Jeremy’s answer was to grab the front of Ressner’s hairy costume and lift him up. I stopped about ten feet away when Jeremy lifted Ressner over his head as Ressner had done to Gunther. There was no doubt about what Jeremy had in mind. He was going to fling the madman into the crowd below.
Ressner looked over at me with a combination of fear and anticipation. It might mean his death, but it also would mean his greatest moment. All of Hollywood was gathered for his big scene.
“Jeremy,” I said above the band that had started playing “Darktown Strutter’s Ball.” “Gunther is all right. Not even a bruise.”
Jeremy’s response was to hoist Ressner even higher.
“That’s what he wants you to do, Jeremy,” I said. “That will be his big splash in the movie world. It’s the death wish he’s been after.”
Jeremy hesitated, and I took another step forward.
“It’ll hurt him a lot more to go back to the Winning Institute or to go on trial,” I said.
With that, Jeremy turned and threw Ressner on the wooden planking at my feet. The madman landed on his back, bounced, groaned, and rolled on his side.
“And what of my satisfaction?” said Jeremy, rubbing his hands.
“Get it through poetry,” I said, grabbing Ressner’s arm.
Jeremy nodded at the wisdom of my remark and helped me drag Ressner’s unmartyred form back down the walkway and into the nearest office where I could make a phone call to my brother.
Ressner’s thin brown hair fell over his pale blue eyes. Jeremy had seated him at a desk chair on little rollers. Scratching his stomach once or twice through his itchy hair shirt, Ressner began to rock back and forth with a satisfied grin.
“Why’d you kill them?” I asked, looking at the walls of the small room. There was nothing on three of them. On the fourth was a large photograph of an old man with a high starched collar, who looked at all three of us without humor.
“I haven’t killed them yet,” Ressner said in a slight singsong voice that, I think, was intended to sound like Clark Gable.
“Grayson and Talbott,” I tried.
“I’ve never met Grason, and Talbott, when we went out for a drink, seemed a most amiable fellow,” the Clark Gable voice went on.
“And De Mille?” I asked.
“I did not intend to kill him,” he said, switching to Frank Morgan. “I was going to miss him with the staff after my scene was ended. That would show him acting. I’d have him, the whole audience, Hollywood in my hand.” He held up his right hand, stopped rocking for a few seconds, looked at his hand, and then rocked again.
“The money, where did you get the money?” I went on.
“What money?” The voice had changed, and Ressner had one eyebrow lifted.
“The money you gave me to find you when you pretended you were Winning. The money to get new clothes. The money to buy gas, hire someone to call Dr. Winning, and send a check to Winning to put me under observation at the institute. That money.”
Ressner’s eyebrow went up, and he pursed his lips. I almost recognized the impression but not quite.
“I’m not at liberty at the moment to say,” he said.
“Who are you doing?”
“Franchot Tone,” he said, shaking his head at my ignorance. “I’ll answer no more questions. I don’t betray those who serve me with loyalty. Am I going back to the institute?”
“I guess so,” I said. “Sklodovich and Dealer send their regards.”
Ressner kept rocking and shrugged. Jeremy had turned his back and was looking out the window. An idea was beginning to form somewhere in my well-kneaded brain.
Phil and Steve Seidman arrived about thirty minutes later, about at the point where I could take no more of Ressner’s rambling. His answers to my questions consisted of a look of superior knowledge and a discussion of the quality of his performance of the past few days. I wasn’t in the mood to be an appreciative critic, considering that I had been the principal supporting actor. I got nothing reasonable out of him about the murders, and I gave up. I decided to leave him for Phil’s gentle touch and charm.
“This is him?” asked Phil, looking down at Ressner.
“It’s him,” I acknowledged.
“Two murders,” Phil said through a tired smile. “We’re going to give you a nice home where you won’t bother people anymore.”
“I have killed no one,” said Ressner, adjusting his hair shirt with dignity and turning away.
Phil’s fist shot out and hit him behind the ear. Ressner flew into the corner. Phil was about to take a few steps over and give Ressner a real cause for martyrdom when Seidman stepped in front of him.
“Phil,” Seidman said quietly.
Jeremy stood in the corner with his arms folded, watching silently.
“I don’t like him,” Phil said. “He could have killed Mae West, did kill two people, and you know what they’re going to do? They’re going to send him to some funny farm for a lifetime vacation. Well, maybe he can bring a few memories with him to make his nights uncomfortable.”
“Take it easy, Panda,” I said, moving to his side.
He turned on me with close to the hatred he had shown for Ressner.
“What did you call me?” he said, though he had heard it clearly.
“Brother,” I said. “I called you brother.”
“And why the hell are you dressed up like that?” he said pointing at my clothes.
“I’m part of the entertainment,” I explained.
“You’re a damned embarrassment,” Phil said, shaking off Seidman and giving one final glare at Ressner. “Put him in the car and get him down to the station. We’ll ask him a few more questions before we turn him over to the lockup.”
Phil didn’t say anything else to me. I almost called him back and told him that there was something else, that the case wasn’t quite over. But it could wait. There were a few things I wanted to do first.
I drove Jeremy back to the Farraday and thanked him. Gunther invited him to have dinner with us, but Jeremy declined. He was a day behind on keeping the Farraday a step away from extinction.
I dropped Gunther off at Mrs. Plaut’s and picked up my bumper and the hatbox. I took the hatbox to the TWA office where Anne worked with Ralph. I didn’t know if she would keep working now, and I was sure she’d still be on her honeymoon. I jotted down a little note and asked the woman at the reception desk to see that Anne got the late wedding present. I didn’t know what she’d make of the hat. I hoped she’d look at it and laugh and then keep it somewhere. On the other hand, she might just produce that look of weary exasperation at the child-man she had once lived with and throw the whole thing in the garbage. I drove to Arnie’s.
No-Neck was a tougher customer. I insisted that he put the bumper back on, fix the radio and the gas gauge for no additional charge. He insisted on some of the money I owed him. I didn’t even have my gun to threaten him with or hock for partial payment.
We struck a deal. He’d fix the car the next day. I’d find a way to pay what I owed by the end of the next week, and I’d collect on his stack of late payments and bad debts. Knowing some of Arnie’s clients, it wasn’t much of a deal, but it was the only one I had. I left him holding the bumper while I climbed into the car. I still had a long trip to make.
CHAPTER 16
With less than two bucks in nickels and dimes I had scraped from my sofa pillows and pockets, I drove back out of town. I knew a guy named Trencherman in the secretary of state’s office who could probably get me a duplicate driver’s license reasonably fast if I begged him, but I had no time for phone calls. The begging didn’t bother me.
It was late in the afternoon when I pulled into Dot’s Dixie Gas Station and hit the horn. It was the first time I
