Росс Макдональд - The Goodbye Look

The dining room was more cheerful. Under a yellowing crystal chandelier with one live bulb, a table had been set for one person, with polished silver on a clean white cloth. An old white-headed man in a rusty dinner coat was finishing off what looked like a bowl of beef stew.

The woman introduced me to him. He put his spoon down and struggled to his feet, offering me a gnarled hand. “Take it easy with my arthritis, please. Sit down. Mrs. Shepherd will get you a cup of coffee.”

“Tea,” she corrected him. “We’re out of coffee.” But she lingered in the room, waiting to hear what was said.

Rawlinson’s eyes had a mica glint. He spoke with impatient directness. “This revolver you telephoned about – I gather it’s been used for some illegal purpose?”

“Possibly. I don’t know that it has.”

“But if it hasn’t you’ve come a long way for nothing.”

“In my job everything has to be checked out.”

“I understand you’re a private detective,” he said.

“That’s correct.”

“Employed by whom?”

“A lawyer named Truttwell in Pacific Point.”

“John Truttwell?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I met John two or three times through one of his clients. That was a long time ago, when he was young and I was middle-aged. It must be close to thirty years – Estelle’s been dead for nearly twenty-four.”

“Estelle?”

“Estelle Chalmers – Judge Chalmers’s widow. She was a hell of a woman.” The old man smacked his lips like a wine-taster.

The woman still lingering by the door was showing signs of distress. “All that is ancient history, Mr. Rawlinson. The gentleman isn’t interested in ancient history.”

Rawlinson laughed. “It’s the only kind of history I know. Where’s that tea you were so freely offering, Mrs. Shepherd?” She went out, closing the door with emphasis. He turned to me. “She thinks she owns me. She doesn’t, though. If I don’t have a right to my memories, there isn’t a great deal left at my time of life.”

“I’m interested in your memories,” I said, “specifically in the Colt revolver you bought in September 1941. It was probably used to shoot a man last night.”

“What man?”

“Sidney Harrow was his name.”

“I never heard of him,” Rawlinson said, as if this cast some doubt on Harrow’s reality. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re trying to connect my gun with his death?”

“Not exactly. It either is connected or it isn’t. I want to know which.”

“Wouldn’t ballistics show?”

“Possibly. The tests haven’t been made yet.”

“Then I think I should wait, don’t you?”

“You certainly should if you’re guilty, Mr. Rawlinson.”

He laughed so hard his upper teeth slipped. He pushed them back into place with thumb and forefinger. Mrs. Shepherd appeared in the doorway with a tea tray.

“What’s so funny?” she asked him.

“You wouldn’t consider it funny, Mrs. Shepherd. Your sense of humor is deficient.”

“Your sense of fittingness is. For an eighty-year-old man who used to be the president of a bank–” She set the tea tray down with a slight clash that completed her thought. “Milk or lemon, Mr. Archer?”

“I’ll take it black.”

She poured our tea in two bone china cups that didn’t match. The rundown elegance of the household made me wonder if Rawlinson was a poor man or a miser; and what in hell had happened to his bank.

“Mr. Archer suspects me of committing a murder,” he said to the woman in a slightly bragging tone.

She didn’t think it was funny at all. Her dark face got darker, grim around the mouth and in the eyes. She turned on Rawlinson fiercely.

“Why don’t you tell him the truth then? You know you gave that revolver to your daughter, and you know the exact date.”

“Be quiet.”

“I will not. You’re playing tricks with yourself and I won’t let you. You’re a smart man but you don’t have enough to occupy your mind.”

Rawlinson showed no anger. He seemed to be pleased by her almost wifely concern. And his holding back about the gun had been just a game, apparently.

Mrs. Shepherd was the worried one. “Who got shot?”

“A part-time detective named Sidney Harrow.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who that would be. Drink up your tea while it’s hot. Can I get you a piece of fruitcake, Mr. Archer? There’s some left over from Christmas.”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll have some,” Rawlinson said. “With a scoop of ice cream.”

“We’re out of ice cream.”

“We seem to be out of everything.”

“No, there’s enough to eat. But money only stretches so far.”

She left the room again. With her warmth and energy subtracted, the room changed. Rawlinson looked around it a little uneasily, as if he was feeling the cold weight of his bones.

“I’m sorry she saw fit to sic you onto my daughter. And I hope you won’t go dashing off in her direction now. There’d be no point in it.”

“Why?”

“It’s true I gave Louise the gun in 1945. But it was stolen from her house some years later, in 1954, to be exact.” He recited the dates as if he was proud of his memory. “This is not an ad hoc story.”

“Who stole the gun?”

“How should we know? My daughter’s house was burglarized.”

“Why did you give her the gun in the first place?”

“It’s an old story and a sad one,” he said. “My daughter’s husband abandoned her and left her stranded with Jean.”

“Jean?”

“My granddaughter Jean. The two helpless females were left alone in the house. Louise wanted the gun for protection.” He grinned suddenly. “I think Louise may have been hoping that he would come back.”

“That who would come back?”

“Her husband. My egregious son-in-law Eldon Swain. If Eldon had come back, I have no doubt she’d have shot him. With my blessing.”

“What did you have against your son-in-law?”

He laughed abruptly. “That’s an excellent question. But with your permission I don’t think I’ll answer it.”

Mrs. Shepherd brought us two narrow wedges of cake. She noticed that I wolfed mine.

“You’re hungry. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“Don’t bother. I’m on my way to dinner.”

“It wouldn’t be any bother.”

Her divided attention made Rawlinson uncomfortable. He said with the air of a comedian: “Mr. Archer wants to know what Eldon Swain did to me. Shall I tell him?”

“No. You’re talking too much, Mr. Rawlinson.”

“Eldon’s defalcations are common knowledge.”

“Not any more they’re not. I say let it lie. We could all be a lot worse off than we are. I told Shepherd the same thing. When you talk about old trouble sometimes you can talk it back to life.”

He reacted with jealous irritation. “I thought your husband was living in San Diego.”

“Randy Shepherd isn’t my husband. He’s my ex.”

“Have you been seeing him? ”

She shrugged. “I can’t help it when he comes back for a visit. I do my best to discourage him.”

“So that’s where the ice cream and coffee have been going!”

“It isn’t so. I never give Shepherd a morsel of your food or a cent of your money.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Don’t call me that, Mr. Rawlinson. There are things I won’t put up with, even from you.”

Rawlinson looked quite happy again. He had the woman’s attention, and all her heat, focused on him.

I stood up. “I’ve got to be going.”

Neither of them offered any argument. Mrs. Shepherd accompanied me to the front door. “I hope you got what you came for.”