Росс Макдональд - The Goodbye Look

“I know that. What are you leading up to, Florence?”

She said in a hurried monotone, as if to reduce the size and duration of her guilt: “Eldon Swain stayed here with his girl friend. She was Randy Shepherd’s daughter. That’s what brought Randy here in the first place.”

“When was this?”

“Let’s see. It was just before the trouble with the money, when Mr. Swain took off for Mexico. I don’t have a good head for dates, but it was sometime along toward the end of the war.” She added after a thinking pause: “I remember the Battle of Okinawa was going on. Williams and I used to follow the battles, so many of our roomers were sailor boys, you know.”

I brought her back to the subject: “What happened when Shepherd came here?”

“Nothing much. A lot of loud talk mainly. I couldn’t help but overhear some of it. Randy wanted to be paid for the loan of his daughter. That was the way his mind worked.”

“What kind of a girl was the daughter?”

“She was a beautiful child.” Mrs. Williams’s eyes grew misty with the quasi-maternal feelings of a procuress. “Dark and tender-looking. It’s hard to understand a girl like that, going with a man more than twice her age.” She readjusted her position on the bed, and its springs squeaked in tired rhythms. “I don’t doubt she was after her share of the money.”

“This was before the money, you said.”

“Sure, but Swain was already planning to take it.”

“How do you know that, Mrs. Williams?”

“The officers said so. This place was swarming with officers the week after he took off. They said that he’d been planning it for at least a year. He picked this place for his final jumping-off place to Mexico.”

“How did he cross the border?”

“They never did find out. He may have gone over the border fence, or crossed in the regular way under another name. Some of the officers thought he left the money behind. That’s probably where Randy got the idea.”

“What happened to the girl?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Not even her father?”

“That’s right. Randy Shepherd isn’t the kind of father a girl would keep in touch with if she had a choice. Randy’s wife felt the same way about him. She divorced him while he was in the pen the last time, and when he got out he came back here. He’s been here off and on ever since.”

We sat in silence for a little while. The rectangle of sunlight on the linoleum was lengthening perceptibly, measuring out the afternoon and the movement of the earth. Finally she asked me:

“Will Randy be coming back here, do you think?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Williams.”

“I sort of hope he does. He’s got a lot against him. But over the years a woman gets used to seeing a man around. It doesn’t even matter what kind of man he is.”

“Besides,” I said, “he was your second-to-last roomer.”

“How do you know that?”

“You told me.”

“So I did. I’d sell this place if I could find a buyer.” I got up and moved toward the door. “Who’s your last roomer?”

“Nobody you would know.”

“Try me.”

“A young fellow named Sidney Harrow. And I haven’t seen him for a week. He’s off on one of Randy Shepherd’s wild-goose chases.”

I produced the copy of Nick’s graduation picture. “Did Shepherd give this to Harrow, Mrs. Williams?”

“He may have. I remember Randy showed me that picture. He wanted to know if it reminded me of anybody.”

“Did it?”

“Nope. I’m not much good at faces.”

I went back to San Diego and drove out Bayview Avenue to George Trask’s house. The sun had just set and everything was reddish, as if the blood in the kitchen of the house had formed a weak solution with the light.

A car I had seen before but couldn’t remember where – a black Volkswagen with a crumpled fender – stood in the driveway of the Trask house. A San Diego police car was at the curb. I drove on by, and made my way back to the hospital.

Nick was in Room 211 on the second floor, the woman at the information desk told me. “But he’s not allowed to have visitors unless you’re immediate family.”

I went up anyway. In the visitors’ lounge across from the elevator Mrs. Smitheram, the psychiatrist’s wife, was reading a magazine. A coat folded with the lining turned out was draped across the back of her chair. For some reason I was very glad to see her. I crossed to the lounge and sat down near her.

She wasn’t reading after all, just holding the magazine. She was looking right at me, but she didn’t see me. Her blue eyes were turned inward on her thoughts, which lent her face a grave beauty. I watched the changes in her eyes as she gradually became aware of me, and finally recognized me.

“Mr. Archer!”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you, either.”

“I just came along for the ride,” she said. “I lived in San Diego County for several years during the war. I haven’t been back here since.”

“That’s a long time.”

She inclined her head. “I was just thinking about that long time and how it grew. But you’re not interested in my autobiography.”

“I am, though. Were you married when you lived here before?”

“In a sense. My husband was overseas most of the time. He was a flight surgeon on an escort carrier.” Her voice had a rueful pride which seemed to belong entirely to the past.

“You’re older than you look.”

“I married young. Too young.”

I liked the woman, and it was a pleasure to talk for once about something that had no bearing on my case. But she brought the conversation back to it:

“The latest on Nick is that he’s coming out of it. The only question is in what condition.”

“What does your husband think?”

“It’s too early for Ralph to commit himself. Right now he’s in consultation with a neurologist and a brain surgeon.”

“They don’t do brain surgery for barbiturate poisoning, do they?”

“Unfortunately, that’s not the only thing the matter with Nick. He has a concussion. He must have fallen and hit the back of his head.”

“Or been hit?”

“That’s possible, too. How did he get to San Diego, anyway?”

“I don’t know.”

“My husband said you brought him here to the hospital.”

“That’s true. But I didn’t bring him to San Diego.”

“Where did you find him?”

I didn’t answer her.

“Don’t you want to tell me?”

“That’s right.” I changed the subject, not very smoothly. “Are Nick’s parents here?”

“His mother’s sitting with him. His father is on his way. There’s nothing either you or I can do.”

I stood up. “We could have dinner.”

“Where?”

“The hospital cafeteria if you like. The food is fair.” She made a face. “I’ve eaten too many hospital-cafeteria dinners.”

“I thought you mightn’t want to go too far.” The phrase had a double meaning that we both heard.

She said: “Why not? Ralph will be tied up for hours. Why don’t we go out to La Jolla?”

“Is that where you used to live during the war?”

“You’re a good guesser.”

I helped her on with her coat. It was silver-blue mink complementing the slash of gray in her hair. In the elevator, she said:

“This is on one condition. You mustn’t ask me questions about Nick and his family constellation. I can’t answer certain questions, just as you can’t, so why spoil things.”

“I won’t spoil things, Mrs. Smitheram.”

“My name is Moira.”

She was born in Chicago, she told me at dinner, and trained as a psychiatric social worker in the University of Michigan Hospital. There she met and married Ralph Smitheram, who was completing his residency in psychiatry. When he joined the Navy and was assigned to the San Diego Naval Hospital, she came along to California.