He Done Her Wrong tp-8

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I haven’t killed them yet,” Ressner said in a slight singsong voice that, I think, was intended to sound like Clark Gable.

  “Grayson and Talbott,” I tried.

  “I’ve never met Grason, and Talbott, when we went out for a drink, seemed a most amiable fellow,” the Clark Gable voice went on.

  “And De Mille?” I asked.

  “I did not intend to kill him,” he said, switching to Frank Morgan. “I was going to miss him with the staff after my scene was ended. That would show him acting. I’d have him, the whole audience, Hollywood in my hand.” He held up his right hand, stopped rocking for a few seconds, looked at his hand, and then rocked again.

  “The money, where did you get the money?” I went on.

  “What money?” The voice had changed, and Ressner had one eyebrow lifted.

  “The money you gave me to find you when you pretended you were Winning. The money to get new clothes. The money to buy gas, hire someone to call Dr. Winning, and send a check to Winning to put me under observation at the institute. That money.”

  Ressner’s eyebrow went up, and he pursed his lips. I almost recognized the impression but not quite.

  “I’m not at liberty at the moment to say,” he said.

  “Who are you doing?”

  “Franchot Tone,” he said, shaking his head at my ignorance. “I’ll answer no more questions. I don’t betray those who serve me with loyalty. Am I going back to the institute?”

  “I guess so,” I said. “Sklodovich and Dealer send their regards.”

  Ressner kept rocking and shrugged. Jeremy had turned his back and was looking out the window. An idea was beginning to form somewhere in my well-kneaded brain.

  Phil and Steve Seidman arrived about thirty minutes later, about at the point where I could take no more of Ressner’s rambling. His answers to my questions consisted of a look of superior knowledge and a discussion of the quality of his performance of the past few days. I wasn’t in the mood to be an appreciative critic, considering that I had been the principal supporting actor. I got nothing reasonable out of him about the murders, and I gave up. I decided to leave him for Phil’s gentle touch and charm.

  “This is him?” asked Phil, looking down at Ressner.

  “It’s him,” I acknowledged.

  “Two murders,” Phil said through a tired smile. “We’re going to give you a nice home where you won’t bother people anymore.”

  “I have killed no one,” said Ressner, adjusting his hair shirt with dignity and turning away.

  Phil’s fist shot out and hit him behind the ear. Ressner flew into the corner. Phil was about to take a few steps over and give Ressner a real cause for martyrdom when Seidman stepped in front of him.

  “Phil,” Seidman said quietly.

  Jeremy stood in the corner with his arms folded, watching silently.

  “I don’t like him,” Phil said. “He could have killed Mae West, did kill two people, and you know what they’re going to do? They’re going to send him to some funny farm for a lifetime vacation. Well, maybe he can bring a few memories with him to make his nights uncomfortable.”

  “Take it easy, Panda,” I said, moving to his side.

  He turned on me with close to the hatred he had shown for Ressner.

  “What did you call me?” he said, though he had heard it clearly.

  “Brother,” I said. “I called you brother.”

  “And why the hell are you dressed up like that?” he said pointing at my clothes.

  “I’m part of the entertainment,” I explained.

  “You’re a damned embarrassment,” Phil said, shaking off Seidman and giving one final glare at Ressner. “Put him in the car and get him down to the station. We’ll ask him a few more questions before we turn him over to the lockup.”

  Phil didn’t say anything else to me. I almost called him back and told him that there was something else, that the case wasn’t quite over. But it could wait. There were a few things I wanted to do first.

  I drove Jeremy back to the Farraday and thanked him. Gunther invited him to have dinner with us, but Jeremy declined. He was a day behind on keeping the Farraday a step away from extinction.

  I dropped Gunther off at Mrs. Plaut’s and picked up my bumper and the hatbox. I took the hatbox to the TWA office where Anne worked with Ralph. I didn’t know if she would keep working now, and I was sure she’d still be on her honeymoon. I jotted down a little note and asked the woman at the reception desk to see that Anne got the late wedding present. I didn’t know what she’d make of the hat. I hoped she’d look at it and laugh and then keep it somewhere. On the other hand, she might just produce that look of weary exasperation at the child-man she had once lived with and throw the whole thing in the garbage. I drove to Arnie’s.

  No-Neck was a tougher customer. I insisted that he put the bumper back on, fix the radio and the gas gauge for no additional charge. He insisted on some of the money I owed him. I didn’t even have my gun to threaten him with or hock for partial payment.

  We struck a deal. He’d fix the car the next day. I’d find a way to pay what I owed by the end of the next week, and I’d collect on his stack of late payments and bad debts. Knowing some of Arnie’s clients, it wasn’t much of a deal, but it was the only one I had. I left him holding the bumper while I climbed into the car. I still had a long trip to make.

  CHAPTER 16

  With less than two bucks in nickels and dimes I had scraped from my sofa pillows and pockets, I drove back out of town. I knew a guy named Trencherman in the secretary of state’s office who could probably get me a duplicate driver’s license reasonably fast if I begged him, but I had no time for phone calls. The begging didn’t bother me.

  It was late in the afternoon when I pulled into Dot’s Dixie Gas Station and hit the horn. It was the first time I had tried the horn. It didn’t work. I got out and shouted, adding the damned horn to my list of negotiable items to bring up to Arnie. Arnie had almost as much to answer for as General Franco.

  “Anybody here?” I called.

  Tommy the mongrel came loping out from behind the station, stopped, sat down, and looked at me. A few paces behind him came Dot himself, hands plunged in his overalls, pipe in the corner of his mouth, lost in thought.

  “What can I do you … it’s you, the fella who left with the midget,” he said.

  “It’s me,” I acknowledged. “How about some gas? I’ll make a deal. This tie for three gallons.”

  Dot walked up to look at the tie. The dog moved to his side and joined him.

  “What’s the ADA for?” he asked.

  “Association of Defenders of America,” I answered proudly.

  “Two gallons,” he said. “On account of I was in the service with Sergeant Alvin York, the number one defender of America ever lived.”

  “I remember you mentioning it,” I said as he moved to the pump. “What you do with my old wreck?”

  Dot chuckled shyly and nodded toward the rear of the station.

  “Fixing her up back there. Welding the transmission back, a few hoses and such, and she’ll be-”

  “Good as new,” I finished.

  “Nope, never that, but worth a couple of hundred and probably in better shape than what you’re driving here.”

  I bought a Whiz bar and bottle of Pepsi, for which I paid precious cash, bid Dot and Tommy farewell, and went on about my business.

  Plaza Del Lago glittered green in the dusk when I came over that last hill and into the dry valley. I didn’t stop or even slow down at Cal’s General Store. I didn’t need information and couldn’t pay for services. Besides, I knew where I was going even if I wasn’t sure what I could find there.

  The porches of the two hotels were empty. People were inside eating their dinner and drinking Poodle Springs water. I went on to the Grayson house and parked just about where I had the last time.

  Next to the house sat the Packard. The sun was almost gone for the day, and somewhere out in the
desert an animal went crazy yelping. I looked once at the Joshua, walked up to the door, and knocked.

  The door opened, and I gave my best Sunday-go-to-hell grin at the moustached man in front of me, who put his hand to his bushy hair, looked as if he had been caught with his hand where it shouldn’t have been, and said, “Mr. Peters.”

  “I thought my name was Pevsner,” I said to Dr. Winning, giving him time to grab an idea or two.”

  “I’m truly sorry about that,” he said, sounding more than truly sorry. “As soon as you left, I did some checking. Your story was absolutely true. I’ll have someone drop your clothes and your gun at your office.”

  “Can I come in, or do you just want to close the door and pretend I never came?”

  He hesitated for an instant and then stepped back to let me pass.

  “The Graysons have been under a great deal of stress with this,” he said. “I’ve been trying to help with Mrs. Grayson.”

  “Who is it?” came Delores Grayson’s voice as she stepped into the hall. She was wearing a pair of white slacks and a white sweater and looked as if she had just stepped out of an ad for Woodbury soap. “You?”

  “I seem to be welcome wherever I go,” I said, stepping forward before someone shoved me out of the door.

  “The state police are looking for you,” she said nervously.

  “You mean you didn’t tell them I didn’t kill Grayson?” I asked.

  “I will,” she said. “But I’ve been so …”

  I shook my head no and closed one eye to show how lame her tale was and moved past her into the living room.

  “Take your time and think up a story,” I said. “I’ve got all night. Why not practice by telling me how the Packard got back.”

  Winning answered without missing a beat.

  “Jeffrey Ressner called Delores and told her where it was. I stopped for it in Los Angeles and drove it back. Actually, it’s rather fortunate that you came by. Maybe you can give me a lift back to town.”

  “Maybe,” I said, sitting in a hardback chair. “Where’s the grieving widow?”

  Delores stepped forward and bit her lower lip.

  “Mother is resting in the other room. This has all been-”

  “A bag of Poodle piss,” I finished for her. “Oh mom,” I shouted, “could you paddle out here for a second or two?”

  “Is someone there?” came the Billie Burke voice I recognized from the phone.

  “It’s me, Thor,” I said. “I common to fix things all up you bet.”

  She was shorter than her daughter, maybe fifty, with gray-brown hair and wearing a sensible black widow’s suit. She was a good-looking woman with the kind of blow-away charm that powerful men sometimes like to protect.

  “I don’t really understand,” she said, turning to Doc Winning and Delores for an explanation.

  “To tell the truth, Mrs. Grayson, I don’t really understand it all myself,” I said. “Delores, you think you can brew some of that delicious coffee of yours?”

  “There’s coffee on the stove right now,” she said, glaring at me. “I think you should leave, or we’ll be forced to call the police. You’re disturbing my mother.”

  “I don’t think I’m doing much for your peace of mind either,” I went on.

  “You’re enjoying this scene, aren’t you, Mr. Peters?” Winning said, moving to sit across from me while Mrs. Grayson fluttered to a place next to him.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Once a year or so I get a moment like this and I like to roll it around on my tongue like the good brandy I can’t afford.”

  “Are you hinting at something?” Delores said.

  “A cup of fine coffee. Take your time. You won’t miss anything. I’ve got a ghost story to start, and then we can all take turns finishing it.”

  She looked at Winning, who nodded at her, and she hurried off to the back of the house.

  “Mister Thor,” Jeanette Grayson began.

  “His name is Peters, Jeanette,” Winning corrected.

  She recognized my name and shut up. We sat looking at each other for two or three minutes till Delores came in and handed me a cup of coffee.

  “I put in two spoons of sugar and some cream,” she said.

  “You have a good memory,” I said, sipping the coffee.

  “Mr. Peters, you are annoying.” She folded her arms and sat.

  “It took me some time to figure the whole thing out,” I began between sips. “I probably still have some of it wrong, but I think it makes sense.”

  “Go on,” said Winning.

  “First, I should tell you that Ressner has been caught.”

  That got them. They looked at one another, and Winning held up a calming hand.

  “That’s good,” he said. “I hope he hasn’t been hurt.”

  “He’s fine. Just about now he’s probably telling his tale to two Los Angeles Homicide cops with a lot of muscle and very little sympathy.”

  “My father should have a lawyer,” Delores Ressner shouted, getting up and going to the phone.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “I’ve got a good one named Marty Leib. He’s a bit expensive, but we won’t spare the dollars where Dad is concerned, will we?”

  “Mr. Peters,” piped up Mrs. Grayson. “This sarcasm is uncalled for.”

  “Let me tell it and any of you chime in to correct me,” I began. Delores put the phone down and listened.

  “Somewhere during the last four years while Jeffrey Ressner was going his mad merry way in the Winning Institute, one of you, probably Doc Winning, got the idea of using Ressner to make a few million dollars,” I began. “Ressner would be allowed to escape. He’d go looking for his benevolent wife and loving daughter.”

  “It worked fine to that point. He got in touch with Delores and told her he was at the Los Olvidados Hotel. She went to see him and let him hatch his scheme against Mae West. It was all right if he got caught. It would show the world how mad he was, and you could let him escape again. As it turned out, he wasn’t caught. He ran into me and got away.”

  “That was a problem. I tracked him down through the Engineer’s Thumbs and you knew I might catch up with him before the whole scheme went through. So you got him to go into his Dr. Winning act with me, throw me off, use me. He thought he was toying with me. What he was doing was setting me up as a witness, a witness to a pair of murders I’d pin on him. How am I doing so far?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Grayson said, standing up and almost weeping.

  “Right,” I agreed, “but close to what happened. I came running up here, and Delores intercepted me, telling me that Daddy was in the next room talking to the mean old stepfather. I swallowed it whole and went in. Here’s the point where I have some choices. Any one of the three of you could have put the knife in Grayson. I’m putting my money on Delores, who did him in and then came out in her bathing suit to greet me and serve me a cup of coffee. My guess is you killed him when you saw me coming up the driveway and hustled Ressner into the Packard to make a run for it and look guilty as hell. Is this coffee poisoned?”

  “I’m sorry,” Delores said. “But it’s not.”

  “O.K.,” I went on, finishing the coffee. “I didn’t catch Ressner. So you got me on Talbott’s trail. Ressner is crazy but he’s no fool. Why would he call Talbott and give his right name? He was acting like a man who wanted to get caught, and catch him I did at the Manhattan Bar. More guesswork now. Ressner got Talbott in the back room. You waited for me, knowing I’d take the bait again. I’m not too bright and easy to hook. You hustled Ressner out after stabbing Talbott. My bet this time is that Doc Winning did the killing and blasted me when I went through the door. You all killed Grayson for the money you girls will inherit You killed Talbott for one or two reasons I don’t know about. I’ll give you one good one. With Talbott’s murder filling the newspapers, Grayson would be lost in the shuffle. But I was still on the trail, and I might foul things up, so you cooked up the wild turkey chase to Fre
sno, pinched my wallet-I’ll give that one to Delores who probably followed me in the Packard-and let me walk into the Winning Institute while Daddy went nuts with another shot at Mae West and this morning’s mess with Cecil B. De Mille. I tell you he is one inept madman, but my guess is that he’s probably harmless or was until Doc Winning put a bug in his ear and sealed the ear. Last idea, you would have been happy if Jeffrey Ressner met with an accident while rampaging after celebrities. He almost did have that accident. If he got caught, you’d get your hands on him fast and see to it that he didn’t say anything embarrassing. But even if he did, no one was likely to believe him.

  “It wasn’t a bad scheme,” I concluded. “Just too complicated. Too many holes. Too much ad-libbing. Believe me, it’s the dumb ones who are hard to catch. They just do it and run. Then they keep their mouth shut and may never get caught. It’s you cutie pies who stick your feet in the frosting.”

  “I never wanted Jeffrey to be hurt,” Mrs. Grayson said earnestly.

  “None of us want Mr. Ressner hurt,” said Winning, fumbling for his pipe, finding it, and putting it nervously into the corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid, Mr. Peters, you just created, as you said, a ghost story. You certainly have no evidence for any of this.”

  “Right,” I said, standing up. “I can’t prove any of this, but with what Ressner is probably saying right now-”

  “He’s psychotic,” said Winning, removing his pipe. “Any psychiatrist will confirm his condition. As you just said, no one is going to believe him.”

  “But they’d probably believe me,” I said. “I wonder what happens when I tell my tale to my brother the Homicide cop and he takes each one of you into a little office for some coffee and a chat. You’ll start stepping all over one another’s story, and my bet is the poor widow will crack before the first cup is cool. I’ve got about two bucks in change I’ll bet on it, and I know a bookie who would give about eight to one against Mrs. Grayson after looking at her for thirty seconds.”

  “I think you underestimate us and overestimate yourself, Mr. Peters,” said Delores, walking over to calm her mother, who was close to hysteria.