He Done Her Wrong tp-8

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I think Alice has a yen for you, Jeremy,” I said, counting my remaining coins.

  “She is not without charm,” he said. “That is a woman who never dissembles.”

  “And Mae West?”

  “There is an art to dissembling that she has mastered,” he said seriously. “I’ve just reworked one of the last poems for the collection. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Sure,” I said, standing in a Rexall drugstore, my sore stomach full of spaghetti Milanese and worrying about an escaped lunatic. I really did want to hear it, though I never understood Jeremy’s poems. There was something soothing in them, like a lullaby.

  “When the red slayer coughed,

  I laughed

  and warned him that the night air

  was not his lair.

  His yellow fire eyes met mine

  and gave a sign

  that told me I knew not what subtle ways

  an ailing God’s maze

  is laid out in the corridors of time,

  by the minions in mime.

  Respect what you do not understand,

  and bend or break,

  he belched and he was right.

  I embraced the night.”

  “Beautiful, Jeremy,” I said.

  “It’s best if you’ve read Emerson,” he said seriously.

  “Best,” I agreed.

  “Still needs a little work,” he said.

  “A little,” I agreed. “Maybe Mae West will give you some ideas.”

  I had the operator get me the number on Winning’s business card. There was no answer. I told her to keep ringing. No answer. I went back to the counter, had a cup of coffee and a stale sinker, and talked to the waitress about the weather and her sister, who was pulling in big bucks working a shipyard. I was careful not to ask if she was working in the yard or on the workers in the yard.

  “I’d go to the shipyards, but I haven’t got the build,” she confided.

  She looked a little like an egg with long hair. We listened to Winchell race on about the rubber shortage and the possibility of Hitler asking for a peace meeting. Then I excused myself to try for Winning again. This time he answered after ten rings.

  “Doc,” I said, “we’ve got a problem.”

  I told him about Grayson and chasing Ressner. I told him there wasn’t enough in the file to go on. After he got over worrying about who would pay the bill for Ressner, now that Grayson was gone, he told me a few more things about Ressner that might help.

  “This is information given in confidence of an analytical session,” he said and hesitated before going on, “but under the circumstances, I think …”

  “So do I,” I said. “I’m running out of coins. Shoot.”

  “Ressner’s most recent obsession focused on Miss West, Cecil B. De Mille, and Richard Talbott, the actor.”

  “I know who Talbott is,” I said, lining up my few remaining nickels and hoping he’d go on. “Academy Award nomination this year for Fire on Deck. You suggesting that I get to De Mille and Talbott?”

  “I’m informing,” Winning said. “I suppose Mrs. Grayson will continue to want adequate care for her former husband.”

  “Seems reasonable,” I said, “especially after he just murdered her present husband and landed her in a golden widow’s sea of Poodle piss.”

  “You know what Freud said about scatology, Mr. Peters?”

  “No,” I said, “but if I don’t hang up, I’m probably going to find out. Am I still on the case?”

  “You are. Report to me or my secretary daily.”

  “Will do,” I agreed, and the operator came on to ask me for another dime. I hung up. Went out, and left a ten-cent tip with the egg-shaped waitress dreaming of shipyards.

  I knew where I would be going in the afternoon, but I had a stop to make this morning. I could either hit De Mille or Talbott. I settled on De Mille because I knew where he lived. It was no great secret. Every Hollywood tour took in the De Mille house and had since about 1915 or 1916. I had seen it when I was a kid with my old man on one of those days out we had together.

  I got a cab and was at the De Mille house before noon. It was a big white, Spanish-looking place with awnings over the downstairs windows and glass doors all over the place that could be kicked down by a Little Rascal.

  I noticed that there were plenty of lush bushes to hide behind. The sky was rumbling again, and I went through the gate trotting to beat the rain and protect my suit. A man was running toward me down the path to head me off. He ambled forward, holding a round metal hat on his head. He was, I could see even at this distance of twenty yards, about sixty, putting on a little weight but moving with a straight back and military bearing.

  “And where might you be headed young man?” came that familiar radio voice.

  “I’m coming to see you, Mr. De Mille,” I said.

  He stopped a few feet in front of me, removed his metal hat, and looked at me. He was dressed in a white shirt, poplin brown jacket, and matching pants.

  “I’m afraid-” he said, the way he did on the Lux Radio Theater when time was running out.

  “So am I,” I jumped in. “My name’s Peters, Toby Peters. I work for Dr. Robert Winning, and I’m here about someone who has escaped from Dr. Winning’s institute, a Jeffrey Ressner, who you may remember.”

  “Remember him indeed,” said De Mille, thumping his metal helmet with his fingers. “Please come into the house before the rain starts. I was just on my rounds to check the neighborhood. I’m an air-raid warden for this sector, but it can wait awhile.”

  We got to a side door of the massive place just as the rain came darkly down. He led the way, and I followed through glass doors into some kind of study. The floor was wood and the rug a white animal fur that seemed almost lost in the middle. There were two old leather sofas and a leather chair. They were all such a dark brown that they might as well have been black. Various gadgets sat on shelves around the room. I recognized a globe made of wire, but the others made little sense. One looked like a miniature guillotine. De Mille put his helmet down, leaned against the desk, and looked at me. He picked up a square, highly polished green piece of stone, rubbed it with his thumb, and looked at me again.

  “Now, Mr. Peters, what seems to be the difficulty with Mr. Ressner now? And please have a seat.”

  I sat in one of the leather sofas so that I could face him. His thin hair was white and the top of his bald head slightly freckled. He had a good healthy tan and eyes that wouldn’t stop probing.

  “Ressner got out and it looks as if he killed a man,” I said.

  “Indeed,” said De Mille without blinking.

  “He has also harassed Mae West,” I went on, “and there is, of course, some chance that he will consider seeing you. He hasn’t, has he?”

  De Mille put the shiny stone down, walked over to touch the metal globe, and said clearly in that voice that sounded almost English, “Not for more than five years. On that last occasion, he appeared from beneath our dinner table and ranted on about playing Christ in one of my films. I brought him in here away from my family, humored him till the police arrived. He took it as an act of betrayal.”

  “And you haven’t heard from him since?”

  “I’ve just said no,” De Mille said with a touch of irritation. “Actually, the man did have a certain uncontrolled talent that would have translated well on film. Had he sanely come to me, perhaps through an agent, I probably could have made use of him, not as Christ but as some kind of madman. And you young man, have you ever acted?”

  “Not professionally,” I said.

  “Interesting,” replied De Mille, looking at me intently. “I’m thinking of putting together a film about Dr. Wassel. Have you heard of him? The president mentioned him on the radio last month.”

  I said no and De Mille went on: “A great unsung hero of this war. There are many heroes of this war whose stories will never be told.”

  “I’d like to arrange for a police guard
on the house,” I said. “Just in case.”

  De Mille awoke from his dreams of Wassel and looked at me with a look he probably reserved for insubordinate assistants.

  “While I may not be a young man any longer,” he said, “I have military training and the confidence that I am able to protect my own home with my own people. I am neither a fool nor a coward, Mr. Peters, and I shall take all proper precautions. If need be, I’ll have a few Paramount guards assigned to the house when I am away.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Frank McConnell is a good man.”

  “A good man, indeed,” agreed De Mille with interest. “You are well acquainted with studio security.”

  “Used to be in the business,” I said. “Who are your closest neighbors?”

  “Only one,” said De Mille, glancing toward the window. “W. C. Fields in the next house. We are not particularly close, though we are cordial. There was a tragedy involving my young grandchild not too long ago in Mr. Fields’ pool. And while it was not his fault, it is painful …”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “I want to make it clear to you that I do not usually disclose either my personal life or feelings to outsiders,” he continued, looking for something to play with with his nervous fingers. “I do, however, have great concern for my family and will do whatever is needed. I will, of course, check your credentials.”

  “Please,” I said. “Check with Mae West, or Lieutenant Phil Pevsner of the L.A.P.D., Homicide, out of Wilshire, or even Gary Cooper. He’s worked with you, and I did a job for him last year.”

  “I shall,” said De Mille, taking a step toward me. “On Wednesday we’re having a war bond party at Paramount. That will be in the morning. Providing your credentials check out, you are welcome to come and perhaps discuss whatever progress you might be making.”

  He shook his head, leading me to the study door.

  “With all the madness in the world, we surely don’t need more,” he said. “Perhaps you can find this Ressner and someone can help him. God knows we can use the support of our fellow men. None of us is without blemish. I’ll tell you a little story.”

  The rain had slowed but not stopped. He went to the desk, picked up the phone, and told someone to bring the car around to the study. Then he returned to me.

  “The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has never deemed me qualified to receive its award for direction,” he said, moving to my side. “They did, however, ask me to present the award this year for best direction to John Ford for his beautiful and touching How Green Was My Valley. Well, at the dinner, one of the distinguished guests was the ambassador of China, the country for which our hearts bleed as it suffers at the hands of Japan. When I introduced the ambassador, I spoke with emotion of the honor of his presence at the gathering and concluded by saying, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, His Excellency, the Japanese ambassador.’ I corrected my error too late and compounded it later that evening during the presentation to John Ford, a navy commander, whom I addressed as Major Ford. On the way home that night, my wife remarked, ‘Well Cecil, at last you have done something that Hollywood will remember.’ While I can display some amusement about that night now, I’d like to do something that Hollywood will indeed remember, perhaps a film tribute to our fighting men, a tribute I can best complete if our Mr. Ressner does not interfere.”

  He led me to the door and opened it. A car pulled up and De Mille shook my hand.

  “The driver will take you wherever you are going,” he said. “Take care and let me know how it comes out.”

  “Can I suggest that you keep these doors locked?” I said, stepping into the drizzle.

  “Would it really do any good?” he said with a smile.

  “Probably not,” I shrugged, “but we don’t like to make it easy for our enemies.”

  “Indeed not,” agreed De Mille with a genuine smile. “I’ll keep them locked.”

  I had the driver take me to my office. The Farraday was dark and reasonably silent on a Sunday afternoon. I opened the front door with my key and went through the dark lobby, trying to keep my mind on Ressner and the case, but knowing where it was headed. I went up the stairs in near darkness and fumbled at the door to Shelly’s and my office. Inside I hit the lights and listened to my footsteps move across the floor.

  A note was pinned to my cubbyhole door. I tore it down and saw that Shelly had scrawled, “What do you think of it?”

  “It” was an ad torn from a newspaper. The ad was no more than an inch high and one column wide. In the top of it was a drawing of a tooth with lines sticking out around it like the lines kids make to show the sun’s rays. The ad copy read:

  DR. SHELDON MINCK, D.D.S., S.D.

  DENTAL WORK WITH THE PAIN REMOVED

  A Clean Healthy Mouth Is Your Patriotic Duty

  Appointments Now Being Taken

  Very Reasonable Rates For All

  Discounts For Servicemen, Their Families,

  City Employees and The Aged

  The ad closed with our address and phone number. I went into my office and dropped it on my desk.

  I had the number for Grayson’s in Plaza Del Lago and I tried it. It rang and rang and rang, but I held on. Eventually a voice, male and serious, came on.

  “Grayson residence,” he said.

  “Miss Ressner, please, or Miss Grayson, whatever she wants to call herself,” I said.

  “Are you a reporter?” the man’s quivering bass voice demanded.

  “No, a suspect. My name is Peters. Just tell her, cowboy, and let her decide if she wants to talk to me.”

  “You’re the one who killed Harold,” he spat.

  “I didn’t kill Harold or anyone else. Just put Delores on and go back to whatever you were doing. This is my nickel, remember.”

  The phone went down hard on wood, and I waited. Out the window the sun peeked through a couple of clouds, didn’t like what it saw, and went back in again. Delores came on the phone.

  “Hello,” she said, full of confidence.

  “Were you going to tell them the truth at some point, or are you planning to let me hang for your father’s crime?” I said sweetly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You-”

  “The L.A. cops and I are going to find your old man, and it won’t be long. We have enough on the time of death from the coroner, the questions about the stolen Packard, and the fact that his fingerprints are on the knife to nail him.”

  “There were no fingerprints on the knife. The police said …” Somebody was kibitzing behind her, but she shushed him.

  “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But if you keep this up, when we grab your old man and crack this, you are going to be in trouble as an accessory to murder. I’m having a bad day, maybe a bad decade, and I’m in the mood to trample people who try to make it worse. It’s raining here. I lost my car. I’ve got no money and I’m damn mad, lady. You want to go down with your old man, it’s your bingo card to play.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, breaking slightly.

  “Think fast,” I said. “If I get him before I hear from you, it’s too late.” I gave her my phone number and hung up.

  There wasn’t much else I could do to stall. I kept a Gillette razor in the bottom drawer. I’d already shaved in the morning, but I wanted to be sure. I took it out to Shelly’s sink along with a frayed toothbrush. There was plenty of sample toothpaste and powder around the office. I picked up a blue and white tin of Doctor Lyon’s.

  The sink was still piled high with dishes, and a spider was busily setting up house. I murdered him and set aside the razor and brush. I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and went to work. Using tooth powder for soap, I had the dishes shiny in ten minutes. I considered doing the whole office, looked at my watch, which told me nothing, and decided that I couldn’t stall anymore if I was going to make it.

  I shaved, dried myself with a reasonably clean towel, brushed my teeth, and got the caked paste out of the brush with hot wat
er. At that point, someone knocked at the outer office door. I yelled “Come in” and he did. He was about six feet tall, short sandy hair, glasses, a nice suit and a little briefcase under his arm. He looked like an up-and-coming young movie star, the kind of actor you’d expect to see standing next to Robert Taylor as they defended the Pacific.

  “Mr. Peters?” he asked stepping in.

  I told him he was right, walked into my office, and pointed to the chair on the other side of the desk. He sat, adjusted his glasses and tie, and looked at me.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

  I had been thinking that if he was a client desperate enough to look me up on a Sunday I would do my best to get a reasonable advance out of him and put him aside for a few days.

  “You were wondering why I’m not in the services,” he said. “I have an ulcer in my colon.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Mr.-”

  “Gartley,” he finished reaching into his portfolio and pulling out some papers.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Gartley?” I asked folding my hands on the desk and giving him my most professional look.

  “Though I’m not in the services”-Gartley went on finding the right papers-“I am doing work essential to the war effort. What does a war require?”

  “Men, guns, an enemy,” I answered.

  “Money, Mr. Peters,” he said shaking some of his papers at me. “Money. And I help to get it.”

  “You’re raising money, selling bonds?” I guessed.

  He shook his head no.

  “We have written to you several times but you haven’t responded,” he said the way you talk to a kid who hasn’t eaten all of his peas.

  “We?” I tried.

  “Bureau of Internal Revenue,” he said sadly. “You owe your government some money. Your income tax forms were, at best, a mess.”

  “I never got your letters,” I said looking for something to play with. I found a mechanical Eversharp pencil that hadn’t worked for years.