Ross MACDONALD - The Archer Files

“Foreign?”

“That isn’t clear. He seems to speak English without any accent.”

“Who has he been speaking English to?”

Griffin compressed his lips. “I’m afraid I’m not authorized to name our client, if that is what you mean. In point of fact, the client in question isn’t properly ours . I’m acting in this matter for a colleague in La Mesa.”

“Another lawyer?”

“That is correct.”

“What’s his name?”

“I’m not authorized to give it to you. It was thought best not to.”

“I like to know who I’m working for. And why.”

“Naturally.” Griffin smiled his wintry smile. “Certainly we’re implying no lack of confidence in you, or we’d never have asked you to take a hand in this. But there are circumstances in the present case – family and – ah – psychological considerations – which impose a certain amount of security on us. I’m asking you to go along with it, and I give you my personal assurance that you’re dealing with the highest type of people.”

“In the best of all possible worlds?”

Griffin sat behind his desk, watching me with a no-comment expression. Trying to get information out of a Los Angeles lawyer was like opening a can of sardines without a key. I said:

“This Smith doesn’t sound like any bargain. What’s he been doing to these high-type people, to make them want to investigate him?”

“We look to you for an answer to that, Mr. Archer.”

“You mean they don’t know what he’s been doing to them?”

“His intentions are obscure, shall we say. Everything about the man is obscure. If you can throw some light on him and his motives, you’ll be well paid for your trouble.”

“It will cost your client a hundred dollars a day, whether or not I come up with anything.”

“I anticipated that, and I’m prepared to give you a five-hundred-dollar advance now. Will you take the case?”

I didn’t want the case. I didn’t like Griffin. I resented the secrecy with which he was trying to handle it and me. But he had stirred my curiosity. And I could use the money.

“I’ll take it.”

He handed me a check which he had already made out against his firm’s account, and watched me put it away. With a glint of something in his eye that might have been ownership. I didn’t like it.

“Is Smith blackmailing your high-type people?” I said.

Griffin’s eyebrows went up till his forehead resembled brown corduroy. “I have no reason to think so. You must understand, our knowledge of him is minimal. We’re looking to you, Mr. Archer, to maximize it.”

“Okay, let’s get back to Smith’s description. Brown-black eyes, largish broken nose, swarthy complexion, gray streaks in black hair. How big is he?”

I took out my notebook while Griffin consulted his scribbled sheet. “About six feet. His back is slightly stooped, possibly from doing manual work. He’s broad-shouldered, but not too heavy.”

I wrote this down. “How does he dress?”

“In an ordinary dark business suit. It looks new, but it doesn’t fit him too well. He wears a white shirt and a dark tie. No hat. At least he wasn’t wearing one at the time that he was observed.”

“Where and when was this?”

“I don’t know. In fact, you’ve pretty well exhausted my information.”

“You’re not giving me much to go on, Mr. Griffin. There must be a hundred thousand people in La Mesa–”

“But only a few dozen named Smith.”

“Does he have a first name?”

“Presumably, but I don’t know it. The chances are, as I said, that he’s living in a waterfront hotel or motel. You shouldn’t have too much trouble finding him. After that – I believe you understand your instructions.”

“Yes.”

“If and when you uncover anything significant, report to me. Our answering service can put you in touch with me at any hour.”

Griffin rose in a gesture of dismissal.

I got to La Mesa in time for lunch, which I ate in a waterfront café. It was late June, and the place was crowded with women in slacks and men in shorts, displaying sunburned knees. From my table by the window, I could see the yacht harbor. Small sailboats were moving out through the channel with that slow grace that only sailboats have. It was a bright day, and the wind was freshening.

Just for fun, I tried Smith’s description on the waitress who brought my Crab Louie. She shook her hennaed head at me:

“I’m sorry. Even if I did see him – I see so many people.”

She limped away.

I had no better luck in the motels. They stretched for half a mile along the waterfront boulevard: expensive stucco layouts with green swimming pools and greener lawns, shaded by palm trees rattling in the wind. They were happy places for happy people who wanted to live for a little while in a postcard paradise. Some of the people were named Smith, and that took time. None of them was the Smith I was looking for.

Four hours later, four hours of legwork and tonguework which got me nothing, I had worked my way to the end of motel row. Like white birds coming home to roost, the sails were turning back towards the harbor, heeling as they tacked into the channel.

I turned back towards the main street, remembering a small hotel I had missed. It stood on a corner a block away from the boulevard. It was a three-story building with a front of dirty white bricks and an old electric sign which mumbled through its missing bulbs that this was the MADISON HOTEL. The lobby was narrow and dank. There was nobody at the desk. Two old men, facing each other across a card table that had been set up by the front window, were playing checkers as if their lives depended on the outcome. One of them had two kings; the other had three.

I asked the lucky one where the desk clerk was.

“I’m taking care of the desk right now,” he said without looking up. “You want a room?”

“I may at that. Is there a Mr. Smith staying here?”

He raised his head. His eyes were time-washed and shrewd. “What you want with him?”

“I ran into him, he said you might have a room. Most of the motels are full.”

“We got plenty of rooms. Mind if I finish the game, mister, and then I’ll fix you up?”

He moved one of his kings, hastily, as if he had lost interest in the game. The other old man took it. My old man took his opponent’s two kings and got up grinning like a dog.

He disappeared through a door at the back and emerged behind the desk, wearing a green eyeshade. “I can give you a room with a private bath if you want to go to five.”

“We’ll talk about that in a minute. I want to be sure that it’s the same Mr. Smith. Is he a dark man with a broken nose?”

“Uh-huh. He’s the only Smith we got.”

“Is he in his room?”

He glanced at the keyboard behind him. “Not right now. I think he went out for a walk. You want a room or don’t you?”

“Yes. Please. With bath.”

I registered under my own name, gave him a ten-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

His jaw dropped, displacing his false teeth slightly. He looked as if he was going to eat the money. “What’s this for?”

“For not telling Mr. Smith that I was asking about him. Pass the word to your friend.”

“Cop?”

I improved on this: “Undercover agent.”

“Did Mr. Smith do something?”

“I don’t know. He may be an innocent victim of the conspiracy. I’ve been assigned to keep an eye on him. I’m telling you this much because you’re obviously a man of experience and you have an honest face.”

“You can trust me ,” he said. “Is it the dope traffic? We’ve had a lot of it seeping into town these last few years.”