Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

He looked me sharp in the eye as he went by. His mouth still wet from his drink, his short hair bristling, he gave a sly and dangerous impression, like an animal caught in an alien corner of the woods. His short lip curled. “Do I detect a faintly peremptory note? Was that a sneer of cold command, Mr. Ozymandias?”

“Cut the comedy, Seifel. You could be in a jam.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said uneasily. “What has Annie been saying to you anyway? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

Disregarding the question, I sat down behind my desk and put a fresh tape on the recording-machine.

He leaned across the desk, protesting. “What’s that you’re doing? You have no right to record what I say. You have no police powers.”

“My office has investigative functions. I interpret them pretty broadly, and nobody seems to object. Do you object?”

“Naturally I object.”

“Why?”

“I’m not prepared to make a formal statement. I’ve had an upsetting day, the sight of that body–”

“And you won’t talk without advice of counsel. Why don’t you widen that split in your personality and be your own counsel?”

He stiffened and grew pale. “I didn’t come here to be insulted. As a matter of fact, I didn’t like the way you asked me in the first place.”

“Go back to your office and we’ll start over. I’ll send you a billet-doux pinned to an orchid.”

He leaned close, supporting his weight on outspread palms: “I suspect you don’t know who you’re talking to, old man. I was light-heavy champion at Stanford before the war. And if you weren’t a friend of Annie’s, I’d bat your ears off here and now. Just needle me a little more and I will anyway.”

“If you’re a friend of hers, speak of her with a little more respect. Her friends call her Ann, by the way.”

He clenched his right fist. “You’re asking for it, Cross.”

“And you talk a good fight.” I stood up, staring at him hard and level. I suspected that he was hollow or soft inside. Even his anger was a little actorish. His face and mouth made the motions and the sounds, but they didn’t ring quite male. “Come down to the gym next week and I’ll take you up on it. Right now I have other things on my mind.”

I flicked the switch of the recorder. The twin spools began to revolve.

“Stop that thing,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “I refuse to talk for the record.”

“So you can change your story later on, when you’ve had more time to think? What’s the matter, Seifel? You’ve got me half convinced that you’re involved–”

“I could sue you for that!” He glared at the whirling spools. “If you play that tape with the accusation on it to one or more persons, you’re actionable under the libel laws. I advise you to wipe it off.”

“It’s not recording yet. You have to press this button.” I pressed it, and set the microphone on the desk between us. “Mr. Lawrence Seifel, interviewed by Cross, May 10th, four p.m. Sit down please, Mr. Seifel.”

“I wish to state my objections to the recording of my statement at the present time.” But he sat down. The machine between us enforced an impersonal atmosphere.

“What did you tell Lieutenant Cleat, Mr. Seifel?”

“Nothing. I told him, that is, that you had asked me to look at the corpse. Nothing more. He seemed to be busy conferring with the sheriff’s men, and you had emphasized the desirability of haste.”

“You recognized the corpse?”

He answered without hesitation: “I did.”

“Who is he? Do you know his name?”

“Unfortunately I don’t. He may have mentioned it to me, in fact I’m quite sure he did. My memory isn’t too good for names, and I only met him the once.”

“When? On what occasion?”

“Just a minute. I could remember better, and express myself more freely, if you’d turn that instrument off.”

“Is that a threat to withhold information, Mr. Seifel?”

“Certainly not,” he said emphatically, to the machine. “It’s a simple psychological fact, and I resent your attempt to ask tendentious and misleading questions of that nature.”

“Sorry, Mr. Seifel. You asked for it.”

“Will you turn it off?”

“I will not. You’ve just admitted that your memory is faulty, and I don’t trust mine…”

“I’ve admitted nothing of the sort. What is this, a cross-examination? I object to the whole procedure, on constitutional grounds.”

“Save it, this isn’t a courtroom. I have to record your statement, it’s too important not to. So far as we know, you’re the only person in town who knows the deceased.”

“I don’t know him. I only met him once.”

“This is where we came in. On what occasion did you meet him?”

“It was the day of Frederick Miner’s trial, February the 20th, I believe it was. This man – the deceased – was present. I noticed him among the spectators. He was the only one I didn’t know. There weren’t many spectators – just the Johnsons, and Miner’s wife, and one or two others – since it wasn’t really a trial. All it amounted to was the guilty plea and the business of setting a date for Miner’s probation hearing.”

“Mrs. Johnson was there?”

“Certainly.”

“She said she’d never seen the man.”

“Probably she didn’t. He was sitting at the back of the well, apart from the others. I only noticed him on account of his bald head, you know how a bald head stands out. After court adjourned, I stayed behind for a few minutes. There were a few corrections I wanted the court reporter to make in the transcript. The bald-headed man waited for me at the back of the room. He buttonholed me on my way out.

“He was a pretty sordid-looking customer, as you know, and I tried to give him a quick brush-off. But he seemed to be very interested in the case. I gathered that he had followed it in the paper; he knew the names of the principals, my name, and Miner’s, and the Johnsons’. I got the idea after a while. He came around to it rather circuitously. He wanted me to employ him.”

“To do what?”

“That was never entirely clear. He claimed to be a detective, a private investigator of some sort, but I had my doubts about that. When I asked to see his credentials he ignored the request. I think he gave me some kind of card, though. Something with a Los Angeles address or telephone number.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Perhaps I have. I haven’t made a search.”

“Where would it be?”

“In my office, if it’s anywhere. I may have stuck it in among the papers in the Miner case. In fact, I probably did. I had them in my hand.”

“If you did, it would certainly help. We could use a lead. About his name, the name he gave you – was it Kerry Smith?”

Seifel looked up at the ceiling, as if there might be a written clue on the plaster. The only clues there were the watermarks where the roof had leaked through two rainy seasons, before the Supervisors became officially aware of it.

“It wasn’t Kerry Smith. I think it was a one-syllable surname, but not so common as Smith. Lint, or Kemp, something along those lines. And the first name definitely wasn’t Kerry.”

“He wanted you to hire him to do something, but you don’t know exactly what?”

“That’s right. He wasn’t too easy to follow. He talked a great deal without saying much, praising his own discretion and general aptitude. In addition to which, he had a breath that kept me off. The stink of corruption. I was dodging his breath half the time, and only half-listening.”

“He’s not the only one who says very little at length.”

He bridled. “If you mean me, the remark is definitely uncalled for. I’ve done my best to co-operate. I didn’t expect my efforts to be appreciated.”