Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

“What work? I’m putting the finger on her for you. All you got to do is grab the loot. It’s like picking a plum off a tree.”

“Grand larceny,” he said. “A grand larceny tree. I’m sorry, doll. For a measly ten grand, you’re going to have to buy yourself another boy.”

“Where does the larceny come in? She stole the money. You take it away from her, she can’t even raise a squawk.”

“How do I know she won’t?”

“Because I’m telling you. Because she’s as hot as the hinges, hotter than we’ll ever be.”

“You’ve told me a lot of tales at one time and another. They averaged out about a fact to a carload.”

“This is the straight dope, unless I’m right off the beam.” Molly’s voice was thinning out under pressure. “She’s got the money, she must have. All we do is find out where it is and take it off her.”

“All I do, you mean. I should go into the holdup business for ten grand. Even if your dope is straight, which I seriously doubt–”

“Fifteen then. You’re the sharpest. I can’t handle it myself and I can’t take time to argue.”

“Twenty-five,” he said. “For anything less I can’t afford to touch it, believe me, kid. I’m a respectable businessman, remember, I have a lot to lose.”

“You’re respectable, sure, so what are you worried about. She’d never go near the law. If she did, you’re a detective, aren’t you? You’re only doing your job.”

The man’s voice came into context. He was Lemp’s ex-employer, Molly’s ex-admirer, Bourke.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “I don’t like it. You can’t sell it to me for anything less than an even split. For twenty-five, I’ll go against my grain and take my chances. Bear in mind that I’m the one with everything to lose.”

“What about me? I got my career. If I didn’t need a wardrobe for the sake of my career, you don’t think I’d be going into this?”

“Twenty-five grand will buy you a lot of draperies.”

“Fifteen will buy you Carol back,” she said with a flash of spite.

“Twenty-five,” he said. “Is it twenty-five?”

“I guess it’ll have to be. You always were a dirty gouging chiseler.”

“Sticks and stones will break my bones. If I don’t look out for myself, nobody else will. R.K.O., kid, let’s get down to cases. Where is the femme ?”

“She’s down in Pacific Point. I saw her this morning.”

“You’re sure it’s the same one?”

“I couldn’t be wrong. She let her hair grow out, and she’s older, but I’d know her anywhere.”

“Have you seen her before?”

“I didn’t have to. Kerry had this picture of her that he took. He had it with him all through his time in the pen. I found it in the cupboard with his things, after he left. I was going to tear it up.”

“What for?”

“She was the one that fingered him way back in ’46.”

“Is that why you’re so eager?”

“Maybe it is, at that. Why should she get away with everything and make money into the bargain?”

“Why should we?” Bourke asked her cheerfully.

“I need the money. I don’t know about you, but if anybody ever needed money, I need money.”

“Get me the picture,” he said. “I’ll take it with me. And hurry it up. We don’t want to be here when your friends arrive from down south.”

I leaned back against the counter, very carefully.

Molly’s footsteps receded. A door creaked open. She came back across the room, her feet dragging thoughtfully.

“Hurry it up.”

“I am hurrying. Can you imagine Kerry ever falling for her? She hasn’t got half my looks.”

“You’re the best,” he said sardonically. “Let me see.”

“Don’t grab. Even Kerry, with all that talent he had, he couldn’t make her look good.”

“This is talent?”

“Kerry was very talented and artistic. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Snap out of it,” he said roughly. “Kerry was a bum and you’re another.”

“Then you’re another.”

“You may be right at that. Now listen to me. I’m stashing you in a place I know in Venice, a garage apartment off the speedway. Are you set?”

“How do I know you’ll ever come back?”

“I’m not that much of a bum. Besides, I got a business I can’t leave. How do I know this red-head has the money?”

“Nobody else could have. Only she isn’t a red-head any more. She let her hair grow out, I told you. It’s gray.”

“Where do I look for her?”

“I’ll lay it out for you on the way. We better go round by Sepulveda. They’re probably watching the highway for me by now.”

“If we get stopped, I’m taking you into custody. Understand?”

“Yeah, I understand. They can’t do nothing to me. I wasn’t under arrest or anything. I’m clean.”

“Sure, you have that chlorophyll sweetness. I’ve always loved it in you.”

“Go button it where it flaps.”

The doorknob rotated, and the door opened inward. Bourke saw me. His hand slid up like a white lizard under his left lapel. I drove my left hand under it, into his body. He swung his left at me, but he was off balance. I brought my right around over his arm, and found his jaw. He looked away to his right in dazed surprise. My left hand met him there.

Bourke went to his knees in the doorway. His head bowed forward in a profound salaam, and bumped the floor. Sam came around from behind me and took the blue revolver out of his hand.

At the back of the cluttered studio, Molly was trying to open the door. The reflection of the sea shone through the curtained windows like a dim blue hope, lighting one side of her face. It was drawn, like carved white bone, and hungry-looking.

The bolt stuck fast in the socket. She never did get the door open.

I left her struggling and chattering in Sam’s old arms, and went back to Bourke. He was prone on the floor under the hollow counter. I pulled him up to a sitting position and found the photograph in the breast pocket of his natty checkered jacket. When I released him, he fell back under the counter. He lay gasping for air, his head rolling back and forth like a restless infant’s, in months’ accumulation of dirt.

It was a wallet-sized photograph, tinted amateurishly with oils. The colors were faded, as if long nights of looking had worn them thin. Still I could see the traces of red on the mouth and the high cheekbones, the brownish tinge in the eyes, the coarse henna lights in the hair. Amy Miner.

When we reached the Pacific Point courthouse, Amy had finished proclaiming her innocence to the Grand Jury, and had been released from custody. The D.A. came out of the jury session to talk to me. He felt, and the jurors agreed, that Fred Miner was definitely guilty, but Amy wasn’t. I didn’t argue. Instead I gave him Molly and the photograph.

According to the bailiff, Amy had walked out of the sheriff’s office a free woman shortly before two o’clock. Helen Johnson had called for her in the Lincoln. Presumably Helen had driven Amy home with her.

It was ten minutes after three.

I phoned from Sam Dressen’s office. Jamie answered, breathily: “Hi. Is that you, Mummy?”

“This is Howard Cross.”

“Hi, Howard. I thought you were my Mummy.”

“Where is your Mummy?”

“Oh, she went for a ride, I guess.”

“Where to?”

“San Francisco, I guess. My Grandma’s here.”

The telephone was taken away from him. A woman’s voice said sharply, over his protests:

“Who is speaking, please?”

“Howard Cross.”

“Oh, yes. Helen has mentioned you. I’m her mother.”

“Has she really gone to San Francisco?”