Bombshell by Max Collins (pdf ebook reader TXT) 📕

off as just some … some dumb blonde,” she said, “you’re making a big mistake … a mistake a lot of Americans will have to pay for.”

“Miss Monroe, please settle down…”

With a frustrated squeal, she jumped up from the couch and, lips trembling, spread her hands, palms up, fingers apart, like she was trying to grab onto something. “It was the way they said it—those two men spoke with such contempt … even hatred!”

Harrigan rose and faced her.

His smile was slight, not mocking, rather serious and conciliatory. “Miss Monroe … Marilyn. I’m not laughing at you … truly. Please understand—it’s just that I’m relieved that there’s nothing more to your story.”

“Nothing more … ?” she repeated. She looked at him with wide eyes, as if trying desperately to bring this man into some kind of focus.

The agent took one of her hands in his. “Look,” he said gently, “this Russian visit has got all of us jumpy. Right now I’ve got several real, credible threats on the premier’s life that we’re investigating … bomb threats, that kind of thing. Believe me, what you overheard was nothing.”

Marilyn pulled her hand from his grasp. She turned to look at her secretary, who had been quietly listening at the desk.

“May,” the actress said tensely, “he’s not going to do anything.”

The secretary got up from the desk and approached the agent.

“Mr. Harrigan,” May said, coming to her employer’s defense, “I’ve been with Marilyn a good number of years … and I’ve learned one thing: her instincts are seldom wrong.”

Harrigan put both hands in the air, surrendering. “Please! If you both will just take a deep breath, I’ll explain to you why I’m not concerned…”

He gestured for the women to sit. Marilyn returned to her previous spot on the couch, while May perched on the armrest. Harrigan remained standing.

“First of all,” he told them, “the two men Marilyn overheard are trusted KGB agents—Okhrana—special guards sworn to protect the premier, hand-picked by Khrushchev himself.” He paused, then continued. “And second … and critically … there’s a regular changing of Khrushchev’s personal bodyguards at two o’clock in the morning.”

Harrigan shifted his gaze to Marilyn. “That’s what the exchange you heard meant. ‘Two o’clock. Goodbye, Khrushchev.’ ” The agent spread his arms wide, like Al Jolson singing “Mammy.” “Now … do you see? Perfectly innocent.”

May was nodding; she seemed to accept Harrigan’s explanation. But Marilyn could not.

“I don’t care if those men are okra—or whatever you call them,” Marilyn said firmly. “I didn’t just hear what they said—I heard how they said it. And Agent Harrigan … they intend to kill Mr. K tonight.”

Harrigan sat next to the actress. “Okay,” he conceded, nodding, “let’s assume you’re right. Let’s say there’s a conspiracy among several of the premier’s key, most trusted guards, to assassinate him … political assassination is a way of life in Russia, after all.”

“Thank you,” Marilyn said.

Harrigan went on: “Then why wait until Los Angeles to do it? They could have just as easily assassinated Chairman Khrushchev in Washington, or New York.”

“But they didn’t,” Marilyn said, unconvinced. “They waited—knowing you would think exactly what you’re thinking, that you’d let your guard down. By waiting until the end of the trip, they have their best opportunity … because you and your men are all worn out.”

The agent seemed almost startled by this analysis. And her words clearly had struck a chord, because the agent gave her a sharp, respectful look.

“If you don’t mind hearing a dumb blonde’s opinion,” she added.

Harrigan nodded and smiled a little. “Very well reasoned,” he said, genuinely impressed.

“Thanks.”

Then he sighed and again got to his feet and looked down at her with a wry yet peace-making grin. “What if I promise you that I’ll be on hand … personally present … at the changing of Khrushchev’s guards, at two a.m. tonight?”

Marilyn gazed up at him. “Would you do that for me?”

“I’d do it for any concerned citizen,” he said, “reporting suspicious activity of such a vital nature … and I hope that will put your fears of an assassination attempt to rest.”

Marilyn rose and extended her hand, which Harrigan took, in a gesture that was half-handshake, half something else. “Thank you, Jack,” she whispered.

May patted Marilyn’s arm. “There now, dear—don’t you feel better?”

Marilyn nodded.

But after the State Department agent had gone, and May had disappeared into the bungalow’s kitchenette to fix them a salad for supper, Marilyn remained on the couch, fretting.

Would Jack Harrigan be able to rouse himself in the wee hours of the morning, exhausted as he seemed? Or would he sleep right through the execution of the conspirators’ plot?

Marilyn believed he’d been sincere; his promise to supervise the changing of the guards had seemed more than just giving her the bum’s rush … but Harrigan was a harried man, getting hit from all fronts and on every side. So she couldn’t take that chance. She had to do something, and fast.

Marilyn Monroe believed, however, that one should always make haste slowly…

So it took her a few hours to devise her own scenario … one that did not include a leading man, unless you counted Nikita Khrushchev himself.

8 The Hungarian Ambassador

On Wilshire Boulevard, between Seventh and Eighth Streets—set back on an expansive, immaculately manicured lawn, as if a palace had dropped from the sky into the midst of so unlikely a place as Hollywood, California—the Ambassador had been a mainstay in downtown Los Angeles ever since its grand opening on New Year’s Day in 1921.

The construction and decoration of the stately hotel had racked up the then-outrageous cost of five million dollars. Built on twenty-three acres of former dairy land, the H-shaped structure (“H” for hotel) boasted 1,200 rooms and suites; on the first floor, a guest could stand on the grand ballroom’s stage and gaze all the way through the elaborate fern-adorned lobby and into the immense dining room at the other end.

Anybody who was anybody stayed at the Ambassador—from movie stars to captains of industry, from statesmen to