Ross MACDONALD - The Archer Files

“That’s what he told me last night. She took off on him a couple of weeks ago, couldn’t stand a high school teacher’s hours. She must have changed her mind.”

She looked as though she had a mind to change. She was a hardfaced blonde who walked like a man. A certain amount of style took the curse off her stiff angularity. She had on a madras shirt, mannishly cut, and a pair of black Capri pants that hugged her long, slim legs. She had good legs.

Connor looked at us in complex embarrassment. “I thought it was you from a distance, Mr. Green. I don’t believe you know my wife.”

“I’ve seen her in my place of business.” He explained to the woman: “I run the Highway Restaurant in town.”

“How do you do,” she said aloofly, then added in an entirely different voice: “You’re Virginia’s father, aren’t you? I’m so sorry.”

The words sounded queer. Perhaps it was the surroundings: the ashes on the beach, the entrances to the caves, the sea, and the empty sky which dwarfed us all. Green answered her solemnly.

“Thank you, ma’am. Mr. Connor was a strong right arm to me last night. I can tell you.” He was apologizing. And Connor responded:

“Why don’t you come to our place for a drink? It’s just down the beach. You look as if you could use one, Mr. Green. You, too,” he said to me. “I don’t believe I know your name.”

“Archer. Lew Archer.”

He gave me a hard hand. His wife interposed. “I’m sure Mr. Green and his friend won’t want to be bothered with us on a day like this. Besides, it isn’t even noon yet, Frank.”

She was the one who didn’t want to be bothered. We stood around for a minute, exchanging grim, nonsensical comments on the beauty of the day. Then she led Connor back in the direction they had come from. Private Property, her attitude seemed to say: Trespassers will be fresh-frozen.

I drove Green to the Highway Patrol station. He said that he was feeling better, and could make it home from there by himself. He thanked me profusely for being a friend in need to him, as he put it. He followed me to the door of the station, thanking me.

The dispatcher was cleaning her fingernails with an ivory-handled file. She glanced up eagerly.

“Did they catch him yet?”

“I was going to ask you the same question, Miss Brocco.”

“No such luck. But they’ll get him,” she said with female vindictiveness. “The sheriff called out his air squadron, and he sent to Ventura for bloodhounds.”

“Big deal.”

She bridled. “What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t think the old man of the mountain killed her. If he had, he wouldn’t have waited till this morning to go on the lam. He’d have taken off right away.”

“Then why did he go on the lam at all?” The word sounded strange in her prim mouth.

“I think he saw me discover the body, and realized he’d be blamed.”

She considered this, bending the long nail file between her fingers. “If the old tramp didn’t do it, who did?”

“You may be able to help me answer that question.”

“Me help you? How?”

“You know Frank Connor, for one thing.”

“I know him. I’ve seen him about my sister’s grades a few times.”

“You don’t seem to like him much.”

“I don’t like him, I don’t dislike him. He’s just blah to me.”

“Why? What’s the matter with him?”

Her tight mouth quivered, and let out words: “ I don’t know what’s the matter with him. He can’t keep his hands off of young girls.”

“How do you know that?”

“I heard it.”

“From your sister Alice?”

“Yes. The rumor was going around the school, she said.”

“Did the rumor involve Ginnie Green?”

She nodded. Her eyes were as black as fingerprint ink.

“Is that why Connor’s wife left him?”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I never even laid eyes on Mrs. Connor.”

“You haven’t been missing much.”

There was a yell outside, a kind of choked ululation. It sounded as much like an animal as a man. It was Green. When I reached the door, he was climbing out of his convertible with a heavy blue revolver in his hand.

“I saw the killer,” he cried out exultantly.

“Where?”

He waved the revolver toward the lumberyard across the road. “He poked his head up behind that pile of white pine. When he saw me, he ran like a deer. I’m going to get him.”

“No. Give me the gun.”

“Why? I got a license to carry it. And use it.”

He started across the four-lane highway, dodging through the moving patterns of the Sunday traffic as if he were playing Parcheesi on the kitchen table at home. The sounds of brakes and curses split the air. He had scrambled over the locked gate of the yard before I got to it. I went over after him.

Green disappeared behind a pile of lumber. I turned the corner and saw him running halfway down a long aisle walled with stacked wood and floored with beaten earth. The old man of the mountain was running ahead of him. His white hair blew in the wind of his own movement. A burlap sack bounced on his shoulders like a load of sorrow and shame.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” Green cried.

The old man ran on as if the devil himself were after him. He came to a cyclone fence, discarded his sack, and tried to climb it. He almost got over. Three strands of barbed wire along the top of the fence caught and held him struggling.

I heard a tearing sound, and then the sound of a shot. The huge old body espaliered on the fence twitched and went limp, fell heavily to the earth. Green stood over him breathing through his teeth.

I pushed him out of the way. The old man was alive, though there was blood in his mouth. He spat it onto his chin when I lifted his head.

“You shouldn’t ought to of done it. I come to turn myself in. Then I got ascairt.”

“Why were you scared?”

“I watched you uncover the little girl in the leaves. I knew I’d be blamed. I’m one of the chosen. They always blame the chosen. I been in trouble before.”

“Trouble with girls?” At my shoulder Green was grinning terribly.

“Trouble with cops.”

“For killing people?” Green said.

“For preaching on the street without a license. The voice told me to preach to the tribes of the wicked. And the voice told me this morning to come in and give my testimony.”

“What voice?”

“The great voice.” His voice was little and weak. He coughed red.

“He’s as crazy as a bedbug,” Green said.

“Shut up.” I turned back to the dying man. “What testimony do you have to give?”

“About the car I seen. It woke me up in the middle of the night, stopped in the road below my sanctuary.”

“What kind of car?”

“I don’t know cars. I think it was one of them foreign cars. It made a noise to wake the dead.”

“Did you see who was driving it?”

“No. I didn’t go near. I was ascairt.”

“What time was this car in the road?”

“I don’t keep track of time. The moon was down behind the trees.”

Those were his final words. He looked up at the sky with his sky-colored eyes, straight into the sun. His eyes changed color.

Green said: “Don’t tell them. If you do, I’ll make a liar out of you. I’m a respected citizen in this town. I got a business to lose. And they’ll believe me ahead of you, mister.”

“Shut up.”

He couldn’t. “The old fellow was lying, anyway. You know that. You heard him say yourself that he heard voices. That proves he’s a psycho. He’s a psycho killer. I shot him down like you would a mad dog, and I did right.”

He waved the revolver.

“You did wrong, Green, and you know it. Give me that gun before it kills somebody else.”