He Done Her Wrong tp-8

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “You married, Rosie?” I said.

  She waved for me to follow her into the office.

  “Think so,” she said. “Al’s supposed to be cooking for a logging operation up near Portland. Left about a year, year and a half back.”

  “Too bad,” I sighed. “I was going to propose.”

  “Like so much horse puddles,” she chuckled, turning to sit me down. “You married?”

  “Was,” I said. “Not anymore. Her name was Anne.”

  “She dead?” asked Rosie, stacking her medical cache on a nearby table.

  “No. She’s alive and still Anne.”

  “Annie, Annie was the miller’s daughter,” Rosie said, stepping behind me to change my bandage.

  “Far she wandered from the singing water,” I continued the song.

  “Ain’t it the way,” sighed Rosie gently, tugging at my bandage. “Ain’t it but the way.”

  Rose finished patching me, gave me ten singles from a cigar box under the front desk, and filled the Ford with gas, which added a little less than two bucks to my debt.

  “Catch the bad guy,” she said, waving me into the morning with a pudgy hand.

  And into the north I drove, wondering why anyone would climb through a window where a man with a gun was sleeping and risk getting his face parted for a few bucks.

  The rest of the drive was slow, well within the speed limit, since I didn’t have a license and Rosie’s ten-spot couldn’t cover a speed-trap charge for driving too fast without a license.

  The radio didn’t help. I gave up trying to listen to a hillbilly wailing on the only station I could pick up through the static. He was singing something about losing his dream in Call-i-for-ni-yuh and wishing he was back in Mizzuruh. Hell, I still felt good. My teeth were clean, I had a new bandage, and somewhere behind me or just up ahead was Ressner in the Packard. Sooner or later one of us would catch up with the other one. Meanwhile, I was leading him back to the Winning Institute.

  Fresno came and went. I hit 41, took it to 168 and looked for the road Winning had told me to take. I almost missed it and the double billboard on the rock. I slowed down even more than the crawl I was traveling at and found the road with an enamel sign pointing the way to the Winning Institute. The road was paved, flat and narrow, not wide enough for two cars. Trees leaned down from both sides, their branches occasionally touching the top of the car and tapping a few notes.

  About a mile and a half down, an arrow indicated a sharp turn. I took it and found myself in front of the metal fence of the Winning Institute. The fence was about twelve feet high, black iron with spear points at the top.

  Beyond the fence about two hundred yards back was a four-story building with a two-story junior partner next to it. Both buildings were dark stone. Both had towers in the corner. It looked a little like Xanadu in Citizen Kane. I stayed on the road till I came to the gate, which was closed and guarded by a young blond guy in a white uniform. He was sitting in front of a little gate shack on a wooden chair, on which he leaned back so that the two front feet of it were off the ground. His back was against the fence and his arms behind his head. A newspaper rested on the ground next to him.

  I leaned out of the car and said, “Hi, I’m here to see Dr. Winning.”

  The young guy looked over at me, shifted the gum in his mouth, and pushed forward so that all four feet of the chair rested in the dirt.

  “Your name?” he said.

  “Peters,” I said. “Toby Peters.”

  “Yes,” he said, getting up from the chair and pushing open the gate. “Dr. Winning said to look out for you. Drive straight on up. Park where it says ‘Visitors.’”

  The guy was smiling the kind of false smile you reserve for those who can’t understand you and have to be tolerated. Considering the residents of the Winning Institute, it might be the attitude everybody in the place eventually adopted.

  I thanked him and drove in. In the rearview mirror, I could see him push the gate closed. I drove on. The grounds on both sides were nearly flat, and in a far corner I could see someone in white pushing a mower. One man with one mower might make it a lifetime job to keep the grass of this place trim.

  It was about three hundred yards to the front of the institute. Up close, I could see that both buildings were dark stone and constructed to look like castles. The porch or veranda of the larger building, where I parked in a spot with a sign marked VISITORS, threw the illusion off. It was broad, white, and wooden and looked as if it had been grafted on from a retirement hotel.

  On the porch sat a quartet of men playing cards with a white-clad nurse standing over them. I got out of the car, walked across the gravel parking lot, and went up the four wooden stairs, which creaked loudly. The card players didn’t look up. The nurse, from behind her glasses, gave me the same kind of tolerant smile as the guard at the gate.

  “Play it or lose it,” said one of the card players to another and reached over to slap at the hand of the guy across from him. The nurse turned her attention to the slapper, touched his hand, and put it back on his side of the table. I pushed through the wooden door of the building and stepped into a broad fern-filled lobby with dark wooden floors and walls papered with blue flowers and portraits of contented Winnings of the past.

  A nurse was standing inside the door and off to the side. She stepped forward as if she had been waiting for me. She was about average height with brown hair and a poor complexion. Behind her stood a Negro about my height in white. He didn’t give me the tolerant look. His upper body was massive, created by a comic book artist or Michelangelo.

  “Mr. Peters?” she said. “I’m Nurse Grace. This is M.C. We’ll take you to Dr. Winning.”

  I thanked them and followed her to the left. M.C. walked at my side. I wondered why I needed an armed escort. Maybe they had more reason to fear Ressner than I knew about.

  We hiked down a corridor and stopped in front of an unmarked door. Nurse Grace opened it and stepped in before me. I followed her with M.C. behind me.

  “Should we wash our hands before I see Dr. Winning?” I said.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Miss Grace answered seriously.

  The office was big and comfortable with a massive mahogany desk and leather desk chair behind it. There was a matching couch of leather against one wall and several not-quite-as-comfortable chairs. Behind the desk was a huge window looking across the flat grounds of the institute. No trees obstructed the view right to the fence.

  I sat in one of the chairs and looked back at Nurse Grace and M.C.

  “So,” I tried. “Did you have a bet on the Derby?”

  M.C. shook his head negatively. Nurse Grace smiled tolerantly. I touched my bandage. I’d left my hat in the car, so I couldn’t play with it. Somewhere not too far away pans were clanking.

  I looked at my watch without bothering to see what it said.

  “I’ll bet things really start jumping around here when there’s a full moon,” I said, turning my head to M.C, who stood to my right.

  This repartee could have gone on indefinitely, but was unfortunately interrupted by a chunky guy around thirty-five, who stepped into the room through the door we had entered. He had brown unruly hair and a bushy matching moustache. His pants were dark, and he was wearing a white shirt and heavy white wool cardigan sweater with buttons.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said pleasantly. “You must be Mr….”

  “Peters,” I said, standing and taking his hand.

  “Right,” he smiled, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms. “I think we can be alone now and talk a bit.” He nodded at Nurse Grace, who turned and left the room with M.C. following. M.C. closed the door behind him, and I sat down again to look at the guy in the sweater.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Winning,” I said.

  “Of course,” he nodded. “We know. It’s about Mr. Ressner, right?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You know something about Ressner?”

  “Oh,
quite a bit,” he said. “Quite a bit. Mind if I smoke?” He pulled a pipe from his jacket and reached over for the humidor on the big desk before I could answer.

  “Please, Mr. Peters, don’t take any offense at this, but we have had some security problems, as you know. Could you show me some identification?”

  “My wallet was stolen this morning at Rose’s Rodeo Auto Court,” I said. “I think I’ll just wait and discuss all this with Dr. Winning. That is if he’s not dead.”

  “Very much alive,” said the guy, lighting his pipe. “Very much alive. You’ve met Dr. Winning?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “In L.A. a few days ago.”

  “Of course,” he said, leaning back against the desk and looking at me with the tolerant smile. “Would you do me a favor? Security matter?”

  “Maybe,” I said, wondering if this was one of the lunatics on the loose.

  “Describe Dr. Winning to me.”

  “Security?” I asked.

  “Humor me,” he said, with a grin pulling at his pipe.

  “About six feet, in his fifties, blue eyes … That enough?”

  “Yes, thanks,” said the guy in the sweater, running his hand through his bushy hair and turning to pick up a pencil.

  “Mr. Peters, I have some disturbing news for you,” he said seriously. “And I want you to take it calmly.”

  “I’ve seen murder, mayhem, and some things you probably haven’t dreamed of,” I said with a delicate touch of sarcasm. “It’ll take some doing to disturb me. What is it? Winning is dead? Ressner killed him last night, right?”

  “No, Mr. Peters,” he said, looking at me with sympathetic brown eyes. “Dr. Winning is very much alive, as I should know, since I am Dr. Winning.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Well?” said Winning curiously, taking another puff on his pipe.

  “Not very,” I said. “Let me take a guess. That description I just gave, the Dr. Winning, that was Ressner, right?”

  “With some allowances, a reasonable description of Ressner,” he admitted.

  My mind was clicking, but the ribbon was blank. It didn’t make sense.

  “How did you know I was coming? Ressner didn’t call you. And why the hell did he pay me fifty bucks to …”

  “Your sister called,” Dr. Winning said.

  “My sister? I don’t have a sister.”

  “She called, or someone did, and said she was your sister. She also said your real name is Tobias Leo Pevsner.” He had cheated and looked at a pad on the desk behind him.

  “Right, that’s my name. I changed it for business reasons. I’m a private detective.”

  “Of course.” He moved behind the desk and sat down. “You catch criminals and protect the innocent. Just like Sam Spade.”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Let’s spend some time talking about Ressner. You want him back, don’t you?”

  “We want him back,” said Dr. Winning. “We’ve informed the state police and gone through the proper channels. We wouldn’t hire a private investigator. How did you hurt your head?”

  The lawn mower appeared in the distance behind Winning. I tried not to watch him as he moved slowly from left to right as if he were the star of a boring movie.

  “Ressner clobbered me,” I explained, “just before he killed Richard Talbott, the actor.”

  “Ressner killed Talbott,” he said evenly. “Mr. Ressner never displayed any violence in the time he spent with us.”

  “Well, he’s much better now,” I said with irritation, getting out of the chair. “He’s managed to throw off his inhibitions and murder two people. You did a hell of a job with him.”

  “You have no identification?”

  “I told you,” I said with more than a little irritation. “It was stolen from me. My cash, my driver’s license, and my Dick Tracy badge.”

  “Dick Tracy badge,” he said with a tolerant pout of his lower lip.

  “It’s a kind of joke,” I explained. “There are no private investigator badges. People like to see badges and it doesn’t hurt sometimes if they think I’m a cop.”

  “Are you a cop?” Now he was openly taking notes.

  “No, well yes, a private cop. I used to be a Glendale cop. Then I worked at Warner Brothers. My brother is a cop, an L.A. Homicide cop. You can pick up that phone and call him. Do you think I’m working some kind of con here?”

  “No I don’t, Mr. Pevsner,” he said. “Your brother is a cop. What about your sister?”

  “I don’t have a sister,” I said.

  “What about friends?” he said, still writing. “You have any friends? I mean people who could verify your identity. Remember we have a delicate situation here. You might be a friend of Mr. Ressner.”

  The lawn mower was about halfway across the window and moving steadily.

  “Gunther Wherthman,” I said or maybe spat.

  “Tell me something about him,” said Winning.

  “He’s a midget, I mean a little person.”

  Winning nodded.

  “He’s Swiss. And there’s Jeremy Butler.”

  “Is he a midget?” asked Winning, scratching his neck.

  “No, closer to a giant. How about cutting this crap and just calling one of them or the guy I share my office with?”

  “You have a partner,” he said, looking up. The mower was nearing the end of the window. “Like Spade and Archer?”

  “No, Shelly’s a dentist.”

  “You are partners with a dentist.”

  “I didn’t say he was my partner. I said we shared an office. Look, doc, we’re getting nowhere here. Someone is feeding you a line, and you’re taking it in. I’ve got a long way to go and a lot to figure out. I’ll take off now. There are some people who need some help, and I can see you’re not going to cooperate.”

  “What people?” he said, still writing. I considered ripping the pad from his desk or his nose from his face.

  “Mae West and Cecil B. De Mille, to name two,” I said through closed teeth.

  “And, let me get this straight, you think Jeffrey Ressner is planning to hurt them, and it’s your responsibility to protect them.”

  “You’ve got it straight,” I said. The lawn mower was out of sight. I wanted to get up and change my angle so I could see him. He was steady and, if not sane, at least something to hold on to. “Look. You can just check your files to know about this thing with movie people. The son of a bitch went to Mae West’s house four days ago dressed in drag and tried to kill me.”

  “Mr. Ressner tried to kill you?”

  “Do you think we can carry on what’s left of this conversation without you repeating everything I say? It’s like listening to a dead echo.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “A dead echo?”

  I put a finger in his face and said, “I’m going.”

  “What happened at Mae West’s house?” he went on, ignoring my farewell.

  “Jeremy saved my damned life,” I said.

  “Jeremy’s the midget,” he said.

  “No, the giant. That’s it. I’m going. If I find Ressner, I’m turning him over to the cops. I think I’ve had it over my head with the Winning Institute.”

  “One last thing,” Winning said still ignoring my anger. “Mr. Pevsner, your sister has asked us to keep you here for observation for a few days, possibly longer. She’s told us that you’ve had sessions like this before and can be self-destructive. Mr. Pevsner, we found the gun in your car.”

  “It’s registered,” I said. “Just put it back, you son of a bitch. It’s my property. I don’t have much property, but what I’ve got, I like to protect.”

  “Your sister says that in fact you have quite a bit of property back in Arizona.” Winning rose and looked at me. “Her check to us this morning was quite generous. Now why would a sister you don’t have give us a generous check?”

  I drew in my breath for one last try before I threw Dr. Winning’s tolerant body through the window.

  “I’ve bee
n set up,” I said. “Ressner pretended to be you, got me up here, took my wallet, paid someone to call saying she was my sister.”

  “Why would Mr. Ressner do that?” Winning said reasonably, putting his pipe down in a neat wooden ashtray.

  “To get me out of the way while he goes for Mae West and De Mille. Because he doesn’t like me and thinks he has a score to settle. Because he is a nut, something you are supposed to know something about.”

  Winning wrote something and put the pad down.

  “Nope,” he said sadly, “Where would Jeffrey Ressner get the kind of money that came here this morning? And your story. Put yourself in my position, Mr. Pevsner.”

  “Peters,” I corrected, making a fist.

  “Peters,” he said with a smile. “If there is some kind of plot by Ressner, we’ll find out about it. Why not just cooperate with us for a day or so? You can have a nice rest here, all paid for. We’ll check your story, your brother, your friends.”

  Our eyes met, and I could tell that I was being humored. I tried to think of a way of breaking through that tolerance, and then I gave up.

  “You know what I think I’ll do?” I said.

  “No, what?”

  “I think I’ll just walk out of here quietly if I can, but if I can’t I’ll bounce you off the wall.”

  Winning wasn’t fazed.

  “Like a dead echo?” he said and put his hand under the desk. I could hear a buzzing sound in the hall and realized he had hit a hidden button.

  I turned to the door as M.C. strode in with Nurse Grace a pace behind him.

  “Mr. Pevsner will be staying with us for at least a day or so,” said Winning, tapping his notepad.

  “Step out of the way, M.C.,” I said, holding out my arm.

  “No trouble,” he said, blocking the doorway.

  “I think we’re a little late for that,” I said, easing to the right with the idea of a fast dash past M.C. and a wild end run over Nurse Grace.

  “Maybe so,” he said. Everybody in the damn place was reasonable.

  “I’m going now,” I said, taking a step forward.