Ross Macdonald - The Blue Hammer

"I will be in a minute." She yawned again, and waited, and yawned again. "It did me good to tell that woman off. She's one of those wives who can watch a man commit murder and feel nothing. Nothing but her own moral superiority. Her whole life's been devoted to covering up. Her motto is save the surface and you save all. But nothing got saved. The whole thing went to rot, and people got killed while she stood by and let it happen. I almost got killed myself."

"By Chantry?"

She nodded. "That, woman doesn't have the nerve to act out her own fantasies. She stands to one side and lets the man do it for her, so she can have her dim little sadistic orgasms."

"You really hate her, don't you?"

"Yes. I do. Because I'm a woman, too."

"But you don't hate Chantry, after what he did to you?"

She shook her head, and her short hair blurred in the twilight. "The point is that he didn't do it. He was thinking about killing me. He even talked about it. But then he changed his mind. He painted my picture instead. I'm grateful to him-for not killing me, and for painting my picture."

"So am I."

I tried to put both arms around her. But she wasn't ready for that.

"Do you know why he took pity on me? Naturally you don't. Remember the time I told you about, when my father took me to visit Chantry? When I was just a little girl?"

"I remember."

"Well, he remembered, too. I didn't have to remind him. He actually remembered me from the time I was a child. He said my eyes hadn't changed since then."

"I'm afraid he has."

"Has he not. Don't worry, Lew, I'm not getting sentimental about Chantry. I'm simply glad to be alive. Very glad."

I said that I was glad she was alive, too.

"There's only one thing I'm sorry about," she added. "All through this thing, I've kept hoping that somehow it would turn out that he wasn't Chantry. You know? That it had all been a horrible mistake. But it wasn't. The man who painted those pictures is a murderer."

"I know."

Betty's cabdriver appeared at the corner of the house, looking unhappy. "You've kept me waiting a long time, Miss, I'm going to have to charge you."

Betty paid him off. But when she got into her own car it wouldn't start. I tried it. The engine didn't turn over for me either.

I lifted the hood. The battery was gone.

"What am I going to do now? I have to go on an errand."

"I'll be glad to drive you."

"But I have to go by myself. I promised I would."

"Who did you promise?"

"I can't tell you. I'm sorry."

She seemed to be drawing away from me. I stepped closer and looked at her face. It was scarcely more than a pale oval now, dark-eyed, dark-mouthed. Night was flowing between the high old houses like a turbid river. I was afraid she would be swept away, this time beyond my reach.

She touched my arm. "Will you lend me your car, Lew?"

"For how long?"

"Overnight."

"For what purpose?"

"You don't have to cross-question me. Just give me a yes or no."

"All right. The answer is no."

"Please. This is important to me."

"The answer is still no. I'm not going through another night like last night, wondering what's happened to you."

"All right. I'll find someone who is willing to help me."

She started to walk toward the street, stumbling a little among the weeds. I was shaken by the idea that I might lose her and went after her.

She turned at the sidewalk. "Are you going to lend me your car?"

"No. I'm not letting you out of my sight. If you rent a car or borrow one, I'll follow you."

"You can't bear to see me get ahead of you, is that it?"

"No. You were way ahead of me last night. You put yourself in an exposed position. I don't want that to happen again. There's such a thing as having too much nerve." I took a deep breath. "Have you had any rest today?"

She answered evasively, "I forget."

"That means you haven't. You can't take a long night drive without any sleep. God knows what you might run into at the far end."

"God and Archer," she said bitterly, "they know everything. Don't you and God ever make a mistake?"

"God did. He left off Eve's testicles."

Betty let out a cry of pure sharp female rage, which somehow diminuendoed into mirth. She finally settled for both the car and me, on condition that she be allowed to do at least half the driving. I opted for the first shift.

"Where are we going?" I said as I started the engine.

"Long Beach. I assume you know where that is."

"I ought to. I was born there. What's in Long Beach?"

"I promised not to tell anyone."

"Promised who?" I said. "Mrs. Chantry?"

"Since you know everything," Betty said clearly and carefully, "it would seem superfluous to answer any of your questions."

"So it's Francine Chantry. What is she doing in Long Beach?"

"Apparently she had a car accident."

"Is she in the hospital?"

"No. She's at a place called the Gilded Galleon."

"That's a waterfront bar. What's she doing there?"

"I think she's drinking. I've never known her to drink much, but she seems to be breaking down."

"Why did she call you?"

"She said she needed my advice and help. We're not really close but I suppose I'm as close to her as anyone is. She wants my advice in a public-relations capacity, she said. Which probably means that she wants me to help her out of the mess she's got herself into by running away."

"Did she say why she did that?"

"She simply panicked."

I thought as I turned onto the freeway that Francine Chantry had some reason to panic. She had guilty knowledge of the death of Gerard Johnson, and possibly of the death of William Mead.

I drove hard. Betty slept against my shoulder. The combination of the speeding car and the sleeping woman made me feel almost young, as if my life might have a new beginning after all.

In spite of the early-evening traffic, we were in Long Beach in two hours. It was my home territory, as I had said, and the lights along the waterfront shone with remembered promise, even if all it had led to was the present.

I remembered the Galleon from the days when my marriage had been breaking up and I was looking for ways to pass the long nights. The place had changed surprisingly little since then, much less than I had. It was what was known as a family tavern, which meant that it accommodated drunks of all ages and sexes. I stood just inside the door, washed by waves of human sound, while Betty made her way around the horseshoe-shaped bar. Everybody seemed to be talking at once, including the barmaids. I could understand why the loud factitious family atmosphere might appeal to a woman as lonely as Francine Chantry probably was.

I saw her at the far end of the bar, sitting with her silver head drooping over an empty glass. She seemed to be slow in recognizing Betty. Then she threw her arms around her, and Betty responded. Though I felt some sympathy for Mrs. Chantry, and some pleasure in Betty's warmth, I didn't like to see the two women embracing. Betty was young and clean. Francine Chantry had been living for decades deep in the knowledge of murder.

It was beginning to show in her face and body, reaching up for her from the earth like gravity. She stumbled before she got to me, and had to be supported by the younger woman. She had a cut on her forehead. Her jaw was slack and grim, her eyes dull. But she held on to her bag the way a plunging fullback holds the ball.

"Where's your car, Mrs. Chantry?"

She roused herself from her apathy. "The garageman said it was totaled. I think that means that it isn't worth repairing. I doubt that I am, either."

"Were you in an accident?"

"I don't really know what happened. I was trying to get off the freeway, and things went out of control all of a sudden. That seems to be the story of my life." Her laughter was like a dry compulsive cough.