Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

“I couldn’t care less.” She was repeating what Bourke had said about her. “If you’re a friend of Art’s you can go away. And tell him I said so.”

“I can’t. He isn’t hearing so well.”

“Buy him a hearing-aid. Good night. Go away.” But her face was pressed against the glass, which flattened and widened her nose. She said in a smaller, frightened voice: “What do you want?”

“Information.”

“Go and ask Art, why don’t you? He always claims he knows it all, he’s got the inside dope on everything, and everybody. Ask him.”

“He isn’t talking.”

The dark eyes widened like expanding doubts. “Did they pick him up?” Her mouth was on the glass. When she drew back a little, it left a mouth-shaped lipstick mark.

“This could go on all night, Molly. Let me in and I’ll tell you what you want to know. After you tell me.”

“How do I know Art isn’t with you?”

“Come out and look.”

“Oh, no. You’re not going to lure me out of here. Who are you? Are you a cop?”

I settled for that. “A kind of one. I’m a probation officer.”

“I’m not on probation. I never been convicted of any crime.”

But she unlocked the door and opened it a crack, reluctantly. I planted a foot in the opening.

“I’m as clean as a whistle,” she said.

“When did you last see Art?”

“Not for a couple of weeks. We had a big blow-up a couple of weeks ago. I made him get out.”

“Is he your husband?”

“I wouldn’t say that. We were … business partners. I took him into the business when Kerry ran out on me. Not any more, though, I can promise you that. Not since Art laid his filthy paws on me. I’m glad he’s sick.”

She shivered suddenly and violently. “That’s a cold wind. I hate the cold sea-wind. If you want to talk, come in. I’m not doing nothing. I haven’t done a thing all winter. I haven’t had anybody to talk to since Kerry went away.”

The chill racked her again. All she had on was a light sleeveless dress.

“Wait a minute, Molly.” I fetched my briefcase from the car.

“What have you got in there?”

“I’ll show you, inside.”

She opened the door and locked it carefully behind me. The back room was a fair-sized studio with two large windows and a door at the rear. Beyond the closed curtains I could hear the wind and the sea gasping and thumping like weary visitors. On one side of the room the tools of the photographer’s trade, tripods and light-stands, were stacked in a shadowy jumble against the wall.

The light came from the other side of the studio, where Molly apparently lived. The floor lamp was draped with stockings and underwear. The open davenport bed was violently rumpled, as if its occupant had been wrestling nightmares. There was a gas burner in one corner beside a deep, stained sink lined with coffee grounds. Trampled newspapers littered the floor. The life these things represented had been coming to pieces.

Yet Molly herself was clean and well-groomed. Her pull-taffy hair was lacquer-smooth, her dress freshly laundered. She had lovely white arms.

She covered them with a brown cloth coat and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the coat tight around her. “I hate the sound of that damned sea. Why I ever came out here in the first place …” Her voice drifted lower: “Back where I came from, the nights were warm in summer. It was really nice there, except when there was a storm.”

“Where do you come from, Molly?”

The sadness in her eyes changed to sullenness. “None of your damned business. I’m twenty-one. I never did nothing illegal. You can’t touch me.”

“I’m interested in your friends. Kerry Snow, Art Lemp, Fred Miner.”

“Fred who?”

“Fred Miner.” I described him.

“I don’t know the Miner character. The other two, yes. What have they been up to?”

“It’s funny you should ask that, Molly.”

“Why? You’re a cop, aren’t you? You didn’t come around for the pleasure of my conversation.” She swallowed, and slanted a blue glance up at me. “Have you seen Kerry?” Her voice was soft and shy.

“Not lately. When did he leave you?”

“I don’t know, it must of been about three months ago. We were only in this place a month. It didn’t surprise me. I knew he’d be going after her sooner or later, he was always talking about her that last month.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Never mind.”

“When did you last see him, Molly?”

“I told you, about three months ago. It was February, early February. I know it was before Valentine’s Day, because I kept thinking maybe he’d send me one. He didn’t.” Her glance came up to my face again like a dark blue light. “Are you his parole officer, by any chance?”

“He doesn’t need a parole officer. Kerry is dead.”

Her teeth clenched. She spoke between them, gutturally. “You’re a liar. Kerry couldn’t be dead. He’s too young to die.”

“He died violently, before Valentine’s Day.”

“Murdered, you mean?”

“I’m trying to find that out.”

“Why come to me?”

“Because you knew him.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe he’s dead. You’re lying to me, trying to break me down.”

I showed her Sam Dressen’s photographs. Her listless hands turned them over and let them slide to the floor. Twisting her body sideways, she lay down with her legs dragging over the edge of the couch. Her rigid jaws relaxed and her mouth opened wide. Her eyes were wide. She pressed her face into the rumpled sheet and screamed hoarsely for a long time. Then she pulled the coat over her head.

I replaced the pictures in the briefcase. My hands jerked out of control and tore the last one half across.

Molly was very quiet under the coat. Her legs were drawn up to her breast and her head was pressed to her knees. She looked as if she had never been born, or wished she hadn’t.

I touched her shoulder, which moved irregularly with her breathing. “Molly.”

“Go away. Leave me alone.” Her voice was childishly thin, and muffled by the cloth.

“Were you fond of Kerry?”

“What do you think?”

“I think he was murdered.”

She flung the coat to one side and raised herself on her arms. Except for the smudged lipstick around her mouth, her face seemed almost serene. There were no tears on it. She rose on her knees. “Who killed him?”

“Nothing’s been proved. He was run down by a car. We couldn’t even identify him, until tonight.”

“Art Lemp,” she said. “He came back with Kerry’s Chrysler–”

“Back from where?”

“Wherever it was they went. Kerry didn’t tell me. He went off with Art that day and I haven’t seen him since.” She paused, her gaze turned backward and inward. “I heard them talking about it the night before. Art said he knew where the woman was. He promised to take Kerry to her.”

“The same woman you mentioned before?”

“Yeah, the one that sent him up. She fingered him for the feds, got him six years in Portsmouth. Kerry was looking for her ever since he got out.”

“When was that?”

“Last summer. I met him last summer.”

“What was the woman’s name?”

“I don’t know. All I know about her is what he told me: that she fingered him and he was going to get back at her.”

“Where does she live?”

“I don’t know. What does it matter, anyway? Art Lemp was stringing him along, just using the story to get Kerry off someplace where he could murder him.”

“Do you know that, or just imagine it?”

“I know Art Lemp, he couldn’t tell the truth to save his life. He come back here with the car, said Kerry sold it to him because Kerry was going away on a trip, he didn’t know where. He knew where.”