Росс Макдональд - The Name is Archer

I stood back behind the door and watched him through the crack. He approached cautiously, his black glance shifting from one side to the other. When his foot was on the lintel, I showed myself and the empty gun in my hand. He froze in midstride, with a rigor that matched the dead woman’s.

“For heaven’s sake, put that gun down. You gave me a dreadful start.”

“Before I put it down, I want to know how you got here. Have you been talking to Lister?”

“I saw him at noon, you know that. He told me about this place he used to own. I didn’t get out on the street in time to intercept you. Now put the gun away, there’s a good fellow. What on earth happened to your face?”

“That can wait. I don’t understand yet why you’re here.”

“Wasn’t that the plan, that I should join you here? I rented a car and got here as soon as I could. It took me a long time to find this place. And no wonder. Are they inside?”

“One of them is.”

“My sister?” His hand grasped my arm. The long white fingers were stronger than they looked, and they were hard to shake off.

“You tell me.”

I took him through the house to the back kitchen. Pulling back the burlap that covered the damaged head, I watched Harlan’s face. It didn’t change. Not a muscle moved. Either Harlan was as cold as the cadaver, or deliberately suppressing his emotion.

“I’ve never seen this woman before.”

“She’s not your sister? Take a good long look.” I uncovered the body.

Harlan averted his eyes, his cheeks flushing purple. But his look came creeping sideways back to the body.

“This is your sister, isn’t it, Mr. Harlan?”

I had to repeat the question to make him hear. He shook his head. “I never saw her before.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t seriously think I’d refuse to identify my own flesh and blood?”

“If there was money in it.”

He didn’t hear me. He was fascinated by the uncovered body. I replaced the burlap and told him what had happened, cutting it short when I saw he wasn’t interested.

I took him to the front room and showed him the writing in the dust.

“Is that your sister’s handwriting?”

“I couldn’t possibly tell.”

“Look closely.”

Harlan squatted, leaning one arm on the chaise. “It’s not her writing.”

“Did she know Latin?”

“Of course. She taught it. I’m surprised that you do.”

“I don’t, but my mother was Catholic.”

“I see.” Rising awkwardly, he stumbled forward on one knee, obliterating the writing.

“Damn you, Harlan!” I said. “You’re acting as if you murdered her yourself.”

“Don’t be absurd.” He smiled his thin white-edged smile. “You’re morally certain that’s Maude in the back room, aren’t you?”

“I’m morally certain you were lying. You were too careful not to recognize her.”

“Well.” He dusted his knee with his hands. “I suppose I had better tell you the truth, since you know it anyway. You’re perfectly right, it’s my sister. She wasn’t murdered, however.”

The sense of unreality returned to the room. I sat down on the chaise, which complained like an animal under my weight

“It’s a tragic story,” Harlan said slowly. “I was rather hoping not to have to tell it. Maude died last night by accident. After I left the studio, she quarreled with Lister over his refusal to admit me. She became quite irrational, in fact. Lister tried to quiet her, but she got away from him and flung herself bodily down those outside steps. The fall killed her.”

“Is that Lister’s version?”

“It’s the simple truth. He came to my hotel room a short while ago, and told me what had happened. The man was in terrible earnest. I know genuine anguish when I see it, and I can tell when a man is telling the truth.”

“You’re better than I am, then. I think he’s playing you for a sucker.”

“What?”

“I caught him practically red-handed, trying to bury the body. Now he’s lying out of it the best way he can. It strikes me as very peculiar that you swallowed it.”

Harlan’s black eyes probed my face. “I assure you his story is the truth. He told me about everything, you see, including the matter of – burial. Put yourself in his place. When Maude killed herself – was killed – last night, Lister saw immediately that suspicion would fall on him, especially my suspicion. He’s had some trouble with the police, he told me. Inevitably in his panic he acted like a guilty man. He thought of this deserted place, and brought the body here to dispose of it. His action was rash and even illegal, but I think understandable under the circumstances.”

“You’re very tolerant all of a sudden. What about the five grand he’s been trying to con you for?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“The check for five thousand, has it slipped your mind?”

“We’ll forget about it,” he said impassively. “It’s my affair, strictly between him and me.”

I was beginning to get hold of the situation, if not the motives behind it. Somehow or other Lister had persuaded Harlan to cover for him. I said with all the irony I could muster:

“So we’ll bury the body and forget about it.”

“Precisely my idea. Not we, however. You. I can’t afford to become involved in any illegality whatsoever.”

“What makes you think I can?”

He brought a leatherette folder out of his coat pocket and opened it to show me the travelers’ checks inside. There were ten hundreds. “One thousand dollars,” he said, “seems to me an adequate sexton’s fee. Enough to assure forgetfulness as well.”

His look was very knowing, but his passion for money was making him idiotic. He was like a tone-deaf man who couldn’t believe that other people heard music and even liked it. But I didn’t argue. I let him sign the checks and listened to his instructions. Bury her and forget her.

“I sincerely hate to do this to Maude,” he said before he left. “It goes against my grain to leave my sister in an unmarked grave, but I have to consider the greatest good of the greatest number. It would ruin the School if this matter got into the newspapers. I can’t let mere fraternal piety interfere with the welfare of the School.”

Naturally I didn’t bury the body. I left it where it lay and followed Harlan back to Santa Monica. I caught the Studebaker before it reached the city, but I let it stay ahead of me.

He parked on Wilshire Boulevard and went into an air travel agency. Before I could find a parking space, he was out again and climbing into his car. I made a note of the agency’s name, and followed the Studebaker back to the Oceano Hotel. Harlan left it at the white curb for the garageman. There were shells in my dashboard compartment, and I reloaded my revolver.

The lobby of the hotel was deserted except for the desk clerk and a pair of old ladies playing canasta. I found a telephone booth at the rear, and called the travel agency. A carefully preserved British accent said:

“Sanders’ travel agency, Mr. Sanders speaking.”

“This is J. Reginald Harlan,” I said fussily. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Indeed it does, Mr. Harlan. I trust your reservations are satisfactory?”

“I’m not entirely sure about that. You see, I’m eager to get there as soon as I can.”

“I absolutely assure you, Mr. Harlan, I’ve put you on the earliest available flight. Ten o’clock from International Airport.” A trace of impatience threaded through the genteel tones.

“When do I get there?”

“I thought I’d made that clear. It’s written on your envelope.”

“I seem to have misplaced the envelope.”

“You’re scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, Chicago time. All right?”