Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (30 page)

 
          
“Has
Spice confessed the Broadman killing?”

 
          
“In
effect he has. He didn’t know he was confessing. He thought he could blame it
on his dead partner. Whitey Slater did the actual murder, apparently, while
Spice was driving the ambulance to the hospital. But Spice shared the knowledge
and intention, which makes him equally guilty, as you know. Gaines is equally
guilty, too. Broadman was killed on his orders.”

 
          
“Why?”

 
          
“Broadman
was an ex-leader of the ring, with emphasis on the ex. He was at the point of
turning them all in. I think he knew they were on their way to capital crime,
and he wanted to cut himself clear of them. The purchase of that diamond from
Ella Barker was a small thing, but when he reported it to us, it served notice
on Gaines. Gaines turned Donato loose on Broadman. Donato fumbled the job.
Slater and Spice were standing by, and they stepped in and finished it. Next day
they did the same to
Donato’s
wife, for the same
reason.”

 
          
“Was
Secundina a member of the ring?”

 
          
“I
doubt it.
But she knew who was, and she was about to talk to
us.
Granada thought she was, anyway. And apparently Gaines and his
ghouls thought so. When she panicked and took those sleeping pills, it gave
them a chance at her. They didn’t want her waking up.”

 
          
“Nice
people.”

 
          
“Yeah.
All nice people.
What I
don’t understand, Bill, you’ve got a chance to help us wind up the case, put
the rest of them behind bars. But you won’t take it. What does this Ferguson
woman mean to you?”

 
          
It
was a hard question. The cliché phrases like “beauty in distress” didn’t answer
it. Neither did the answer I gave him. “Ferguson is my client. He retained me
yesterday.”

 
          
“Mrs.
Ferguson isn’t.”

 
          
“Ferguson
retained me for the specific purpose of procuring information about his wife.
The information is privileged.”

 
          
“Her
husband doesn’t trust her either, eh?”

 
          
“That’s
your conclusion.”

 
          
“It
sure is. What did you find out about her? I’m not asking you to talk for the
record, just for checking purposes. Spice’s story got pretty fantastic at
certain points, and I can’t afford to make any false moves.”

 
          
“You’ll
be making one if you try to force me to give you privileged information. You
can’t force Ferguson to talk about her, either.”

 
          
Wills
sat with his chin in his hand, and pondered the situation. I tried to do some
consecutive thinking about the rule of privilege, but my line of thought was
invaded by images: my wife in childbirth, Secundina dead, a rose-tipped body
fallen in fire, in weeds; and a woman firing across her knees at me. Whatever
else was covered by the rule, that shooting wasn’t, and I knew it. I was
holding back on my own responsibility, for reasons that wouldn’t stand up under
examination.

 
          
Wills
looked up from his deep thought. I suspected that it had been partly assumed,
to give me time to consider.

 
          
“I
know,” he said in a soothing voice, “you want to be fair to your client, and
you want to be fair to the law. I’ll tell you a funny
thing,
it may help you to decide. Ronald Spice came up with quite a snapper when we
pressed him. He claims that the kidnapping at the Foothill Club was a phony,
something cooked up between Gaines and the woman to extort money from her
husband. He claims that she co-operated with them all the way, that she even
drove the car for Gaines when he picked up Ferguson’s box of money. That she
deliberately showed herself to her husband at that time so that he wouldn’t
know what action to take. Does that fit in with your information about her? Or
was Spice just trying to get off the hook as accessory to a snatch?”

 
          
“I
wouldn’t know.”

 
          
“I
don’t believe you, Bill. I talked to a waiter in a bar and grill where you and
Ferguson had a
pow
-wow yesterday. He heard some
mighty queer snatches of conversation. Privilege or no privilege, bullet wound
or no bullet wound, you’re on shaky ground if you’re trying to cover up a
kidnapping.”

 
          
“I
thought your theory was that no kidnapping occurred.”

 
          
“I
don’t have a theory. I don’t know what occurred. I believe you do. I’m asking
you to tell me.”

 
          
“When
I find out, I’ll be glad to.”

 
          
“It
can’t wait. Don’t you see, if this Hollywood
floozie
is in cahoots with Gaines, she probably knows where he is, or where he’s
headed.
Don’t you want him caught?”

 
          
“As much as you do.
Get that straight, at least.” From the
jumble of images in my head, I dredged up a fragment of a scene in merry hell.
“I remember something that was said last night. Gaines and the woman are headed
for South America. Gaines’s mother was supposed to buy tickets for them.”

 
          
“Gaines’s mother?”

 
          
“She
lives in Mountain Grove. Why don’t you question her?”

 
          
Wills
stood up abruptly, crossed the room to press the elevator button, and came back
to me. “This is the first I heard of a mother. Who and where is she?”

 
          
“Her
name is Adelaide Haines. She lives on Canal Street in Mountain Grove.”

 
          
“How
did you get a line on her?”

 
          
“Through Ella Barker.
Incidentally, it should be plain by
this time that Ella Barker’s involvement was innocent.”

 
          
“You’re
probably right. Spice’s statement pretty well clears her.”

 
          
“Don’t
you think she ought to be released?”

 
          
“She
went home this morning. I got the D.A.’s office to agree to
reduced
bail and a friend of hers, a Mrs. Cline, put up a property bond.”

 
          
The
elevator took him away. I let the images in my head whirl out centrifugally.
The
pentothal
sleep came back like soft and sudden
night.

 
          
WHEN I WOKE UP AGAIN, the elevator was taking me down to a room on
the fourth floor.
Dr. Root, the bone surgeon, came along and watched the
orderlies transfer me from the rolling cot to the bed. He said when the door
closed behind them: “I ordered you a private room because you need rest and
quiet. Is that all right with you?”

 
          
“If you say so, Doctor.
I don’t expect to stay long.”

 
          
“You’ll
be in for a few days, at least. I understand there’s nobody at home to look
after you.”

 
          
“But
I have things to attend to.”

 
          
“What
you have to attend to,” he said firmly, “is letting that shoulder knit. By the
way, I have something for you.
Thought you might like to keep
it as a memento.”
He produced a small plastic pillbox and rattled it at
me. “It’s the slug I removed. It will make an interesting conversation piece.
Pieces, rather.
It’s in several pieces.”

 
          
He
showed me the distorted fragments of lead. I thanked him, because it seemed the
thing to do.

 
          
He
shook his gray head. “Don’t thank me. You should be thanking
your
lucky stars. It was providential for you that your
collarbone deflected it upward. You could have come in here with a bullet in
the lung. Who shot you, by the way?”

 
          
“I
don’t remember.”

 
          
“Your wife?”
Perhaps his narrow smile was intended to be
jocular. “I’d hardly blame her, for taking the chances you took. I hope you’ve
learned to leave these matters to the authorities. What were you trying to do?”

 
          
“Get
myself shot. I succeeded.
Next question.”

 
          
My
unpleasantness failed to deter him. “There may be more to that than meets the
eye. I’ve seen young men do some wild things while their wives were having
babies. It isn’t only the women who suffer from parturient pangs.”

 
          
“What
is that supposed to mean?”

 
          
“Think
about it. How
are the wife
and baby doing, by the
way?”

 
          
“Fine,
they tell me. Is it all right with you if I go down and see them? I’m feeling
pretty good myself.”

 
          
“Tomorrow, perhaps, if your temperature stays down.
I want
you to remain in bed today. Can I trust you to do that?”

 
          
I
grunted something noncommittal at him.

 
          
I
asked the nurse’s aide who brought me breakfast to see if she could dig up
pencil and paper. While I was waiting for her to come back, I composed a note
to Sally in my head. Perhaps composed is not the word:

 
          
Dearest.
I apologize, to you and
Her
,
for getting shot. I did not plan this. It happened. You should have married a
policeman if all you wanted was security. But you had to go and marry the
slowest draw in the American Bar
Association.They
are
holding me incommunicado in Room 454. But I will foil them. I will put on the
faded burnoose which was a gift from an old Bedouin riding companion, darken my
skin with a little walnut juice, and pass through their lines like a phantom.
Be on the lookout for me. I will be the one with the inscrutable smile. Burn
this. When my writing materials arrived, I wrote it down quite differently. The
pentothal
had worn off, and I wasn’t feeling so funny.
I put the plastic pillbox in a drawer of the bedside table where I couldn’t see
it.

 
          
I
noticed for the first time that there was a telephone sitting on a lower shelf
of the table. I picked it up and tried to call Sally. The switchboard operator
told me
acerbly
that maternity had no telephones. I
called Ferguson’s house instead.

 
          
He
answered himself, in a hushed and wary voice. “Who is calling, please?”

 
          
“Gunnarson.”

 
          
His
voice rose in pitch. “But I thought you were in the hospital.”

 
          
“I
am. Come and see me.
Room 454.”

 
          
“I’ve
been planning to, naturally. I’ll try to drop by tomorrow. Or is tomorrow too
soon for you?”

 
          
“It
isn’t soon enough. I want you out here this morning.”

 
          
“I’d
like to come, but I simply can’t make it today. Please don’t think I’m
unappreciative of all you’ve done for us. I’m profoundly grateful, really, and
so is Holly.”

 
          
“I
want something more than gratitude. The police have been bearing down on me.
You and I need an exchange of views, to put it mildly. If you’re not here by
noon, I’ll assume that our professional relationship is dissolved and act
accordingly.”

 
          
Somebody
was knocking softly at my door. It seemed like a good time to hang up. The door
opened inward, and Ella Barker peeped around the edge of it:

 
          
“May I come in, Mr. Gunnarson?”

 
          
“Please
do.”

 
          
The
girl approached me tentatively. Her eyes were very large and dark, with
semicircular imprints under them. She had on hospital shoes and a clean white
uniform, but no cap. Her black hair was brushed gleaming, and she was wearing
fresh lipstick.

 
          
“I
wanted to thank you, Mr. Gunnarson. I came over here as soon as I heard. To
think that you got yourself shot on my account.”

 
          
“It
wasn’t on your account. Put the thought away and forget about it. Anyway, it’s
not a serious wound.”

 
          
“You’re
just being nice.” She leaned above me, her eyes brimming with inarticulate
feeling. “You’ve been awful nice to me. Would you like a back rub? I give a
very good back rub.”

 
          
“No
thanks.”

 
          
“Did
you have a nice breakfast? I can get you some fruit juice if you’re thirsty.”

 
          
“You’re
very kind. But I seem to have everything I need.”

 
          
She
moved around the room, setting it straight in small, unobtrusive ways. I don’t
know exactly what she did, but the place began to seem more comfortable. She
picked up an empty glass vase that stood on the bureau, straightened the runner
under it, and set it down again in the exact center.

 
          
“I’m
going to get you some flowers,” she announced. “You need some flowers to
brighten up the place. What kind of flowers do you like?”

 
          
“Any kind.
But please don’t send me flowers. You can’t
afford them.”

 
          
“Yes
I can. I’m starting back on duty tomorrow morning at seven.” She turned with a
slight dancer’s lilt, and smiled at me across the foot of the bed. “The
hospital is taking me back.”

 
          
“No
reason why they shouldn’t.”

 
          
“But
I was so afraid they’d fire me. After all, I was in jail. I ran around with
some terrible people.”

 
          
“Next
time you’ll be more careful.”

 
          
“Yes.
I guess I’m lucky to have a next time.” The marks of iron were showing on her
face. It would take time for them to dissolve away. “Did Larry Gaines shoot
you?”

 
          
“I
can’t discuss that with you, Ella.”

 
          
“He
did, though,
didn’t
he? And he got away.”

 
          
“Don’t
worry about him,” I said. “He won’t be coming back to hurt you.”

 
          
“I’m
not afraid of him. I just don’t want him to get away.”

 
          
“Forget
about him, too.”

 
          
“I’m
trying. It is like a sickness, just like you said. Well. I don’t want to wear
out my welcome. If there’s anything I can do for you, day or night—” She
completed the sentence by adjusting my sheets.

 
          
It
wouldn’t be long, I thought, before she’d be making some man a good wife. It
was the first satisfaction that I derived from the case. She came around to the
side of the bed and leaned over me again. Before I could guess her intention,
she kissed me lightly on the corner of the mouth and made for the door.

 
          
It
was not the kind of kiss that goes to your head, but I was feeling very
susceptible. I got out of bed and found a striped cotton bathrobe hanging
behind my clothes in the closet. I more or less got into it, and reconnoitered
the corridor.

 
          
The
elevator doors were beside the nurses’ station. I went in the other direction,
down the fire stairs. On the third floor I found an orderly with gray hair and
a paternal expression, to
whom
I explained my problem,
omitting salient details. He escorted me to the door of Sally’s room.

 
          
She
was lying there with her bright hair spread on the pillow. She looked pale and
wan and wonderful.

 
          
I
kissed her smiling mouth, and she kissed me back. Her arms came around me, with
the warmth of reality itself. Then she pushed me back to look at me.

 
          
“I
got your note. It was sweet. But you’re a wild man, a positive wild man. Are
you all right,
Bill
?”

 
          
“Fine.
It was only a flesh wound,” I lied.

 
          
“Then
why is your arm in a sling? And who shot you, anyway?”

 
          
“I
don’t know. It was dark.”

 
          
“Also,”
she said, “you have lipstick on your face, and I’m not wearing lipstick. Have
you been kissing the nurses?”

 
          
“No,
they’ve been kissing me. Ella Barker came by to thank me.”

 
          
“She better.”
Her hand tightened on mine. “Bill, will you
promise me something—just one thing? Promise me you won’t take criminal cases
and rampage around the countryside and all.”

 
          
“I
promise.” But I had mental reservations.

 
          
My
wife may have sensed them. “You have a family to think of now, not just me.
She’s beautiful, Bill.”

 
          
“Like
her mother.”

 
          
“Not this morning I’m not beautiful.
I’m all washed out this
morning. On the other hand, have you noticed my abdomen? It’s getting quite
flat already. I can actually see my toes.”

 
          
She
demonstrated this, wiggling her toes under the covers.

 
          
“You’re
as flat as a pancake, darling.”

 
          
“Not
that flat, I hope. Bill?” She turned toward me, pushing her hair back. Her eyes
were deeper and softer than I had ever seen them. “Do you mind awfully the fact
that our joint product is not a boy? You like little girls, don’t you?”

 
          
“I
like girls of all sizes.”