Ross MACDONALD - The Underground Man

“There may not be anyone here then,” I said. “Why don’t you give me your name and address, and we’ll get in touch with you?”

He considered my proposal, and finally said: “You can reach me at the Star Motel. That’s below Topanga Canyon on the coast highway. Ask for Al.”

I made a note of the address. “No phone?”

“You can’t deliver money over the phone.”

He gave us a dim eroded smile and went. I followed him to the corner of the house and watched him drive off in an old black Volkswagen. It had a missing front fender and a license plate so dirty I couldn’t read it.

“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Jean said.

“I doubt if he knows, himself. He’d have to take a lie-detector test to find out. And he’d probably flunk it.”

“What’s Stanley doing with that kind of person?”

“You know Stanley better than I do.”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

We went into the house, and I asked Jean’s permission to use the phone in the study again. I wanted to get in touch with the owner of the Mercedes. Santa Teresa Information gave me Armistead’s number, and I dialed it.

A woman’s voice answered impatiently: “Yes?”

“May I talk to Mr. Armistead?”

“He isn’t here.”

“Where can I find him?”

“That depends on what you want him for,” she said.

“Are you Mrs. Armistead?”

“Yes.” She sounded ready to hang up on me.

“I’m trying to trace a young woman. An unnatural blond–”

She cut in in a much more interested voice: “Did she spend Thursday night on a yacht in the Santa Teresa marina?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you know about her?”

“She was driving a green Mercedes. Apparently it’s your husband’s.”

“It’s my car. It’s my yacht, too, for that matter. Did she wreck the Mercedes?”

“No.”

“I want it back. Where is it?”

“I’ll tell you if you let me come and talk to you.”

“Is this some kind of a shakedown? Did Roger put you up to this?” There was a tremolo of anger and hurt in her voice.

“I’ve never seen him in my life.”

“Count yourself fortunate. What’s your name?”

“Archer.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Archer?”

“I’m a private detective.”

“I see. And what do you want to talk to me about?”

“The blond girl. I don’t know her name. Do you?”

“No. Is she in trouble?”

“She seems to be.”

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen or nineteen.”

“I see,” she said in a smaller, thinner voice. “Did Roger give her the car, or was it stolen?”

“You’ll have to ask Roger. Shall I bring you the car?”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Northridge, but I’m on my way to Santa Teresa. We can have a talk, perhaps.”

There was a short silence. I asked Mrs. Armistead if she was there.

“I’m here. But I’m not sure I want to talk to you. However,” she added in a stronger voice, “the car belongs to me and I want it back. I’m willing to pay you, reasonably.”

“We’ll discuss that when I see you.”

I backed the Mercedes out of the garage and put my car in its place. When I made my way back to the study, Jean was talking again on the phone to her mother-in-law.

She set the receiver down and told me that Stanley and Ronny and the girl had visited the ranch that morning in Mrs. Broadhurst’s absence. “The gardener gave them the key to the Mountain House.”

“What’s that?”

“A guest cabin in the hills back of the ranch. Where the fire is.”

Before we reached Santa Teresa I could smell smoke. Then I could see it dragging like a veil across the face of the mountain behind the city.

Under and through the smoke I caught glimpses of fire like the flashes of heavy guns too far away to be heard. The illusion of war was completed by an old two-engine bomber which flew in low over the mountain’s shoulder. The plane was lost in the smoke for a long instant, then climbed out trailing a pastel red cloud of fire retardant.

On the freeway ahead the traffic thickened rapidly and stopped us. I reached over to turn on the car radio but then decided not to. The woman beside me had enough on her mind without having to listen to fire reports.

At the head of the line, a highway patrolman was directing the movement of traffic from a side road onto the freeway. There were quite a few cars coming down out of the hills, many of them with Santa Teresa College decals. I noticed several trucks piled with furniture and mattresses, children and dogs.

When the patrolman let us pass, we turned onto the road that led to the hills. It took us in a gradual climb between lemon groves and subdivisions toward what Jean described as Mrs. Broadhurst’s canyon.

A man wearing a Forest Service jacket and a yellow hard hat stopped the Mercedes at the entrance to the canyon. Jean climbed out and introduced herself as Mrs. Broadhurst’s daughter-in-law.

“I hope you’re not planning to stay, ma’am. We may have to evacuate this area.”

“Have you seen my husband and little boy?” She described Ronny – six years old, blue-eyed, black-haired, wearing a light-blue suit.

He shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of people leaving with their kids. It isn’t a bad idea. Once the fire starts spilling down one of these canyons she can outrace you.”

“How bad is it?” I said.

“It depends on the wind. If the wind stays quiet we could get her fully contained before nightfall. We’ve got a lot of equipment up on the mountain. But if she starts to blow–” He lifted his hand in a kind of resigned goodbye to everything in sight.

We drove into the canyon between fieldstone gate posts emblazoned with the name Canyon Estates. New and expensive houses were scattered along the canyonside among the oaks and boulders. Men and women with hoses were watering their yards and buildings and the surrounding brush. Their children were watching them, or sitting quietly in cars, ready to go. The smoke towering up from the mountain stood over them like a threat and changed the color of the light.

The Broadhurst ranch lay between these houses and the fire. We went up the canyon toward it, and left the county road at Mrs. Broadhurst’s mailbox. Her private asphalt lane wound through acres of mature avocado trees. Their broad leaves were shriveling at the tips as if the fire had already touched them. Darkening fruit hung down from their branches like green hand grenades.

The lane broadened into a circular drive in front of a large and simple white stucco ranchhouse. Under the deep porch, red fuchsias dripped from hanging redwood baskets. At a red glass hummingbird feeder suspended among the baskets, a hummingbird which also seemed suspended was sipping from a spout and treading air.

The bird didn’t move perceptibly when a woman opened the screen door and came out. She had on a white shirt and dark slacks which showed off her narrow waist. She moved across the veranda with rapid disciplined energy, making the high heels of her riding boots click.

“Jean darling.”

“Mother.”

They shook hands briefly like competitors before a match of some kind. Mrs. Broadhurst’s neat dark head was touched with gray, but she was younger than I’d imagined, no more than fifty or so.

Only her eyes looked older. Without moving them from Jean’s face, she shook her head from side to side.

“No, they haven’t come back. And they haven’t been seen in the area for some time. Who’s the blond girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is Stanley having an affair with her?”

“I don’t know, Mother.” She turned to me. “This is Mr. Archer.”