friends. After hearing Cliff ’ s tale, Udall said: "It sounds like you may have your own Watergate."
"Well, what can I do? I seem to be at the end of the road in Los Angeles."
"There might be some federal crimes involved. Cliff. The check appears to have gone through a couple of national banks. And Begelman may have IRS problems if he's stolen any money. I'd consider calling the FBI."
Cliff fretted through Labor Day. Dina finished A Wedding and the family returned to New York. There was no news from Los Angeles. Finally, through a friend of Dina's family, Cliff arranged an appointment with the FBI in Washington for Monday, September 12, two days before he was to leave for London. An agent met him at National Airport and drove him to headquarters where he told his story and stressed his feeling that he might be in some personal danger. The agents asked that he telephone the FBI office in London immediately after he arrived.
Washington telexed the pertinent details to London, and when Cliff was settled a few days later, he gave the local FBI office the address of the studio where he would be working and the address of the country house where he would be living. The London agent said that he would keep Cliff posted and that in any event Cliff should check in by telephone once a week but say nothing to anyone else in London about the matter. His chauffeur was told to be alert for anyone who might be following his limousine. The studio was asked, without explanation, to admit the limousine through a back entrance. And it was suggested to Robertson that as the vehicle approached the studio in the morning and left it in the evening he should lie down on the back seat and cover himself with a blanket.
He dwelt on the absurd array of possibilities that his state of affairs seemed to pose. Either he was paranoid and would be a laughingstock if anyone ever found out about the FBI, the back entrance and the blanket. Or he was in genuine danger from the "iceberg of fraud" and might be vulnerable despite the security measures. Or, lacking any knowledge of the fate of his now-three-month-old report of David Begelman's crime, which seemed to have vanished into a void of silence and inaction, he was merely taking judicious precautions.
Although he preferred to believe the latter, he felt very unsure of himself during those first several days in London. Things seemed to have gotten out of control since he discovered that odd little IRS form on his sunny patio in Fremont Place last February.
Never before had Cliff Robertson felt so frustrated, so helpless, so ridiculous.
SIX
After David Begelman mentioned the check inquiry to his boss from New York, Alan Hirschfield—the president and chief executive officer of Columbia Pictures Industries—at Chasen's on the evening of Friday, June 3, the subject did not come up again. Even though Begelman and Hirschfield were together in Los Angeles and New York at least half a dozen times through the summer, often in the company of Joe Fischer, the corporation's financial vice president, Begelman naturally avoided the issue and Hirschfield and Fischer soon forgot about it, having accepted Begelman's wo rd that it was an innocent misunderstanding. In Alan Hirschfield's universe, the Robertson check was nothing more than a tiny scrap of information that was visible only partially and only momentarily, and then was quickly swept from sight and mind by much larger, more pressing matters that commanded his full attention.
In the four years that Alan Hirschfield had been at the helm of Columbia Pictures Industries, the corporation not only had regained its financial health but achieved the highest profits and revenues in its history. It had just completed a fiscal year (Columbia's year was
July through June) in which the motion picture and television operations had taken in nearly S300 million. Phonograph records, pinball machines, broadcasting stations, and other smaller businesses had added another
"Well, what can I do? I seem to be at the end of the road in Los Angeles."
"There might be some federal crimes involved. Cliff. The check appears to have gone through a couple of national banks. And Begelman may have IRS problems if he's stolen any money. I'd consider calling the FBI."
Cliff fretted through Labor Day. Dina finished A Wedding and the family returned to New York. There was no news from Los Angeles. Finally, through a friend of Dina's family, Cliff arranged an appointment with the FBI in Washington for Monday, September 12, two days before he was to leave for London. An agent met him at National Airport and drove him to headquarters where he told his story and stressed his feeling that he might be in some personal danger. The agents asked that he telephone the FBI office in London immediately after he arrived.
Washington telexed the pertinent details to London, and when Cliff was settled a few days later, he gave the local FBI office the address of the studio where he would be working and the address of the country house where he would be living. The London agent said that he would keep Cliff posted and that in any event Cliff should check in by telephone once a week but say nothing to anyone else in London about the matter. His chauffeur was told to be alert for anyone who might be following his limousine. The studio was asked, without explanation, to admit the limousine through a back entrance. And it was suggested to Robertson that as the vehicle approached the studio in the morning and left it in the evening he should lie down on the back seat and cover himself with a blanket.
He dwelt on the absurd array of possibilities that his state of affairs seemed to pose. Either he was paranoid and would be a laughingstock if anyone ever found out about the FBI, the back entrance and the blanket. Or he was in genuine danger from the "iceberg of fraud" and might be vulnerable despite the security measures. Or, lacking any knowledge of the fate of his now-three-month-old report of David Begelman's crime, which seemed to have vanished into a void of silence and inaction, he was merely taking judicious precautions.
Although he preferred to believe the latter, he felt very unsure of himself during those first several days in London. Things seemed to have gotten out of control since he discovered that odd little IRS form on his sunny patio in Fremont Place last February.
Never before had Cliff Robertson felt so frustrated, so helpless, so ridiculous.
SIX
After David Begelman mentioned the check inquiry to his boss from New York, Alan Hirschfield—the president and chief executive officer of Columbia Pictures Industries—at Chasen's on the evening of Friday, June 3, the subject did not come up again. Even though Begelman and Hirschfield were together in Los Angeles and New York at least half a dozen times through the summer, often in the company of Joe Fischer, the corporation's financial vice president, Begelman naturally avoided the issue and Hirschfield and Fischer soon forgot about it, having accepted Begelman's wo rd that it was an innocent misunderstanding. In Alan Hirschfield's universe, the Robertson check was nothing more than a tiny scrap of information that was visible only partially and only momentarily, and then was quickly swept from sight and mind by much larger, more pressing matters that commanded his full attention.
In the four years that Alan Hirschfield had been at the helm of Columbia Pictures Industries, the corporation not only had regained its financial health but achieved the highest profits and revenues in its history. It had just completed a fiscal year (Columbia's year was
July through June) in which the motion picture and television operations had taken in nearly S300 million. Phonograph records, pinball machines, broadcasting stations, and other smaller businesses had added another
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