Ross MACDONALD - The Archer Files

Hilary Todd was sprawled face down on the bed, with an open suitcase crushed under the weight of his body. The silver handle of his ice pick stood up between his shoulder blades in the center of a wet, dark stain. The silver glinted coldly in a ray of light which came through the half-closed Venetian blinds.

I felt for his pulse and couldn’t find it. His head was twisted sideways, and his empty dark eyes stared unblinking at the wall. A slight breeze from the open window at the foot of the bed ruffled the hair along the side of his head.

I burrowed under the heavy body and went through the pockets. In the inside breast pocket of the coat I found what I was looking for: a plain white business envelope, unsealed, containing $15,000 in large bills.

I was standing over the bed with the money in my hand when I heard someone in the hallway. A moment later Mary appeared at the door.

“I saw you come in,” she said. “I thought–” Then she saw the body.

“Someone killed Hilary.”

“ Killed Hilary? ” She looked at the body on the bed and then at me. I realized that I was holding the money in plain view.

“What are you doing with that?”

I folded the bills and tucked them into my inside pocket. “I’m going to try an experiment. Be a good girl and call the police for me.”

“Where did you get that money?”

“From someone it didn’t belong to. Don’t tell the sheriff about it. Just say that I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“They’ll want to know where you went.”

“And if you don’t know, you won’t be able to tell them. Now do as I say.”

She looked into my face, wondering if she could trust me. Her voice was uncertain: “If you’re sure you’re doing the right thing.”

“Nobody ever is.”

I went out to my car and drove to Foothill Drive. The sun had dipped low over the sea, and the air was turning colder. By the time I reached the iron gates that cut off Walter Hendryx from ordinary mortals, the valley beyond them was in shadow.

The burly man came out of the gatehouse as if I had pressed a button, and up to the side of the car. “What do you want?” He recognized me then, and pushed his face up to the window. “Beat it, chum. I got orders to keep you away from here.”

I restrained an impulse to push the face away, and tried diplomacy. “I came here to do your boss a favor.”

“That’s not the way he feels. Now blow.”

“Look here.” I brought the wad of bills out of my pocket, and passed them back and forth under his nose. “There’s big money involved.”

His eyes followed the moving bills as if they hypnotized him. “I don’t take bribes,” he said in a hoarse and passionate whisper.

“I’m not offering you one. But you should phone down to Hendryx, before you do anything rash, and tell him there’s money in it.”

“Money for him?” There was a wistful note in his voice. “How much?”

“Fifteen thousand, tell him.”

“Some bonus.” He whistled. “What kind of a house is he building for you, bud, that you should give him an extra fifteen grand?”

I didn’t answer. His question gave me too much to think about. He went back into the gatehouse.

Two minutes later he came out and opened the gates. “Mr. Hendryx will see you. But don’t try any funny stuff or you won’t come out on your own power.”

The maid was waiting at the door. She took me into a big rectangular room with French windows on one side, opening onto the terrace. The rest of the walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling – the kind of books that are bought by the set and never read. In front of the fireplace, at the far end, Hendryx was sitting half submerged in an overstuffed armchair, with a blanket over his knees.

He looked up when I entered the room and the firelight danced on his scalp and lit his face with an angry glow. “What’s this? Come here and sit down.”

The maid left silently. I walked the length of the room and sat down in an armchair facing him. “I always bring bad news, Mr. Hendryx. Murder and such things. This time it’s Hilary Todd.”

The turtle face didn’t change, but his head made a movement of withdrawal into the shawl collar of his robe. “I’m exceedingly sorry to hear it. But my gatekeeper mentioned the matter of money. That interests me more.”

“Good.” I produced the bills and spread them fanwise on my knee. “Do you recognize this?”

“Should I?”

“For a man that’s interested in money, you’re acting very coy.”

“I’m interested in its source.”

“I had an idea that you were the source of this particular money. I have some other ideas. For instance, that Hilary Todd stole the Chardin and sold it to you. One thing I have no idea about is why you would buy a stolen picture and pay for it in cash.”

His false teeth glistened coldly in the firelight. Like the man at the gate, he kept his eyes on the money. “The picture wasn’t stolen. I bought it legally from its rightful owner.”

“I might believe you if you hadn’t denied any knowledge of it this afternoon. I think you knew it was stolen.”

His voice took on a cutting edge: “It was not.” He slipped his blue-veined hand inside his robe and brought out a folded sheet of paper, which he handed me.

It was a bill of sale for the picture, informal but legal, written in longhand on the stationery of the San Marcos Beach Club, signed by Admiral Johnston Turner, and dated that day.

“Now may I ask you where you got hold of that money?”

“I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Hendryx. I took it from the body of Hilary Todd, when he had no further use for it.”

“That’s a criminal act, I believe.”

My brain was racing, trying to organize a mass of contradictory facts. “I have a notion that you’re not going to talk to anyone about it.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to be full of notions.”

“I have another. Whether or not you’re grateful to me for bringing you this money, I think you should be.”

“Have you any reason for saying that?” He had withdrawn his eyes from the money on my knee and was looking into my face.

“You’re in the building business, Mr. Hendryx?”

“Yes.” His voice was flat.

“I don’t know exactly how you got this money. My guess is that you gouged it out of home-buyers, by demanding a cash side-payment in addition to the appraised value of the houses you’ve been selling to veterans.”

“That’s a pretty comprehensive piece of guesswork, isn’t it?”

“I don’t expect you to admit it. On the other hand, you probably wouldn’t want this money traced to you. The fact that you haven’t banked it is an indication of that. That’s why Todd could count on you to keep this picture deal quiet. And that’s why you should be grateful to me.”

The turtle eyes stared into mine and admitted nothing. “If I were grateful, what form do you suggest my gratitude should take?”

“I want the picture. I’ve sort of set my heart on it.”

“Keep the money instead.”

“This money is no good to me. Dirty money never is.”

He threw the blanket off and levered himself out of the chair. “You’re somewhat more honest than I’d supposed. You’re offering, then, to buy the picture back from me with that money.”

“Exactly.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“The money goes to the Intelligence Unit of the Internal Revenue Bureau.”

There was silence for a while, broken by the fire hissing and sputtering in an irritable undertone.

“Very well,” he said at length. “Give me the money.”

“Give me the picture.”

He waded across the heavy rug, moving his feet a few inches at a time, and pressed a corner of one of the bookcases. It swung open like a door. Behind it was the face of a large wall safe. I waited uncomfortably while he twirled the double dials.