Росс Макдональд - Meet Me at the Morgue

“A lot of things are.”

“Come on now,” he said heartily, “let’s have a little masculine solidarity here.”

I didn’t smile.

He changed his manner with an actorish facility and became the earnest young lawyer: “What do you propose to do, Mr. Cross?”

“Wait.”

“It’s a long time till midnight. Can we afford to wait? Can the boy afford it?”

“We have to. Johnson could easily die of chagrin if we don’t. In any case, it won’t affect the boy’s chances much. If they intended to kill him, he’s dead now.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I’m afraid I am. He’s a keen, observant boy. Jamie knows who snatched him, if he’s alive. He’d make a good witness, and they must be aware of that.”

His face registered horror, but Seifel was watching me coolly from some internal center of self-love: “I hope to heaven Fred Miner isn’t in it. I defended him, you know, on the manslaughter charge. Johnson asked me to do it.”

“I share the hope. I guess we all do. Incidentally, I’d like to get the complete dope on that charge. There’s no doubt he was guilty?”

“None at all. He never denied it.”

“And you’re absolutely sure it was an accident?”

He regarded me quizzically. “I’m never absolutely sure of anything. Beyond a reasonable doubt, is the test we lawyers use. I have no reasonable doubt about it.”

“Have they identified the victim yet?”

“Not so far as I know. I haven’t been in touch with Dressen lately.” Sam Dressen was the sheriff’s identification officer. “Anyway, he’s a bit of a weak-willie in his job, if you want my opinion. Washington sent back the prints he took from the corpse. Apparently they were too smeared and faint for classification. By the time they shot them back, the body was buried. Last time I talked to Dressen, he was trying to trace the man through the cleaner’s marks on the suit he was wearing. He promised to let me know if anything came of it.”

“But nothing has.”

“I guess not. For all we know, the fellow dropped from the sky. Which was fine for our case, of course. Fred wouldn’t have got off so easy if the man he killed had had friends and relatives bringing pressure.”

“It’s a strange thing nobody claimed the body,” I said. “Wasn’t there any identification on it at all? No wallet? No driver’s license?”

“Nothing like that. You’d think the guy deliberately wiped out his own identity.”

“Did you see him?”

“Yes, I took a look at him in the morgue.” Seifel’s gaze turned inward. “I’ve seen prettier sights. There wasn’t much left of his face. The fog-lamp smashed right into it as he fell. The pathologist said he died instantly. It was rather a shaking experience, I can tell you. I don’t do much work in that line, you know. Seems he was a young fellow, about my age.” His eyes sharpened again: “You don’t suppose there’s some connection between that accident and this?”

“Miner’s in both. The things a man does are always connected in some way.”

He raised his palm: “Let’s not get into philosophy. Afraid I have to shove off now, old man. I have a luncheon engagement and I’m half an hour late already. I’ll be in my office this afternoon.”

“I’ll probably drop by.”

“Do that.”

He started out, but I detained him. “Johnson left the fifty thousand at the station newsstand?”

“Of course. I was with him. That is, I stayed in my car.”

“How did he happen to have so much money on hand?”

“Abe keeps a large savings account. He still likes to take an occasional flyer in real estate. Now I really must run.”

He waved his hand and trotted out, the pads on his shoulders flopping like clumsy wings. I went through the butler’s pantry, which was stocked as a bar, into the dining-room. The white refectory table was set for breakfast. Ham and eggs and toast lay cold and untouched on the plates. It was as if the three breakfasters had been annihilated by a natural cataclysm as they sat down to eat.

Through the French windows that opened on the patio, a changing green light was thrown by the pool. I heard a murmur of voices and followed it outside. Ann and Mrs. Johnson were sitting in the green shade of an umbrella table at the end of the pool, conversing quietly over coffee cups.

Ann looked up and saw that I was alone. Her face showed mingled relief and disappointment. But it was Helen Johnson who said, in some surprise: “Is Larry gone?”

“He mentioned a luncheon engagement.”

She frowned into her cup. “I do wish he’d stayed.” She added with an almost embarrassing candor: “One needs a man around at a time like this. Abel’s pretty much of a broken reed. Not that I blame him. It’s not his fault, dear man.” She remembered her manners suddenly. “Sit down, Mr. Cross. Let me pour you some coffee.”

“Thank you.” I sat between them on a fishnet chair. “Is your husband all right?”

“I think so. I persuaded him to take a sedative and get some rest. Mrs. Miner is making up his bed. If he survived the first awful shock of that ransom letter – he’ll survive anything. Still, I hate to be left alone with him.”

“Won’t Mrs. Miner be within reach?”

“Oh, yes. She’s a good soul. Unfortunately, Amy Miner depresses me. She’s what my husband calls a bleeding heart, I’m afraid. I’m talking like one myself.” She drew a hand slowly across her eyes. “I’m talking much too much. It’s the reaction. I oughtn’t to have stayed alone here this morning. We thought there might be a phone call from them, you see. I waited for one, and the waiting just about drove me crazy. The morning lasted for years. I could actually feel my hair turning gray. It hasn’t, though, has it?” She ran white fingers through her hair. “Somebody shut me up, please.”

Ann said impulsively: “I’ll stay with you if you like.”

“I would like, very much.” Helen Johnson reached for her hand across the table. “It’s sweet of you to offer. You’re sure I’m not interfering with your plans?”

Ann looked at me with a Mona Lisa smile. “Howie, you don’t mind if I stay with Helen?”

It seemed to me that dealing with women was like playing blindfold chess against unidentified opponents. Ann had never hinted that she was in love with Larry Seifel, or even that she knew him. I had had a vain suspicion now and then that she was secretly rather fond of me. Now a shadowy triangle was taking shape between her and Seifel and Helen Johnson. I didn’t like it, but I said:

“Why should I? I have things to do. I won’t be needing you. You’re more use here.”

“What things, Mr. Cross?” Helen Johnson’s tone was sharp. Under other circumstances I would have resented it.

“For one thing, I’m going into Fred Miner’s background. How long have you known him, Mrs. Johnson?”

“Quite a long time, since 1945. He was in the Navy Hospital in San Diego. I was in charge of the orthopedic wards.”

“Before your marriage?”

“Naturally. I was a lieutenant in the nursing corps.”

“Fred was a friend of yours, then, as well as an employee.”

“I gave him his job, if that’s what you mean. Abel isn’t allowed to drive, and I dislike driving. Fred needed light work: he’s on partial disability. He was pleasant to have around. I suppose I was mainly responsible for keeping him on after that dreadful affair in February. I thought he should be given another chance.”

“Why?”

She glanced at me sharply. “Didn’t you?”

“I did. But I’m interested in your reason.”

“Why, I–” She stammered and paused. “I believe in tolerance, I suppose. I’ve had bad breaks in my own life, and people have been tolerant with me. I try to pass it on.”