“So we know Clark likes young co-stars, and he’s not too careful about it,” I said.
“Right.”
“And he was friendly with Clara, but not necessarily romantic.”
“I suppose.”
I sipped my coffee, which was surprisingly good. Italians knew food, or at least the ones in Chicago and New York certainly did. I sat quietly for a moment, mulling over everything that Hedda had said.
Hedda was not so patient. She finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table.
“Have you got anything else for me?” she said. “I gave you two pieces of information, you only gave me one.”
“You gave me two pieces of speculation,” I said. “I told you a solid and valuable fact.”
Hedda snorted. “It will be more valuable when we know for certain who the father was. Though I suppose my readers will relish the mystery in the meantime.”
Her satisfied smirk made me feel ill. I hated that I had betrayed something so personal to my sister, but it seemed like the only way to get Hedda to tell everything she knew. Besides, as horrible as it was to admit, Clara was gone now, and so was the baby. Hedda’s snippy little columns couldn’t hurt them. Meanwhile, the killer was still walking free, with the very real power to continue doing harm.
“I want to know if you find out anything else about my sister,” I said.
“Of course.” Hedda smiled. “I love to share. But remember, it’s always a trade. Nothing comes for free in Hollywood.”
I nodded.
“Well, better dash. Coffee’s on you, right, my sweet?” Hedda said, gathering up her purse.
I nodded again. I was glad Hedda was leaving, because I wanted to make some notes before I forgot what had been said.
I watched Hedda scuttle across the road in her very high heels, hurrying back into her office building. Only once Hedda disappeared behind the glass doors did I pull out my little leather notebook from my purse.
Under my list of suspects, I added two names:
Bugsy Siegel.
Clark Gable.
Then I made short bullet point notes of everything Hedda had said.
Once this was done, I took out Clara’s matching notebook. I hadn’t gone through it the night before as I’d planned, because I’d been too exhausted by the time I got back from the police station.
I opened it now. It was nowhere near as neat as my own book: there were no explanatory page headings, no obvious themes to the pages at all. They appeared to be jumbled in terms of subjects and dates, as if Clara had opened the book at random and written in any blank space available when she wanted to make a note.
Most of the notes were addresses and phone numbers, as well as a few appointments -
Nov 2 11:30 Dentist.
June 28 Dinner Bernie and V, Brown Derby.
Jan 12th screen test 4:00.
But then closer to the back of the book, I found something more organized: a sort of list, or chart. It was a vertical row of initials, and to the right of that, two corresponding rows of numbers.
GB95386
LP40477
AK15480
CG435232
MM200853
AV580842
PT30667
EW1150454
WW220894
OM180777
After that, I saw torn edges from pages that had been removed from the notebook, about a dozen in total.
I puzzled over it all. Were the initials people? Places? Was it a code? What did the numbers signify?
I knew enough about codes to know that you generally had to have the key to decipher them.
I flipped through the pages again, trying to see if there were any notes that looked like they might be a key (A=3, or something of the like). That seemed childish, like something out of a Nancy Drew book, and in any case I didn’t find anything useful.
I noticed that the numbers in the center column seemed to be in regular increments—usually ending in a 0 or a 5. They ranged from two to four digits. The numbers in the far right column were irregular in sum, but all were three digits.
The waiter returned, offering a refill for my coffee cup.
“No, thank you,” I said. “Just the bill, please.”
I paid and started my long walk back to The Georgian Hotel.
I wondered if I should ring Jack Woods to tell him what Hedda had said about Bugsy Siegel and Clark Gable. Hedda had offered no real evidence, only speculation, and Jack—Sergeant Woods, I mean—might not appreciate Hedda’s assertion that the police had covered up details of Thelma Todd’s death.
I decided I’d wait to tell him until we spoke next, whenever that might be. Then I might have something concrete to share. Or, at the very least, it would give me information to provide in response to whatever Jack might have found out.
8
The next morning, I reported to the Paramount Pictures studio bright and early, as Ruby had requested. This time I found my own way to my trailer, where I was met by Lucille.
Lucille refreshed my waves from the day before, and then unloaded a large case of cosmetics—more pots and brushes and creams and powders than I could ever have imagined.
“Don’t be frightened,” Lucille said, as she began to paint my face. “The makeup you use for the camera is different than what you’d put on to go to a party. It’s a lot heavier, a lot more intense. But it looks right on film. And of course this will be a more exotic look than most, since you’re playing an Arabian princess.”
Some of the things Lucille did felt quite nice—the lotion she massaged into my skin to start, and some of the powders that she brushed on with large, soft poufs. The part I most disliked was the fake lashes. They were so heavy that I could feel them every time I blinked, and they seemed to take up half my field of vision.
“You’ll get used to them,” Lucille promised.
It took close to an hour to apply the makeup. I used the time to question Lucille as casually as I could.
“I heard there was a party at the Trocadero the night before Clara died,” I said.
“That’s right,” Lucille said, dabbing rouge on my cheeks.
“Who was it for?”
“It was a surprise party, for Azriel Kantor.”
“Who’s that?”
“He builds most of the sets. He’s quite a genius at it, especially the historical sets. He’s from Europe, so he knows what all that stuff actually looks like.”
“It was his birthday?”
“That’s right. I think he was embarrassed. He’s pretty quiet—the modest type. That’s the divide in Hollywood—the vain people are in front of the cameras, the shy people stay behind them.”
“You’re not shy,” I said.
“No!” Lucille laughed. “I’ve got the chutzpah, I’m just not pretty enough to be in movies.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
“Oh no, you don’t have to flatter me,” Lucille said. “I see enough beautiful people to know the difference. I wasn’t even the prettiest in my own family, probably third or fourth at best.”
“Neither was I,” I said, with a bit of a laugh.
“Well,” Lucille said sadly, “nobody was as pretty as Clara.”