Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (3 page)

 
          
“What
am I looking for?”

 
          
“A blunt instrument, with blood on it.”
As Granada went down
the steps, Wills turned to me. “I’m glad you stuck around, Counselor, I want to
talk to you. This changes things for your client.”

 
          
“For better or worse?”

 
          
“That’s
largely up to her, wouldn’t you say? And up to you. She’s been in jail the past
twenty-four hours, which makes her the one member of the gang who has clean
hands, as far as this killing is concerned. There’s no sensible reason why she
shouldn’t talk to us, and maybe save herself a long trip.”

 
          
“How
could she know anything about this murder?”

 
          
“I
don’t claim she knows anything about it specifically. But she must be able to
identify the other members of the gang. If she comes clean—” Wills raised his
hands in a gesture which didn’t go with his personality: the freeing of an
imaginary bird. “Understand
me,
I’m not suggesting a
deal. But where would we be if the people of the world didn’t co-operate?”

 
          
Just
where we were, I thought, because they didn’t. Still, I was impressed by Wills’s
attempt to talk my language.

 
          
“You
blame this murder on the burglary gang?”

 
          
He
nodded. “We’ve suspected for some time that Broadman was fencing for
them—acting as one of their outlets, anyway. We got our first tangible evidence
last week. An ormolu clock turned up in one of the L.A. auction rooms. A member
of their robbery detail happened to spot it because it was unique, and checked
with our circular. The clock was taken in the Hampshire burglary, out in the
Foothill district, and it was part of a shipment from Broadman’s store.

 
          
“Broadman
had a story ready, of course. He bought the ormolu clock from a little old lady
in reduced circumstances that he’d never seen before. How did he know it was
stolen? He had our pawnshop list, sure, but his eyes were bad. If he spent all
his time reading police lists, what would happen to business?”

 
          
Wills
leaned on the desk and looked out thoughtfully through the wire netting. The
jumbled contents of the store were evidence piled on evidence that you couldn’t
take it with you.

 
          
“Broadman
would have been better off in jail,” he said, “but the clock wasn’t enough to
arrest him for. We couldn’t prove he had guilty knowledge. He knew we were on
to him, though. And he wanted out. When Ella Barker sold him that hot diamond
yesterday, he was on the phone practically before she was out of the store.”

 
          
“You
think he knew that diamond ring was stolen?”

 
          
“I’m
sure of it. He also knew who she was.”

 
          
“Can
you prove that, Lieutenant?”

 
          
“I
can. I’m telling you this to give you a chance to climb in off that limb.
Broadman was a patient in the hospital five-six months ago. Ella was one of his
nurses. They got to be quite good friends. Ask her, when you ask her about the
watch. And make sure you get an
answer,
you’ll be
doing her a favor. Honest to God, I’d hate to see that little client of yours
get herself run over by a steam roller.”

 
          
“You
think of yourself as a steam roller, do you?”

 
          
“The
law,” Wills said.

 
          
More
law arrived, with cameras and fingerprint kits. I went out into the street. The
sunlight hurt my eyes. It was reflected like glancing knives from the chrome of
the two police cars at the curb.

 
          
They
drew attention on the poor street, a kind of reverse attention. Passers-by
averted their heads from the cars, as if they hoped to escape their black
influence. I guessed that the rumor of Broadman’s death had spread across town
like a prophecy of disaster to Pelly Street.

 
          
Jerry
Winkler leaned on his cane in front of the hotel, an unstable tripod supporting
a heavy gray head. Carefully redistributing his weight, he raised his cane and
flourished it. I went over to him.

 
          
“I
heard that Broadman died, son.”

 
          
“Yes,
he died.”

 
          
He clucked, red tongue vibrating between his bearded lips.
“That makes it murder, don’t it?”

 
          
“It
would seem to.”

 
          
“And
you’re a lawyer, ain’t you?” He touched my arm with a veined, knobbed hand.
“I’m Jerry Winkler, everybody knows me. I
never been
a
witness in a trial. Friend of mine was once. He told me they pay the
witnesses.”

 
          
“It
doesn’t amount to more than a few dollars. The court simply pays you for lost
time.”

 
          
“I
got lots of time to lose.” He rubbed his furred chin and peered up at my face
like a hungry old dog hoping for a bone.
“And mighty few
dollars.”

 
          
“Do
you have information about Broadman’s death?”

 
          
“Maybe
I do, if it’s worth my while. You want to come up to my room and chin a
little?”

 
          
“I
have a little time to lose, Mr. Winkler. My name is Gunnarson.”

 
          
He
led me through the musty lobby, up narrow, foot-worn steps, along a narrow hallway
to his cubbyhole at the rear. It contained an iron bed, a washstand, a bureau
with a clouded mirror, an old-fashioned rocking chair, and the atmosphere of
lonely waiting time.

 
          
He
made me sit in the rocker beside the single window, which looked out on an
alley. Slowly and painfully, he lowered himself onto the bed and sat hunched
forward, still leaning on his cane.

 
          
“I
want to do what’s right. On the other hand, I don’t want to end up worse than I
was before.”

 
          
“How
would you do that?”

 
          
“Ramifications.
Everything has its ramifications. Try living
on a sixty-dollar pension if you think it’s so easy. I get my clothes at the
Starvation Army, but I still run out before the end of the month. Sometimes
Manuel
give
me free dinners along at the end of the
month.”

 
          
“Did
Manuel kill Broadman?”

 
          
“I
didn’t say that. I didn’t say
nothing
yet. I want to
do my duty, sure, but there’s no harm trying to get a little money out of it,
is there?”

 
          
“You’re
obliged to give information to the authorities, Mr. Winkler. You’re in hot
water now for holding out on them.”

 
          
“I
didn’t hold out. I just remembered, is
all.
My memory
ain’t so good.”

 
          
“What
did you remember?”

 
          
“What
I seen.” He hesitated. “I thought it would be worth something.”

 
          
The
little room and the sly, sad old man cramped me and oppressed me. I made a
gesture I couldn’t afford, took a five-dollar bill out of my rather flat
wallet, and held it out to him. “This will buy a few dinners, anyway.”

 
          
He
took it with a beaming smile. “Sure will. You’re a good boy, and Jerry Winkler
will remember you in his prayers.” Without any change in tone, he said: “It was
Gus Donato that smashed up Broadman. Manuel’s young brother Gus.”

 
          
“Did
you see it happen, Mr. Winkler?”

 
          
“No, but I seen him go in, and I seen him come out.
I was
sitting here at the window, thinking about the old days, when Gus drives this
pickup into the alley. He gets this tire iron out of the back of the pickup and
shoves it down his pant leg and sneaks in the back entrance of Broadman’s
store. A few minutes later he comes out carrying a burlap bag on his back. He
chucks it into the pickup and goes back for more.”

 
          
“Could
you tell what was in the bag?”

 
          
“No.
It was all chunky with stuff, though. So were the others. He made four or five
trips, bringing out those bags, put them all in the pickup and drove away.”

 
          
I
gazed into his washed-out eyes. “Are you certain of your identification?”

 
          
“Dead certain.”
He thumped the bare board floor with his
cane. “I see Gus Donato all the time. And this time I paid him special mind
because he ain’t allowed to drive a car.”

 
          
“Is
he too young?”

 
          
“
Naw
, he’s plenty old enough. But they don’t let them drive
when they’re on parole. He had a lot of trouble with cars, that’s how he got
arrested in the first place.”

 
          
“Is
Gus a friend of yours?”

 
          
“I
wouldn’t say that. His brother Manuel is a good friend.”

 
          
“You
mentioned that you see Gus all the time.”

 
          
“Sure,
in Manuel’s place. He’s been washing dishes for Manuel since Broadman fired him
last week.”

 
          
“Why
did Broadman fire him?”

 
          
“I
never did get it straight. It was something about a clock, a little gold clock.
Gus shipped it off someplace that he wasn’t supposed to. I heard Manuel and
Broadman arguing about it in the alley.”

 
          
I
opened the window. Two men in plain clothes were conferring at the back door of
Broadman’s establishment. They looked up at me suspiciously. I pulled my head
in and closed the window.

 
          
“You
don’t miss much, Mr. Winkler.”

 
          
“Try
not to.”

 
          
I
LEFT HIM TALKING to Wills in Broadman’s office cage, and took a cab back to the
courthouse. I was eager to question Ella Barker again. But she wasn’t so eager
to be questioned.

 
          
The
girl didn’t raise her head when the matron let me into the visitors’ room. She
sat with her thin arms resting on the edge of the table—a hunched and drooping
figure like a bird which despaired of liberation. The afternoon sun fell
through the bars behind her and striped her back with shadows.

 
          
“Snap
out of it, Barker, the first day is always the hardest.” The matron touched the
girl’s shoulder. Perhaps she meant to be kind, but she sounded patronizing,
almost threatening. “Here’s your Mr. Gunnarson again. You don’t want him to see
you moping.”

 
          
Ella
pulled her shoulder away from the matron’s hand. “If he doesn’t like it, he
doesn’t have to come here, now or ever.”

 
          
“That
doesn’t make sense,” the matron said. “In the spot you’re in, you need a
lawyer, whether you know it or not.”

 
          
“Leave
me alone with her, will you, Mrs. Clement?”

 
          
“Whatever you say.”
The matron went out, shaking her keys
like melancholy castanets.

 
          
I
sat down across the table from Ella Barker. “Hector Broadman is dead.
Murdered.”

 
          
Her
dark lashes curtained her eyes, and she wouldn’t look up. I thought I could
smell her fear, like a faint sour fermentation in the air. Perhaps it was the
odor of the jail.

 
          
“You
knew Broadman, didn’t you?”

 
          
“I
had him for a patient. I’ve looked after lots of patients in my life.”

 
          
“What
was the matter with him?”

 
          
“He
had a growth removed—a benign growth. That was way last summer.”

 
          
“But
you’ve seen him since?”

 
          
“I
went out with him, once,” she said in her steady monotone. “He took a liking to
me, I guess, and I wasn’t exactly swamped with invitations.”

 
          
“What
did you and Broadman talk about?”

 
          
“Him, mostly.
He was an older man, a widower. He did a lot
of talking about the Depression. He had some kind of business in the East.
Him
and his first wife lost it in the Depression. They lost
everything they had.”

 
          
“He
had more than one wife?”

 
          
“I
didn’t say that.” She looked up for the first time. Her eyes were startled. “If
you think I’d marry a fat old baldheaded man like Mr. Broadman, you’ve got
another think coming. Not that I couldn’t have.”

 
          
“You
mean he proposed?
The first night?”

 
          
She
hesitated. “I saw him a couple of times after that. You might say I took pity
on him.”

 
          
“Where
did he propose to you?”

 
          
“In his car.
He’d had a couple of drinks, over at—” Her lips
froze in an opened position for an instant,
then
came
together tightly.

 
          
“Over where?”

 
          
“All
over,” she said. “He took me for a drive.
Around town.
Up in the hills.”

 
          
“To meet his friends?”

 
          
“He
didn’t have any friends,” she answered, too quickly.

 
          
“Where
did he have those drinks the night he proposed?
At his
house?”

 
          
“He
didn’t have a house. He ate in restaurants and slept in his store. I told him
he couldn’t expect a girl to share that kind of a life with him. So he offered
to move into my flat, furnish it for me.”

 
          
“That
was generous of him.”

 
          
“Yeah,
wasn’t it?” A smile pinched her mouth. “He had it all figured out. I guess I
wasn’t very nice to him, that last night. He took it hard.” Her smile had
turned slightly cruel.

 
          
“Where
did you say he had those drinks?”

 
          
“I
didn’t say. As a matter of fact, I gave him the drinks myself. I don’t drink,
but I keep a bottle on hand for my friends.”

 
          
“Who
are your friends, besides Broadman?”

 
          
“Nobody special.
The girls at the
hospital.
I didn’t say he was a friend of mine.”

 
          
“He
must have been a very good friend. He gave you a platinum watch.”

 
          
She
sat up straight, neck taut, as if I’d tied a noose there and sprung a trap. “He
certainly did not.”

 
          
“Who
did?”

 
          
“Nobody
did. If you think I accept expensive gifts from men—”

 
          
“The
watch was found in your apartment today.”

 
          
She
bit her lower lip. Beyond her head, I could see the courthouse tower. The sun
had slipped down behind it. The shadow of the tower leaned on the window like a
tangible bulk of darkness. Somewhere in the iron bowels of the building, pots
and pans were clashing. It was half past five by the tower clock.

 
          
“It
wasn’t Hector Broadman gave me the watch,” she said. “I didn’t know it was
stolen. When a fellow gives a girl a watch or a ring, she doesn’t think of it
being stolen.”

 
          
“It
was a dirty trick to play on you,” I said. “I’d think you’d be eager to get
back at the man who played it.”

 
          
She
nodded, watching me over her fingers.

 
          
“Do
you want to tell me all about it, Ella? It’s nearly suppertime, and they’ll be
inviting me out of here pretty soon. If you wait until tomorrow or the next
day, it may be too late.”

 
          
“Too
late?” she said behind her hand.

 
          
“Too late for you.
You have a chance to help the police put
their hands on Broadman’s killer. I strongly advise you to take it. If you
don’t, and he’s caught without your help, it won’t be good for our side.”

 
          
“What
did he do to Hector Broadman?”

 
          
“Bashed in his head.
You don’t want to sit here and let him
get away.”

 
          
She
fingered her own dark head. She was so preoccupied with the image in her mind
that she rumpled her hair and failed to smooth it down.

 
          
“You
don’t want it to happen to you, I know. Doesn’t that go for other people, too?
You are a nurse, after all, and I’ll bet a darn good one.”

 
          
“You
don’t have to flatter me, Mr. Gunnarson. I’m ready to tell you who gave me the
watch and the ring.”

 
          
“Gus
Donato?”

 
          
She
didn’t react to the name. “No. His name is Larry Gaines.”

 
          
“And
he’s the man from San Francisco?”

 
          
“He’s
a lifeguard at the Foothill Club. There isn’t any man from San Francisco.”

 
          
This
admission cost her more effort than any of the others. She was so drained that
she couldn’t speak for a minute. I was content to wait, light a cigarette, and
collect my thoughts. Cross-questioning is hard work at the best of times. The
worst kind goes on outside of court, in private, when you have to ram your
clients’ lies down their throats until they choke on them.

 
          
Ella
had had enough of her lies. She told me the short and not so simple story of
her affair with Larry Gaines.

 
          
She
had met him through Hector Broadman. Broadman had taken her to Larry’s place
the second time they were out together. Apparently he didn’t feel up to
entertaining her all by himself. Larry was different—so different that she
couldn’t understand how he and Broadman happened to be friends. He was
good-looking, and polite, and only a few years older than she was herself. He
lived in a house in a canyon outside the city limits.

 
          
It
was an exciting evening, sitting between two men in Larry’s little house,
drinking the Turkish coffee which Larry made, and listening to good records on
his hi-fi. Comparing the two, she made up her mind that Hector Broadman was not
for her.

 
          
The
second evening the trio spent together, she began to dream that possibly Larry
might be. He let her know that he liked her, in so many ways. They had a
serious talk about life, for example, and he was very interested in her
opinions. Broadman nursed a bottle in a corner.

 
          
That
night she broke with Broadman. She hated men who drank, anyway. Larry waited
for four days—the longest four days of Ella’s life—and then he phoned her. She
was so grateful that she let him seduce her. She was a virgin, but he was so
gentle and kind.

 
          
He
didn’t turn on her, either, the way fellows are supposed to. He went right on
being kind, and calling her just about every night of the week. He wanted to
marry her, he said, but he had so little to offer her. They both knew in the
long run a man with his brains and personality was bound to make his mark. But
that took time, or a lucky break. While he was waiting for one, his salary at
the club was barely enough to support him, even with tips added in. Those
wealthy people at the Foothill Club were so tight, he said, you had to use a
chisel to pry a thin dime off their palms.

 
          
What
made it especially hard for him, he told her, was the fact that he came from a
wealthy family himself: they lost all their money in the crash before he was
born. It drove him crazy, scrounging for nickels and dimes while the members
sat on their fat behinds and the money grew on trees for them.

 
          
He
wanted a silver-dollar tree of his own, he said, and he had a plan for getting
it. If it worked, they could marry before the year was out and live in comfort
for the rest of their lives. But he was going to need her help in carrying out
the plan. He needed someone in the hospital to supply him with the names of new
patients, especially
wellheeled
ones in private
suites.

 
          
“Did
you help him, Ella?”

 
          
She
shook her head emphatically. “I certainly did not.”

 
          
“Then
how did you get the diamond ring and the watch?”

 
          
“He
gave them to me before I broke off with him. I guess he thought it would change
my mind. But after I found out about him, I didn’t want any part of him or his
plans. A nurse who would take advantage of her patients like that should have
her uniform torn right off her back.”

 
          
“But
you didn’t tell the police about his plans.”

 
          
“I
just couldn’t.” She hung her head. “I was stuck on him, I guess, for a long
time after I broke with him. Larry was my first real crush. It made me do crazy
things. Like last week—” She interrupted herself again.