The Simeon Chamber (26 page)

In all, it contained close to a hundred species of domesticated and wild beasts. Long a favorite diversion of guests was a visit, at feeding time, to the quarters of the caged birds and animals, located a little distance down the hill from the castle. The Hearst menagerie included cheetahs, cockatoos, eagles, sacred monkeys from Japan and India, orangutans, leopards, panthers, chimpanzees and gorillas. That broken trelliswork above the animal enclosures shaded the two-mile bridle path. During its day some of the most famous personalities of Hollywood’s Golden Age took their morning horseback ride under that trellis, using the horses from the stable at the rear of the castle. Clark Cable and Carol Lombard were frequent riders …”

The bus swayed visibly to the right as tourists on the other side leaned into the aisle for a better view.

A well-dressed man in the last row of seats paid no attention. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, oblivious to the sights around him. He was tall and gaunt, dressed in a blue pinstriped suit. The unseasonably warm fall weather had caused him to leave his overcoat and hat in his car in the parking lot. The man was out of place in the gaggle of casually clothed vacationers. His only common link with the other passengers was his advanced age. His gloved hands were draped over the brass handle of a cane that rested on the floor between his knees. 9

The bus came to a stop at one of the several broad stairways leading up to the piazza in front of the castle. Its load of passengers began to stream out of the two doors on the right side of the vehicle.

“Please step this way, ladies and gentlemen, so we can get started with the tour.” A middle-aged woman dressed in a tan uniform skirt and blue blazer held up her hands and motioned the group toward the landing at the base of the stairs.

The man with the cane began to climb the stairs toward the house.

“Sir, where are you going?” The guide’s tone was one of irritation.

“Oh, I’m Dr. George Johnson, Professor of Art from the Art Center in Los Angeles. I have an appointment to meet with Mr. Symington at ten o’clock.”

“Well, you just can’t go up to the house, sir.

If you’ll wait a moment I will get one of the other guides to take you up so that you can find Mr. Symington.”

The woman turned and looked around. She spied three other people in matching blazers standing in the shadow of a large oak tree thirty feet away. “Ralph? Could you give us a little help?”

One of the guides broke away from the group and approached the woman.

“This gentleman has an appointment with Mr. Symington. Maybe you can help him.”

“Yes sir,” said the guide. The two of them moved away from the crowd of tourists.

“I’m afraid that all guests here on business must sign in at the office before entering the house,” said the guide. “If you’ll come this way we’ll get you to sign our book and then we can find Mr. Symington.” The two men walked off in the direction of a cluster of trailers near the chainlink fence and the crumbling trellis.

Arthur Symington led Jennifer and Sam through a door that opened onto an immense kitchen equipped with outdated restaurant-style appliances. Early-model refrigerators with wooden paneled doors lined one wall, and a double bank of gas ovens stood in the center of the room, flanked by large stainless steel tables. The appliances were obsolete and the fixtures were old and well-worn but immaculate. Sam and Jennifer followed Symington through the kitchen and down a narrow flight of stairs into a large open area illuminated by the glare of oversized floodlights dangling from the arched ceiling. At the end of the room was a heavy wooden table covered with assorted vases and cluttered with books and papers.

On the brief sojourn to his subterranean enclave, Symington had had time to collect his thoughts and gain some semblance of confidence.

Sam watched as the old man lit a long tapered brown cigarette mounted in an ivory holder, which he balanced delicately between effeminate fingers. Crossing his arms and striking a pose reminiscent of Jack Benny, Symington took a slight drag and blew vaporous smoke contemptuously at Sam.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you a seat, but this is where I work. I don’t often entertain visitors.” The belligerence was back in his voice. “Now, what is this all about?”

Sam came straight to the point. “Fine, let’s cut through it. We know about the committee, and the journal. We have four pages of parchment from the book. We’re also informed that you played a vital role in this sordid little mess. So you have a choice. You can either talk to us, or to the police.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The transparent insecurity in Symington’s eyes belied the conviction of his words. He was well-dressed, immaculately manicured and highly educated. His every mannerism was polished to perfection—to be sure, he was a connoisseur of the finest wines and best foods. He was also a liar and a thief, and if Phillipe was to be believed, a man who played heavily in the black market during the war. So had Lamonge, but Bogardus could muster sympathy for the 323

Frenchman since he had paid a heavy price for his mistake and lived with the knowledge that their collective greed had cost the lives of his brother and sister-in-law. But Arthur Symington had escaped unscathed and now planted himself imperiously beneath the house built by William Randolph Hearst and, from the cut of his clothes, was paid handsomely for his services by the state.

“Surely, Mr. Symington, you wouldn’t want us to go to the police with what we know. i doubt if the state would be nearly as understanding as we are.” Jennifer played on the same theme, following Sam’s lead.

Symington looked at her and smiled. He moved closer to the table, aimlessly rearranging some of the papers and books. “Why should I care if you go to the police? I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Hearing no further specifics from the two, Symington assumed he had heard the worst. They had suspicions, bits and pieces, but they had no idea how to assemble them. “Now if you’ll excuse me i am a very busy man. I think you can find your way out.”

Bogardus had no intention of being dismissed so easily. “We know that you acted as a go-between for black market art purchases between the committee and Slade.”

With mention of the sailor’s name Symington’s eyes were energized by anxiety. They darted nervously first to Sam then to Jennifer. His desperate expression and the sweat on his brow dispelled any illusion that Symington actually expected them to leave.

“Listen, old man, a woman in San Francisco was murdered. She was my partner, and I’m beginning to suspect that maybe you had a hand in it.”

“Murder?” Ash dropped from the end of Symington’s cigarette onto papers spread on the desk as his hand trembled noticeably.

“I don’t know anything about any murder.”

His eyes bounced between Sam and Jennifer like two dark ping-pong balls. Any mask of indifference was now gone.

“Listen, you have to believe me, I know nothing of any murder.”

“Then tell us what you do know,” said Sam.

Symington hesitated.

“I’m waiting.” Bogardus issued 325

an icy stare.

“All right.” There was a clear note of resignation in Symington’s voice. “It’s all ancient history at this point anyway.” His tall, lean frame, which to this point had remained erect, began to droop. “Do you care if I sit?”

Sam nodded toward the chair behind the table.

Symington placed his hands on the armrests of the scarred Savonarola and slowly settled his body toward the seat. He looked up and took a deep breath. “Back in the late thirties and forties I worked for the Chief.”

Sam shot him a questioning look.

“William Randolph Hearst. Technically I was employed by one of his newspapers as an art critic and sometime columnist. In actuality I served as one of his principal agents for the acquisition of new pieces for his collection—

artworks, rare books, sculpture, virtually anything and everything I could lay my hands on. The man had a voracious appetite for collecting. And none of it was junk. He was a true connoisseur, not easy to please.”

Jennifer spied a chair in the corner of the room that was covered with a stack of books. She removed them to the floor and pulled the chair toward the table, taking a seat across from Symington.

“Before the war I combed Europe, dismantling palace interiors and negotiating purchases of paintings, tapestries and anything else I thought would strike his fancy. I had a virtual field day in Spain during the Civil War.”

He gave an amused grin. “People there were so desperate for cash they would have sold us the topsoil if we could have carried it away. As it was we took everything that stood above it.”

“What does this have to do with the committee?” asked Sam.

Symington issued a deep sigh. “I’m getting to that. The Chief’s penchant for collecting was a disease. As surely as an alcoholic craves drink and a junkie needs his drugs, William Randolph Hearst was addicted to fine art. And it was no secret. The only thing that saved him from being taken to the cleaners by every rug merchant in Europe and Asia was his well-trained eye for the finer things of this world.” Symington looked up and wrinkled his brow. “But that didn’t stop some of his own people from deceiving 327

him.”

Sam sat on the edge of the massive oak table, turning on an angle to watch Symington.

“It was common knowledge in his companies that Hearst regularly raided the petty cash of many of his papers to finance his art habit. He would cruise into town for a quick inspection and clean out the office safe to make one more purchase. There were times when some of the papers had to get bank loans to make their payrolls, and these were profitable publications.”

Symington let out a deep sigh and paused. “Well, some of the company brass figured that if he could do it they could too.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jennifer.

“A number of the top executives from papers around the country got together in New York for a secret meeting in the late thirties. They formed a committee.”

“The Committee of Acquisition?” asked Sam.

“The title wasn’t creative but it served the purpose. In all there were eleven members.

Together they controlled the most profitable publications under the Hearst umbrella and were answerable only to the Chief himself. You see, there was no corporation at that time and very few controls fiscal or otherwise over the Hearst empire.

The committee decided that if Hearst wanted art they’d give it to him—in spades. The only hitch was that there would be a slight markup.”

Sam furrowed his brow and shot a sideways glance at Jennifer, whose eyes were riveted on the old man.

“The committee had ready access to large amounts of operating capital from among their various publications. They siphoned some of this money to use in financing art purchases—pieces they knew the Chief would want.”

“Let me guess who told them what he might want,” said Sam. He detected a hint of shame, or what might pass for it, in the face of the arrogant old man.

“He brought it on himself.” The belligerence was back in Symington’s voice. “Besides, I was given no choice. I had my own problem—

alcohol. I haven’t taken a drink in over twenty-five years, but back then it was different. I couldn’t stay away from the stuff. One of the members of the committee knew about it. 9

He also knew that if Hearst found out I’d be fired in a minute. I managed to stay dry whenever I was up here on the hill. The Chief had his own problems in the form of Miss Davies.”

Hearing her own name from the old man’s mouth, Jennifer was momentarily startled.

“Marion Davies, the actress. Hearst’s affair with her was a major embarrassment to the family, but she was the love of his life. And a real sweetheart.” Symington issued a genuine smile. “We had one problem, she and I. We shared a common curse of drink. Hell, the Chief wouldn’t even allow his guests, some of the biggest stars and politicians in the world, to bring booze up here. He was afraid she would go visiting at night looking for a bottle.

Suffice it to say I either cooperated with the committee or lost my job. It would have meant separation from all of this.” Symington waved his arm casually over the vases and other objects spread out on the table. “I was willing to do anything to avoid that.”

“Tell us more about the committee,” said Sam. “What did it have to do with Slade, and Drake’s journal?”

Symington plucked the remains of the cigarette from its holder and crushed the butt in a small dish on the table. “As I was saying, the money that was siphoned off was in relatively small amounts, nothing that would catch anyone’s attention from any single paper, but in the aggregate it was considerable, particularly when you adjust for Depression-era dollars. I would make the purchase with the committee’s money and transfer the item to some strawman who would pose as a new seller. Then I would tell the Chief that I had made a significant find. The strawman would add twenty, thirty, sometimes forty percent to the original price paid by the committee. The Chief would pay the inflated price, and after paying off the strawman the committee would pocket the difference.

The operating capital would be returned to the respective companies and nobody was the wiser.

You might call it an interest-free loan.” Symington shook his head. “It was ingenious.”

“I don’t understand one thing,” said Sam. “Why did the committee need to take company money?

Why didn’t it simply quote an inflated price to Hearst and use his purchase money to make the original buy?” 1

“You don’t know much about the art market—and less about William Randolph Hearst.” Symington smiled.

Sam shrugged. “Enlighten me.”

“At those rarified prices, particularly back then, buyers and sellers were a very small, closely knit community. Word would have been out within a matter of days that the price paid by the Chief and the amount received by the seller didn’t jive. Hearst didn’t parlay one broken-down newspaper in San Francisco into a publishing empire on his good looks. No, the committee knew that it had to have a bogus middleman. A seller who would confirm to the world that the inflated price was what he received. There were a number of charlatans on the continent willing to play the part—for a price.”