He Done Her Wrong

my tie as he spoke.

“Mrs. Plaut is most irate,” he said. “Most irate. I told her that the large piece of metal was a patriotic modern sculpture done by a serviceman.”

“Very inventive, Gunther,” I said and meant it.

“She, however, did not accept my explanation. I do not have your gift of dissembled conversation,” he said a bit apologetically.

“Stick with me,” I consoled, “and you’ll pick it up. Want to join us?”

“Yes, perhaps,” he said with animation. “Hans Mulsin has waited two hundred years to be translated into English. He can wait another few hours. I’ll get my coat.”

I looked at the stairway nervously, expecting Mrs. Plaut, and waited. Gunther emerged, wearing a neat Chesterfield coat, Homburg, and a cane.

“We are going to a fine party, are we not?” he said.

“It is now,” I said and led the way down the stairs and out of the house.

Jeremy and Gunther exchanged greetings, and with great dignity, Gunther put his hand on his Homburg and climbed into the small space behind us.

We were at Paramount ten minutes later, where a guard at the gate stopped us and looked into the car. He was an old-timer named Belzer, whom I met once or twice back in the days I was working Warner. Most of the people working the studios were old-timers now. The young-timers were in different uniforms.

“Toby Peters, is it?” he said. His cap was well down on his forehead when he looked into the car and exchanged nods with Jeremy and Gunther, who peeked over the backseat along with the top of his silver cane.

Little tufts of white hair had sprouted from Belzer’s ears since I last saw him. It was decorative.

“Couldn’t believe it was you when Mr. De Mille left the list here for the get-together. Spotted you right away,” Belzer went on. “How have you been?”

“Failing to make a living,” I said. He looked at my suit and tie and the Ford and shook his head. He believed me.

“Your friends on the guest list?” he said.

A car pulled up alongside it, and Chester Morris stuck his head out of the window. Belzer waved him on.

“They’re my partners,” I said. “We’re here to protect De Mille from a maniac named Ressner.”

I described Ressner to him, and he tried to think, but a lot of people had come through that gate and Ressner could have been many of them, male or female.

“Don’t remember, but that’s no guarantee one way or another,” he said. “Drive on in. Go to the end of this street and then sharp to the left. Should be a whole bunch of cars parked. Find yourself a space and follow the crowd.”

In the rearview mirror I could see that the car behind us was driven by Madeleine Carroll. It was going to be some party.

CHAPTER 15

We parked, got out, and passed Chester Morris, following the crowd into the clear May afternoon. The woman with Morris looked at us over her shoulder and nodded. Morris glanced at us and said, “Must be entertainment.” He grinned at us and we grinned back. We did turn out to be the entertainment, but not quite the comedy act he had in mind.

In a studio full of famous faces, we held our own in drawing attention. So I decided that we should separate. I described Ressner to Jeremy and Gunther again, though I knew my description wouldn’t be much good. The real trick was to find and stick close to De Mille and look for anyone who might have a hidden knife, though we weren’t even sure if Ressner would stick to his familiar weapon.

The crowd flowed, and I moved to the side. In a few seconds, I lost sight of Gunther and Jeremy. My guess, and I was pretty good at crowds from my studio premiere days, was that there were about four or five hundred people in the space into which we were being corralled.

That space looked familiar to me, and I tried to imagine it without the modern dressed people. It was the outdoor set of King Richard’s courtyard for The Crusades.

On the stone wall to the side hung a huge poster with a cartoon sailor holding some pieces of paper. The red, white, and blue lettering read, BUY BONDS NOW, DO YOUR PART. WE’RE DONG OURS.

I leaned against a wooden post next to a plaster of Paris fountain and scanned the crowd.

“Looking for someone particular to give the evil eye or will anyone do?” came a voice behind me.

I knew the voice and didn’t want to turn, but there wasn’t any choice now. A hefty guy said “Excuse me” as he moved past looking for a spot to perch, and I looked back at Brenda Stallings. Her nose was about a foot from mine, and she looked tired. She was wearing a tan suit and silver earrings, but she wasn’t shining. She held a purse, and I wondered if there might be a tiny gun in it. I had succeeded in being around and involved when two men in her life lost theirs.

“I was trying to save Talbott,” I explained.

She shook her head, gritting her even white teeth, and examined me from bandage to ADA tie to tight waiter’s jacket to baggy pants.

“What are you dressed up for?” she gasped.

“Comic relief?” I tried.

Her right hand went up to her eyes, and she began to shake. I reached for her and touched her shoulder.

“I don’t know if I’m laughing or crying,” she said, taking down her hand and reaching in her purse for a handkerchief. “Probably both.”

“Makes sense,” I said, continuing to scan the crowd for signs of Ressner. “It’s like that for me almost all the time.”

She looked at me with those intense blue eyes filled with tears and said, “What do you wind up doing?”

“Smiling,” I said. “Can I get you a drink? I think I see some guys circulating.”

“Sure,” she sighed. “Why not.”

I inched through the crowd past a character actress with no chin, whom I recognized but to whom I couldn’t put a name. A lot of the people I made my way past looked like producers or bankers, money people.

C. Aubrey Smith and I reached for same drink on the tray.

“After you, dear chap,” he said genially, trying to read the letters on my tie. He took a glass of wine, touched his big white moustache, and said, “Mind if I ask?” pointing at my tie.

“American Defense Always,” I explained.

“Quite right,” he agreed and turned away.

I made my way through the crowd back to Brenda Stallings and handed her the wineglass. I took a sip of my own and watched her down hers in one tilt of the head. Rather than go back through the crowd, I gave her mine. She took it and finished it off before my hand was back at my side.

I took the empty glasses and placed them both in the pool at the base of the plaster of Paris fountain.

“Toby,” Brenda said over the murmur of the crowd. “Do me a favor. Never, never see or talk to me again.” She touched my cheek.

“I’ll try,” I said, and she disappeared as something began to stir behind me. I turned. On a low platform of wood raised above the crowd stood a man at a microphone. A sharp buzz came over a loudspeaker, and the man dressed in a tuxedo spoke with a sputtering S because he was standing too close to the mouthpiece. Radio was not his medium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please. Your attention. We want to welcome you here today on behalf of Paramount Pictures. It is my pleasure to introduce our host for the afternoon, Mr. Cecil B. De Mille.” De Mille climbed to the platform and moved forward with a tall dark-suited old man, who looked something like a cross between an undertaker and a clean-shaven Abe Lincoln. De Mille was wearing tan kickers, a white shirt, and light brown jacket.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said after the applause had died. He spoke slowly, clearly, a man well at home