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
