Stuart Kaminsky - He Done Her Wrong

“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.”

“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 been 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.”