Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

The boy looked up: “You called him Howard a minute ago.”

“I know I did.” She relaxed a little. “Do me a favor, Jamie.”

“Go into the house?”

“That’s right. I want you to put dry clothes on now. They’re on your bed. And don’t try to go into Daddy’s room. It’s locked up.”

“Why is it locked up? Daddy isn’t in there, is he?”

“No, he’s not in there.”

She kissed him, suddenly and passionately. He disengaged himself and trotted away, leaving wasp-waisted footprints on the tile.

“I don’t know what to tell him,” she said.

“Tell him the truth – that your husband died a natural death. That is the truth, isn’t it?”

Her face hardened. “Ask Dr. Campbell. Don’t ask me. I’m not a physician. I only know what I told you last night. I was quoting Dr. Campbell.”

I was off to a bad start, but I blundered on: “You mustn’t take offense. I have to ask these questions. Fred Miner said a strange thing this morning, before he died. He said that he was protecting Jamie, that you had ordered him to take Jamie into the desert.”

“That I had?”

“Yes. I asked him who told him to do it. He answered: ‘Mrs. Johnson. She’s the boss.’ ”

“He was lying,” she whispered harshly.

“Are you sure?”

She waited a long time before replying. Her oiled face was like a mask gleaming metallically in the sun. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I’m trying to be.”

“By making covert accusations against me? Is that what you call friendship?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to either clear Miner, or pin the kidnapping on him. I feel an obligation towards the law, the truth, whatever you want to call the abstractions that keep us going, keep us human. There’s nothing personal in this.”

“Obviously there isn’t. I don’t suppose you’ll take my word that I’ve done nothing wrong?”

“Not on a blanket denial, no. I’d like something more specific.”

“All right then, fire away, and make it fast. I don’t want Jamie to hear his mother being cross-questioned.”

“You’re making it difficult for me.”

“I hope so, Mr. Cross. First of all, you’ll naturally want to know how long and how well I knew this chap Kerry Snow.”

“You’ve asked the question. Will you answer it?”

“I answered it this morning, to the F.B.I. That tale-bearing little wretch of a Larry Seifel–” She broke off. “All I can tell you is the truth. I never heard of Kerry Snow until Fred Miner gave me his name. It was in January 1946, I believe, a Monday morning. Fred was ambulatory by then. He’d had a weekend convalescent leave, and he came back to the hospital in a bad mental condition, at least it seemed so to me. I asked him what the trouble was. He wouldn’t tell me, of course – he never has – but he made me promise to do something for him. He gave me this man’s name, and his address in Los Angeles, and asked me to pass the information on to the F.B.I. I said I would. All it amounted to was phoning Larry Seifel down at District headquarters.”

“Did you know Seifel well?”

“We’d gone dancing a few times. Is it important, in the abstract? ”

“What about Miner?”

“What about him? He was my patient. I liked him. I always have, until yesterday.”

“Did he tell you what Snow was wanted for?”

“I think he mentioned desertion. I got the impression that he’d run across Snow by accident, over the weekend, and recognized him as a wanted man. They served on the same ship, didn’t they?”

“Yes. You say you never met Snow, or heard of him before that?”

“I not only say it. It’s the truth.”

“I believe you.”

“You are too kind.”

“There’s still another point that needs to be cleared up.”

She sighed. “There would be. But go ahead.”

“I’m not sure I can explain it properly. Kerry Snow left a girl behind him, a young creature named Molly Fawn who claims to be his widow.”

“Do you distrust all widows?”

“Please,” I said. “I’m trying to do my job.”

“I’m trying to survive.”

“Shall I drop it for now?”

“No, let’s get it over with.” She smiled bleakly. “You have that abstract gleam in your eyes. Follow the gleam. I can take it, I hope.”

“According to Molly Fawn,” I said, “Snow spoke of a woman who had betrayed him to the police in 1946. Could you be that woman?”

“I don’t see how. How would he know of my part in it?”

“Miner might have told him, or Seifel.”

“Why should they?”

“I don’t know. I do know this: After Lemp was hired by your husband to … observe your movements–”

“To spy on me,” she emended.

“Lemp went back to Los Angeles and told Kerry Snow that he had located the woman.”

“The woman who had him arrested?”

“Yes. That seems to be what brought Snow here to Pacific Point: the hope of finding the woman and getting back at her in some way.”

“And you think I’m that woman?”

“I don’t think anything.”

“Then why have you been asking me these questions?”

“I was hoping to learn something useful.”

“About me?”

“About the case in general. After all, you are connected with it. You did have a hand in Kerry Snow’s arrest. Your chauffeur murdered Snow.”

“It’s murder now, is it?”

“Apparently. And your son was kidnapped by Snow’s crony.”

“Anything else?” she cried, a little wildly.

“Yes, there is one other thing. According to Molly Fawn, the woman Snow was looking for had red hair.”

She lay back in her chair like a fighter after a hard round, and spoke with her face averted:

“You disappoint me, Mr. Cross. I gave you credit for some intelligence. If you can’t see that I’m an innocent woman, you are a stupid man.”

“You’re not the red-headed woman in the case, then?”

“I have red hair, I can’t deny that. Everything else I deny.”

“All right.”

“It’s not all right. I’ve tried to be decent all my life. I think I deserve to be trusted. When I learned yesterday that Abel didn’t trust me, he lost his meaning for me. I no longer cared for him. I feel no sorrow for him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I suppose I’m oversuspicious. It’s an occupational disease in law-enforcement work.”

“I’m sorry, too.” She would not look at me.

The boy called from the doorway: “Mummy! Is the argument over? I’m ready to come out now.”

“Come on then,” she said brightly. “Mr. Cross is just about to leave.”

I drove home to my walkup apartment. Emptying the pockets of my trousers, I found that I had kept the keys to the desert house and the keys to the Lincoln. Oddly enough, I liked the idea of having them. I went to bed.

When I woke up there was still light in the window, a sunset light burning like a grate fire behind the Venetian blind. I had been dreaming. I couldn’t remember the dream distinctly, but it had left a pattern in my consciousness. An insistent bell had been ringing at the end of a corridor. The corridor was both spatial and temporal. Along its echoing span, a man was running with a boy in his arms. I was the running man, and the boy in my arms was Jamie.

My thoughts were instantaneous, as immediate as sensations. The bell rang again. I reached for the telephone that had awakened me:

“This is Cross.”

“Forest. We’ve traced Arthur Lemp back from San Francisco. Miss Devon thought you’d be interested.”

“I’m interested.”

“You sound sleepy.”

“I just woke up. But I can listen.”