Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

She leaned her head to one side, one forefinger pressed into the hollow of the cheek. “There was a man called Art,” she said after a while. “Molly didn’t use his last name, just Art or Artie. They fought like cats and dogs when he came, called each other bad names – names I wouldn’t soil my tongue with.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“I could hardly tell. I didn’t listen, you see, it’s just what I overheard, accidentally.”

“Of course.”

“He kept wanting her to go away with him. She wouldn’t go. She said he couldn’t offer her enough to make it worth her while, that she had better prospects. Besides, she was always saying he was a crook. I tell you, Mr. Cross, it was terrible to have to listen to. The other fellow sounded much nicer to me. Not nice , but nicer.”

“Other fellow?”

“The younger one, the one that came most often. He had a lovely voice, I’ll say that for him.” The eyes behind the spectacles grew soft with reminiscence, as if the unknown voice had been speaking to her, wooing her subtly through the attic wallboard. “ They had their arguments, too, but with Kerry it was the other way around. She wanted him to marry–”

“Kerry?” I said.

“Did I say Kerry? It must have just slipped out. That was his name, at least the name she called him.”

“Kerry Snow?”

“I never knew his last name. They were on a first-name basis.”

“I gathered that. What did they talk about?”

“Themselves. Each other. He was always saying he’d never trust a woman. She always claimed to be different. Then he’d make fun of her, and start her crying. I almost felt sorry for her sometimes.”

I said: “Miss Trenton, as a woman of the world you won’t object to my asking: were they living together?”

“Certainly not! I’d never permit such a thing in my apartment. Sometimes he stayed all night, of course. They’d talk all night.” She added hastily: “I suffer from insomnia, I couldn’t help hearing them.”

“Did you ever see this Kerry?”

“Once or twice I did, at least I think it was him. I saw him sneaking out in the morning. I’m an early riser, I have to be. I’m due at the office every morning at five to eight, and it’s halfway across town–”

“Can you describe him?”

“He’s young, not over thirty I’d say. I suppose some women would consider him attractive, if you like that type of good looks. He has blondish hair, sort of wavy over the forehead, and nice clean-cut features if it wasn’t for the sneaky look. He’s a well-built young man, I’ll say that for him.”

“You must have seen his car, Miss Trenton. Think about it, now.”

She screwed up her eyes and mouth in concentration: the wrinkled face was like a little girl’s, cartooned by time. “It was a big car, I noticed that, blue in color, I believe.”

“What year?”

“Well, it wasn’t new. It still looked pretty good.”

“Would you know a Chrysler?”

“No,” she said. “I never did know the different makes of cars. It was some kind of sedan, I remember that.”

“Take your time now, Miss Trenton. See if you can dredge up any more facts about Kerry.”

“Is he a kidnapper?”

“Very likely,” I said, though I doubted it. More likely Kerry had been underground since February. “You sit and see what you can remember. There’s something in my car I want to show you.”

On the way back in through the hallway with my briefcase, I found that I didn’t want to enter the living-room again. Its air, laden with faint mustiness and fainter spice, was like an Egyptian tomb where a little life stirred horribly under the windings. I went in anyway. Miss Trenton was rocking placidly. There was something black and oblong in her lap.

“I remembered something , Mr. Cross. She did leave something behind her after all. Don’t you consider I have a right to it, with her owing me rent?”

“It depends on what it is.”

She hefted the black object in her hands. “This camera. She left it in the linen closet, but it’s possible it wasn’t hers. I remember one day her friend Kerry was taking pictures of her in the driveway. She was in one of those strapless bathing-suits, on a Sunday. Soon as I saw what was going on in my driveway, I ordered them inside, I can tell you.”

I took the camera out of its case. It was worn but fairly good, worth perhaps a hundred dollars new. What interested me most about it was the legend stamped on the case in small gold letters: U.S.S. Eureka Bay . The camera itself bore a U.S. Navy serial number.

“This looks like Government property, Miss Trenton.”

“I didn’t mean to keep it,” she said quickly. “What was I to do with it? Molly left it behind her, I didn’t know where she went. I thought I’d just hold on to it until somebody came to claim it. That’s perfectly legitimate–”

“Did Molly have a friend named Fred? Fred Miner?”

“I don’t recollect the name.” Her hands were covertly wiping themselves on her skirt, as if to remove all traces of the camera. “You’ve asked me so many questions, my brain’s in a whirl.”

“Fred is a heavily built man in his thirties, very broad in the shoulders. He has a stiff back. It was broken in the war. He wears old khaki uniforms most of the time. He has rather a large head with heavy features, big jaw and a thick nose, sandy hair cut short, gray eyes. Deep bass voice, Midwestern accent. Fred likes to use Navy slang.”

“Kerry did, too,” she said unexpectedly. “Kerry talked like a sailor. I wish I could remember some of the things he said – like calling the floor a deck, things like that.”

“What about Fred Miner?”

“There wasn’t anybody answering his description. That doesn’t say he wasn’t here. I had better things to do than check up on Molly Fawn, remember that. Anything I heard or saw, it was practically forced on me.”

“I understand that, Miss Trenton. It’s been very good of you to put up with all these questions. There’s one more thing I’d like you to do. I have some pictures here, pictures of a man which were taken after the man’s death. Are you willing to look at them, for identification purposes?”

“I guess so,” she faltered, “if it’s important.”

I laid the photos of Miner’s victim one by one in her hands. She peered down at them through her spectacles.

“It’s Kerry,” she said, in a muffled voice. “I do believe it’s Kerry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I noticed the tattoo mark on his arm, that Sunday he was taking the pictures. But I don’t understand. You said he was one of the kidnappers. Is he dead?”

“He’s dead.”

“Then he isn’t one of the criminals you’re after?”

“Not any more. He was run over by a car.”

“Isn’t that a shame. And here I was thinking he might come back any day to claim his camera.”

“I’m going to have to take the camera with me.”

“You’re welcome to it.” She rose suddenly, brushing her skirt with her hands, and cried out angrily: “I don’t care for any souvenirs of that girl and her friends, thank you. It was good riddance of bad rubbish.”

I said: “Good night. Don’t bother to let me out.”

“Good night.”

She turned the radio up. Before I started my motor, I could hear the voices brawling and lamenting in her house.

Juncal Place was high on a terraced hill overlooking the Westwood campus. It was a dead-end street one block long, with houses on the higher side and a steep drop on the other. The eighth and last house was set far back on a sloping lawn that ended above the sidewalk in stone retaining-walls cut by concrete stairs. It was a pseudo-Tudor mansion with dark oak facing, drooping eaves, and leaded panes in the second-story windows. Knocking on the grandiose oak front door, I felt a little like a character in Macbeth .