“Sure, Tom.” Rick got into the cart.
“I’ve got some news for you.”
“What about?”
“About the Communist Party cards you got in the mail. And it comes from our old friend, Hal Schmidt.”
“Tell me.”
Rick listened as Tom ran through the story of how Murray Fox had gotten hold of the two cards and mailed them.
“Who did he mail them to?”
“I don’t know,” Tom replied. “Fox wouldn’t tell him, but Schmidt said he wouldn’t be surprised if Fox had done the same with other cards mailed to other studios.”
“You think we have any chance of finding out who got the cards at Centurion, then sent them to me?”
“Frankly, no. I mean, what we’ve got came from a source inside the party, and we were very lucky to have that source. If he can’t find out, I don’t think we can find out without him.”
“Well, I guess this is one we should just put behind us,” Rick said. “After all, Sid Brooks has already been publicly humiliated, and you’ve destroyed any record of Glenna at the Milwaukee party office, so it seems unlikely that any further harm can be done.”
“That’s the way I look at it, Rick. Just forget about it.”
Tom stopped the cart at the door of the main building, and Rick got out. “By the way, Tom, did you see the story by Hedda Hopper in the paper yesterday?”
“Yeah, and there was another one this morning.”
“What did that one say?”
“Apparently Hank Harmon fled her apartment ahead of the press and moved in with a friend out in the valley, but they caught up with her there, too.”
“With what result?”
“No result; she refused to come to the door. They’ve got her pretty well staked out, though, I would imagine.”
“Tom, did you give Hedda the first story about Harmon?”
“No, Rick. I didn’t.”
“What’s your best guess as to where it came from?”
“My best guess? From the LAPD, although somebody at RKO would run a close second. It may be that the studio wanted people to know that they’d fired Hank, but they didn’t want to make any kind of official statement.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Rick said. “Thanks for the lift, Tom.”
Tom waved good-bye and started back toward his office. As he drove along, a big, black Packard pulled alongside him.
“Hey, Mr. Terry!” the driver yelled.
Tom looked over at the man. “Morning.”
“Remember me?”
Tom stopped and looked closer. “Oh, yeah. You’re the studio driver I met at Vance Calder’s house; you’re the one who was supposed to drive Susan Stafford to the airport, right?”
“That’s right. I was just wondering if anything new had come up in the investigation. I mean, I saw the stuff in the papers about the script girl at RKO, but I wondered if there was anything else.”
“It’s Jerry, right?”
“That’s right.”
“No, Jerry. Nothing new at all, and believe me, I’ve been keeping tabs on the investigation. I think that, short of a confession from Hank Harmon, the police are not going to get any further.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks a lot, and take care.”
The Packard pulled away, and Tom started for his office again.
53
Sid Brooks sat on a stool at the counter of the diner in Santa Monica where he had lunch nearly every day. He needed a midday break from his work, since he was at the typewriter for eight hours a day, compared to the four hours he had been working before he had been blacklisted.
He was deep into a bowl of homemade clam chowder and paid little attention when someone took the stool next to him.
“You’re a real piece of work, Brooks,” a voice to his right said.
Sid turned and looked at the man. He recognized him as Fred Blair, another blacklisted writer. He knew the man only from the meetings of the nineteen subpoenaed writers when they were discussing their legal defense. “Hello, Fred,” Sid said. “What are you talking about?”
“We’ve heard what you’re planning to do,” Blair said.
“Who is ‘we,’ and what am I planning to do?”
“You’re going to purge yourself before the committee, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re going to rat us out.”
“I’m not going to rat anybody out,” Sid said and turned back to his chowder.
“So, you’re a liar as well as a rat.”
“Did you hear what Billy Wilder said about us, Fred?”
“Huh?”
“Wilder said, ‘Of the unfriendly ten, only two had any talent; the others were just unfriendly.’ There’s not much doubt which group you belong to. You have nothing to lose, because you were doing shitty work all along. Somebody always had to be hired to clean up after you.”
Blair stood up and squared off. “You lousy son of a bitch. Stand up, and I’ll make you eat those words.”
Sid ate the last spoonful of his chowder, laid a dollar and a half on the counter, stood up and faced Blair. “Why don’t you grow up, Fred?” He brushed past Blair and walked out of the diner.
Blair caught up to him in the parking lot. “Just a minute, you coward,” he yelled and grabbed at Sid’s shoulder.
Sid took a step away from him and turned; he saw it coming. Blair started at him and drew back his right hand. As he swung, Sid stepped inside the punch, blocked it and drove his right fist into the man’s solar plexus.
Blair sat down on the pavement, clutching his midriff, and vomited into his lap. Sid wanted to hit him again, but he was too pathetic. He turned and walked toward his car, mentally thanking the instructor at the Lower East Side settlement house who, when he was twelve, had taught him to box, a handy skill for a Jewish boy in a public school.
“We’re gonna get you!” Blair yelled from behind him.
Sid turned and used his whole arm in a very satisfying obscene gesture. He got into his car and drove away, thinking that any remaining doubts he had about testifying had been resolved.
Hank Harmon left her upstairs bedroom in her friend Sylvia’s house and went downstairs in search of a pen. She went into the den and began opening desk drawers, finding all sorts of things, including a snub-nosed revolver, before finally finding a pen. She borrowed some stationery, went back upstairs and peeked through the drawn venetian blinds. They were still out there with their cameras. She sat down and started writing.
She had written, sealed and stamped her letters when, a little after six, she heard a car door slam outside. She peeked outside again and saw Sylvia elbowing her way through the little mob of reporters, then she heard the front door slam. Hank went downstairs.
“Hi,” she said to Sylvia. “Did you have a good day?”
Sylvia sank into the sofa, not looking at her. “Sit down, please, Hank.”
Hank sat down.
Sylvia looked up. “To answer your question: no, I didn’t have a good day. First of all, when I left for work this morning, I had to wade through that bunch outside. Then, when I got to work, my boss showed me a newspaper article by Hedda Hopper that mentioned my name and address and that said you were hiding out here. I was pretty much told that if he read anything like that again, I’d be out of the studio on my ass.”
“Sylvia...”
“I’m not through. Then I came home from work, and I had to wade through the reporters again.” She held up a batch of mail. “I never get this much mail.” She riffled through the envelopes. “All of it is from my neighbors on this street.” She chose one and ripped it open. “Dear Miss Pound,” she read, “We would appreciate it if you would come to a neighborhood association meeting at the school at seven-thirty this evening to discuss with us the ruckus outside your house and your choice of houseguests. And I would advise you to read the bylaws of the neighborhood association before you come.” Sylvia tossed the letter aside. “I’m sure the others say pretty much the same thing, and I don’t need to read the bylaws to know that there is a clause stating that any resident who is a bad neighbor for any one of a number of reasons can be voted out. They can actually force me, legally, to sell my house.”