Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (9 page)

 
          
“I
helped Padilla to bring you home from the Foothill Club. You were out.”

 
          
“I
see. Thank you. Now do you mind leaving?”

 
          
“When
Tony Padilla is ready. We used your car.”

 
          
“I
see. Thank you again, Mr. Gunnarson.”

 
          
He’d
lost interest in me. His eyes moved restlessly around the walls. He uttered one
word in a tearing voice: “Holly.” Then he said: “A fine time to get stinking
drunk.”

 
          
He
walked across the room to a dressing table, and leaned to examine his face in
the mirror above it. The sight of his face must have displeased him. He smashed
the mirror with one blow of his fist.

 
          
“Knock
it off,” I said in my sergeant voice.

 
          
He
turned, and answered meekly enough. “You’re right. This is no time for
childishness.”

 
          
Padilla
looked through the doorway. “More trouble?”

 
          
“No
trouble,” Ferguson said. “I merely shattered a mirror. I’ll buy my wife another
in the morning.
How about that coffee, Tony?”

 
          
“Coming right up.
You better put on something dry, Colonel.
You don’t want to catch pneumonia.”

 
          
Padilla
seemed to be fond of the man. I could hardly share his feeling, and yet I
stayed around. The phone call, and Ferguson’s reaction to it, puzzled me. It
had left the atmosphere heavy and charged.

 
          
Padilla
served coffee in the living room. It was a huge room with windows on two sides,
and teak paneling in a faintly nautical style. The lap of the surf below, the
intermittent sweep of the lighthouse beam, contributed to the illusion that we
were in the glassed-in deckhouse of a ship.

 
          
Ferguson
drank about a quart of coffee. As the effects of alcohol wore off, he seemed to
grow constantly
more tense
. Wrapped in a terrycloth
robe, he bore a queer resemblance to a Himalayan holy man on the verge of
having a mystical experience.

 
          
He
finally rose and went into another room. I could see through the archway, when
he switched on the light, that it contained a white concert grand piano and a
draped harp. A photograph of a woman, framed in silver, stood on the piano.

 
          
Ferguson
picked it up and studied it. He clasped it to his chest. A paroxysm went
through him, making his ugly face uglier. He looked as if he was weeping,
dry-eyed, in silence.

 
          
“Poor
guy,” Padilla said.

 
          
He
went as far as the archway, and paused there, deterred by the privacy of grief.
I wasn’t so sensitive. I went in past him. “Ferguson, was that phone call about
your wife?”

 
          
He
nodded.

 
          
“Is
she dead?”

 
          
“They
claim not. I don’t know.”

 
          
“ ‘They’
?”

 
          
“Her abductors.
Holly has been abducted.”

 
          
“Kidnapped?”

 
          
“Yes.
They demand two hundred thousand dollars for her return.”

 
          
Padilla
whistled softly behind me.

 
          
“Have
they called you before?”

 
          
“Yes,
but I wasn’t home. I haven’t been here much in the past day.”

 
          
“This
phone call was your first communication from them?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“Why
didn’t you say so at the time? We might have had some chance of tracing the
call.”

 
          
“I
don’t want anything done along those lines. I didn’t even intend to tell you
and Padilla. I’m sorry now that I did.”

 
          
“You
can’t handle a thing like this all by yourself.”

 
          
“Why not?
I have the cash. They’re welcome to it if they
give Holly back to me.”

 
          
“You
have two hundred thousand dollars in cash?”

 
          
“I
have more than that. I had it transferred to the local Bank of America because
I’ve been intending to buy some property here. I can draw it out when the bank
opens in the morning.”

 
          
“When
and where are you supposed to pay them?”

 
          
“He
said I was to wait for further instructions.”

 
          
“Did
you recognize his voice on the telephone?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“Then
it wasn’t Larry Gaines?”

 
          
“It
wasn’t Gaines, no. It wouldn’t make any difference to me if it was. They have her.
I’m willing to pay for her.”

 
          
“It
may not be quite that simple. I hate to say this, Colonel, but this could be a
shakedown. Some petty crook may have heard that your wife is missing, and is
trying to cash in on the fact.”

 
          
“I
hadn’t thought of that.” The thought sat heavy on him for a moment. Then he
shook it off. “But it can’t be the case. Even if it were, I’d have to go ahead
with it.”

 
          
He
was still holding the photograph against his chest. He polished its glass with
his sleeve and held it up to the light, gazing at it almost reverently. The
pictured woman was a blonde in her middle twenties.

 
          
Ferguson
set the picture on the piano, very carefully, as if it were an icon whose exact
position might somehow affect his wife’s fate. I took a closer look at it, and
remembered seeing the same face on movie marquees and in the newspapers.

 
          
It
had the standard perfections of her trade, but it had an individual cast as
well. It was a face which had known trouble, and smiled back at it. The smile
was a little too bold for comfort. The knowledge in the eyes was a little too
definite. Holly May would be interesting to know, but perhaps not easy to live
with.

 
          
“It’s
a good picture of her,” Padilla said at my shoulder. “You ever see her?”

 
          
“Not
in the flesh.”

 
          
“Christ,
I hope she’s all right. I was afraid that something happened to her, I told you
that. But I didn’t think it could be a snatch.”

 
          
Ferguson
moved between us and the picture. Perhaps he was jealous of our stares. I could
understand why jealousy of Gaines had been eating him. He was at least twice
his wife’s age, and not nearly so pretty. An unlikely match, in spite of all
the money he had, or was supposed to have.

 
          
“I
want you men to keep this affair to yourselves,” Ferguson said. “It’s of the
utmost importance that you do. If the authorities get wind of it, it will put
her life in danger.”

 
          
“The
dirty crumbs,” Padilla growled. “Is that what they said on the telephone?”

 
          
“Yes.
He said that they are in a position to know every move the police make. If I
call in the police, they will kill my wife.”

 
          
I
said: “This may not be the way to save her, Colonel. You’ve had a hard day, and
you may not be thinking as straight as usual. In a situation like this, you
need all the help you can get. You should take the local police into your
confidence. The chief detective, Wills, is a friend of mine. He can advise you
about contacting the FBI—”

 
          
Ferguson
cut me short. “It’s absolutely out of the question. I want your solemn word
that you won’t go to the police, or anyone else!”

 
          
“You
should listen to the man,” Padilla said. “Like he was saying, you’ve had a lot
to drink. Maybe you could use a little advice.”

 
          
“I
know what I have to do. No amount of advice will change the facts. I’m bound
and determined to do my part.”

 
          
“Let’s
hope that they do theirs, Ferguson. I think you’re handling it wrong. But it’s
your wife.”

 
          
“I’ll
trust you to remember that. I don’t want either of you to endanger Holly by
going to the police. The criminals have a friend on the force, apparently—”

 
          
“That
I doubt.”

 
          
“I
know something about American police. If the RCMP was available, I’d gladly go
to them.”

 
          
The
man’s naïveté would have been funny under other circumstances. I made one last
attempt. “Listen to me, Ferguson. I urge you to discuss this matter with
someone. Do you have a lawyer you trust?”

 
          
“I
have in Calgary, Alberta. If you think I’m going to hire you to give me advice
I don’t want and won’t take—”

 
          
“I’m
not trying to get myself hired.”

 
          
“That’s
good, because I know you American lawyers. I had dealings with some of your
breed when Holly was trying to get free from that wretched studio.” He paused,
and gave me a canny look. “Of course, if a small retainer will keep you
quiet—you can have a couple of hundred.”

 
          
“Keep
it.”

 
          
He
smiled grimly, as if an angry atmosphere suited him. “We’re mutually agreed
then. Can I trust you to respect my confidence?”

 
          
“Naturally.”
I realized, a second too late, that I had been
manipulated—maneuvered into a dubious position.

 
          
“What
about you, Padilla?”

 
          
“You
can trust me, Colonel.”

 
          
“THE
OLD BOY HAS GUTS,” Padilla said in the car.

 
          
“Yes,
where his brains should be. I’ve got a good mind to go to the police, in spite
of what he said.”

 
          
“You
can’t do that.”

 
          
“Why not?
You surely don’t believe the police are
collaborating with the kidnappers?”

 
          
“
Naw
, but it wouldn’t be fair. You got to give him a chance
to handle it his own way. He’s no dope, you know. He may talk like a dope, and
act like one, but he’s got a head on his shoulders. You don’t make his kind of
money without a head on your shoulders.”

 
          
“I
don’t make his kind of money, period. Where did he get his money?”

 
          
“Out
of the ground, he told me. He started out on a ranch in Alberta where they
discovered oil. He used his royalties to buy more oil rights, and the thing
just went on mounting up. I guess he ran out of things to buy in Canada, so he
moved in on California.”

 
          
“And
bought Holly May?”

 
          
“I
don’t think it was like that. If you ask me, the lady was never for sale.”

 
          
“She
is now.”

 
          
“Yeah.
I only wish I could do something.”

 
          
We
emerged from the hedge-lined private lane. With a sudden, angry twist of the
wheel, Padilla swung the big car into the road. “Where do you want me to drop
you off?”

 
          
“Downtown,
if you have the time.”

 
          
“I
have the time. I’m not going back to the Club tonight, let Frankie wash the
glasses. Maybe I’ll cut over after and see how the Colonel’s doing. He
shouldn’t ought
to be alone all night.
Where
downtown?”

 
          
“Pelly
Street.”

 
          
“What
you want to go down there for? You could get yourself rolled.”

 
          
“That’s
not what I had in mind. You know that street pretty well, don’t you?”

 
          
“Like
the back of my hand.” In the glow of the dash lights, he glanced at the back of
his hand. “I just moved my mother off it within the last four years, when the
old man died.
Four years ago next November twenty-three.”

 
          
“Do
you know Gus Donato?”

 
          
“I
know him. Frankie told me he heard on the radio that Gus is wanted for murder.
Old man Broadman.
Is that what you heard?”

 
          
“It’s
no rumor. How well do you know him, Tony?”

 
          
“About
as well as I want to. I see him on the street. I know his brother better,
Manuel. He’s the worker in the family. Manuel and
me
was in the same class at Sacred Heart school one year, before he quit to go to
work. Gus has always been a cross on his back. They sent him up to Preston when
he was sixteen years old.”

 
          
“What for?”

 
          
“Stealing cars and stuff.
He was stealing cars when he was
so little he couldn’t see over the top of the steering wheel. I guess they
taught him some fancier tricks at Preston. He’s been in and out of jail most of
his life. Now he’s really fixed himself good.”

 
          
Padilla’s
tone was carefully indifferent. He performed his ritual of rolling down the
window and spitting.

 
          
“I
talked to his brother and his wife tonight. The wife claims he’s innocent.”

 
          
“Gus’s wife?”

 
          
“Secundina,
her brother-in-law called her. You know her, don’t you?”

 
          
“I
know her. Working in different kinds of bars, you see a lot of people. I watch
them the way you watch the flies on the wall. But let’s get this straight, Mr.
Gunnarson, they’re not my kind of people.” His tone was formal. The discussion
had put an obscure strain on our relationship.

 
          
“I
realize that, Tony.”

 
          
“Why
ask me questions about them, then?”

 
          
“Because
you know Holly May, and want to do something for her. There seems to be some
connection between what happened to her and the Broadman killing. Gus Donato
may be the key to it. And I got an impression talking to his relatives that he
may be ready to give himself up. If he’s approached carefully, through his
brother, or through his wife—”

 
          
“I
don’t like to step on cops’ toes.”

 
          
“Neither
do
I
. But I’m within my rights as a lawyer in trying
to reach Donato and talk him into surrendering.”

 
          
“Sure,
we could get knocked off, too. That’s within anybody’s rights.” But Padilla was
with me. “I know where Manuel lives.”

 
          
The
shoreline road crossed the highway on an overpass and curved around to the left
to join the northbound lane. Neon-lighted clouds hung low over the city,
changing like red smoke as we moved under them.

 
          
The
freeway slanted up across a wilderness of railroad sidings, packing plants, and
warehouses, and then the residences of the lower town. Its swarming courts and
overflowing cottages were squeezed like living sponge between the freeway and
the railroad. Padilla turned off on a ramp and circled under the freeway
between concrete pillars that seemed as ancient and deserted as Coliseum
arches. Somewhere ahead, the sound of a siren rose in jungle howling and fell
away into animal sobbing.

 
          
“
Jeeze
, I hate that noise,” Padilla said. “Practically every
night of my life for twenty years I heard that noise. It’s the main reason I
had to get out to the other side of the tracts.”

 
          
Manuel
Donato lived on this side of the tracts, in a white clapboard bungalow which
stood out among its neighbors. The rectangle of lawn behind its picket fence
was green and smooth, hedged by white-blossoming oleanders. The porch light was
on. Padilla knocked on the door.

 
          
In
the yard next door, shadowed by the oleanders, some boys and girls were playing
late giggling games. One of the boys raised his voice. “Donato ain’t home.”

 
          
“Is
he still downtown?” Padilla said.

 
          
“I
guess so.” The boy came up to the fence. His fluorescent shirt made him look
like a torso miraculously suspended, until I saw his eyeballs reflecting the
light. “You
cops
?”

 
          
“We’re
friends of Manuel
Donato’s
,” Padilla said.

 
          
“He
may be down at the police station. A cop came a few minutes ago, and Manuel
went away with him. Is he in trouble?”

 
          
“I
hope not,” Padilla said.

 
          
“Reason
I asked, it looked like he was crying.”

 
          
“Yeah,”
one of the girls said from the shadows. “He was crying. I felt sorry for him.”

 
          
The
desk sergeant at the police station told us the reason for Manuel
Donato’s
grief. His brother Gus was in the morgue. Pike
Granada had shot him.

 
          
“Just
like that, eh?” Padilla said.

 
          
The
desk sergeant looked at him thoughtfully, then at me. “
You
representing
the family, Mr. Gunnarson?”

 
          
I
pretended not to hear him. “When did all this happen?”

 
          
“Within the last hour or so.
It wasn’t channeled through
me,” he said with disappointment. “Pike was off duty. He got a tip where Donato
was hiding out. He’s young and eager.”

 
          
“Who
tipped him?”

 
          
“Ask
him yourself. He’s back in the squad room making up his preliminary report. He
probably won’t tell you, but go ahead and ask him.”

 
          
The
squad room was dim except for the circle of light from the lamp on Granada’s
desk. His two-fingered typewriter stuttered and gave up when we walked in. He
lifted his head, heavily, as if it had been cast in the bronze it resembled.

 
          
“I
understand you shot Augustine Donato.”

 
          
“Yeah.
He went for his gun.”

 
          
“Too
bad you had to silence him. He might have told us some useful things.”

 
          
“You
sound like Wills. He just got off my back. Don’t you climb on, Mr. Gunnarson.”
He peered through the dimness at Padilla. “Who’s your friend?”

 
          
“You
remember me,” Padilla said.

 
          
“I
used to tend bar in the
Rosarita
Room.”

 
          
“Oh, yeah.
Tony. Still working around town?”

 
          
“At
the Foothill Club,” Padilla said in his formal voice. There was tension between
the two men.

 
          
“Where
did you catch up with Donato?” I said.

 
          
“In the old ice plant out by the railroad tracks.
It’s a
good place to hide, truck and all, and I figured he was out there.”

 
          
“That’s
pretty close figuring.”

 
          
“I
had some help. A little bird told me they seen a truck. I live on that side of
town, so I
mosied
over. I caught him unloading the
stuff.”

 
          
“What
stuff was it?”

 
          
“Loot from the burglaries, cameras and furs and dresses.
Apparently Broadman had it stashed in his basement. Donato killed him to get at
it.”

 
          
“Then
you killed Donato.”

 
          
“It
was my neck or his.” In the light from the green-shaded lamp, Granada’s face
was greenish, his eyes gold. “You sound as if you wished it was my neck. I’m
not asking for the rubber medal, but I did go out on my own time and take a
killer.”

 
          
“His
wife claims he’s not a killer.”

 
          
“Naturally.
She’s been claiming he’s innocent through four or
five arrests. He’s been innocent of everything from pushing dope on the
high-school grounds to armed robbery. So now he’s innocent of murder.”

 
          
“Innocent and dead.”

 
          
Granada
looked up quickly, his eyes glinting like coins. “You don’t take her seriously,
for Christ sake? She’s been
lying
her head off for
years.”

 
          
“You
ought to know,” Padilla said.

 
          
Granada
rose slowly, about three feet wide in his linen suit, and well over six feet
tall. He leaned with both hands gripping the edges of the desk. He appeared to
be getting ready to pick up the desk and throw it. “What is that supposed to
mean? I used to run with lots of dames before I got wise to myself and settled
down.”