Ross MacDonald - The Ferguson Affair

“Do you know much about her background? Where she came from, what sort of girlhood she had?”

“She had a difficult girlhood, I don’t know where or how. Holly preferred not to talk about herself. She said when she married me, she intended to start a fresh page in her life, with no crying over spilt milk.”

“Have you met her parents?”

“No. I’m not even aware that they exist. It may be that she’s ashamed of them. She’s never told me her real name. She married me under her stage name.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Her agent did, Michael Speare. I met him last fall, when I was breaking her studio contract. His agency has her under a long-term contract which I couldn’t break.”

“Would you object if I talked to Speare?”

“You mustn’t tell him what’s happened.” Ferguson’s voice was almost plaintive. The past had opened like a wound, bleeding away his force. “Whether or not she deserves it, we have to protect Holly. If I could just get her out of this frightful mess she’s landed herself in-”

“I don’t see much hope of that. There is one thing you could do which we haven’t discussed. I know of some good private detectives in Los Angeles.”

“No! I’m not going in for that sort of thing.”

Ferguson struck the table with his fist. His glass jumped and rattled against my plate. Fresh blood began to run from his nose. I stood up and got him out of there.

“I’m taking you to a doctor,” I said in the car. “You must know some local doctor. If not, you can get one in the emergency ward of the hospital.”

“It isn’t necessary,” he said. “I’m perfectly all right.”

“We won’t argue, Colonel. Haven’t you ever been to a local doctor?”

“I don’t go to doctors. The blasted doctors killed my mother.” His voice was strained and high. Perhaps he heard himself, because he added in a calmer tone: “Holly visited the Buenavista Clinic once or twice.”

“It’s a good place. Who was her doctor?”

“Chap by the name of Trench.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite certain, yes.” He gave me a questioning look. “Is this Trench a quack of some sort?”

“Hardly. He’s my wife’s doctor. He’s the best obstetrician in town.”

“Is your wife going to-” Then he caught the rest of the implications, and didn’t finish the sentence.

“Yes,” I said, “she is. Is yours?”

“I don’t know. We never spoke of the matter.”

There seemed to be a number of things they hadn’t spoken of.

I WALKED AND TALKED Ferguson into the clinic and made an emergency appointment for him with their bone man, Dr. Root. It was one of those highly specialized medical partnerships where practically every organ of the human body was represented by a separate doctor. I left Ferguson in the waiting room and told him I’d be back in half an hour. He sat on the edge of a leather chair, bolt upright, like one of the stone figures you see on old tombs.

Mrs. Weinstein glanced at the clock when I walked into my office.

“It’s nearly two, Mr. Gunnarson. I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”

“Thanks for reminding me. Would you call my wife and tell her I won’t be home for lunch?”

“I presume she knows by this time.”

“Call her anyway, will you? Then I want you to place a call for me, to a man in Beverly Hills named Michael Speare.” I recited the address which Ferguson had given me. “You can probably get the number from Information. I’ll take the call in my office.”

I sat at my desk with the door closed. I spread out the clipping from Larry Gaines’s old wallet, and made an alphabetical list of the names mentioned in it: Dotery, Drennan, Haines, McNab, Roche, Spence, Treco, Van Horn, Wood, Zanella. I had an idea.

My telephone rang.

“Mr. Speare is on the line,” Mrs. Weinstein said. Over her, a man’s voice was saying: “Mike Speare here.”

“This is William Gunnarson. I’m an attorney out in Buenavista. Can you give me a few minutes of your time?”

“Not right now. I’m at Television City. My secretary transferred the call. What’s it all about?”

“A client of yours. Holly May.”

“What does Holly want?”

“It’s too confidential for the telephone,” I said, trying to sound tantalizing. “Can I talk to you in person, Mr. Speare?”

“Why not? I’ll be back in my office by three or so. You know where it is-just off Santa Monica Boulevard?”

“I’ll be there. Thanks.”

I hung up and went out and presented my list of names to Mrs. Weinstein. “I have a little job for you. It may only take a few minutes, if we’re lucky. It may take today and tomorrow. I want you to stay with it until it’s finished.”

“But I have a pile of tax forms to type up for Mr. Millrace.”

“They can wait. This is an emergency.”

“What kind of an emergency?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s over. Maybe. It could be a matter of life or death.”

“Really?”

“Here’s your problem. In 1952 the people listed here lived in a certain town. I hope in California. I don’t know the name of the town, and that’s what I’m trying to find out, the name of the town.”

“You don’t have to repeat yourself.” Mrs. Weinstein was getting interested. “So what do I do?”

“Take these names over to the telephone company and check them against their out-of-town directories-especially the smaller ones. See if you can find a directory that contains most of these names. Start with the towns near here.”

She peered at the list. “What about the first names?”

“First names are not important. When you find the right grouping of last names, or anything approximating it, I want you to make a note of the addresses.”

“It may not be so easy. 1952 is a long time ago, the way people move around nowadays.”

“I know that. But give it a good try. It really is important.”

“You can count on me.”

Ferguson was waiting outside the clinic, standing in the shadow of the cornice. His eyes still held their unseeing expression; he seemed oblivious to the life of the town around him. Though we spoke the same language, more or less, I realized how much of a foreigner he was in southern California. He was doubly alienated by what had been happening to him.

I leaned across to open the car door. “How’s your nose?”

“My nose is the least of my worries,” he said as he got in. “I spoke to that Dr. Trench of yours.”

“What did he say?”

“My wife is over two months pregnant. It’s probably Gaines’s child she’s carrying.”

“Did Trench say that?”

“Naturally I didn’t ask him. But it’s obvious. No wonder she decided to run away with him. No wonder they needed money. Now they have it.” He grinned fiercely at nothing in particular. “Why didn’t she simply ask me for the money? I’d have given it to her.”

“Would you?”

He opened his hands and looked down into them. “I might have killed her. When I went after them today, I intended to kill them both. Then I saw that truck ahead coming into the intersection. I had the idea, for a split second, that I would kill myself. My reflexes wouldn’t let me.” His right foot thumped the floor of the car. “That’s a shameful admission for a man to have to make.” He didn’t explain whether he meant his suicidal intent or his failure to carry it out.

I said: “I have an appointment with Michael Speare at three o’clock. Do you want me to drop you at home? It’s more or less on the way. You can make your accident report later.”

“Yes. I’d better get home, in case they try to get in touch.”

I set the car in motion and turned down Main Street toward the highway. “Do you have any idea where they’ve gone?”