left for Honolulu, and the Pacific flight.”

“Did you go to the cops in L.A.?”

“No. I’ve had other crank mail, before. I think G. P.’s upset primarily because these are so…nasty…with the cut-out words and all, which make it…creepy.”

“Did the notes come in the mail?”

“Yes.” She pushed her pudding cup aside, half-eaten. Maybe this was bothering her, after all.

“Then you might be able to take this to the FBI or the postal inspectors.”

“Please understand,” Putnam said, his pudding finished long ago, “there’s a history of sabotage, where female fliers are concerned. During the first Women’s Air Derby, Thea Rasche got a note with cut-out words like the ones A. E.’s been receiving and got grounded with sand in her fuel tank…the rudder cables of Claire Fahy’s plane were weakened by acid, and Bobbi Trout was forced down with sand, or maybe dirt, poured in her fuel.”

Amelia made a face. “Jiminy crickets, Simpkin, that was 1929.”

“I would prefer to be safe than sorry,” he said crisply. Then he formed a businesslike smile and those unblinking eyes fixed upon me. “Nate, Amelia’s about to embark on a brief lecture tour…ten days, twelve appearances…on her way to California, where she’ll prepare for our next long-distance flight.”