Ross MACDONALD - The Archer Files

“No. Come out for a minute.” I took her elbow and drew her into the corridor.

“What is it?” Her voice was quiet, but it had risen in pitch. “Has something happened to him?”

“Not to him . Admiral Turner’s picture’s been stolen from the gallery. The Chardin.”

“But how does Hugh come into this?”

“Somebody seems to think he took it.”

“Somebody?”

“Mrs. Turner, to be specific.”

“ Sarah! She’d say anything to get back at him for ditching her.”

I filed that one away. “Maybe so. The fact is, the Admiral seems to suspect him, too. So much so that he’s keeping the police out of it.”

“Admiral Turner is a senile fool. If Hugh were here to defend himself–”

“But that’s the point. He isn’t.”

“I’ve got to find him.” She turned towards the door.

“It may not be so easy.”

She looked back in quick anger, her round chin prominent. “You suspect him, too.”

“I do not. But a crime’s been committed, remember. Crimes often come in pairs.”

She turned, her eyes large and very dark. “You do think something has happened to my brother.”

“I don’t think anything. But if I were certain that he’s all right, I’d be on my way to San Francisco now.”

“You believe it’s as bad as that,” she said in a whisper. “I’ve got to go to the police.”

“It’s up to you. You’ll want to keep them out of it, though, if there’s the slightest chance–” I left the sentence unfinished.

She finished it: “That Hugh is a thief? There isn’t. But I’ll tell you what we’ll do. He may be up at his shack in the mountains. He’s gone off there before without telling anyone. Will you drive up with me?” She laid a light hand on my arm. “I can go myself if you have to get away.”

“I’m sticking around,” I said. “Can you get time off?”

“I’m taking it. All they can do is fire me, and there aren’t enough good technicians to go around. Anyway, I put in three hours’ overtime last night. Be with you in two minutes.”

And she was.

I put the top of the convertible down. As we drove out of the city the wind blew away her smooth glaze of efficiency, colored her cheeks and loosened her sleek hair.

“You should do this oftener,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Get out in the country and relax.”

“I’m not exactly relaxed, with my brother accused of theft, and missing into the bargain.”

“Anyway, you’re not working. Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you work too hard?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that somebody has to work or nothing will get done? You and Hugh are more alike than I thought.”

“In some ways that’s a compliment. You make it sound like an insult.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, exactly. But Hugh and I are so different. I admit he works hard at his painting, but he’s never tried to make a steady living. Since I left school, I’ve had to look after the bread and butter for both of us. His salary as resident painter keeps him in artist’s supplies, and that’s about all.”

“I thought he was doing well. His show’s had a big advance buildup in the L.A. papers.”

“Critics don’t buy pictures,” she said bluntly. “He’s having the show to try to sell some paintings, so he can afford to get married. Hugh has suddenly realized that money is one of the essentials.” She added with some bitterness, “The realization came a little late.”

“He’s been doing some outside work, though, hasn’t he? Isn’t he a part-time agent or something?”

“For Hendryx, yes.” She made the name sound like a dirty word. “I’d just as soon he didn’t take any of that man’s money.”

“Who’s Hendryx?”

“A man.”

“I gathered that. What’s the matter with his money?”

“I really don’t know. I have no idea where it comes from. But he has it.”

“You don’t like him?”

“No. I don’t like him, and I don’t like the men who work for him. They look like a gang of thugs to me. But Hugh wouldn’t notice that. He’s horribly dense where people are concerned. I don’t mean that Hugh’s done anything wrong,” she added quickly. “He’s bought a few paintings for Hendryx on commission.”

“I see.” I didn’t like what I saw, but I named it. “The Admiral said something about Hugh trying to buy the Chardin for an unnamed purchaser. Would that be Hendryx?”

“It could be,” she said.

“Tell me more about Hendryx.”

“I don’t know any more. I only met him once. That was enough. I know that he’s an evil old man, and he has a bodyguard who carries him upstairs.”

“Carries him upstairs?”

“Yes. He’s crippled. As a matter of fact, he offered me a job.”

“Carrying him upstairs?”

“He didn’t specify my duties. He didn’t get that far.” Her voice was so chilly it quick-froze the conversation. “Now could we drop the subject, Mr. Archer?”

The road had begun to rise towards the mountains. Yellow and black Slide Area signs sprang up along the shoulders. By holding the gas pedal nearly to the floor, I kept our speed around fifty.

“You’ve had quite a busy morning,” Mary said after a while, “meeting the Turners and all.”

“Social mobility is my stock in trade.”

“Did you meet Alice, too?”

I said I had.

“And what did you think of her?”

“I shouldn’t say it to another girl, but she’s a lovely one.”

“Vanity isn’t one of my vices,” Mary said. “She’s beautiful. And she’s really devoted to Hugh.”

“I gathered that.”

“I don’t think Alice has ever been in love before. And painting means almost as much to her as it does to him.”

“He’s a lucky man.” I remembered the disillusioned eyes of the self-portrait, and hoped that his luck was holding.

The road twisted and climbed through red clay cutbanks and fields of dry chaparral.

“How long does this go on?” I asked.

“It’s about another two miles.”

We zigzagged up the mountainside for ten or twelve minutes more. Finally the road began to level out. I was watching its edge so closely that I didn’t see the cabin until we were almost on top of it. It was a one-story frame building standing in a little hollow at the edge of the high mesa. Attached to one side was an open tarpaulin shelter from which the rear end of a gray coupe protruded. I looked at Mary.

She nodded. “It’s our car.” Her voice was bright with relief.

I stopped the convertible in the lane in front of the cabin. As soon as the engine died, the silence began. A single hawk high over our heads swung round and round on his invisible wire. Apart from that, the entire world seemed empty. As we walked down the ill-kept gravel drive, I was startled by the sound of my own footsteps.

The door was unlocked. The cabin had only one room. It was a bachelor hodgepodge, untouched by the human hand for months at a time. Cooking utensils, paint-stained dungarees and painter’s tools and bedding were scattered on the floor and furniture. There was an open bottle of whiskey, half empty, on the kitchen table in the center of the room. It would have been just another mountain shack if it hadn’t been for the watercolors on the wall, like brilliant little windows, and the one big window which opened on the sky.

Mary had crossed to the window and was looking out. I moved up to her shoulder. Blue space fell away in front of us all the way down to the sea, and beyond to the curved horizon. San Marcos and its suburbs were spread out like an air map between the sea and the mountains.

“I wonder where he can be,” she said. “Perhaps he’s gone for a hike. After all, he doesn’t know we’re looking for him.”