“Thinks he’s God.”
“I see,” I said, hoping the elevator would stop grinding and arrive.
“No trouble, doc, but he makes a lot of noise.”
“Yes. Typical,” I said, not knowing what was typical.
“Yeah,” he said as the door for the elevator opened.
“Be seeing you,” I said, stepping in.
“Right, doc.” The doors closed and I ran my sleeve across my perspiring forehead as I pressed the button marked 2. I leaned against the wall as the elevator went down. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the door opened on the third floor and I had found myself facing M.C.
The door opened with a glunking sound, and I stepped into a hallway deserted except for an old Negro woman who leaned against a mop. The floor was covered with wet soap. She watched without expression as I left footprints on her floor in my search for room 321. I forced myself to smile at her and whistle “Dardenella” as I walked down the corridor, looking for the right room and pretending to know exactly where I was going. I found the door I had been told to look for, gave the woman a last smile, and stepped inside.
The staircase was there and I hurried down, feeling the stethoscope thump-thump against my chest. My heart was beating an attack tattoo when I reached the first floor.
With a little confidence restored, I opened the door. A pair of nurses were walking down the hall, and a trio of doctors stood about fifty feet to my right in a huddle. Beyond the doctors I could see the main lobby. As I stepped clearly into the hall, the doctors shifted slightly and one of them, a youngish man as closely as I could judge, seemed to recognize me, change his mind, and then put his hand to his chin as if thinking about something apart from the group topic. He was Dr. Randipur, and the something he was trying to place was me.
I walked through the big room, under the portraits of Drs. Winning of the past, beyond the forest of ferns, around the cluster of doctors, and through the front door. The drizzle was still coming down. I jumped down the four wooden steps and ran for my Ford.
The door was open. I reached for the glove compartment. The gun was gone. I hoped to hell I could remember how No-Neck Arnie had taught me to wire a car. I remembered. It was damn easy and something every cop and private eye should know. I’d just never had to do it before.
The Ford started noisily, and I whispered to it to be quiet as I backed up and started down the drive with my lights out. I hit a shrub, backed up, and tried again. The stethoscope hit me in the eye, but I kept it on. I still had to get through the gate.
About fifty yards down I turned on my lights, or, I should say, light. The right one didn’t work. I eased my way to the gate, hoping that M.C. had not yet raised the alarm and that the same guy who had been on the gate in the morning wasn’t on now.
I stopped in front of the closed gate and saw the raincoatclad figure coming at me from the small lighted booth. He put his face next to the window and I rolled it down, smiling. It wasn’t the same guy.
“Bad night for driving, doc,” he said. “And you got a headlight out.”
“Emergency,” I yawned. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah,” he grinned and moved to open the gate.
I gave him a wave and counted slowly to keep myself from tearing down the road, but the count kept going faster, and I couldn’t hold it back. By ten I was moving as fast as the Ford would take me away from the Winning Institute.
CHAPTER 14
Rosie turned down the raincoat and stethoscope as collateral for the money I owed her. She didn’t even ask why I was dressed like a doctor, only shook her head and let some air out between her teeth to indicate I was the damndest practical joker she had ever met. She filled my gas tank, gave me another five-dollar loan, and I promised to get it back to her within the next week even if I had to sell the car to do it, which would have made little sense, since I already owed more than a century note on the damn thing. I rummaged through a box of clothes left by Rosie’s long-gone husband and came up with a not-too-bad-fitting pair of brown pants, a flannel shirt, and a blue sweater with one hole just under the left armpit. That was all free. I gulped down some coffee and a roll Rosie pushed in my hands just as the sun started to come up. I was coming out of a nightmare, and I wondered how much of it had really happened.
Mae West’s ranch in the valley was the closest place on my list, so I headed for it well within the speed limit and expecting to be pulled over by a state cop as an escaped loony with no driver’s license. I had a lot of thinking to do, which was not good for my health or well-being. My best ideas seemed to come not when I added things together but when they stewed somewhere deep and bubbled up by themselves. Not much made sense at the moment. My head wasn’t throbbing anymore, though my scalp seemed to be shrinking. My back seemed fine so far.
When I pulled up in front of West’s ranch a few hours later, I was hungry and worried. Ressner had done a good job of getting me out of the way. Part of it was show, but part of it was because he had some plan that, to quote what some people attributed to Sam Goldwyn, included me out.
Seeing Jeffrey’s bulk filling the doorway and an unseen weight pushing down his brow made me think that whatever Ressner had planned had already happened. I jumped out of the car and jogged to Jeffrey.
“Too late,” he said softly.
“He killed Mae West?” I croaked.
Jeremy looked at me sadly, “Killed … no. You’re too late to help. He … it … came last night. Dressed like that. I was drinking apricot juice in the kitchen. The two-”
“Dizzy and Daffy,” I said. “The beefcake bookends.”
“Yes,” continued Jeremy. “They were on an errand. Miss West opened the door before I could get there. He had a knife. I got to the doorway in the living room as fast as I could, but I was too late.”
“Jeremy, this is all very dramatic, but what were you too late for? How badly was she hurt?”
“She wasn’t. She cracked him in the head with a book of Keats’s poetry I had given her to read. Ressner, or whoever it was, fell back, holding his face and nose bleeding. He looked ready for another try, saw me, and ran for his car. I couldn’t catch him even though he was wearing high heels.”
“A dark Packard?” I said.
“Yes, I think so,” said Jeremy, rubbing the top of his smooth bald head. “You should have seen her standing in that doorway, her hands on her hips. She is quite a woman, quite a person. I’m working on a poem about her, Toby.”
“Keep at it, Jeremy. Where is she now?”
He guided me upstairs and knocked at the door. Mae West’s voice came through.
“Who might that be?”
“Toby Peters,” I said.
“
She was seated at a white dressing table looking at herself in a mirror. On her head was a massive fluffy peach-colored feather hat.
“Therapy,” she explained, putting the hat to the side. “I meditate for an hour in the morning and then try on hats. You should try it sometime.”
“I’d be beautiful in that hat,” I said.
She laughed, a hoarse guffaw.
“I meant the meditation,” she said. “Taught to me by a genuine yoga who could be a real charmer when he wanted to be.”
“Ressner came back last night,” I prompted.
She turned to look at me and motioned to an old French movie settee. It was frail and hard, and I hoped Jeremy wouldn’t join me on it. The room was full of mirrors, and Mae West watched me looking around with an amused smile on her face.
“Fun and games,” she said.
