Authors: Kelli Stanley
City of Secrets
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For my mother, Patricia Geniusz Stanley, my best friend and the best person I know. Thank you for your courage and your Polish tenacity and your strength, Mom, and most of all, for your love.
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Author's Note
The plot of
City of Secrets
is fictional; the underlying tensions, motives, and many of the background details unfortunately are not.
German scientists were heavily influenced by the American eugenics movement. Anti-Semitism was relatively common in America, and Charles Coughlin, the Catholic priest-
cum
-radio broadcaster, remained popular throughout the country. Long before the term “right-wing militia” became a problem for Homeland Securityâand before Timothy McVeigh became responsible for the second-deadliest act of terrorism in the United Statesâthe “Christian Front boys” in New York were planning to blow up government buildings and fascistic groups physically harassed Jews on the streets of Manhattan.
I examined actual documents from the eraâthanks to the American Jewish Committee online archivesâand studied the many books of the period that were concerned with the potential for fifth columnists and American Fascism. The Musketeers were an actual group in San Francisco; lesser known than the Silver Shirts and the German-American Bund, they were representative of hundreds of hate organizations that sprouted up during the Depression, heartened and encouraged by Hitler's march to power. Anti-Semitism remained a threat to a cohesive, civilized society throughout World War II and afterward: Hollywood didn't specifically address the problem until
Gentleman's Agreement
and
Crossfire
, both released in 1947.
At the same time, there were many people who fought an unheralded struggle for human rights during this period. The Reverend L. M. Birkhead, who founded Friends of Democracy; Rex Stout, the creator of Nero Wolf, who served as the chairman of the organization, are but two examples.
Miranda fights the war in her own way, but she was walking side by side with other soldiers, struggling against oppression and for the right of all men and women to live in dignity, individuals and yet part of a collective, not subjugated to violence, malice, or hatred because of who they were. Such heroism is unusual in every age but, fortunately for us, not anachronistic. It is to these unheralded champions that we owe the progress we still strive for, and the peace we hope we shall find.
I hope you enjoy
City of Secrets,
and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. You can find more about my booksâincluding photos, historical documents, videos, and audioâat
www.kellistanley.com
, and I'm also on Facebook and Twitter. As always, I look forward to hearing from you!
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Contents
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Part One
The Fall
Must the entire world go to war for 600,000 Jews in Germany who are neither American, nor French, nor English citizens, but citizens of Germany?
âCharles Coughlin,
Detroit News,
January 30, 1939
Â
One
Pandora was still pretty. White skin, blond hair. Roots not faded back to black and brown. Stretched across the platform, breasts firm, nipples plump, pubic hair shaved. Head hung over the edge, upside down. Frozen, still, marble. Perfect artist's model, except for the blood dripping.
Drip-drop. Drip-drop.
Fred was standing in the stage shadows, hat in his hands. Tom skittered around Miranda, keeping up a monologue.
“IâI figure you know wh-what to do, Miss Corbie, bein' a detective an' all. You probably seen ⦠She really isâdead?”
Fred choked, his large brown fedora crumpled with sweat from where he was squeezing it. He took a step toward Miranda.
“Ain't you betterâain't you better do somethin', Miss Corbie? Whoever did this to Pandora⦔
She turned to face him. “Somebody threaten her? Try to get too close?”
He shook his head. “I can't say, Miss Corbie. Tom finds her like thisâshe ain't supposed to be here, she was always late, but you know, it don't take much time to take off your clothes, and sheâshe never had to wear much makeup.⦔
He turned his back to her, faced the shadows again. A calliope started playing from the merry-go-round.
Miranda stood up from where she was crouched by the dead woman's face. “You touch anything?”
“I cain'tâcain't remember, Miss Corbie. I saw her, might've shook her some.” Tom's eyes came back to the dead girl, West Virginia accent thicker.
Miranda took the pack of Chesterfields out of her purse. Said carefully: “You know how this got here?” She pointed to Pandora's right breast, the one without a hole in it.
Under the swell, under the small, slow trickle crossing her chest and oozing from the stab wound. A word in blood.
Kike.
Bombs exploded from the Elephant Towers, rattling the wooden platform. Signal for opening time, second Golden Gate International Exposition, step right up, folks, and welcome to Treasure Island.
Miranda took a deep breath and lit a cigarette, staring at the dead girl.
May 25, 1940. Opening Day at the Fair to End All Fairs.
Closing day for Pandora Blake.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
9:06
A.M.
Miranda folded the newspaper over the B-western fence post outside Sally's and flicked the Chesterfield in the dirt, waiting for the bulls to make an appearance, waiting for someone official to show up and tell her to go away.
Another explosion shook the Gayway, drowning out the Hawaiian and Spanish music from the turnstiles. Some genius in the PR department figured bombs were news in Europe, why not drop them on San Francisco?
Girls in line at the hot dog stand tittered. Whiff of fresh scones from Threlkeld's, fog peeling off Ripley's Odditorium.
Tom stepped out of Artists and Models across the midway strip, his long body jerking itself in different directions. She waited, quick inhale, dropped the Chesterfield, crushing it in the sawdust. His hand shook when he grasped her arm. A little taller than her, about five eight. Patched and stained dungarees, worn, covered in dirt, electrical wire hanging from his pocket. Blue eyes watery, wide, scared.
“Theyâthey takin' her away, Miss Corbie. Don't know no family for her, butâGod almighty, seems like she needs somebody.”
Trembling all over. Rubbed his face into his blue work shirt, mouth contorted, tears on weathered skin.
Miranda said slowly: “You sure you didn't see anyone? They'll ask you. They'll try to break you. You know something, tell me.”
Head shake, hair sandy and lifeless. “I don't see nothing. I'm settin' up the lights for the opening, she's the first act on the hourâwe been practicin' for the last week. I see her stretched out already, figured she was playin' around.” He plucked at his rough blue shirt, stained with oil and sweat, looking down, whispered voice. “I walk over, thinkin' maybe ⦠maybe she ⦠I don't know.”
Miranda nodded, didn't say anything. He choked back a whimper. Wiped his face with his arm again. Met her eyes.
“So I get Fred, and he says to find you. Alls I did wasâwas touch her a little. I thought she was playin'. So help me Gawd, Miss CorbieâI thought she was playing.”
The thin electrician held his face in his hands, shoulders convulsing with sobs.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
9:27
A.M.
Lost men in soiled pants sidling through early, looking for the sure bet, the certain thing, a grift at better odds than Tanforan. Couples, hand in hand, mouths open, blushing at buying a ticket for Sally Rand's, chubby brunette oohing over a cheap gold bracelet, boyfriend in glasses spending a buck for the engraving. “Nina,” he says proudly, and she blushes.
Kids kick up the sawdust, dressed in faded pinafores and big brother's old knickers, clutching dimes for the roller coaster and the Roll-O-Plane and the lions in Captain Terrell Jacobs's African Jungle, buying cotton candy and popcorn, dropping peanuts down the Gayway.
Miranda waited and blew a smoke ring, missing Shorty and the rest of the Singer Midgets from last year.
Not the same Fair. Not the same world. Phony war over, a world war now, except we weren't a part of the world anymore.
We were Americans. Who needed the fucking world.
She shielded her eyes against the sun, checking attendance day numbers on the giant cash register. A shadow blocked her view. Grogan, smirk on his face.
“Time to talk, Corbie.”
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Herman sat and sweated, sad brown eyes following Grogan's cigar, crumpled derby on his lap. Looked back and forth between Grogan and Miranda.
He whined for the third or fourth time. “Lieutenant, it's Opening Day. Mr. Schwartz got a lot invested.”
Grogan looked at the end of his cigar critically, stamped it out in the Firestone ashtray. “You think I like this any more than you do, Lukowski? We got fifty more men than usual today, whole goddamn city's been throwin' one hootenanny after another for the whole goddamn week. Fiesta Days, my ass. It's money, money for Schwartz, money for you. But there's a blond dame upstairs that got stabbed at your concession. And until the M.E. gets done with the crime scene, you can't get your girly peep show open again. So shut the fuck up.”
Grogan glanced over at Miranda. “I'd apologize for my language if there was any ladies present.”
Miranda blew the stream of smoke in his face. “How'd you manage to get promoted, Grogan? I figured you'd be headlining the Odditorium by now.”
Grogan leaned back in his chair until it squeaked. “You're the freak, Corbie. First a whore, now a private dick. Get your picture in the fucking paper, and think you're Carole fucking Lombard.”
She stabbed out the Chesterfield on his desk, rolling around the stub until the paper splintered and tobacco spilled out. “How long do I have to stay here? I can't wait long enough for you to find an idea. World doesn't have that much time left.”
His lips stretched, eyes tight under the heavy bags. “Long enough to deal with Captain O'Meara.”
Noise in the outer room. Sally's voice. O'Meara stuck his head in and scanned the room, not looking at anyone in particular.
Said: “My office, please.” Grogan shoved his chair aside, gestured sarcastically for Miranda to go ahead of him. Herman sighed and shrank farther into the office wall.
Sally was already inside, draped in a brown fox stole and an air of irritation. Surrounded by men, and not the kind she liked. Too old, too fat, too lawyer.