He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) (26 page)

“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 with a microphone. “It is my distinct honor to share this platform today with the man who may be most responsible for the industry in which we work, the man who turned a technology into an art, the true pioneer of the film medium, Mr. David Wark Griffith.”

Griffith stepped forward with a small smile to the applause and leaned into the microphone.

“I thank you, C.B.,” he said. “And I thank you especially for the opportunity to urge all of these loyal Americans to support our war effort.”

De Mille stepped up and made it quite clear that the little presentation had been rehearsed.

“Yes, D.W. We’re at a crucial point in the war being fought all around us, a point where every dollar and every bit of effort and sacrifice is needed to see us through to victory. I’d like to see us sell a million dollars in bonds right here. This afternoon. I know you have the power to do it, just as I know America has the will to win.”

“C.B.,” said Griffith in distinct cultured tones. “I’d like to start the camera rolling with the purchase of a one-hundred-dollar bond.”

De Mille applauded and I wondered if Griffith could afford a hundred-buck token payment. I’d heard from a friend that the old man had been reduced to noncredited consulting at Hal Roach’s studio.

“Now,” went on C.B. “Mr. Griffith and I and our volunteers will circulate among you. There are plenty of refreshments, and many of you have kindly agreed to perform for us through the afternoon. So enjoy yourselves, open your hearts and purses, your souls and wallets, and help us to make this an afternoon for which Hollywood can be proud.”

More applause as De Mille and Griffith waved and left the podium to Kay Kyser who adjusted his glasses and said, “Hi you all.”

Before he could call Ish Kabible to the stand or start his band playing, I pushed through the crowd to find De Mille.

People were flocking around one of several tables set up to sell bonds. I moved behind one of the tables as the music began. I thought I recognized the voice of Ginny Simms singing “Who’s Sorry Now,” but I didn’t spot De Mille.

Someone touched my arm, and I looked down at Gunther. I had to bend down to hear him over the music and voices.

“Toby, did you not tell me that Miss West struck this Ressner in the face last night?”

“Right,” I said.

“There is a waiter serving behind that punch bowl with a bandage on his nose. It may mean nothing, but …”

I hurried in the direction of the punch bowl as indicated by Gunther. The going was slow.

I passed Bing Crosby, who was holding something small up to a young man and saying, “Will you look at that?”

The table with the punch bowl was long and covered with a white tablecloth and little punch glasses. Behind it stood not one but three waiters serving. One of them, indeed, had a bandage on his nose. His hair was dark and long, and he sported a black moustache, but it was Ressner without a doubt, the same man who had appeared in my office and told me he was Dr. Winning. I tried to ease around a chubby guy, who had one foot propped up to tie his shoe.

Ressner looked up at the right or wrong moment and spotted me. His eyes made it clear that I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be locked up in a booby hatch outside of Fresno. He turned and ducked into the crowd behind him. I followed.

For four or five minutes I plowed through celebrities asking me questions about my tie and people who didn’t want to move or be moved. No Ressner. I gave up and looked for De Mille. Instead I spotted Jeremy talking to a matronly woman.

“Romanticism is returning now in full flower with the young English poets,” he was saying as I grabbed his arm. He excused himself, and I told him to help me find and keep an eye on De Mille. I told him about Ressner and his disguise, and we separated again.

About four minutes later I spotted De Mille again, this time without Griffith, as he returned to the platform and took the microphone.

“We’re doing very well,” he said. “But we can do better. Open those hearts as I know you can.”