Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (18 page)

 
          
“I
don’t see much hope of that. There is one thing you could do which we haven’t
discussed. I know of some good private detectives in Los Angeles.”

 
          
“No!
I’m not going in for that sort of thing.”

 
          
Ferguson
struck the table with his fist. His glass jumped and rattled against my plate.
Fresh blood began to run from his nose. I stood up and got him out of there.

 
          
“I’m
taking you to a doctor,” I said in the car. “You must know some local doctor.
If not, you can get one in the emergency ward of the hospital.”

 
          
“It
isn’t necessary,” he said. “I’m perfectly all right.”

 
          
“We
won’t argue, Colonel. Haven’t you ever been to a local doctor?”

 
          
“I
don’t go to doctors. The blasted doctors killed my mother.” His voice was
strained and high. Perhaps he heard himself, because he added in a calmer tone:
“Holly visited the
Buenavista
Clinic once or twice.”

 
          
“It’s
a good place. Who was her doctor?”

 
          
“Chap
by the name of Trench.”

 
          
“Are
you sure?”

 
          
“Quite
certain, yes.” He gave me a questioning look. “Is this Trench a quack of some
sort?”

 
          
“Hardly.
He’s my wife’s doctor. He’s the best obstetrician
in town.”

 
          
“Is
your wife going to—” Then he caught the rest of the implications, and didn’t
finish the sentence.

 
          
“Yes,”
I said, “she is. Is yours?”

 
          
“I
don’t know. We never spoke of the matter.”

 
          
There
seemed to be a number of things they hadn’t spoken of.

 
          
I
WALKED AND TALKED Ferguson into the clinic and made an emergency appointment
for him with their bone man, Dr. Root. It was one of those highly specialized
medical partnerships where practically every organ of the human body was
represented by a separate doctor. I left Ferguson in the waiting room and told
him I’d be back in half an hour. He sat on the edge of a leather chair, bolt
upright, like one of the stone figures you see on old tombs.

 
          
Mrs.
Weinstein glanced at the clock when I walked into my office.

 
          
“It’s
nearly two, Mr. Gunnarson. I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”

 
          
“Thanks
for reminding me. Would you call my wife and tell her I won’t be home for
lunch?”

 
          
“I
presume she knows by this time.”

 
          
“Call
her anyway, will you? Then I want you to place a call for me, to a man in
Beverly Hills named Michael Speare.” I recited the address which Ferguson had
given me. “You can probably get the number from Information. I’ll take the call
in my office.”

 
          
I
sat at my desk with the door closed. I spread out the clipping from Larry
Gaines’s old wallet, and made an alphabetical list of the names mentioned in
it: Dotery, Drennan, Haines, McNab, Roche, Spence,
Treco
,
Van Horn, Wood,
Zanella
. I
had an idea.

 
          
My
telephone rang.

 
          
“Mr.
Speare is on the line,” Mrs. Weinstein said. Over her, a man’s voice was
saying: “Mike Speare here.”

 
          
“This
is William Gunnarson. I’m an attorney out in
Buenavista
.
Can you give me a few minutes of your time?”

 
          
“Not
right now. I’m at Television City. My secretary transferred the call. What’s it
all about?”

 
          
“A client of yours.
Holly May.”

 
          
“What
does Holly want?”

 
          
“It’s
too confidential for the telephone,” I said, trying to sound tantalizing. “Can
I talk to you in person, Mr. Speare?”

 
          
“Why not?
I’ll be back in my office by three or so. You know
where it is—just off Santa Monica Boulevard?”

 
          
“I’ll
be there. Thanks.”

 
          
I
hung up and went out and presented my list of names to Mrs. Weinstein. “I have
a little job for you. It may only take a few minutes, if we’re lucky. It may
take today and tomorrow. I want you to stay with it until it’s finished.”

 
          
“But
I have a pile of tax forms to type up for Mr. Millrace.”

 
          
“They
can wait. This is an emergency.”

 
          
“What
kind of an emergency?”

 
          
“I’ll
tell you when it’s over.
Maybe.
It could be a matter
of life or death.”

 
          
“Really?”

 
          
“Here’s
your problem. In 1952 the people listed here lived in a certain town. I hope in
California. I don’t know the name of the town, and that’s what I’m trying to
find out, the name of the town.”

 
          
“You
don’t have to repeat yourself.” Mrs. Weinstein was getting interested. “So what
do I do?”

 
          
“Take
these names over to the telephone company and check them against their
out-of-town directories—especially the smaller ones. See if you can find a
directory that contains most of these names. Start with the towns near here.”

 
          
She
peered at the list. “What about the first names?”

 
          
“First
names are not important. When you find the right grouping of last names, or
anything approximating it, I want you to make a note of the addresses.”

 
          
“It
may not be so easy. 1952 is a long time ago, the way people move around
nowadays.”

 
          
“I
know that. But give it a good try. It really is important.”

 
          
“You
can count on me.”

 
          
Ferguson
was waiting outside the clinic, standing in the shadow of the cornice. His eyes
still held their unseeing expression; he seemed oblivious to the life of the
town around him. Though we spoke the same language, more or less, I realized
how much of a foreigner he was in southern California. He was doubly alienated
by what had been happening to him.

 
          
I
leaned across to open the car door. “How’s your nose?”

 
          
“My
nose is the least of my worries,” he said as he got in. “I spoke to that Dr.
Trench of yours.”

 
          
“What
did he say?”

 
          
“My
wife is over two months pregnant. It’s probably Gaines’s child she’s carrying.”

 
          
“Did
Trench say that?”

 
          
“Naturally
I didn’t ask him. But it’s obvious. No wonder she decided to run away with him.
No wonder they needed money. Now they have it.” He grinned fiercely at nothing
in particular. “Why didn’t she simply ask me for the money? I’d have given it
to her.”

 
          
“Would
you?”

 
          
He
opened his hands and looked down into them. “I might have killed her. When I
went after them today, I intended to kill them both. Then I saw that truck
ahead
coming into the intersection. I had the idea, for a
split second, that I would kill myself. My reflexes wouldn’t let me.” His right
foot thumped the floor of the car. “That’s a shameful admission for a man to
have to make.” He didn’t explain whether he meant his suicidal intent or his
failure to carry it out.

 
          
I
said: “I have an appointment with Michael Speare at three o’clock. Do you want
me to drop you at home? It’s more or less on the way. You can make your
accident report later.”

 
          
“Yes.
I’d better get home, in case they try to get in touch.”

 
          
I
set the car in motion and turned down Main Street toward the highway. “Do you
have any idea where they’ve gone?”

 
          
“No,
and I don’t want you getting ideas. I have no desire to see them tracked down.
Is that understood? I want nothing done to either of them.”

 
          
“That
may be hard to manage.”

 
          
He
didn’t seem to hear me. He was back in conflict with himself, wrestling with
the obscure guilt he felt. “I blame myself, you see, almost as much as I blame
her. I should never have talked her into marrying me. She belonged to another
generation, she needed younger blood. I was a dreaming fool even to imagine I
had anything to offer to a young, beautiful woman.”

 
          
“Your
attitude is very unselfish, Ferguson. I’m not so sure it’s wise.”

 
          
“That’s
a private matter, between me and my—me and my conscience.”

 
          
“It
isn’t wholly private. Gaines is a known criminal, wanted by the police.” I said
in response to his
hot
and wounded look: “No, I
haven’t broken your confidence and gone to the police. Gaines is wanted on
other charges, burglary for one. If your wife is taken with him, there’ll be
hell to pay all
round
. And what you want isn’t going
to affect the outcome much.”

 
          
“I
know I can’t assume responsibility for what happens to her.” His generosity had
limits after all, which made me believe in it more. “I simply refuse to have
anything to do with hunting them down myself.”

 
          
“That
needs more thought, perhaps. Your wife may be more innocent than you assume.
Gaines seems to be a con artist—one of those people who can talk birds out of
trees. He may have sold her some fantastic story—”

 
          
“Holly
is not a fool.”

 
          
“Any
woman can be, when she’s infatuated. I take it you’re morally certain they’re
lovers?”

 
          
“I’m
afraid so. He’s been sniffing after her for months. I let it go on right under
my nose.”

 
          
“Did
you ever catch them in flagrante
delicto
?”

 
          
“Nothing like that.
I was gone a lot of the time, though.
They had no end of opportunities. He danced attendance on her like a gigolo.
They spent whole evenings together, in my house, pretending to read plays.”

 
          
“How
do you know?”

 
          
“I
was there myself more than once. On other occasions Holly told me about it. No
doubt she was afraid I’d find out anyway.”

 
          
“What
sort of explanation did she give you?”

 
          
“The
theory was that she was developing the fellow’s acting talent, and her own as
well. She claimed she had to have someone to work out with.” He grunted. “I
shouldn’t have been taken in by such a thin story. But she managed to convince
me that she cared nothing for him personally. I actually thought she considered
him a bit of an outsider, that she was simply using him for her own
professional purposes.”

 
          
I
made a left turn onto the highway, and climbed the ramp which rose across lower
town. “Did they have professional plans together?”

 
          
“Not
to my knowledge. Holly was thinking of trying the legitimate stage eventually.”

 
          
“With your backing?”

 
          
“That
was the idea, I suppose.”

 
          
“Did
she ever try to persuade you to back Gaines?”

 
          
“No.
She knew what I thought of the fellow—a cheap gigolo.”

 
          
“Did
she pay him for his company?”

 
          
“That
would hardly be necessary. I fail to see what you’re getting at.”

 
          
“I’m
trying to find out if they had business dealings of any kind, before today’s
transaction. Was he supplying her with drugs, by any chance?”

 
          
He
snorted at me: “The notion is ridiculous!”

 
          
“It’s
not as strange as what we know she’s done. Leave the personal part out of it
and consider. Your wife walked out on an assured fortune, and a man who would
give her anything she wanted, in order to share the chances of a wanted
criminal. Does it make any sense to you?”

 
          
“Yes.
I’m afraid it does.” He sounded querulous. The dressing in his nose had
lightened and thinned his voice. “I’m the reason. I’m physically disgusting to
her.”

 
          
“Did
she ever say so?”

 
          
“I’m
saying so. It’s the only possible inference. She married me for my money, but
even that couldn’t hold her.”

 
          
I
looked sideways at him. Pain leered like skull bones through the flesh of his
face. “I was simply a dirty old man pawing at her. I had no right to her.”