Росс Макдональд - The Goodbye Look

“Where has Nick gone to, anyway?”

“I have no idea. He just took off.”

“Who was looking after him?”

“His father.”

“That’s preposterous. I warned them that the boy needed security, but Truttwell vetoed that.” His anger was running on, finding new objects, as if it was really anger with himself. “If they refuse to take my advice I’ll wash my hands of the business.”

“You can’t do that and you know it,” his wife said from the doorway. “The police are after Nick.”

“Or soon will be,” I said.

“What have they got on him?”

“Suspicion of two killings. You probably know more about the details than I do.”

Dr. Smitheram’s eyes met mine in a kind of confrontation. I could feel that I was up against a strong devious will.

“You’re assuming a good deal.”

“Look, doctor. Couldn’t we put down the foils and talk like human beings? We both want to bring Nick home safe, keep him out of jail, get his sickness cured – whatever it is.”

“That’s a large order,” he said with a cheerless smile. “And we don’t seem to be making much progress, do we?”

“All right. Where would he go?”

“That’s hard to say. Three years ago he was gone for several months. He wandered all over the country as far as the east coast.”

“We don’t have three months, or three days. He took along several batches of sleeping pills and tranquilizers – chloral hydrate, Nembutal, Nembu-Serpin.”

Smitheram’s eyes wavered and darkened. “That’s bad. He’s sometimes suicidal, as you undoubtedly know.”

“Why is he suicidal?”

“He’s had an unfortunate life. He blames himself, as if he was criminally responsible for his misfortunes.”

“You mean he isn’t?”

“I mean that no one is.” He said it as if he believed it. “But you and I shouldn’t be standing here talking. In any case, I’m not going to divulge my patient’s secrets.” He made a move toward the inner door.

“Wait a minute, doctor. Just one minute. Your patient’s life may be in danger, you know that.”

“Please,” Mrs. Smitheram said. “Talk to the man, Ralph.”

Dr. Smitheram turned back to me, bowing his head in a slightly exaggerated attitude of service. I didn’t ask him the question I wanted to, about the dead man in the hobo jungle; it would only produce widening circles of silence.

“Did Nick talk to you at all last night?” I said.

“He did to some extent. His parents and his fiancée were present most of the time. They were an inhibiting influence, naturally.”

“Did he mention any names, of people or places? I’m trying to get a line on where he might have-gone.”

The doctor nodded. “I’ll get my notes.”

He left the room and brought back a couple of sheets of paper, illegibly scrawled over. He put on reading glasses and scanned them rapidly.

“He mentioned a woman named Jean Trask whom he’s been seeing.”

“How did he feel about her?”

“Ambivalent. He seemed to blame her for his troubles – it wasn’t clear why. At the same time he seemed rather interested in her.”

“Sexually interested?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. His feeling was more fraternal. He also referred to a man named Randy Shepherd. In fact he wanted my help in finding Shepherd.”

“Did he say why?”

“Apparently Shepherd was or may have been a witness to something that happened long ago.”

Smitheram left me before I could ask any further questions. His wife and I exchanged the numbers of our respective telephone-answering services. But she wouldn’t let me go just yet. Her eyes were slightly wilted, as if she’d disappointed herself in some way.

“I know it’s exasperating,” she said, “not to be given the facts. We operate this way because we have to. My husband’s patients hold nothing back, you see. It’s essential to treatment.”

“I understand that.”

“And please believe me when I say that we’re very much in Nick’s corner. Both Dr. Smitheram and I are very fond of him – of his whole family. They’ve had more than their share of misfortune, as he said.”

Both the Smitherams were masters of the art of talking quite a lot without saying much. But Mrs. Smitheram seemed to be a lively woman who would have liked to talk freely. She followed me to the door, still dissatisfied with what she’d said or left unsaid.

“Believe me, Mr. Archer, there are things in my files you wouldn’t want to know.”

“And in mine. Someday we’ll exchange histories.”

“That will be a day,” she said with a smile.

There was a public phone in the lobby of the Smitheram building. I called San Diego Information, got George Trask’s number, and put in a call to his home. The phone rang many times before the receiver was lifted

“Hello?” It was Jean Trask’s voice, and it sounded scared and dim. “Is that you, George?”

“This is Archer. If Nick Chalmers shows up there–”

“He better not. I don’t want anything more to do with him.”

“If he does, though, keep him with you. He’s carrying a pocketful of barbiturates, and I think he plans to take them.”

“I suspected he was psycho,” the woman said. “Did he kill Sidney Harrow?”

“I doubt it.”

“He did, though, didn’t he? Is he after me? Is that why you called?” The quick forced rhythms of fear had entered her voice.

“I have no reason to think so.” I changed the subject: “Do you know a Randy Shepherd, Mrs. Trask?”

“It’s funny you should ask me that. I was just–” Her voice stopped dead.

“You were just what?”

“Nothing. I was thinking of something else. I don’t know anybody by that name.”

She was lying. But you can’t unravel lies on the telephone. San Diego was an easy trip, and I decided to go there, unannounced.

“Too bad,” I said, and hung up.

I tried Information again. Randy Shepherd had no phone listed in the San Diego area. I called Rawlinson’s house in Pasadena, and Mrs. Shepherd answered.

“Archer speaking. Remember me?”

“Naturally, I remember you. If it’s Mr. Rawlinson you want, he’s still in bed.”

“It’s you I want, Mrs. Shepherd. How can I get in touch with your former husband?”

“You can’t through me. Has he done wrong again?”

“Not to my knowledge. A boy I know is carrying a lot of sleeping pills and planning suicide. Shepherd may be able to lead me to him.”

“What boy are you talking about?” she said in a guarded tone.

“Nick Chalmers. You wouldn’t know him.”

“No, I wouldn’t. And I can’t give you Shepherd’s address, I doubt he has one. He lives someplace in the Tijuana River Valley, down by the Mexican border.”

I got to San Diego shortly before noon. The Trask house on Bayview Avenue stood near the base of Point Loma, overlooking North Island and the bay. It was a solid hillside ranchhouse with a nicely tended lawn and flowerbeds.

I knocked on the front door with an iron knocker shaped like a seahorse. No answer. I knocked and waited, and tried the knob. The door didn’t open.

I walked around the outside of the house, peering into the windows, trying to act like a prospective purchaser. The windows were heavily draped. Apart from a glimpse of birch cupboards and a stainless-steel sink pagodaed with dirty dishes, I couldn’t see anything. The attached garage was latched on the inside.

I went back to my car, which I’d parked diagonally across the street, and settled down to wait. The house was ordinary enough, but somehow it gripped my attention. The traffic of the harbor and the sky, ferries and fishing boats, planes and gulls, all seemed to move in relation to it.