I was a little early — the meeting was set for four-thirty, and I’d arrived here at the Roosevelt Hotel, by cab, having arrived by train at the impressive new Union Station on North Alameda around three. Checking in, washing up, and slipping into my Miami white suit, black-and-white-checkered tie, and black-banded straw fedora, I’d ambled through the pale chamber of the impressively decorative, Spanish Colonial-style lobby trying to inconspicuously spot movie stars among the potted palms, plush armchairs and overstuffed couches. I’d made several trips to Hollywood — including one late last year — and my pals at the Barney Ross Cocktail Lounge and the Dill Pickle deli always looked forward to my blasé rundown on any Tinseltown somebodies I’d set eyes on. The joke was the few starlets, would-be matinee idols, and low-rent agents clustered here and there, chatting — not a seat taken, no one wanting to be seen “waiting” — were sneaking peeks at me, not realizing I was nobody.
The first person in Hollywood I recognized was in the movies all right, but most tourists wouldn’t have known his name any more than his Gable-mustached, nearly handsome face: Paul Mantz — in a single-breasted hunter green sport jacket with gathered waist and double-patch pockets, a yellow open-neck shirt, and light green slacks — sauntered into the Cine-Gril, put his hand on my shoulder, ordered a martini in a frosted glass from the black-jacketed bartender, and then said hello.
Other than a touch of gray at the temples and perhaps a slight further receding of his hairline, Mantz looked the same: dark alert eyes, familiar cocky set to his thin mouth, and jutting jaw.
“How’s married life?” I asked him, as he stood next to me, not taking a stool.
“Much better the second time around,” he said. “I’m a dad now, you know.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said. I’d had my own ruminations over fatherhood since I’d seen him last. “Congratulations.”
“Well, two kids were part of the package,” he said, accepting the frosted martini from the bartender, finally sliding up onto a stool. “Terry was Roy Minor’s widow, y’know, the racing pilot? His kids, good kids, Tenita and Roy Jr., are mine, now... but Terry and me have our own boy — Paul Jr. He’ll be two in August.”
“Hope business is good, with all those mouths to feed.”
Half a smile dimpled one cheek. “Real boom in war pictures. The country may not wanna get into this scrap, but they sure like to see it at the movies. Also, test flights and aerial camera jobs for Lockheed. Charter service is doin’ great, including a branch in San Francisco — set up two amphibians at the Golden Gate Expo and flew thousands of gawking Midwest bumpkins like you over the fair. Oh, and the Vega crashed — ground accident, I was fully covered.”
“No more Honeymoon Express?”
“Oh, sure, but it’s a Lockheed Orion, now. You keepin’ busy?”
I shrugged. “Retail credit, divorce work, a little industrial espionage now and then.”
“Industrial spying? You doin’ it, or stoppin’ it?”
I let him have half a smile. “I’m a priest to my clients, Paul. Don’t expect me to violate a sacred trust.”
“Unless there’s a buck in it... Don’t look so hurt.”
“That was acting,” I said. “When in Hollywood... What can you tell me about this little business conference?”
He swirled his martini in its glass. “What have they told you?”
“Not a damn thing. Margot DeCarrie called, asked if I’d come out here and listen to a business proposition; she offered train fare, two nights’ lodging and meals, plus a C-note and a half for my trouble and other expenses.”
“And that’s all she told you?”
“She said she represented the Amelia Earhart Foundation. Does that mean she’s working for Purdue University?”
“Naw. Purdue set up the Amelia Earhart Research Foundation, but that was active only when Amelia was alive.”
“You think she’s dead, Paul?”
He didn’t quite look at me. “Probably. I think she probably crashed into the sea. She bit off more than she could chew, Noonan missed the island, she was tired, and tried to land too high over clear water, or misjudged the distance and flew into a heavy roller. Either one would’ve killed them instantly.”
I didn’t tell him what I knew; the confidentiality clause in the agreement I’d signed with Uncle Sam precluded that. In fact, according to the terms of my contract, I hadn’t even been in California in 1937.
“But ‘probably’ isn’t ‘absolutely,’ is it, Paul?”
He nodded, gazed into his martini, as if an answer might be floating there. “She was a great lady,” he said. “It’s hard to let go.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“I should leave the particulars to the others,” he said. “Margot and the rest’ll be here soon enough.”
“This, uh, Amelia Earhart Foundation... Does G. P. have anything to do with it?”
“Hell no!” Mantz’s chuckle was edged with bitterness. “Not with me involved.”
“You two were never exactly bosom buddies. Do I detect a further deterioration in the relationship?”
He sipped the martini. “Amelia and I were involved in several businesses, including my charter service. But we both signed a contract that gave the surviving partner the entire business. Gippy, as executor of the Amelia Earhart Estate, is suing for half, just the same.”
I frowned. “How the hell can there be an estate? Doesn’t it take seven years to be declared legally dead, anymore?”
Mantz raised an eyebrow. “Not if you’re married to Gippy Putnam. I don’t know what kind of strings he and his lawyers pulled, but Amelia’s been legally dead since late ’38, I think, or early ’39. Gippy’s been screwing over Amelia’s mother and sister, too, makin’ sure they don’t get a share.”
“He always was a classy guy.”
“Well, he’s scramblin’ for dough. The estate was smaller than you’d think, at least that’s what I hear. They had a lot of their own money tied up in the world flight. I heard he had to sell the house in Rye; the book ‘by’ Amelia, about the last flight, got rushed out but didn’t do so hot. You do know he remarried, don’t ya?”
“No!”
My response seemed to surprise Mantz, who shrugged and said, “Got a good amount of play in the papers out here.”
“Not in Chicago. Remarried...”
Mantz was nodding. “Last year about this time, to a good-looking brunette who got a divorce from a successful lawyer in town — one of these Beverly Hills housewives who hit the garden club circuit. I hear Gippy picked her up at one of his ‘Amelia’ lectures... that’s how he’s makin’ most of his money these days.”
“Didn’t take him long to get back in circulation.”
“Hey, just a few months after Amelia disappeared, he went off on one of his ‘expeditions’ and took this other good-lookin’ gal along for company... They say he was shacked up with her for months, after they got back from the Galapagos or wherever the hell. Till she got sick of his browbeating and foul temper.”
“Jeez, Paul — you turned into a regular Hedda Hopper.”
That made him smile. “Hey, I figure you might enjoy the dirt on Gippy, since you love him about as much as I do.”
“Maybe more,” I said.