I could see Jeremy to my right, muscling his way forward with more success than I was having, but still too far to get there before Ressner had a chance to strike out with his staff. The people around the platform must have thought it was part of an act, too, because no one moved to give De Mille help.
I kept driving forward and glanced up to see De Mille standing quite resolutely with his feet apart, waiting for Ressner.
I was at the foot of the platform when Ressner raised the staff and shouted, “For all the filth that you have put on the screen and the defilement of the Lord, I shall smite thee.”
“Your knowledge of the Bible,” I could hear De Mille say, “is as weak as your performance. Now …”
Ressner was about to bring the staff down on De Mille’s head, and neither Jeremy nor I was near enough to act. But instead of the heavy stick swooping through the air, it went flying high into the crowd, and Ressner tripped forward.
At the edge of the platform I could now see Gunther, his cane extended. I guessed that he had climbed up and hit Ressner in the shin. It was a good guess. Ressner turned in fury toward Gunther, who tried to scramble away. He almost made it. Ressner caught him by the collar and pulled him up where everyone could see. De Mille moved to help, but Ressner lifted Gunther and flung him into the crowd. People went down like lined-up blocks when Gunther’s body struck, and Ressner leaped off the back of the platform into the crowd.
The applause and cheers were deafening and one man shouted, “Magnificent show, C.B.”
A woman’s voice confirmed, “You might expect something like this from C.B. Wonderful dramatic sense. Wonderful.”
De Mille quickly climbed from the podium, and I caught a glimpse of Jeremy burrowing around the crowd in pursuit of Ressner. I went for Gunther, who was being held up and dusted off by a pretty young girl.
“You were wonderful,” she said.
“How are you, Gunther?” I asked.
“While I prefer not to be publicly conspicuous, as you well know, Toby,” he said, looking for his Homburg, “I am well trained in tumbling and well able to absorb the fall and the indignity. The mother of this child upon whom I landed is in some anguish.”
The pretty girl remembered her mother, pulled her fascinated eyes from Gunther, and went to the woman, who had been seated in a chair and now looked as if Jim Thorpe had belted her in the solar plexus.
I took up the chase of Ressner, passing D. W. Griffith on the way, who was saying, “Carol Dempster. Without a doubt. Carol Dempster.”
The crowd thinned at the edge of the set, and I moved between two buildings in the general direction I had seen Jeremy and Ressner take off. Nothing. I went to my right and found myself circling back toward the party and the set from The Crusades.
I climbed some wooden stairs and found myself on the tower over the party. In front of me, about fifty feet down on the wooden planking, Jeremy was advancing on Ressner, who had nowhere to go.
I ran forward. Ressner moved to the edge of the railing some thirty feet above the crowd. No one seemed to spot him from below. Jeremy took a step to the side, and I could see the too-calm look on his face. I didn’t like it.
Ressner struck out with his fist and hit Jeremy cleanly on the chin, but Jeremy paid no attention. Ressner backed up his last step and threw a punch toward Jeremy’s neck. Jeremy ignored it.
“I should have been a star,” shouted Ressner in Jeremy’s face. “I am a great actor. This is an unfair world.”
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.