Stuart Kaminsky - He Done Her Wrong

“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.