Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

“It’s possible. I thought of that.”

“But Lemp wasn’t the sort of man to go to the police. Not Lemp. We’ve filled out part of his record, on the basis of the material you dug up, and it goes back a long way. In fact it probably goes back further than we’ve been able to trace it. He turned up in San Francisco in the early twenties, aged about thirty or so, and got himself a job on the police force. I don’t have to tell you the city administration then was sour. Lemp rose to inspector in a very few years but when the city government was reformed – I think it was the third or fourth time it was reformed – Lemp went out. Since then he’s scrounged a living at half a dozen trades and petty rackets. He’s been arrested for pigeon drop, Mann Act violation, blackmail, and served a total of seven years in Folsom and San Quentin. Blackmail was his specialty, when he could find a victim soft enough–”

“I know enough about Lemp.”

“There’s more, plenty more.”

“I don’t doubt it. Go on with your reconstruction.”

“Well, he would have liked to blackmail Miner, but Miner lacked the wherewithal. The question for Lemp became: how could his knowledge of Miner’s crime be turned into cash? He tried to interest Seifel, without success, or perhaps he was simply trying to pump Seifel for information. In any case, we know the final answer he arrived at. He forced Miner to fall in with his kidnap plans: I maintain that that’s the only possible way these things could have happened.”

“It’s possible. It leaves out a primary fact, though. Who stabbed Lemp in the neck?”

“It has to be a third party,” Forest said. “I questioned the boy – he’s a smart boy – and he says they drove straight out of town yesterday morning, right after they met you.”

“So that lets Miner out.”

“Yes. It has to be somebody else, somebody who wanted that fifty thousand dollars. Any ideas?”

“Not one.”

“I thought perhaps you were going to suggest that Mrs. Johnson stole her own money back.” Forest showed his wide white teeth in a grin. “Anyway, we’ve got the weapon to work on.”

Eddie returned from the kitchen, complaining about the lousy telephone-service and the heat. We played three-handed bridge, Eddie winning consistently, until the hearse arrived from Pacific Point. Then Forest turned off the air-conditioner, locked the doors, and handed me the keys. “Are these symbolic?” I said.

“Maybe they are. Whenever I mention the lady, your eyes glaze, if that’s significant. You’re just fighting off the idea, old boy. But why fight it?”

His insight was disturbing. I turned away.

The Lincoln led the three-car cortege across the desert, over the snow-blotched pass, down into the green valley. I suppose I was driving it. I hardly remember.

A plainclothesman challenged me at the entrance to the Johnson drive, and let me pass. My car was standing in the turnaround, where I had left it early in the morning. I swung the Lincoln around it and into the garage. As I got out, Helen opened the inside door of the garage. There were shouts and splashes behind her in the pool where the boy was playing.

She looked pleased to see me. Her smile had lost its dangerous brittleness:

“Come in, Mr. Cross. I’m so glad you’re safe and sound.” I could feel the warmth of her hand through my sleeve. “You’ll forgive my running out on you in the desert. I couldn’t feel quite secure until I had Jamie home with me.”

“You did the wise thing. I notice you have a police guard out front.”

“I didn’t ask for one, but they thought it best for the present, since there’s no man here.” She frowned slightly. “Surely nothing else is going to happen to us.”

In the green planted enclosure of the patio, it was hard to believe that anything had happened. The flowers in the planters gazed up like innocent eyes into the depthless blue sky. At the shallow end of the pool the boy was frolicking in water up to his waist, chasing a red plastic beach ball brighter than his hair. There were the remains of a cold lunch on the umbrella table at the far end.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” she said. “He hasn’t the faintest notion that he was kidnapped, or even that there was anything amiss. The whole thing’s been a picnic to Jamie.”

“He’s been a lucky boy.”

Her deep green glance sought mine and held it. “You were his luck, Mr. Cross. I’m grateful to you, forever.”

Something inside of me spoke, surprising my consciousness: “I wish he were my boy.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and the wrong time to say it. She didn’t answer. I turned away. Jamie was jumping up and down in the water, beating its surface with his palms.

“Hi!” he sang out. “I’m a sea-lion. These are my flippers. Where’s Fred?”

“He’s gone on a trip,” I said.

“With Daddy? Did Fred go with Daddy?”

“That’s right. They went away together. Fred asked me to say good-bye to you for him.”

“Good old Fred,” the boy said earnestly. “I’ll miss Fred.”

His mother spoke softly at my shoulder: “Is he dead, too?” There was a kind of awe in her voice.

“He crashed in the mountains. I was with him when he died.”

“It seems so many have died.”

“Four men,” I said. “Two of them at least were no great loss to anybody.”

She made a visible effort to pull herself together, and changed the subject: “You must be tired and hungry, Mr. Cross. Please sit down. Let me give you something to eat.”

“I’m tired, but I bet you’re tireder.”

“Not really. I was on my last legs this morning, I admit. Now that Jamie’s back, I feel almost good. Anyway, the sandwiches are already made. Permit me to minister to you with sandwiches. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’re very kind.”

I sat by the pool with her and ate her sandwiches and watched her boy and became permeated with a sense of what I had been missing. And would doubtless continue to miss.

“Mrs. Johnson.”

She turned her head against the canvas back of her reclining chair. A lock of hair fell forward over one eye. She blew at it, without effect, and laughed. “Lord, I feel lazy.” She raised her bare brown arms and stretched, arching her body. “I’d just about dozed off.”

“I know you’ve had your fill of questions today.”

“Indeed I have. Did I tell you the reporters were here when I got home? And photographers. I want to sink back into anonymity, permanently.” She folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes and smiled.

“Mrs. Johnson.”

“I’m listening. You called me Helen last night. I didn’t mind.”

“Helen, then.”

“Your first name is Howard, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She opened her eyes. They were grave. “Hello, Howard.” Jamie was lying face down by the pool, near her feet. He raised his head and echoed her: “Hi, Howard.”

“Hi, Jamie.”

“Hi, Howard.”

I went on in a softer voice, hoping he wouldn’t hear me:

“Mrs. Johnson – Helen.”

“Is something the matter?” She lifted one hand and waved it nervously. “I mean apart from the obvious things, like Abel.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you – well, you know my job. I’m not exactly a cop, but sometimes, in the clutch, I have to act like a cop. There are several questions that need to be answered.”

“By me?”

“They concern you.”

She sat up, rigid. “Do you suspect me of doing something wrong?”

“It’s not a question of suspicion. There are certain facts–”

“You do, then.” Her eyes narrowed. “Fire away, Mr. Cross.”