Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (8 page)

 
          
PADILLA
KNEW WHERE Ferguson lived. He said that he had driven his blue Imperial home
before. I went along for the ride, and the answers to some questions.

 
          
“Were
you acquainted with Larry Gaines?”

 
          
“Used-to-be lifeguard?
Sure. I figured him for a no-good,
but it was not my business. I had a call-down with him first week he was here,
back in September. He tried to buy a drink for a sixteen-year-old girl. I told
him, get out of my bar and stay out.”

 
          
Padilla
pressed a button which opened the left front window of the car. He spat into
the night air and closed the window again, glancing over his shoulder at
Ferguson. “Don’t want to give him wind in his face.
Might
bring him to.
That man’s got a capacity on him, I tell you.”

 
          
I
looked back at Ferguson. He was sleeping peacefully.

 
          
“I
suppose you know Mrs. Ferguson.”

 
          
“Sure thing.
She’s a damn fine woman. Always nice to the
help, can hold her liquor, a real lady in my book. I’ve seen a lot of these
Hollywood people when I was at the Oasis Club in Palm Springs. Most of them,
they get their front feet in the trough, and bingo, they think they’re the
kings of the world.
But not Holly—Mrs. Ferguson.”

 
          
“You
call her Holly?”

 
          
“Sure.
She called me Tony, I called her Holly, in the bar, you know. You can’t make
anything out of that. She’s democratic. Her parents were working people, she
told me so herself.”

 
          
“Was
she democratic with Larry Gaines?”

 
          
“So
I hear.” He sounded disappointed, in Holly, perhaps in me. “I never saw them
together. He stayed out of my territory. Something was going on there, but I’ll
lay you odds it ain’t what people think. I saw a lot of her in the last six
months, over the bar, and that’s when you see people plain. I’ve seen her
handle a lot of heavy passes, some of them from experts. But she wasn’t having
any. She isn’t that type at all.”

 
          
“I
heard different.”

 
          
Padilla
said aggressively: “I know
there’s people
don’t like
her. So what? I didn’t say she was perfect. I said she isn’t the type to play
around. If you ask me, I’d say she loved her husband. He isn’t much to look at,
but the old boy must have his points. She always lit up like a candle when he
came into the room.”

 
          
“Then
why did she walk out on him?”

 
          
“I
don’t think she did, Mr. Gunnarson. I think something happened to her. There
she was, the life of the party one minute, and the next minute she was gone.”

 
          
“Where
did she go?”

 
          
“I
dunno
. I had my hands full at the bar. I didn’t see
her leave. All I know is, she left and didn’t come back. And her husband’s
damned worried about her. If you ask me, that’s what’s driving him crazy.”

 
          
“What
could have happened to her?”

 
          
Padilla
sighed. “You don’t know this town like I do, Mr. Gunnarson. I was born and
brought up here, right down at the end of Pelly Street.
There’s
people who will knock you off for the change in your pockets. And Holly—Mrs.
Ferguson—was wearing fifty grand in diamonds last night.”

 
          
“How
do you know what her jewels were worth?”

 
          
“Don’t
get suspicious of me now. I wouldn’t hurt a hair of that lady’s head. Show me
the bum that would, and I’ll beat him within an inch of his life.”

 
          
“You
didn’t answer my question.”

 
          
“About the diamond brooch?
Hell, she told me. Her husband
gave it to her, and she was kind of bragging. I warned her to shut up about it.
Even at the Foothill Club, you don’t want to broadcast—Hey!” The car swerved
under the pressure of his hands. “You think that Gaines was after her jewels?”

 
          
“It’s
possible.” Two versions of Holly May were forming in my mind, but they refused
to combine into a single understandable woman. “Have you spoken to anybody
about your suspicions?”

 
          
“Just
to Frankie, he’s my helper. I tried to talk to Mr. Bidwell, but he didn’t want
to hear it. And the Colonel had enough on his mind already.”

 
          
“Does
he believe his wife has met with foul play?”

 
          
“I
think he does, in a way. Only he won’t admit it to himself. He keeps pretending
she ran off with a guy, so he can be mad about it, instead of—scared.”

 
          
“You’re
quite a psychologist, Tony.”

 
          
“Yeah.
That will be twenty-five dollars, please.” But there
was no laughter in his voice. He’d succeeded in frightening himself, as well as
me.

 
          
We
had crossed the ridge that walled off the valley from the coastal shelf. I
could smell the sea, and sense its dark immensity opening below us. The
rotating beam of a lighthouse scanned the night. It flashed along a line of
trees standing on a bluff, on the flat roof of a solitary house, then seaward
on a bank of fog which absorbed it like cotton batting.

 
          
Padilla
turned down a hedged lane, a green trench carved out of darkness. We emerged in
a turnaround at the rear of the flat-roofed house on the bluff. Parking as
close to the door as possible, Padilla plucked Ferguson’s key ring from the
ignition, opened the house, and turned on inside and outside lights.

 
          
We
wrestled Ferguson out of the car and carried him through the house into a
bedroom. He was as limp as a rag doll, but as heavy as though his bones were
made of iron. I was beginning to be worried about him. I switched on the bed
lamp and looked at his closed face. It was propped on the pillow like a dead
man’s in a coffin.

 
          
“He’s
okay,” Padilla said reassuringly. “He’s just sleeping now.”

 
          
“You
don’t think he needs a doctor? I hit him pretty hard.”

 
          
“It’s
easy enough to find out.”

 
          
He
went into the adjoining bathroom and came back with a plastic tumbler full of
water. He poured a little of it on Ferguson. The water splashed on his forehead
and ran down into his hollow temples, wetting his thin hair. His eyes snapped
open. He sat up on the bed and said distinctly: “What’s the trouble, boys? Is
the dugout leaking again?”

 
          
“Yeah.
It’s raining whisky,” Padilla said.
“How you feeling, Colonel?”

 
          
Ferguson
sat leaning on his arms, his high shoulders up around his ears, and permitted
himself
to realize how he was feeling. “I’m drunk.
Drunk as a skunk.
My God, but I’m drunk.” He thrust a hairy
fist in one eye and focused the other eye on Padilla’s face. “Why didn’t you
cut me off, Padilla?”

 
          
“You’re
a hard man to say no to, Colonel.
The hardest.”

 
          
“No
matter, cut me off.”

 
          
Ferguson
swung his heavy legs over the edge of the bed, got up on them like a man
mounting rubber stilts, and staggered across the room to the bathroom door.
“Got to take a cold shower, clear the old brain.
Mustn’t let Holly see me like this.”

 
          
He
walked into the stall shower fully clothed and turned on the water. He was in
there for what seemed a long time, snorting and swearing. Padilla kept a
protective eye on him.

 
          
I
looked around the room. It was a woman’s bedroom, the kind that used to be
called a boudoir, luxuriously furnished in silk and padded satin. A pink clock
and a pink telephone shared the top of the bedside table. It was five minutes
to ten. The thought of Sally went through me like a pang.

 
          
I
reached for the telephone. It rang in my hand, as if I had closed a connection.
I picked up the receiver and said: “This is the Ferguson residence.”

 
          
“Colonel
Ferguson, please.”

 
          
“Sorry,
the Colonel is busy.”

 
          
“Who
is that speaking, please?” It was a man’s voice, quiet and careful and rather
impersonal.

 
          
“A friend.”

 
          
“Is
the Colonel there?”

 
          
“Yes.
As a matter of fact, he’s taking a bath.”

 
          
“Get
him on the line,” the voice said less impersonally.
“In a
hurry, friend.”

 
          
I
was tempted to argue, but I sensed an urgency here which tied my tongue. I went
to the door of the bathroom. Padilla was helping Ferguson to take off his soggy
tweeds. Ferguson was shivering so hard that I could feel the vibrations through
my feet.

 
          
He
looked at me without recognition. “What do you want? Padilla, what does he
want?”

 
          
“You’re
wanted on the telephone, Colonel. Can you make it all right?”

 
          
Padilla
helped him across the room.

 
          
Ferguson
sat on the bed and lifted the receiver to his ear. He was naked to the waist,
goose-pimpled and white except for the iron-gray hair matted on his chest. He
listened with his eyes half shut and his face growing longer and slacker. I
would have supposed he was passing out again if he hadn’t said, several times,
“Yes,” and finally: “Yes, I will. You can depend on that. I’m sorry we didn’t
make contact until now.”

 
          
He
replaced the receiver, fumblingly, and stood up. He looked at Padilla, then at
me, from under heavy eyelids. “Make me some coffee, will you, Padilla?”

 
          
“Sure.”
Padilla trotted cheerfully out of the room.

 
          
Ferguson
turned to me. “Are you an FBI man?”

 
          
“Nothing like that.
I’m an attorney. William Gunnarson is my
name.”

 
          
“You
answered the telephone?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“What
was said to you?”

 
          
“The
man who called said he wanted to speak to you. In
a hurry
.”

 
          
“Did
he say why?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“Are
you certain?”

 
          
“I’m
certain.”

 
          
His
tone was insulting, but I went on humoring him. I didn’t know how sober he was,
or how rational.

 
          
“And
you’re not an officer of the law?”

 
          
“In
a sense, I am. I’m an officer of the court, but enforcement is not my business.
What’s this all about, Colonel?”

 
          
“It’s
a personal matter,” he said shortly. “May I ask what you’re doing in my wife’s
room?”