Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (16 page)

 
          
“I’ll
take you home.”

 
          
“What’s
the use of go home?” she cried in a raw voice. “So I can tell my children they
got no father? What’s the use of anything?”

 
          
She
sat like a monument to her own grief. Something had broken in her, releasing
the bitter forces of her nature. She seemed to be submitting to them, hoping
they would destroy her.

 
          
There
was nothing I could think of to say, except: “Your children need you, Mrs.
Donato. You have to think of them.”

 
          
“To hell with them!”

 
          
But
she was terrified by her words. She crossed herself, and started to mutter a
prayer. In spite of the cool shade of the pepper tree, I was beginning to
sweat. I’d never been so conscious of the wall between my side of town and
hers.

 
          
A
dirty black Buick convertible came down the street in front of the hospital.
Tony Padilla was driving, slowly, looking for someone. He saw us on the bench
and drew in to the red curb.

 
          
“Hello,
Mr. Gunnarson,” he said in a subdued voice. “I was in the hospital looking for
you, Mrs. Donato. Your sister said I should bring you home. You want to get
in?” He leaned across the front seat and opened the door for her.

 
          
I
caught a glimpse of her tiny, high-arched foot. Red toenails gleamed through
the plastic toe of her shoe. “May I see you for a minute, Tony?”

 
          
“You
see me,” he said across her. He didn’t want to talk to me, and was using her as
a buffer.

 
          
“What
happened to Colonel Ferguson? I thought you were holding his hand.”

 
          
“Until he gave me the brush-off.
He went to drop the money
off—”

 
          
“Where?”

 
          
“I
dunno
. He didn’t tell me, didn’t want me along. So I
went down to
Secundina’s
place. I wanted to talk to
her some more. Her sister said she was here at the hospital.” He smiled and
shrugged automatically, and glanced at the watch on his wrist. “I just got time
to take her home before I go to work.”

 
          
He
put his car in gear.

 
          
MY
PATH TO THE PARKING LOT led past the emergency entrance of the hospital. The
ambulances were garaged across the street, and one of them was parked in the
driveway facing into the street. The old youth named Whitey lounged at the
wheel, listening to the radio. He turned it low when I came up to the window of
the cab. “Can I help you, sir?”

 
          
“You
may be able to. I saw you at Broadman’s store yesterday when you took him away.
My name is Gunnarson.”

 
          
“I
remember you, Mr. Gunnarson.” He tried to smile, without much success. His pale
lippy face wasn’t made for smiling. “Broadman died on the way here, poor old
boy. I hated to see it happen.”

 
          
“Was
he a friend of yours?”

 
          
“I
never saw him before in my life. But I have an empathy with them.
Like we’re all fellow mortals together.
Dead
or alive.
You know?”

 
          
I
knew, though I didn’t like the way he put it. He seemed to be one of those
sick-bay philosophers—sensitive wounded souls who lived by choice in the odor
of sickness, flourished like mushrooms under the shadow of death.

 
          
Whitey’s
eyes were like nerve ends. “It kills me to see a man die.”

 
          
“How
did Broadman die?”

 
          
“He
simply passed away, man. One minute he was yelling and struggling, trying to
get up—he was real panicky. The next minute he sighed and was gone.” Whitey
sighed and went a little himself. “I blame myself.”

 
          
“Why
blame yourself?”

 
          
“Because
I didn’t dream he was going to die on me. If I had only known, I could have
given him oxygen, or drugs. But I let him slip away between my fingers.”

 
          
He
raised one hand to the window and looked at his fingers. They dangled limply.
He rested his chin on his chest, and his long face sloped into sorrow. His pale
eyes appeared ready to spurt tears. “I don’t know why I stay in this awful
business. There are so many disappointments. I might as well be a mortician and
get it over with. I mean it, man.” He was going down for the third time in an
ocean of self-pity.

 
          
I
said: “What did he die of?”

 
          
“Search
me. I’ve had a lot of experience, but I’m not a medical man. You’ll have to
take it up with the doctors.” His tone implied obscurely that doctors could be
wrong, and often were.

 
          
“The
doctors don’t seem to understand the case. Can’t you give me the benefit of
your experience?”

 
          
He
glanced at me sideways, warily. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

 
          
“I
want your opinion of what killed Broadman.”

 
          
“I’m
not entitled to any
opinion,
I’m just a lackey around
here. But it must have been those injuries at the back of his head.”

 
          
“Did
Broadman sustain any other injuries?”

 
          
“How
do you mean?”

 
          
“On the throat, for instance.”

 
          
“Heavens, no.
He certainly wasn’t choked to death, if that’s
what you’re getting at.”

 
          
“I’ll
be frank with you, Whitey. It’s been suggested that Broadman was injured
fatally after I found him in the store. Between the
time
that I found him and you took him away.”

 
          
“Who by, for goodness’ sake?”

 
          
“That
remains to be seen. It’s been suggested that he was roughly handled.”

 
          
“No!”
He was deeply shocked by the suggestion. “I handled him like a baby, with the
upmost care. I always handle head injuries with the upmost care.”

 
          
“You
weren’t the only one who had your hands on him.”

 
          
His
eyes appeared to turn white. The flesh around them crinkled like blue crepe. He
opened and closed his mouth, making noises like a hot-water bottle under
stress.

 
          
“You
wouldn’t be pointing a finger at my partner? Ronny wouldn’t hurt a fly.
We been
working together for years, ever since he got out of
the Medical Corps. He wouldn’t even hurt a mosquito! I’ve seen him take a
mosquito by the wings, pluck it right off his arm, and set it free.”

 
          
“Calm
down, Whitey. I’m not pointing a finger at you or your sidekick. I simply want
to know if you noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

 
          
“Listen,
Mr. Gunnarson,” he complained, “I’m supposed to be monitoring police calls. The
manager catches me out here batting the breeze—”

 
          
“If
you saw anything, it won’t take long to tell me.”

 
          
“Sure,
and get my own neck in a sling.”

 
          
“You
can trust me to hold any information you have. It may be very important. It’s
not just a matter of one man’s death, though that’s important enough.”

 
          
He
pushed his fingers up into his hair and slowly closed his fist. His hair
sprouted out like pale weeds between his fingers. “What do you want me to say?
And who does it go to?”

 
          
“Just to me.”

 
          
“I
don’t know you, Mr. Gunnarson. I do know what happens to me and my job if
certain people get a down on me.”

 
          
“Name
them.”

 
          
“How
can I? What protection have I got? I’m no muscle man and I don’t pretend to be
smart.”

 
          
“You’re
not acting too smart. You seem to have evidence in a murder case, and you think
you can sit on it until it explodes.”

 
          
He
twisted tensely in the seat, turning his head away. His neck was thin and
vulnerable-looking, like a plucked chicken’s.

 
          
“A
man name of Donato murdered Broadman. I heard it on the radio. Can’t we just
leave it like that?”

 
          
“Not
if it isn’t true.”

 
          
“
Donato’s
dead, isn’t he?”

 
          
“Yes.
Pike Granada shot him. You know Granada, don’t you?”

 
          
“Sure.
I run into him in the course of work.” A tremor ran through his long,
asthenic
body. It was curled in the seat protectively,
knees up. “You think I want to get myself shot, too? Leave me alone, why don’t
you? I’m no hero.”

 
          
“I’m
beginning to get the idea.”

 
          
All
this time the radio had been murmuring in fits and starts. Now the rhythm of
the dispatcher’s voice quickened. Whitey reached out and turned the radio up.
It said that a new blue Imperial had been clocked at sixty proceeding east on
Ocean Boulevard east of the pier.

 
          
I
shouted above it: “Did Granada do something to Broadman?”

 
          
Whitey
sat and pretended to be deaf. The dispatcher’s voice went on like the voice of
doom. The Imperial had collided with a truck at the intersection of Ocean
Boulevard and Roundtable Street. Traffic Control Car Seven was directed to the
scene of the accident. A few seconds later the dispatcher relayed a report that
the driver was injured.

 
          
“You
see?” Whitey cried aggrievedly. “You almost made me miss an accident.”

 
          
He
started his engine, and honked softly. His fat little partner, the mosquito
liberator, came running out of the garage. The ambulance rolled into the street
and turned toward the foot of the city, singing its siren song.

 
          
I
followed it. Colonel Ferguson had a blue Imperial.

 
          
THE
LONG BLUE CAR had smashed its nose on the side of an aluminum semitrailer. A
policeman was directing traffic around the damaged vehicles. At the curb,
another policeman was talking to a tough-looking man in oil-stained coveralls.
They were looking down in attitudes of angry sympathy at a third man who was
sitting on the curb with his face in his hands. It was Ferguson.

 
          
Whitey
and his partner got out of the ambulance and trotted toward him. I was close on
their heels. Whitey said to the policeman in a tone of whining solicitude: “Is
the poor fellow badly hurt, Mahan?”

 
          
“Not
too serious. But you better take him to Emergency.”

 
          
Ferguson
lifted his head.
“Nonsense.
I don’t need an ambulance.
I’m perfectly all right.”

 
          
It
was an overstatement. Worms of blood crawled down from his nostrils to his
mouth. His eyes were like starred glass.

 
          
“You
better go along to the hospital,” Mahan said.
“Looks to me
like you bust your nose.”

 
          
“It
doesn’t matter, I’ve broken it before.” Ferguson was a little high with shock.
“What I need is a stiff drink, and I’ll be right as rain.”

 
          
Mahan
and the ambulance men looked at each other with uneasy smiles. The man in
coveralls muttered to no one in particular: “Probably had one too many already.
He sure picked a hell of a time to run a red light.”

 
          
Ferguson
heard him and lunged up to his feet. “I assure you I haven’t been drinking. I
do assume full responsibility for the accident. And I apologize for the
inconvenience.”

 
          
“I
hope so. Who’s going to pay for the damage to the truck?”

 
          
“I
am, of course.”

 
          
Ferguson
was doing a fine job of setting himself up for a lawsuit. I couldn’t help
interjecting: “Don’t say any more, Colonel. It may not have been your fault.”

 
          
Mahan
turned on me hotly. “He was doing sixty down the Boulevard. He’s due for a pile
of citations. Take a look at his
skidmarks
.”

 
          
I
took a look. The broad black lines which Ferguson’s car had laid down on the
concrete were nearly two hundred feet long.

 
          
“I’ve
said I’m sorry.”

 
          
“It
ain’t that simple, Mister. I want to know how it happened. What did you say
your name was?”

 
          
I
answered for him. “Ferguson. Colonel Ferguson is not obliged to answer your
questions.”

 
          
“The
hell he isn’t. Read the Vehicle Code.”

 
          
“I
have, I’m an attorney. He’ll make a report to you later. At the present time
he’s obviously dazed.”

 
          
“That’s
right,” Whitey said. “We’ll take him along to the hospital, they’ll fix him
up.”

 
          
He
put his pale thin hand on Ferguson’s shoulder, like a butcher testing meat.
Ferguson moved impatiently, stumbled on the curb, and almost fell. He glanced
around at the growing circle of onlookers with something like panic in his
eyes. “Let me out of here. My wife—” His hand went to his face and came away
bloody.

 
          
“What
about your wife?” Mahan said. “Was she in the car?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“How
did the accident happen? What did you think you were doing?”

 
          
I
stepped between them. “Colonel Ferguson will be in touch with you later, when
he’s himself.”

 
          
I
got hold of Ferguson’s bony elbow and propelled him through the gathering crowd
to my car.

 
          
Mahan
pursued us, waving citation blanks. “Where do you think you’re going?”

 
          
“To a doctor.
If I were you, officer, I wouldn’t push this
any further right now.”

 
          
I
opened the door for Ferguson. He got in, disdaining my assistance. Mahan stood
and watched us drive away, his pad of blanks crumpled in his hand.

 
          
“You’re
Johnny-on-the-spot, aren’t you?” Ferguson said.

 
          
“I
happened to be listening to the local police calls, and got the first report of
your accident. Do you have a doctor in town?”

 
          
“I
never go to doctors.” He emitted a sort of snuffling neigh through his damaged
nose. “Look here, I need a drink. Isn’t there someplace we can go for a drink?”

 
          
“If you say so.”

 
          
I
took him to a bar and grill on the edge of the lower town. The noon-hour crowd
had thinned down to a few tables of men drinking their lunches. I hustled
Ferguson to the rear of the establishment and suggested he wash his face.

 
          
He
came out of the men’s room looking a little better, and ordered rye on the
rocks. I ordered a corned-beef sandwich. When the waiter was out of hearing, he
pushed his battered face across the table toward me. His eyes were bleak. “What
sort of a man are you? Can I trust you?”

 
          
“I
think so.”

 
          
“You
haven’t simply been hanging around hoping that some of my money will rub off on
you?”

 
          
It
was an insulting question, but I didn’t let it insult me. I was willing to put
up with a good deal for the sake of candor. “It’s a natural human hope, isn’t
it? Money isn’t an overriding motive with me.
As you may have
noticed.”

 
          
“Yes.
You’ve talked to me straight from the shoulder. I’d like to feel I can do the
same with you.” His voice altered. “God knows I have to talk to someone.”

 
          
“Shoot.
In my profession you learn to listen, and you learn to forget.”

 
          
The
waiter brought his drink. Ferguson sucked at it greedily and set the glass down
with a rap. “I want to engage your professional services, Mr. Gunnarson. That
will insure your forgetting, won’t it?
Confidential
relationship, and all that.”

 
          
“I
take it seriously.”

 
          
“I
don’t mean to be offensive. I realize I have been offensive, when this matter
came up between us. I apologize.” He was trying to be quiet and charming. I
preferred him loud and natural.

 
          
“No
apology needed. You’ve been under quite a strain. But we’re not getting anywhere.”

 
          
“We
have if we’ve reached an agreement. Will you be my legal adviser in this
matter?”

 
          
“I’ll
be glad to. So long as it doesn’t interfere with my representing my other
client.
Other clients.”

 
          
“How
could that be?”

 
          
“We
don’t need to go into detail. I have a client in the county jail who was
involved with Larry Gaines. Innocently involved, like your wife.”

 
          
His
eyes winced.

 
          
“And
like your wife,” I added, “she’s suffering out the consequences.”

 
          
Ferguson
took a deep, yawning breath. “I saw Gaines today. It’s why I lost my head. I
threw discretion to the winds and tried to run him down. God knows what will
happen now.”

 
          
“Have
you delivered the money?”

 
          
“Yes.
It’s when I saw him. I was instructed to procure a cardboard carton and place
the money in it, then leave the carton on the front seat of my car, with the
door unlocked. I parked the car where they told me to, on Ocean Boulevard near
the foot of the pier, and left it standing there with the carton of money in
it. Then I was supposed to walk out to the end of the wharf. It’s a distance of
a couple of hundred yards.”

 
          
“I
know the place. My wife and I often go there.”

 
          
“Then
you probably remember that there’s a public telescope on the pier. I couldn’t
resist dropping a dime in the slot and training the thing on my car. It’s how I
happened to see them.”

 
          
“Them?”

 
          
“Him.
I meant to say him. Gaines. He pulled up beside my
car, got out and retrieved the carton, and away he went. If I had had a deer
rifle with me, I could have plugged him. I wish I had.”

 
          
“What
kind of a car was he driving?”

 
          
“A fairly new car, green in color.
I don’t know what make
exactly. I’m not familiar with the cheaper makes.”

 
          
“It
was one of the cheaper makes?”

 
          
“Yes,
a Chevrolet perhaps.”

 
          
“Or a Plymouth?”

 
          
“It
may have been a Plymouth. At any rate it was Gaines who got out and picked up
the money. And I saw red. I sprinted the length of the pier and chased
th
—
chased
him in my car. You know the result.”

 
          
He
gingerly touched his swelling nose with his fingertips.

 
          
“You
don’t lie well, Colonel. Who was with Gaines in the green Plymouth?”

 
          
“No one.”

 
          
But
he wouldn’t meet my eyes. His gaze roved around the room and fastened on an elk
head high on the opposite wall above the bar. The waiter brought my sandwich.
Ferguson ordered another double rye.

 
          
I
ate mechanically. My mind was racing, fitting together pieces of fact. The
picture was far from complete, but its outlines were forming.

 
          
“Was
your wife in the car with Gaines?”

 
          
His
head hung as if his neck had been broken. “She was driving.”

 
          
“Are
you certain of the identification?”

 
          
“Positive.”

 
          
His
second drink arrived. He drank it down like hemlock. Remembering the previous
night at the Foothill Club, I persuaded him not to order a third. “We have some
more talking to do, Ferguson. We don’t have to do it here.”

 
          
“I
like it here.” His gaze repeated its circuit of the room, which was almost
deserted now, and returned to the friendly elk.

 
          
“Ever
hunt elk?”

 
          
“Indeed
I have. I have several fine heads at home.”

 
          
“Where
is home, exactly?”

 
          
“I
keep most of my trophies in my lodge at Banff. But that’s not exactly what you
mean, is it? You mean where I really live, and that’s hard to say. I have a
house in Calgary, and I keep hotel suites in Montreal and Vancouver. None of them
are places I feel at home.” Like other lonely men, he seemed glad to be
relieved of the burden of loneliness. “Home for me was always the family
homestead in Alberta. But it’s nothing but an oil field now.”