Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (20 page)

 
          
“She
won’t. Not even Ferguson will hear what you tell me. It’s strictly for
background use.”

 
          
“I
hope so, Bill. I like the little doll. I wouldn’t want anything to come between
us. You understand that?”

 
          
“Very well.
Very well, Mike.”

 
          
“Okay.
We understand each other. Anything I say, you quote me, I’ll deny it.” But the
things he wanted to say were bubbling on his lips. “For divorce purposes, I
guess you’re mainly interested in how much she slept around.”

 
          
“It
isn’t the only consideration. It does enter the picture. How much did she?”

 
          
“Not
a sensational amount. She did like men. Most of her friends were older men.”

 
          
“Can
you mention any names?”

 
          
“For
filling in the background, that hardly seems necessary.”

 
          
“You
said you had to keep her out of trouble.”

 
          
“Yeah,
sure, it’s one of my services to my clients. I try to be like a father to them,
Bill. Holly had no father to advise her.”

 
          
“What
kind of trouble did you keep her out of?”

 
          
“She
wasn’t good at handling money. And she only drew four-oh-oh per week. Big ideas
on a small salary can play hell with your credit. She had a lot of credit
trouble.”

 
          
“You
mean debts?”

 
          
He
nodded.

 
          
“What
did she spend her money on?”

 
          
“Clothes and gewgaws, mostly.”

 
          
“How about narcotics?”

 
          
He
peered at me through narrowed eyelids. “You don’t fool around, do you, Bill?”

 
          
“I
try not to, Mike. Was she on any form of drugs?”

 
          
“That
I doubt. I couldn’t say for sure she wasn’t. Some of the damnedest people are.
Have you got reason to suspect narcotics?”

 
          
“Nothing definite.
The idea did occur to me.”

 
          
“Why, if you don’t mind my asking?”

 
          
“It’s
grounds for annulment, for one thing. I don’t mean we’d ever take it into court.
All we want is something to use for leverage.”

 
          
“Yeah, sure.”
We were having another meeting of minds. “I
don’t think there’s anything in the narcotics angle, though. It’s something I
watch for, too. I won’t represent a hophead, that’s my professional ethics.
Unless he or she is—” He searched for the right word.

 
          
“Successful?”

 
          
“Yeah, already established.
Then it’s not my
responsibility.”

 
          
“Was
Holly established when you took her on?”

 
          
“Hell, no.
She was nowhere, from nothing. That’s what grinds
me. She’d never had a decent part. She owned the clothes on her back, and that
was all. But I saw something there. I got an X-ray eye for talent. I recognized
something unique
there,
I nurtured it like a flower.”
His voice took on a lilting lyricism. “I got her fixed up with a wardrobe, I
taught her to talk. Christ, I
Pygmalionized
her.”

 
          
“You what?”

 
          
“
Pygmalionized
her.
It’s a
literary allusion, from a play. Like playing God, you know? I even gave her a
name and a biography.”

 
          
“Didn’t
she have one of her own?”

 
          
“We
all do, but about hers she wasn’t talking. She wouldn’t say a word about her
family, or where she was from. If she had a family, she was ashamed of them. Or
maybe she thought they’d get in her way. When I tried to press her on the
point, she flipped her little lid.” He paused, idly fingering a copy of
Hollywood Variety on his desk. “It could be she was scared of her family. She
acted scared.”

 
          
“Do
you know anything about them at all?”

 
          
“Not
a thing, Bill. Far as I know, she never heard from a relative, and didn’t want
to. She used the Holly May name for all transactions.”

 
          
“What
was her original name?”

 
          
“Let
me think.” He screwed up his face in a chimpanzee expression. “It was an
unusual name, completely impossible for any serious purposes. I dreamed up the
Holly May name to suit the personality I tailored for her. Holly May—Holly
Day—Holiday. Get the connection?
Holiday.
A girl you
could have fun with.” He fell silent.

 
          
“Dotty,”
he said then.
“Dotery.
Dee-oh-tee-
ee
-are-
wy
.”
He saw the change
in my face. “Is there something there?”

 
          
“Could
be,” I said suavely. “Dotery” was one of the names on Mrs. Weinstein’s list.
“You said that most of Holly’s friends, her male friends, were older men?”

 
          
“That’s
right. She liked to be
fatherized
. A lot of actresses
are like that, I don’t know why.”

 
          
“Didn’t
she have any young men in her life?”

 
          
“Oh,
sure, she wasn’t strictly from Electra. I’d see her with younger escorts on the
Strip from time to time. One boy she was very much interested in, for a while.
She didn’t confide in me, but I notice things.”

 
          
“When
was this?”

 
          
“I
used to see them last year, last spring and summer, in the clubs. Rubbing knees
under the table, stuff like that. I don’t know how long it went on.”

 
          
“What
was his name?”

 
          
“I
don’t remember. She introduced us once, when I ran into them in Vegas. But I
didn’t pay him much attention. To me he was just another bum—the parking-lot
attendant with a pan.”

 
          
“Does
the name Larry Gaines mean anything?
Or Harry Haines?”

 
          
“Maybe.
I can’t say for sure.” He was being careful.

 
          
I
brought out my picture of Larry Gaines, got up, and laid it on top of the
Variety. “Do you recognize this man?”

 
          
Speare
studied the picture. “It’s him.”

 
          
“What
were they doing in Las Vegas?”

 
          
“Making music.”

 
          
“You
know that for a fact?”

 
          
“It
stands to reason. I was having a drink with Holly in her hotel room.
Dreamface
walked in on us—he had his own key. He was going
to throw a punch in my direction, till Holly explained who I was.” He grinned.
“Her personal eunuch.”

 
          
“All
this is very interesting.”

 
          
“Why?
Is it still going on? Are they still making music?”

 
          
“I’d
better not answer that.”

 
          
“It’s
perfectly all right, Bill. I admire a man of discretion. I’m depending on you
to be discreet. If anything comes out of this, you never talked to me. We don’t
even know each other.”

 
          
That
suited me.

 
          
THE
TRAFFIC ON Wilshire and San Vicente alternately raced and crawled. It was past
five when I got back to my office. Belle Weinstein was waiting at her desk.

 
          
She
smiled rather thinly at me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gunnarson, I had no luck with your
list. I didn’t have a chance to go through all the books. The telephone company
tossed me out at five.”

 
          
I
hated to give up on my idea. At bottom, I suppose, I was trying to justify my
withholding of evidence from Wills.

 
          
Mrs.
Weinstein saw the look on my face, and screwed up her own in commiseration. “If
it really is so important, I think I know where I can get hold of some more
directories. Velma Copley at the answering service has a fairly complete file.”

 
          
“Try
her, will you? It really is important. Just between you and me, it’s the only
important case I’ve had to date.”

 
          
“I’ll
get over there right away.” She rose and took up her purse from the top of the
desk.
“I nearly forgot, a Dr. Simeon called.
He said
that he was going home for dinner, but he’ll be back at the hospital after
dinner, if you want to talk to him.”

 
          
“Did
he say what his findings were?”

 
          
“No.
Is he the doctor who is looking after Mrs. Gunnarson?”

 
          
“God, no.”
The very suggestion shook me. “Her doctor is
Trench.”

 
          
“I
thought so.”

 
          
“Dr.
Simeon is the pathologist who does the official postmortems. I’ll meet you here
after I have dinner and talk to him.”

 
          
Sally
was sitting under the lamp in the living room with blue knitting in her lap.
She was counting stitches, and she didn’t glance up. In the light falling
softly on her, she looked like a pre-Raphaelite painting of herself. I stood
and watched her while she finished counting.

 
          
“I’ll
never learn to knit properly,” she said.
“
Nimmer
und
nimmermehr
.
And you’re no help, looming
over me smirking like that.”

 
          
“I
don’t loom. I’m not smirking.” I bent over and kissed her. “I was just thinking
how lucky I am to have you to come home to. How did I ever trick you into
marriage?”

 
          
“Ha,”
she said with her wonderful slow smile. “I was the one with the wiles and the
stratagems. You’ll never know.
But what a perfectly lovely
thing to say to me.
You must have had a good day.”

 
          
“As
a matter of fact it was a lousy day.
The craziest mixed-up
day of my life.
What makes me feel so good now is the contrast.”

 
          
“We’re
full of ornate compliments.” She gave me a long, encompassing look. “Are you
all right, William?”

 
          
“I’m
all right.”

 
          
“I
mean really. You seem sort of peaked and fixed.”

 
          
“I’m
fixed on you.”

 
          
But
it didn’t sound right. I tried for her mouth again. She held me off and studied
me. It was good to be looked at by such grave, bright eyes, but it made me
nervous. I think I was afraid she’d see too much reflected in my eyes. The
thought of Speare intruded like an odor.

 
          
“What
happened today, Bill?”

 
          
“A lot of things.
It would take all night to tell you.”

 
          
“We
have all night.” Her tone was faintly questioning.

 
          
“I’m
afraid we don’t, love. I have to go out again as soon as we eat.”

 
          
She
caught her reaction and held it stiff on her face. “Oh. Well. Dinner’s in the
oven. We can eat any time.”

 
          
“I
don’t mean to rush things.” But I couldn’t help looking at my watch.

 
          
“Where
do you have to go?”

 
          
“It
would be better if I didn’t say.”

 
          
“What are you mixed up in, Bill?”

 
          
“Nothing.
It’s just another case.”

 
          
“I
don’t believe it. Something’s happened to you, personally.”

 
          
“Not
directly. I ran into a couple of unusual situations, and people. They bothered
me at the time. They don’t
any more
.”

 
          
“Are
you sure?”

 
          
“Don’t
mother me.”

 
          
I’d
meant it to sound light. It sounded sharp. There was a contagion in the air,
seeping in like invisible smog which hurt the eyes. I didn’t want Sally to be
touched by it. I didn’t want her even to have to imagine it.

 
          
But
she blinked as though her eyes had felt its sting. “Heaven forbid that I should
mother you. You’re a big boy. And I’m a big girl, aren’t I?
Big,
big, big.”

 
          
She
pushed her knitting aside with an abrupt gesture that disturbed me. I was
beginning to catch on to the fact that I was in a chancy mood. We both were.

 
          
“Here,”
she said, “give me a hand, will you? Mother Gunnarson is about to get up. It
isn’t an earthquake, friends and neighbors. It’s only Earth-Mother Gunnarson
levitating out of her chair.
Alley-
oop
.”

 
          
She
took my hand and rose smiling, but neither of us felt funny. As she walked
toward the kitchen, her movements were heavy. My luck flipped like a coin in my
mind, and I saw with breathtaking clarity what was on the other side: Sally
carried in herself and in her body everything that I cared about in the world.
My world hung by a membrane.

 
          
I
went into the bathroom to wash my hands and face. Tonight it had the quality of
a special ritual. I didn’t look at my face in the mirror over the sink.

 
          
Sally
called from the kitchen. “Soup’s on! That is, it will be by the time you get to
the table, slowpoke.”

 
          
I
went to the kitchen door. “Sit down. Let me serve you for a change. It’s time
you took it easier.”

 
          
She
grinned over her shoulder. “Don’t father me. Dr. Trench says I should move
around and do as much as I feel like. Well, I feel like. I enjoy serving you.”

 
          
She
moved past me with two steaming bowls of soup.

 
          
“I
made the noodles myself,” she said when we were seated at the table. “They’ve
been drying on top of the refrigerator all afternoon. I admit they’re a little
thick. It takes enormous strength to roll them out thin, I find. Do they taste
all right?”

 
          
“Fine.
I like them thick.”

 
          
“At
least they’re not out of a can,” she said earnestly. “Eat them up, and then
there’s a Spanish casserole.”

 
          
“You’re
becoming very creative in the kitchen.”

 
          
“Yes.
It’s funny, isn’t it? I used to abhor cooking. Now I keep getting all sorts of
ideas.
Even if I can’t knit.”

 
          
“Wait
until you’ve had five or six. You’ll be able to knit.”

 
          
“I
have no intention of having five or six. Three’s my limit. Three’s a horde.
Anyway, that would be an awfully roundabout way to learn to knit.
Like in Charles Lamb.”

 
          
“Who?”

 
          
“Charles Lamb, on the invention of roast pork.
They thought
they had to burn the barn down whenever they wanted roast pork. It would be
cheaper and simpler to take knitting lessons. Think of the doctor bills it
would save, not to mention the wear and tear on my frame.”

 
          
“Eat
your soup,” I said. “Your frame needs sustenance. I’ve finished mine, and you
haven’t touched yours.”

 
          
She
looked down into her dish, guiltily. “I’m
sorry,
I
can’t eat them, Bill. I spent so long making those
noodles,
I have a sort of maternal feeling towards them. Like pupae. Maybe I can be more
objective about the Spanish casserole. I’ve never thought much of Spain since I
read For Whom the Bell Tolls.” She started to get up, and sat down again.
“Would you get the casserole out of the oven? I am a little pooped.”

 
          
“I
know. You always go on a talking jag when you’re pooped.” I looked into her
eyes again, and noticed how very large and dark they were, staining even the
flesh around them with blueness. “Did anything happen today, Sally?”

 
          
She
bit her soft lower lip. “I didn’t mean to tell you. You have enough on your
mind.”

 
          
“What
happened?”

 
          
“Nothing, really.
Somebody telephoned this afternoon. It
gave me a little bit of a jolt.”

 
          
“What
did he say?”

 
          
“I
don’t even know if it was a
he
. Whoever it was simply
breathed at me. I could hear that heavy breathing on the line, but not a word.
It sounded like an animal.”

 
          
“What
did you do?”

 
          
“Nothing.
I hung up. Should I have done something?”

 
          
“Not
necessarily. But if there’s more of the same, or if anybody comes to the
door—anybody you don’t know well—I want you to call the police. Ask for
Lieutenant Wills. If he’s not available, ask them to send any detective who is,
except—”

 
          
I
hesitated. I’d meant to say “except Sergeant Granada.” But I couldn’t say it,
or ask Sally to say it. There was a certain solidarity among men which couldn’t
be broken, even under the circumstances—a certain faith which couldn’t be
violated. The rule of law that a man was innocent until proved guilty had
become as much a part of my thinking as my love for Sally.

 
          
“Except
who
?” she said.

 
          
“No
exceptions. Call the police if anyone bothers you in any way. And you better
keep the door locked.”

 
          
“Is
somebody after us?”

 
          
“I’m
working on a criminal case. Certain threats have been made—”

 
          
“Against you?”

 
          
“Against several people.”

 
          
“Was
that telephone call last night one of the threats?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“You
should have told me.”

 
          
“I
didn’t want to scare you.”

 
          
“I’m
not scared. Honestly. You go ahead and do your job and I’ll look after myself.
You don’t have to worry about me.”