This went on for about three minutes, when I gave up.
“Ressner killed him,” I said.
This started no general discussion, so I plunged forward, going to the metal cabinet in the corner to search for my clothes. They weren’t there.
“Ressner’s doctor told me he might go after Talbott,” I said. “So I went to Talbott’s house. You can check with Brenda Stallings. You remember her. Flynn case in ’39. She told me Talbott was out with Ressner at the Manhattan. I went there and followed them into the back room. I just followed the trail of blood to the back door and Ressner laid me out.”
“You saw Ressner?” Seidman asked.
“No, but it’s the same setup as the Grayson killing, isn’t it?”
Phil scratched his head and looked at his fingernails.
“I didn’t kill him,” I repeated.
“We don’t think you did,” said Seidman. Phil remained mute. “But this is going to be big news in tomorrow’s paper and on the radio. You better hope the Japs make a run on Corregidor. You’re all we’ve got and Talbott is big news. We’ll throw you to the newspapers so they’ll stay off our tochis for a week or so.”
“Nailing me won’t get you Ressner,” I said. “And he’ll just go after Mae West or De Mille.”
“We’ll put some coverage on them,” said Seidman. “How much chance have you got of turning up Ressner?”
I looked at Phil, who sat in the chrome chair and listened as if he were at a private performance of a new play.
“I’ll have him in twenty-four hours,” I said, having no idea where Ressner might be. Hell, I didn’t even know where my pants were.
“Horseshit,” said Phil finally.
I gave a deep fake sigh and clutched my heart.
“Thank God,” I said. “I thought the newspapers had cut out your heart.”
“No,” said Phil standing and stretching. His belly sagged as he took a step toward me. “Just my tongue. I asked you for a favor. I asked you to protect someone and keep things quiet. That’s supposed to be what you do best. Shit, that’s the only thing you can do. And look at this. A big state land developer and a movie star are dead.”
“People are dying by the hundreds on both sides of the ocean,” I reminded him.
“But I’m not responsible for them,” said Phil, stepping in front of me. I pulled back and he went on. “I’m not going to belt you. What I’m going to do is give you twenty-four hours. Then I’m going to have to haul you in, and you’re going to have to warm your toes in County if you can’t make bond while we try to find Ressner, and Mae West gets dragged into this. You get my drift, brother?”
“Pulsating through my stitches,” I said. “Now if you can get me a pair of pants, I’ll be on my way.”
“You want to let us in on this and save us all some time and grief?” asked Seidman.
“I think I’ll do it my way,” I said, knowing that my way was to blunder forward with my head down like Ramirez till I hit the right door. Without another word they left the room.
“My pants,” I shouted after them and followed them into the hall. They kept marching right through the waiting room past the mottled crew of black, yellow, white, brown, and green people in various states of emergency. The ones who were able looked up at me. Some, no doubt, wondered why the police had taken my pants.
Back in the treatment room I went to the phone and called Mrs. Plaut’s.
“Hell ….” Mrs. Plaut started, but someone was wrestling her for the phone.
“Mr. Gunther,” I heard her squeal.
Then Gunther came on. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Toby,” I said.
“I hoped it would be.”
Behind him I heard Mrs. Plaut cry, “One more such incident, Mr. Gunther, and you shall have to pack up all your neat little clothes and get your rump out of here.”
I explained my predicament to Gunther, who had been worrying about me, and he told me that he had already had my milk-stained suit cleaned and pressed and the button sewed back on. It would take him no more than fifteen minutes or so to get to the hospital.
While I waited in the room wondering what I would do next, a pair of nurses stuck their heads in. The younger of the two said, “That’s him.” The older one looked at me in awe and held up an X ray, which I assumed was my skull. I considered slinging something at them the way the chimps did in the zoo, but decided to preserve whatever dignity I might have left, which amounted to less than that of Huntz Hall’s character in the Bowery Boys movies.
Gunther made it in sixteen minutes according to the wall clock and four minutes according to my old man’s watch. I was dressed a few seconds later and signing my release papers seconds after that, with Dr. Melanks hovering over me with a cup of coffee.
“I was only half joking about having you sign your body over to me,” he said. “I’d like to watch a good pathologist going at your skull.”
“Bye doc,” I grinned, fitting on the hat that Gunther had brought so that it rested just above the bandage at the back of my head. “Watch your blood pressure.”
Gunther drove me to Fairfax, suggesting that I come home and get a good night’s rest before I retrieved my car. I told him that it probably wouldn’t be there if I waited till morning. The cops would have towed it away. He shrugged, stepped on his elongated gas pedal, and hurried into the night with his radio tuned to Gene Autry.
The Ford was still in front of the fireplug when we got there. It was decorated by four parking tickets. I shoved them into the glove compartment, started the engine, wondered how much gas I had used, and followed Gunther back to Hollywood. The bumper next to me bobbed up and down, scratching at the upholstery. I parked in front of Mrs. Plaut’s and hauled the bumper up to my room. I couldn’t sleep on my back because of the stitches. Sleeping on my stomach meant a sure headache in the morning. I propped myself on my side with pillows as a compromise and considered retirement and a new career.
Maybe Arnie could teach me the car business, or Shelly could give me a two-week course in dentistry, or Jeremy could make me the Farraday janitor, or Gunther could teach me how to speak Norwegian so I could translate the classics. Maybe. I slept surprisingly well.
CHAPTER 9
Mrs. Plaut stood over me when I opened my eyes. The Beech-Nut gum clock on the wall told me it was nine in the morning. Her teacher-folded hands and the no-nonsense tight lips above her lacy collar told me she had a problem.
“I am vexed,” she said.
I tried to roll back to get a good look at her vexation, but my head touched the pillow and reminded me of my stitches. I rolled gently to a sitting position, yawned, and fixed my bleary eyes on her.
“You are vexed,” I encouraged.
“First Mr. Gunther behaves with improper respect,” she said, wringing her hands. “Next you confound the pages of my chapter on Cousin Dora. Did you read the chapter?”
“Cousin Dora attacked the Indians,” I yawned. “The Indians fled and preserved their virtue.”
“But still I am vexed,” she went on. I wasn’t sure if she had heard my summary. “The newspaper informs me that you are involved again in bodies. A news reporter even called this morning to speak to you. I told him that I had seen Mr. Richard Talbott in
“You are vexed,” I reminded her loudly, pushing up from the mattress on the floor.
“Please put something on,” she said. I looked down at my underwear, nodded, and reached for my pants. “I
