He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) by Stuart M. Kaminsky

touch the metal globe, and said clearly in that voice that sounded almost English, “Not for more than five years. On that last occasion, he appeared from beneath our dinner table and ranted on about playing Christ in one of my films. I brought him in here away from my family, humored him till the police arrived. He took it as an act of betrayal.”
    “And you haven’t heard from him since?”
    “I’ve just said no,” De Mille said with a touch of irritation. “Actually, the man did have a certain uncontrolled talent that would have translated well on film. Had he sanely come to me, perhaps through an agent, I probably could have made use of him, not as Christ but as some kind of madman. And you young man, have you ever acted?”
    “Not professionally,” I said.
    “Interesting,” replied De Mille, looking at me intently. “I’m thinking of putting together a film about Dr. Wassel. Have you heard of him? The president mentioned him on the radio last month.”
    I said no and De Mille went on: “A great unsung hero of this war. There are many heroes of this war whose stories will never be told.”
    “I’d like to arrange for a police guard on the house,” I said. “Just in case.”
    De Mille awoke from his dreams of Wassel and looked at me with a look he probably reserved for insubordinate assistants.
    “While I may not be a young man any longer,” he said, “I have military training and the confidence that I am able to protect my own home with my own people. I am neither a fool nor a coward, Mr. Peters, and I shall take all proper precautions. If need be, I’ll have a few Paramount guards assigned to the house when I am away.”
    “Good idea,” I said. “Frank McConnell is a good man.”
    “A good man, indeed,” agreed De Mille with interest. “You are well acquainted with studio security.”
    “Used to be in the business,” I said. “Who are your closest neighbors?”
    “Only one,” said De Mille, glancing toward the window. “W. C. Fields in the next house. We are not particularly close, though we are cordial. There was a tragedy involving my young grandchild not too long ago in Mr. Fields’ pool. And while it was not his fault, it is painful …”
    “Sorry,” I said.
    “I want to make it clear to you that I do not usually disclose either my personal life or feelings to outsiders,” he continued, looking for something to play with with his nervous fingers. “I do, however, have great concern for my family and will do whatever is needed. I will, of course, check your credentials.”
    “Please,” I said. “Check with Mae West, or Lieutenant Phil Pevsner of the L.A.P.D., Homicide, out of Wilshire, or even Gary Cooper. He’s worked with you, and I did a job for him last year.”
    “I shall,” said De Mille, taking a step toward me. “On Wednesday we’re having a war bond party at Paramount. That will be in the morning. Providing your credentials check out, you are welcome to come and perhaps discuss whatever progress you might be making.”
    He shook his head, leading me to the study door.
    “With all the madness in the world, we surely don’t need more,” he said. “Perhaps you can find this Ressner and someone can help him. God knows we can use the support of our fellow men. None of us is without blemish. I’ll tell you a little story.”
    The rain had slowed but not stopped. He went to the desk, picked up the phone, and told someone to bring the car around to the study. Then he returned to me.
    “The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has never deemed me qualified to receive its award for direction,” he said, moving to my side. “They did, however, ask me to present the award this year for best direction to John Ford for his beautiful and touching How Green Was My Valley . Well, at the dinner, one of the distinguished guests was the ambassador of China, the country for which our hearts bleed as it suffers at the hands of Japan. When I introduced the ambassador,