Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

The tower clock struck the quarter hour as I stepped up onto the curb. It was a quarter past eleven, too late for morning coffee, too early for lunch. I felt relieved. The courthouse crowd would be after me for a story when they saw me, and I wasn’t sure what story I had to tell. I wasn’t satisfied with my Grand Jury testimony. I knew what I had seen and heard, the shape and impact of the events. Their meaning still eluded me.

Wondering if Molly had found the meaning and eloped with it, I pushed in the screen door of the restaurant. Its dim brown interior and never-failing odor of cooking grease did nothing to stir my appetite. I sat on a stool at the counter and ordered coffee.

The place was empty, except for a couple in the back booth. Their heads were close together. I recognized them when my eyes became adapted to the dimness: Ann Devon and Larry Seifel.

Ann, who was facing in my direction, saw me at the same moment. She waved and called the length of the room:

“Howie! Come and join us.”

Reluctantly, I carried my slopping white mug to their booth. I had no desire to talk to anybody. With what seemed a similar reluctance, Seifel got out of his seat and slid in beside Ann. I sat opposite them.

“What’s the good word, children?” I was conscious of a phoniness in my voice.

Ann misinterpreted it. “I’m taking my lunch hour early,” she said in some embarrassment. “Larry wanted to talk to me.”

“A reasonable wish. He shows good taste.” The phoniness was persisting. The scene in the mortuary the night before was too heavy to be pushed out of my mind.

Seifel was pale and tired-looking. He smiled self-consciously, but no charm came. “You don’t mind, do you, Cross?”

“Why should I? Ann runs her own schedule.”

“I’m afraid you will mind, though, when I tell you what I wanted to talk to her about.”

“Try me.”

“I’ve been persuading Ann to leave her job.”

“We’re going to be married,” she said. “Larry just asked me now, and I accepted.”

“I hope you’ll be happy.”

She looked happy. Her face was glowing, and her eyes were bright. She turned to Seifel like a flower to the sun. He was trying hard, but he would never be really happy. He was a self-tormented man, living in the past or for the future, always despising the present that could save him. His present was an aching hollow inside of him, yearning like a woman to be filled.

He said through a pained grin: “I have heard heartier congratulations on occasions like this.”

“Now you.” Ann stroked his arm. “It won’t be right away of course, Howie. We’ll have time to break in a new assistant for you.”

“Have you thought of staying on in the department after your marriage?”

“We thought of it. I’m afraid it’s not possible. You see, we’re leaving town.”

“And going where?”

“Seattle, probably. We both want something different from this place.”

“I’ll be sorry to see you go.”

“So will Mother,” Seifel said. “Mother is staying here. I had it out with her last night. We settled a lot of things last night.”

Ann lowered her eyes, and smiled to herself.

“I also talked to Forest last night,” he said. “About my father. Forest promised to do his best to keep it out of the newspapers. I hope he does, for Mother’s sake.”

“Not for yours?”

“I don’t give a damn. The man was my father. If anybody wants to make anything out of it–”

Ann interceded gently: “Nobody wants to make anything out of it, Larry.”

His truculence disappeared suddenly, passing over like a squall. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table, inquiring with boyish earnestness: “Who killed him, Cross? Do you know who killed my father?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Neither does Forest. He hasn’t even a lead. He says the kind of icepick that was used can be bought in hundreds of hardware and grocery stores.” A shadow crossed his face. There was malice in it, and a tragic fear. “Do you suppose that Mother–?”

“Certainly not.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t have said it. I’ve been having a bad time with Mother. But she’s through running my life for me. I’m going into criminal practice. I’m sick of living on the surface of things. One thing I’ve got out of this mess: it’s brought my life into focus, I hope. I’ve been playing around, making and spending money, shining up to old ladies – it isn’t good enough. You can use life, or you can waste it. I’m going to use it.”

“That was quite a speech.”

“It wasn’t a speech. It’s what I’m going to do. I tell you, Cross, life is a serious business.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

His teeth came together with an audible click. The muscles swelled in the corners of his jaws. “There are a lot of things I don’t feel like going into. One thing I’ve got to say. I made a bad mistake yesterday in the desert. I’ve been thinking about it off and on ever since.”

“Stop thinking about it. We all make mistakes.”

Ann said: “What are you two talking about now?”

“I told you yesterday, I fired a shot at Miner. If I hadn’t, we would have taken him alive.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe Miner is better off dead.” I finished my coffee and got up. “Good luck.”

He rose to shake hands with me. Each of us tried to crush the other’s hand. Neither of us succeeded.

Ann, who was tipsy on morning coffee and love, called out after me: “Why don’t you get married, Howie? Everybody’s doing it.”

I said that I intended to, but not out loud.

My office telephone was ringing when I went in. I got to it before the ringing ended. It was Sam Dressen.

“Have you spotted her?”

“The HP saw her, some time around ten thirty. She was thumbing rides on the highway, a block north of where it crosses Cacique Street.”

“Going which way?”

“North. You were right, Howie. She isn’t there now. I checked.”

“They didn’t see who picked her up?”

“Naw, they weren’t paying any attention. They figured she was a high-school kid or something. Think I should start an all-points?”

“What does the D.A. say? She’s his witness.”

“I can’t get to him. The jury’s still in session, and he’s questioning Mrs. Miner.”

“Molly may have simply gone home.”

“Where does she live?”

“Just above Pacific Palisades. I think I’ll take a run up there.”

“Why don’t we both go?”

“Fine. We’ll make it faster in one of your cars.”

“Be out front in two minutes flat.”

Sam had cut his teeth on a steering-wheel and had an intuitive traffic-sense. In spite of the noontime jam in the Long Beach bottleneck, and without benefit of siren, the souped-up sheriff’s car took us to the Palisades in a little over an hour. We parked it at a service station a hundred yards beyond the photography studio.

There was a fire-engine-red convertible standing in front of it. The door of the shop was ajar. In the high sun, the hand-tinted photographs on display in the window wore a hectic flush, like the products of an overenthusiastic undertaker’s art.

I left Sam on guard outside and entered the shop as quietly as I could. There were voices in the studio behind the thin-paneled door. I heard a man’s voice first, speaking in quick, clipped accents that I didn’t recognize immediately:

“Fifty-fifty is the best I could do. I’d be running a very big risk.”

And then Molly’s voice: “Who isn’t running a big risk? My offer is ten thousand, take it or leave it.”

“It isn’t enough. I’m expected to do all the work.”