Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

“A mutual acquaintance says he’s money-hungry and highly egotistical. And Seifel did know Lemp slightly, by his own admission.”

“Lemp approached him, once, according to his story. As for the Kerry Snow affair, he admits he must have given us the address of Snow’s hideout, since it’s on the record, but he claims he doesn’t recall the circumstances, or even the name. His wartime job was handling courts-martial for the Eleventh Naval District, and as he says scores of cases passed through his hands. So it’s possible he’s telling the truth, and actually doesn’t remember.”

“Where is he now? At home?”

“When he left here, about eleven, he was going out to the Johnson place. He said he wanted to do whatever he could for Mrs. Johnson in her bereavement.” Forest’s tone was edged with sardonic mimicry.

“Bereavement! Is the boy dead?”

“Johnson is. I thought you’d have heard about it.”

“Has he been murdered, too?”

“He died a natural death, early this evening. I suppose you could call it indirect murder. The doctor told me the strain was too much for his heart.”

I drove up to the summit of the ridge. The night was still and silent, balanced on its dead center. The city’s web of lights lay behind me like a tangled net hauled phosphorescent from the sea and flung up along the slopes. Beyond, the sea itself was a gray emptiness lit between the moving clouds by a few small hurrying stars.

In the hedged tunnel of road where Kerry Snow had met his death, the darkness beyond my headlights was so solid that day was unimaginable. Murder was imaginable, though. I could see the three of them: the faceless victim fallen in the road, the blind-drunk murderer driving on over him, and Arthur Lemp watching from the darkness, planning to fashion a second crime from the leavings of the first.

I shifted into second and let the motor’s inertia hold the car on the descending curves. My own excitement had long since settled down into a stubborn anger. If the boy was alive, I was determined to find him. If the boy was dead, his death would have to be paid for.

My headlights swept the gatehouse where Miner had lived, where Miner would live no longer. In the drive ahead, long brown leaves from the eucalyptus trees formed desolate hieroglyphics on the stones. The trees themselves stood overhead like tremulous giants, shaking in fear of the wind and the shifting sky.

There was a car in the turnaround, and lights from the main house spilled down into the ravine. The car was a new Buick convertible, which I associated with Larry Seifel.

Seifel answered the door. His eyes looked sleepy, and a little out of focus. Passing him in the doorway, I caught a whiff of his breath, pungent with alcohol. He stopped me in the glass-bricked entrance hall and spoke for the first time, in a whisper:

“You know what’s happened, don’t you?”

“A lot of things have happened.”

His hand grew heavier on my arm. “I mean the old man. He died tonight – last night.”

“Forest just told me. Are they going to have an autopsy?”

“I don’t see why they should. The doctor assured Helen it was the coronary, nothing else.”

“That must have been a great comfort to her.”

His mouth opened, unevenly. “Does that have some hidden meaning?”

“The things that have been happening have,” I said. “I’m trying to find it. Now here’s a possibility that should be interesting to the legal mind. A man is seriously ill. It’s known that excessive excitement is likely to kill him. A highly exciting event is made to occur; a kidnapping, to be exact. The man dies, and the question is: Is it murder?”

“Are you asking me for my opinion? I’d say its arguable. There have been comparable cases where murder has been proved–”

“I’m asking you for your evidence. Forest tells me you turned in Kerry Snow for desertion in 1946. I don’t believe you could have done that to a man and not remember it.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“I’m suggesting that the memory is a voluntary faculty, to a great extent. It can be turned off and on. You should get to work on yours.”

“I’ve taken enough from you today. Who do you think you are?”

“Diogenes. I have a Diogenes complex. What’s yours?”

“Œdipus,” Helen Johnson said from the inner doorway. “Larry’s as Œdipal as all get out. We were just discussing it before you arrived. Abel was Larry’s father-image, he says. Now that his father-image is kaput, Larry has an irresistible urge to possesss the father-image’s wife-image. That is, me. Isn’t that what you said, Larry?”

“You’re a fast worker, Seifel.”

“Go to hell.” His mouth twisted sideways. His hand on my arm jerked me around towards him. His right fist rose rapidly towards my face.

I parried the uppercut with my left forearm, stepped in close and locked his arms in a bear-hug. “When are you going to grow up? A punch in the nose never helped any situation.”

I knew Seifel’s type, had been dealing with it most of my adult life: the anxious ego walling itself in behind an adipose tissue of bluff and vanity.

“Turn my arms loose. I’ll show you who’s grown up, I’ll knock your block off.” He struggled to free himself, tears of anger rising in his eyes. Humiliation in front of a woman was hard for him to bear. No doubt he had had enough of it from his mother.

Helen Johnson came forward and put a hand on his shoulder: “Calm down now, Larry. If you don’t I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He became perfectly still at her touch, though the tension stayed in his muscles. I released him. He turned to her in a trembling rage:

“You didn’t hear what he said.”

“What didn’t I hear?” She was very calm, perhaps too calm. Her beauty had grown colder with the night, colder and darker. There were lines in her brow, smudges of doubt in her eyes, distinct blue semicircles under them.

“He virtually accused you of murdering your husband. He definitely accused me of withholding information.”

“Well?” she said to me with a slight unchanging smile.

“Mr. Seifel is exaggerating. Forest, the F.B.I. man, referred to your husband’s death as indirect murder. I asked Mr. Seifel for a lawyer’s opinion: whether or not the kidnappers are legally responsible for your husband’s death.”

“Where did I come in?”

“You didn’t, until now.”

“Is that why you came out here at this hour – to ask Larry for a legal opinion?”

“There are several things I’d like to go into.”

“Let’s stick to the subject of Abel’s death. I’ve been thinking about it all evening – all night. I think I had better tell you the truth about it. There’s something about the truth–”

Seifel moved slightly, placing one dinner-jacketed shoulder in front of one of her shoulders. “Don’t say another word, Helen. You’re foolish to commit yourself on anything when you’re in an emotional state.”

She didn’t look at him. “As I was saying, in my emotional way, the truth has a saving grace. It’s something to hold on to when you’re falling through space – you know? – even when it’s bitter. Besides, I feel I owe it to myself, in my capacity as non-grief-stricken widow.”

Her brittleness was disquieting. I said: “Can we go in and sit down?”

“Of course. Forgive me. You must be exhausted. Mr. Forest gave me some idea of what you were trying to do. I can’t tell you how grateful–”

“For nothing,” I said. “Until you get Jamie back, it adds up to nothing.”

“No, I don’t agree.” There were sudden tears in her eyes. “But do come in.”