He Done Her Wrong

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 water. 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.”