Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (11 page)

 
          
Blue
dawn was at the window before I went to sleep. The
Perrys
’
radio woke me at seven o’clock. It nearly always did. They were a couple of
schoolteachers who lived on schedule for the purpose of improving themselves. Their
morning schedule began with setting-up exercises.

 
          
I
flopped around on my side of the bed for a while, trying to shut out the
announcer’s voice blaring through the wallboard. Finally I got up with that
stiff gray insomniac feeling on my face. Sally went on sleeping like one of the
seven sleepers.

 
          
Since
she was sleeping for two, I dressed quietly and went downtown for breakfast. I
bought a morning paper on the way. The front page carried a picture of Donato,
a huddled figure with a shock of black Indian hair sticking out from under the
sheet that covered him.

 
          
While
I was waiting for my bacon and eggs, I read the accompanying news story.
Granada was praised for his courage and marksmanship, and given credit for
solving the series of burglaries. The story implied that the gang had other
members besides Donato, but none of them was named, not even Gaines. I assumed
that Wills was holding back, and had persuaded the local paper to go along.

 
          
The
waitress brought my breakfast. The eggs stared up from the plate like wide
yellow eyes. The toast had a gunpowder flavor. I caught myself sitting tensely
in the booth like a condemned criminal waiting for the executioner to throw the
switch.

 
          
It
wasn’t purely empathy with Donato: I doubt that there’s such a feeling as pure
empathy. For no clear reason, I’d put myself in the position of withholding
information about a major crime. And the man whose request I was honoring
wasn’t even a client.

 
          
I
sat there trying to convince myself that Ferguson had been having alcoholic
delusions about his wife. Or that the whole thing was a publicity hoax. Movie
actresses didn’t get themselves kidnapped in
Buenavista
.
Most of our crimes were done in the lower town, cheap fraud or senseless
violence. But my mind couldn’t evade the connection between the Broadman
killing and the Ferguson case. And I knew in my bowels that the threatening
call at midnight had been no hoax.

 
          
I
left the ugly eggs on my plate and went to the police station. Wills wasn’t in
yet, but the sergeant on duty at the desk assured me that he would have the men
in the patrol cars keep an eye on my home. By the time I had walked the several
blocks to the office, past the familiar faces of the downtown buildings, I felt
better. Nothing could happen to Sally in
Buenavista
.

 
          
My
office was one of a suite of two, with an anteroom between, on the second floor
of an old mustard-colored stucco court behind the post office. In the middle of
the imitation flagstone courtyard there was a fountain, a dry concrete
concavity inhabited by a lead dolphin which had long since emitted its last
watery gasp.

 
          
I
shared the suite and Mrs. Weinstein with another attorney, a middle-aged man
named Barney Millrace who specialized in tax and probate work. We were not
partners. I was on my way up, I hoped; Barney Millrace was on his way down, I
feared. He was a quiet drinker, so quiet that I sometimes forgot about him for
days.

 
          
Bella
Weinstein never let me forget her. She was a widow, fortyish, dark, and
intense, who had appointed herself my personal goad. She looked up from her
desk when I walked into the anteroom. Fixing me with her eye, she said in a
congratulatory way: “You’re early this morning, Mr. Gunnarson.”

 
          
“That’s
because I’ve been up all night.
Rampaging and carousing.”

 
          
“I
bet. You have an appointment at nine-fifteen with Mrs. Al Stabile. I think she
wants a divorce again.”

 
          
“I’ll
head her off. Did she say why?”

 
          
“She
didn’t go into the gory details. But I gather Stabile’s been rampaging and
carousing again. You see where it leads. Also, a man named Padilla tried to
reach you.”

 
          
“How long ago?”

 
          
“Just a few minutes.
He left a number. Shall I call him
back?”

 
          
“Right away, yes.
I’ll take it inside.”

 
          
I
closed the door of my office and sat down at the ancient golden-oak roll-top
desk which I had imported at great expense from the Pennsylvania town where I
was born. My father had willed it to me, along with the small law library which
took up most of the shelves along one wall.

 
          
It’s
oddly pleasing to sit at your father’s desk.
Diminishing,
too.
It’s a long time before you begin to feel that you’re up to it. I
was beginning.

 
          
Padilla
was on the line when I lifted the receiver. “Mr. Gunnarson? I’m out at Colonel
Ferguson’s. He says I got to make this fast.”

 
          
“What
is it, Tony?”

 
          
“I
don’t want to go into it over the phone. Can you come out here?”

 
          
“Why
don’t you come to my office?”

 
          
“I
would, but I hate to leave the Colonel. He needs somebody to hold his hand.”

 
          
“The
hell I do,” I heard Ferguson say. Then his voice roared in my ear: “Get off the
line!”

 
          
I
got off the line, and started out through the anteroom. Mrs. Weinstein detained
me with one of her complex looks; it combined satire, pathos, and despair.

 
          
“Are
you going out, Mr. Gunnarson?” she said in her polite, furious monotone.

 
          
“Yes.
Out.”

 
          
“But
Mrs. Stabile will be here in a few minutes. What can I say to her?”

 
          
“Tell
her I’ll see her later.”

 
          
“She’ll
go to another lawyer.”

 
          
“No,
she won’t. Stabile won’t let her.”

 
          
FERGUSON’S
HOUSE WAS IMPRESSIVE by daylight, a green and gray modern structure of stone
and wood and glass, distributed in unobtrusive low shapes which blended with
the landscape and the seascape.

 
          
The
door opened as my car entered the turnaround. Colonel Ferguson came out,
trailed by Padilla. Padilla looked a little soiled and sallow, but he managed a
smile. Ferguson was grimly unsmiling. The lines in his face were deep and
inflexible. Heavy beard, jet black and pure white mixed, sprouted around the
scab on his chin.

 
          
He
came up to my car. “What in hell do you want?”

 
          
“I’m
naturally worried about your wife—”

 
          
“It’s
my affair. I’m handling it.”

 
          
I
got out. “It’s my affair, too, whether I like it or not. You can’t expect me
simply to sit by.”

 
          
“It’s
what I have to do.”

 
          
“You
haven’t had any further messages?”

 
          
“No.
I’ll tell you this, though it’s none of your business. I’ve been in touch with
the manager of the bank. They’ll have the money ready for me.”

 
          
“Since
you’ve gone that far, don’t you think you should take the further step of going
to the authorities?”

 
          
He
bristled. “And get Holly killed?”

 
          
“You
can go to them on the quiet, without any fanfare.”

 
          
“What
good will
that do
, if her abductors have a pipeline to
the police?”

 
          
“I
don’t believe they have. They’re trying to scare you, paralyze you so you won’t
act. I know the local police, as I told you last night. They’re a decent
bunch.”

 
          
Padilla
looked uneasy. I shared his feeling, to some extent, but suppressed it.
Ferguson was listening to me, his long jaw
calipered
between thumb and fingers. I noticed that the nail of his thumb was bitten down
to the raw.

 
          
“I’m
taking no chances,” he said.

 
          
“You
may be taking the worst possible chance.”

 
          
“I
don’t understand you.”

 
          
“Your
wife may be dead now.”

 
          
I’d
meant to shock him, but he was appalled by the thought. His jaw gaped, showing
his lower teeth. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. “She’s dead, is
she? They found her dead?”

 
          
“No.
But it could
happen,
that they should find her dead.”

 
          
“Why?
I intend to pay them the money. All they want is the money. Why should they
harm her? The money means nothing to me—”

 
          
I
cut him short. “There’s a good chance that you’ll pay your money and still not
see her again. Do you understand that, Ferguson? Once they’ve got the money,
there’s no advantage to them in returning her to you. No
advantage,
and a great deal of risk.”

 
          
“They
wouldn’t take the money and kill her anyway.”

 
          
“They’re
killers, some of them at least. She’s in danger every hour she’s with them.”

 
          
“You
don’t have to tell him, he knows it.” Padilla shook his dark head. “Lay off,
eh?”

 
          
Ferguson
spoke gruffly. “I’m perfectly all right. Don’t concern yourself about me.”

 
          
“I’m
more concerned about your wife. She may be killed while we stand here talking,
and you’ll end up financing the killer’s getaway.”

 
          
“I
know she’s in danger. I’ve been sitting with it staring me in the face all
night. You don’t have to grind it in.”

 
          
“Then
go to the police.”

 
          
“I
will not. Stop badgering me.”

 
          
He
ran his fingers through his thin hair. It stuck up and fluttered like gray
feathers in the wind from the sea. He walked away to the edge of the cliff and
stood there looking down. I could hear the surf pouring and lapsing, a
continual sound of grief running under the morning.

 
          
“Let
him alone now,” Padilla said. “You want to drive him over the edge?”

 
          
“I’m
not doing it for fun. This is a bad situation all round.”

 
          
“You’re
not making it any better, Mr. Gunnarson.”

 
          
“Somebody
has to do something.”

 
          
“Maybe.
Maybe not.
We don’t want to
do the wrong thing, that’s for sure. The Colonel could be right. He’s had a lot
of experience in his life. He didn’t get where he is by letting other people
carry the ball.”

 
          
“Nobody’s
carrying it, that’s the trouble.”

 
          
“Sometimes
you just have to wait. You press too hard, and everything goes to pieces.”

 
          
“Don’t
give me the
mañana
treatment.”

 
          
Padilla
was hurt. He turned away from me in silence.

 
          
“Listen
to me,” I said to Ferguson’s back. “You’re not the only person involved in
this. Your wife is deeply involved, more deeply than you are by a long shot.
You’re taking a heavy responsibility for her.”

 
          
“I
know that,” he said without turning.

 
          
“Then
spread it around. Give other
people
a chance to help
you.”

 
          
“You
can help me by getting off my back.” He
turned,
his
small eyes hot and dry. “I have to work this out for myself, and for Holly.
Alone.”

 
          
“Don’t
you have any friends in California?”

 
          
“None that I trust.
Those people at the Club care nothing
for me. The people we know in Hollywood are worse. They have a grudge against
me, and for good reason. I found that my wife’s so-called friends were living
off her like leeches. I got rid of them for her.”

 
          
“So
you’re completely alone here?”

 
          
“I
choose to be. I hope I make that clear.”

 
          
“No
servants?”

 
          
“I
won’t have servants under my feet, prying into my affairs. Holly was glad to be
alone with me, and look after my needs. I don’t like anyone prying, do you
understand me?”

 
          
He
stalked into the house, stiff-necked and high-shouldered, mimicked by his dwarf
shadow. I was beginning to understand something about him. He was a pigheaded
Scots-Canadian, made arrogant and lonely by his money. But he was a man, and
had a depth of feeling I hadn’t suspected. It’s hard to begin to understand a
man without beginning to like him.

 
          
Padilla
lingered outside. “Could I talk to you, Mr. Gunnarson?
Person
to person?
I’m no great brain, and I never studied law—”

 
          
I
didn’t like his guarded, apologetic tone. “We can sit in my car.”

 
          
I
climbed in behind the wheel. He got in the other side, closing the door very
gently as if it might shatter under his hand. I offered him a cigarette and
meant to light it for him. But before I could move, he was lighting mine, in a
quick, smooth bartender’s gesture.

 
          
“Thanks,
Tony. I got a little wordy, there. It’s the occupational hazard of my
profession.”

 
          
“Yeah,
I’ve noticed that about lawyers. I thought maybe you were pressing a little
hard about him going to the cops. I got nothing against cops. They’re human
like everybody else, though. I see them fumble a lot of balls, so do you. Most
of the
time
they make a good try for it, but sometimes
they just turn their back and let the ball bounce.”

 
          
“Get
down to cases, eh?”

 
          
“I
drove Secundina Donato home last night. She did some talking. Some of it made
sense, some of it didn’t. But I thought I better pass the word to somebody
who’d know what to do. I can’t take it to the cops.”

 
          
“Why?”

 
          
He
hesitated, and then said rapidly: “She thinks Pike Granada is mixed up with the
robbery gang. Don’t quote me, and don’t quote her.” He peered through the
windshield as if searching for hovering helicopters. “She’s in bad enough
trouble now, with her husband dead, and kids to feed. I don’t want to get them
orphaned completely.”

 
          
“You
take her seriously, do you?”

 
          
“I
dunno
.” Padilla drew in half an inch of his cigarette
and blew it out in a long, sighing puff, brown-gray on the blue sky. “She may
be making it up, but I didn’t think she was that smart. She’s known Granada for
a long time. He used to be one of her boy-friends.
Her
and Gus and Granada ran with the same gang. It was a pretty wild gang, smoking
weed, stealing cars, beating people up. They used to have parties out in the
old ice plant—the same place where Pike shot Gus.”

 
          
“How
long ago was this?”

 
          
“Not
as long as you’d think. Ten years at the outside. These people aren’t old.
Sexy—they used to call her Sexy—Secundina says that Gus and Granada fought for
her one night. Granada was a football player, and Gus couldn’t take him with
his bare hands. He took him with a knife. He put a little hole in Granada’s
chest, and Granada ran away. Next thing they knew, the place was raided, and
Gus was in the reformatory for stealing a car.”

 
          
“There’s
no necessary connection.”

 
          
“I
know that, but Secundina thinks there is. Once Gus was out of the way, Granada
moved in on her. She claims that’s the way it’s been ever since. Granada keeps
making trouble for Gus, so he can get at her.”

 
          
“She’s
not that much of an
attraction,
is she?”

 
          
“You
didn’t see her ten years ago, even five. She used to melt the asphalt. And I
know for a fact Granada chased her for years, and had a down on Gus. According
to Secundina, he never forgave Gus for making him run, and that’s why he shot
Gus last night.”

 
          
“It
sounds like a one-sided story to me. She’s trying to get back at Granada.”

 
          
“I
hope that’s all there is in it. She said other things, too. Granada was always
dropping in Broadman’s store. Manuel and Gus saw him there every week, oftener.
They used to go in the back and talk.”

 
          
“That’s
interesting.”

 
          
“Yeah,
it is. Because Broadman was fencing for the gang, that’s definite. Gus was one
of the
breakin
boys, and naturally he knew who
handled the stuff. He also told Secundina that they had police information,
somebody on the force tipping them off on when and where to strike. She thinks
it was Granada.”