Ross MacDonald - The Ferguson Affair

Bidwell’s voice was rigidly controlled, but he was under great strain. A drop of sweat formed at the tip of his nose, grew heavy and filled with light, and fell off onto his blotter. It made a dark red stain, like blood, on the red blotter.

“How did you happen to hire Gaines in the first place?”

“I was taken in. I pride myself on my judgment of people, but I was taken in by Larry Gaines. He talked well, you know, and then there was the fact that the college sent him. We nearly always get our lifeguards from Buenavista College. In fact, that may be why Gaines registered there.”

“He actually registered at the local college?”

“So they tell me. Apparently he dropped out after a few days or weeks. But we went on assuming that he was a college student. He was a little old for the role, but you see a lot of that these days.”

“I know,” I said. “I went through college and law school after Korea.”

“Did you, now? I never did make it to college myself. I suppose that’s why I feel a certain sympathy for young people trying to educate themselves. Gaines traded on my sympathy, and not only on mine. Quite a few of the members were touched by his scholarly aspirations. He has a certain charm, I suppose-rather greasy, but potent.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I can do better than that. The police asked me to rake up some pictures of him. Gaines was always getting himself photographed. He did a lot of picture-taking himself.”

Bidwell brought five or six glossy prints out of a drawer and handed them to me. Most of them showed Gaines in bathing trunks. He was slim-hipped and wide-shouldered. He held himself with that actorish air, self-consciousness pretending to be self-assurance, which always made me suspicious of a man. His crew-cut head was handsome, but there was a spoiled expression on his mouth, something obtuse in his dark eyes. In spite of the costume, the tan, the molded muscles, he had the look of a man who hated the sun. I placed his age at twenty-five or six.

Keeping one of the pictures, I gave the rest back to Bidwell. “May I have a look at your membership list?”

It was lying on top of his desk, and he pushed it across to me: several sheets of foolscap covered with names in a fine Spencerian hand. The names were alphabetically grouped, and each was preceded by a number. Patrick Hampshire was number 345. Colonel Ian Ferguson was number 459.

“How many members do you have?”

“Our by-laws limit us to three hundred. The original membership were numbered from one to three hundred. When a member-ah-passes on, we retire his number, and issue a new one. The roster runs up to 461 now, which means that we’ve lost 161 members since the club was founded, and gained a corresponding number of new members.”

He recited these facts as if they constituted a soothing liturgy. I wondered if he was talking to me simply to keep from talking to himself.

“Did Gaines have much to do with the Hampshires, do you know?”

“I’m afraid he did. He gave the Hampshire youngsters some swimming lessons in their private pool.”

“The Fergusons?”

He thought about his answer, pushing out his lower lip, and quickly retracting it. “I hadn’t heard that they were burglarized.”

“Neither had I. Their number is 459. That means they’re recent members, does it?”

“Yes, it does,” he said with vehemence. “The committee’s responsible, of course, but I have power of veto. I should have used it.”

“Why?”

“I believe you know why.” He rose, and walked to the wall, then turned from it abruptly as if he’d seen handwriting on it. He came back to the desk and leaned above me on his fingertips. “Let’s not beat around the bush, shall we?”

“I haven’t been.”

“All right. I admit I have. I make no apologies. The situation is explosive.”

“You mean the situation between Colonel Ferguson and his wife?”

“That’s part of it. I see you do know something about it, and I’m going to be candid with you. This club is on the brink of a major scandal. I’m doing all I can to avert it.” His tone was portentous; he might have been telling me that war had just been declared. “Look at this.”

Bidwell opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a folded newspaper clipping. He unfolded it with shaking hands, spreading it out on the blotter for me to read:

Rumor hath it that ex-movie-tidbit Holly May, who was too sweet-smelling for movietown, is trying to prove the old saw about the Colonel’s lady. Her partner in the Great Experiment is a gorgeous hunk of muscle (she seems to think) who works as a marine menial in her millionaire hubby’s millionaire clubby. We ordinary mortals wish that we could eat our fake and have it, too. But gather ye sub-rosas while ye may, Mrs. Ferguson .

Bidwell read it over my shoulder, groaning audibly. “That came out last weekend in a syndicated column which went all over the country.”

“It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Perhaps not, but it’s ghastly publicity for us. Can I depend on you, Mr. Gunnarson?”

“To do what?”

“Not to repeat to others what you’ve just said to me?”

I hadn’t really said anything, but he imagined I had. “I won’t, unless my client’s interests are affected. You have my word.”

“How would your client’s interests be affected?”

“She’s suspected of being in complicity with Gaines. She was involved with Gaines, but innocently. She was in love with him.”

“Another one in love with him? How does he do it? I admit he’s a handsome brute, but that’s as far as it goes. He’s raw.”

“Some like them raw. I take it Mrs. Ferguson is one of those who do.”

“She and her husband aren’t too delightful themselves. I’ve made two big mistakes in the past year, hiring Gaines, and admitting the Fergusons to membership. Those two mistakes have combined into the biggest mistake of my life.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Can’t it? My life may be in danger.”

“From Gaines?”

“Hardly. He’s long gone. They may be in Acapulco by now, or Hawaii.”

“They?”

“I thought you knew. The Holly May creature went with him. And Colonel Ferguson blames me for the whole thing. He’s out in the club bar now, lapping up rye whisky. I think he’s building up his courage to kill me.”

“Are you serious, Bidwell?”

He leaned forward into the light. His eyes were intensely serious. “The man’s a maniac. He’s been drinking ever since she took off, and he’s taken it into his head to blame me for the elopement.”

“When did she leave?”

“Last night, from here. She and her husband were having dinner in the dining room. There was a telephone call for her. She took it, and then walked right out of the club. Gaines was waiting in the parking lot.”

“How do you know?”

“One of the members saw him there, and mentioned it to me later.”

“Did you tell the police about this?”

“I should certainly say I didn’t. This is a delicate situation, Mr. Gunnarson. An insane situation, but a delicate one.” He managed a small pale smile. “Ours is the most respected club west of the Mississippi-”

“It won’t be if one of the members shoots the manager for conspiring with a lifeguard against Holly May’s chastity.”

“Please don’t spell it out.” He closed his eyes, and shuddered. “At least, if he did shoot me, it would be the end of my worries.”

“You almost mean that, don’t you?”

He opened his eyes, wide. “I almost do.”

“Does Ferguson have a gun?”

“He has an entire arsenal. Really. He’s a big-game hunter, among other things. He actually enjoys killing.”