Design for Dying (18 page)

“Roza Karolyi?” Gene kept his voice neutral.

“Yes! My apologies, Detective Morrow. Clearly you've been working on this matter diligently. Have you met Miss Karolyi?”

“No. But her name's come up.” Gene reached out to steady me, the look in his eyes pulling me into an instant conspiracy.
Say nothing.

“If you find her, do tell me. I'd love to help her out. For the life of me I can't figure out how Ruby acquired Natalie's invitation. They hardly moved in the same circles. Now, Miss Frost, can we get back to Wallace Beery and how he left a crack in my floor?”

He took me by the arm before I could reply and led me deeper into the house. Gene, trailing us, addressed Mrs. Somers. “Where did you send Princess Natalie's invitation?”

The woman with all the answers checked her records. “In care of the Hotel Normandie Park.”

Gene did what a humble fake reporter couldn't get away with and requested a copy of the party's guest list. Addison dispatched Mrs. Somers to retrieve one.

We entered a dining room featuring a table for twenty. Addison stopped behind a chair and pointed to the floor. There it was, a hairline crack in the marble. “Behold, Mr. Beery's last stand. Your magazine said he did that falling off a chair.”

“That wasn't the case?”

“Oh, no. He was on the table at the time.” While we waited for Mrs. Somers to return, Addison and I went back and forth on the subject of movies. He made a strong case that Greta Garbo was a better actress than Marlene Dietrich while Gene sat stonily. I was mounting a halfhearted defense of
The Garden of Allah
when the secretary reappeared with the guest list.

“We'll finish this discussion another day,” Addison said. “I can't remember the last time I spoke to someone who's seen as many pictures as I have.”

“And her with a full-time job and everything,” Gene said.

“A job many girls would envy, I'm sure.”

“Huh?” I'd been having so much fun talking about pictures I'd forgotten my imaginary journalism career. “Oh, they do. All my friends want to be me.”

Addison shook both our hands fervently. “What a day this has been. A reporter and a detective grilling me in my own home. This is giving me such ideas for my next party. A third-degree bash! I can see it now.”

 

18

AS THE SPRAWLING
estate of Addison Rice receded, I envisioned the kind of place I'd want for myself. I could only picture one of those sleek Manhattan apartments with a baby grand piano, a wet bar, and a view of the city's twinkling lights. Even with warm air against my skin and the scent of eucalyptus so strong it burst on my tongue, I maintained a New Yorker's idea of home.

I changed the baby grand to an upright French provincial, creating more space for entertaining. I had the luxury of rearranging my fantasy abode's furniture because Gene, in the driver's seat next to me, wasn't saying a word. He was busy exercising his jaw muscles, ratcheting the lower half of his face tight. I feared for his molars and my well-being.

I had just added a fainting couch when Gene finally acknowledged me. “So you're a reporter now.”

“Technically a stringer affiliated with
Modern Movie
.”

“Edith informed me it was all her idea. I'd like to see your notes.”

I held up my steno pad. Gene glanced at the hieroglyphics inscribed thereon. “Can you decipher that?”

“Unfortunately, no. The conversation wasn't dull, but my pencil was.”

“You realize I'll have to tell Rice who you really are when I interview him again. And who Roza Karolyi was.”

“You mean Princess Roza of Hungary? With its fabled goulash kitchens in both Buda and Pest, on the banks of the mighty Danube?”

“What picture did you learn that from? Ten to one Boris Karloff was in it.”

“It was in Sister Luke's geography class. And you're thinking of Bela Lugosi.”

“I'll take cues from anyone who can find Natalie.”

“She doesn't want to be found. She wants to fade away.”

“Yeah. About that. Consider the timetable. Ruby is killed and Natalie blows town. But she writes a letter from San Francisco on Saturday to stay on Rice's good side and guest list. That implies she plans on returning to Los Angeles. Come Monday morning, though, she's telephoning you with this ‘fade away' jazz.”

“You think she left town for a few days and decided to make it permanent?”

“I think Natalie's in trouble and may
be
trouble. We wired Ruby's family. The name Natalie Szabo means nothing to them.”

“Maybe they have to keep their connection to the Szabos secret. For political reasons.”

“Or maybe Ruby was pulling the wool over Natalie's eyes, taking advantage of her. They cross paths, they both speak Hungarian. A familiar tongue far from home? I don't need to tell you how comforting that can be.”

“Sure. Whenever I hear George Raft it's like a warm blanket on a cold night.”

“Ruby's ready to commiserate about life back home in … where was it again?”

“Buda and Pest.”

“Could you see Ruby making hay out of that kind of connection?”

Could I. But I didn't want to. I wanted my version of events to be true, for Ruby and Natalie to be Roza and Natalya, related by blood and nobility. I wanted to be the one true friend to two players in a story of international intrigue and romance.

“As for Armand Troncosa,” Gene said, “I spoke to that sidekick of his, Esteban Riordan. He says Troncosa went to Kentucky to see a man about a horse, an actual quadruped. He left Thursday—Ruby was killed that night—and is due back soon.”

“Esteban's not a sidekick. He's a majordomo.”

“Thanks for the clarification. I'd hate to rile up their union. Riordan also said he has no idea where Natalie is.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Like the veteran newshound you are?”

“What about Tommy Carpa? You heard what Addison said. He's, he's a … procurer. And a peddler of drugs. And he dragged Ruby into what he was doing, and got her banned from Addison's house, and I knew all along he was rotten.”

When I ran out of gas, Gene spoke calmly. “I did hear what Rice said. All it tells us is a fellow we knew was bad is actually worse.”

“No,” I insisted. “It means more than that. It has to.”

“Rice banished him months ago. Why wait so long to act? Especially when Carpa's trying to go legitimate. Kept talking up some deal to open a new joint with straight investors when we brought him in the other day.”

That's why,
I thought.
To ensure his past stays in the past.

“More interesting to me is Beckett,” Gene went on. “He's been looking for Natalie from the start. Why? I'd ask him, but his girl says he left town to work another case, which seems awfully convenient.” He threw a sidelong glance at me. “Did he say anything else to you?”

“Nothing but gossip and nonsense.”

“Specifically what gossip and nonsense?”

My hand forced, I rehashed Beckett's yarn about Gene and his partner's widow in my best disinterested fashion.

When I finished, Gene grunted. “He's still foisting that chestnut on people?”

“If it helps, I didn't believe a word.”

“You should have. Beckett got most of it right.” Gene's windburned hands shifted on the steering wheel. “My partner Teddy Lomax and I were after a fella, robbed the California Republic Bank of twenty thousand dollars. We ran him down. He shot Teddy. I shot him. The money never turned up.”

“And Teddy's wife?”

“Abigail grew up next door to me in Bunker Hill. I introduced her to Teddy. Her husband was dead. I was responsible.”

“You weren't—”

“Don't tell me different, Lillian. Please. I know what's my fault and what isn't. So I look out for her. Stop by, visit. Take her to the pictures so she's not sitting in an empty house by herself. Probably saw one of those Sophie Lang movies with her for all I know. Let people talk. She enjoys the company. As do I. Company's all it is. She still loves Teddy. Always will.”

I had nothing to say in response. I felt a shoddy, uncalled-for relief, with a chaser of guilt.

“And now,” Gene said after a suitable interval, “I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything.”

“It won't entail your lying to me or anyone else. I hope that's not a problem.” He handed me the guest list to Addison's party. “Tell me if any of these names are familiar. And I mean from your days with Ruby, not the pages of
Modern Movie
.”

The clarification proved necessary. Plenty of names on Addison's register registered, including Mr. and Mrs. Bob Hope and Princess Natalie Szabo and guest. I drew in my breath as I spotted an entry for Mr. and Mrs. L. J. Minot. Diana and Laurence had undoubtedly filled in their piece of the puzzle. An act of God wouldn't stop them from making an appearance, Diana to see and be seen as stipulated in her Lodestar contract and Laurence to indulge his wandering eye.

“Here's one,” I told Gene. “Another of Mrs. Lindros's former tenants. Diana Galway, formerly Diane O'Rourke. Listed here as Mrs. L. J. Minot, ‘L' for Laurence. She lied to me about knowing Natalie and Armand.”

“I'll talk to her. Keep going through the list. See if you can finish before we get to the Normandie Park.”

“Is that where we're going?”

“It
is
on the way. Somebody there can tell us if and when Natalie checked out.”

The rest of the roster held few surprises. “No more friends of Ruby I'm aware of, although every name on the list is familiar. Except one or two, like this one. Truck Hannah.”

“Truck Hannah? Rice really does mix it up.”

“Are you going to enlighten me?”

“He manages the Angels. The baseball team that plays out at Wrigley Field.”

“C'mon. I'm no authority, but even
I
know Wrigley Field is in Chicago.”

“There are two ballparks called Wrigley Field. Both named after the chewing gum magnate. You've got a lot to learn, young lady. About baseball and California.” Gene proceeded to give me a brief education about the workings of the Pacific Coast League. I had never heard him say so many words at once.

*   *   *

THE BRASS SIGN
that announced the Hotel Normandie Park gleamed beneath a fresh coat of polish. The rest of the building wasn't as vigorously maintained, looking shabby in the late afternoon light. The Normandie Park was a dowager among Los Angeles hotels, flawless carriage still visible beneath a faded, outdated dress. It was exactly where a princess without portfolio would stay.

Gene's detective shield brought forth the hotel's manager, Mr. Leggett, a fussy beanpole with pomade troweling his hair into submission. “We're always happy to assist the police,” he declared. “The Normandie Park is a world-class establishment. We housed a number of Olympic athletes during the 1932 Games. It was quite the honor. Gained us an international reputation.”

“Didn't some lady shot-putters knock holes in your walls?” Gene asked.

Leggett wilted. “A few incidents blown out of proportion by the press.”

Gene accompanied Leggett to the manager's office. I passed the time not playing hopscotch on the lobby's black and white marble tiles. Gene emerged ten minutes later and cocked his head toward the exit.

“The staff of the Hotel Normandie Park have never heard of Princess Natalya Szabo or just plain Natalie Szabo. They may not even be up on Hungary.”

I stared at Gene, dumbfounded. “Leggett let me go through the file myself,” he said. “No Natalie. I cast the net wider, looked for Troncosa, Carroll, Karolyi, any name that looked familiar or even vaguely Hungarian. Came up empty.”

“If Natalie was never registered here, how did she get her invitation?”

“Simple. Somebody's lying.” Apparently I pulled a face at Gene's comment. “Chin up, Lillian. When people start lying, it's a sign you're onto something. It's looking more likely Ruby and Natalie were up to no good together. Possibly trying to dupe Troncosa. He's the only person in this scenario with money. Which they're both in need of.”

“I know.” I sighed. “This doesn't look good, does it? Nuts. I was hoping for the fairy tale.”

“Too late for that,” Gene said. “Natalie's in hiding and Ruby's dead.”

He started the car and steered back along the tree-lined drive toward Wilshire Boulevard. I felt a brood coming on. “I don't understand. We found out so much yet I feel like we don't know anything.”

“Par for the course in my line.”

“I think I'd find your job very frustrating.”

“All the more reason for you to stop trying to do it. Can I ask something that's been bothering me for days?”

His somber tone scissored through my mood. “Of course.”

“Would you really wear a getup like that one in Miss Head's office to the fights?”

“I'd take any excuse to wear an outfit like that. I've never actually been to a prizefight. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of one at Queensboro Arena from the Ditmars El train. Should I go? Do you like the fights?”

“Sure. Two guys bashing away at each other, the world reduced to the foot and a half in front of their faces, and one of them always loses. What's not to like?”

“Sounds like it parallels your job in some ways.”

“Boxing parallels a lot of things. That's why people like it. You should come to a bout. Dressed however you'd like.”

I had no idea if Gene had just asked me out. But it gave me something more pleasant to ponder on the ride home.

 

19

A FEW HOURS
into my shift, I wasn't sure which part of me hurt most. My toes throbbed, jammed as they were into a pair of midnight-blue stacked heel Mary Janes as fetching as they were unforgiving. My cheeks ached from smiling at Los Angeles matrons as I girded their loins with vulcanized rubber. My back was stiff thanks to my holding it flagpole-straight around Mr. Valentine.