Росс Макдональд - The Goodbye Look

The university stood on a mesa a few miles out of town, beyond the airport. From a distance its incomplete oval of new buildings looked ancient and mysterious as Stonehenge. It was the third week in January, and I gathered that the midyear exams were in progress. The students I saw as I circled the campus had a driven preoccupied air.

I’d been there before, but not for several years. The student body had multiplied in the meantime, and the community attached to the campus had turned into a city of apartment buildings. It was strange, after Los Angeles, to drive through a city where everyone was young.

Nick lived in a five-storied building which called itself the Cambridge Arms. I rode the self-service elevator to the fifth floor and found the door of his apartment, which was number 51.

The girl opened the door before I knocked. Her eyes flickered when she saw it was only me. She had clean straight yellow hair that brushed the shoulders of her dark slacks suit. She looked about twenty.

“No Nick?” I said.

“I’m afraid not. You’re Mr. Archer?”

“Yes.”

She gave me a quick probing look, and I realized she was older than I’d thought. “Are you really a counselor, Mr. Archer?”

“I said roughly speaking. I’ve done a lot of counseling in an amateur sort of way.”

“What do you do in a professional sort of way?”

Her voice wasn’t unfriendly. But her eyes were honest and sensitive, ready to be affronted. I didn’t want that to happen. She was the nicest thing I’d come across in some time.

“I’m afraid if I tell you, Miss Truttwell, you won’t talk to me.”

“You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

“I used to be. I’m a private investigator.”

“Then you’re perfectly right. I don’t want to talk to you.”

She was showing signs of alarm. Her eyes and nostrils were dilated. Her face had a kind of sheen or glare on it. She said:

“Did Nick’s parents send you here to talk to me?”

“How could they have? You’re not supposed to be here. Since we are talking, by the way, we might as well do it inside.”

After some hesitation, she stepped back and let me in. The living room was furnished in expensive but dull good taste. It looked like the kind of furniture the Chalmerses might have bought for their son without consulting him.

The whole room gave the impression that Nick had kept himself hidden from it. There were no pictures on the walls. The only personal things of any kind were the books in the modular bookcase, and most of these were textbooks, in politics, law, psychology, and psychiatry.

I turned to the girl. “Nick doesn’t leave much evidence of himself lying around.”

“No. He’s a very secret boy – man.”

“Boy or man?”

“He may be trying to make up his mind about that.”

“Just how old is he, Miss Truttwell?”

“He just turned twenty-three last month – December 14. He’s graduating half a year late because he missed a semester a few years ago. That is, he’ll graduate if they let him make up his exams. He’s missed three out of four now.”

“Why?”

“It’s not a school problem. Nick’s quite brilliant,” she said as though I’d denied it. “He’s a whizz in poli sci, which is his major, and he’s planning to study law next year.” Her voice was a little unreal, like that of a girl reciting a dream or trying to recall a hope.

“What kind of a problem is it, Miss Truttwell?”

“A life problem, as they call it.” She took a step toward me and stood with her hands hanging loose, palms facing me. “All of a sudden he quit caring.”

“About you?”

“If that was all, I could stand it. But he cut loose from everything. His whole life has changed in the last few days.”

“Drugs?”

“No. I don’t think so. Nick knows how dangerous they are.”

“Sometimes that’s an attraction.”

“I know, I know what you mean.”

“Has he discussed it with you?”

She seemed confused for a second. “Discussed what?”

“The change in his life in the last few days.”

“Not really. You see, there’s another woman involved. An older woman.” The girl was wan with jealousy.

“He must be out of his mind,” I said by way of complimenting her.

She took it literally. “I know. He’s been doing things he couldn’t do if he were completely sane.”

“Tell me about the things he’s been doing.”

She gave me a look, the longest one so far. “I can’t tell you. I don’t even know you.”

“Your father does.”

“Really?”

“Call him up if you don’t believe me.”

Her gaze wandered to the telephone, which stood on an end table by the chesterfield, then came back to my face. “That means you are working for the Chalmerses. They’re Dad’s clients.”

I didn’t answer her.

“What did Nick’s parents hire you to do?”

“No comment. We’re wasting time. You and I both want to see Nick get back inside his skin. We need each other’s help.”

“How can I help?”

I felt I was reaching her. “You obviously want to talk to someone. Tell me what Nick’s been up to.”

I was still standing like an unwanted guest. I sat down on the chesterfield. The girl approached it carefully, perching on one arm beyond my reach.

“If I do, you won’t repeat it to his parents?”

“No. What have you got against his parents?”

“Nothing, really. They’re nice people, I’ve known them all my life as friends and neighbors. But Mr. Chalmers is pretty hard on Nick; they’re such different types, you know. Nick is very critical of the war, for example, and Mr. Chalmers considers that unpatriotic. He served with distinction in the last war, and it’s made him kind of rigid in his thinking.”

“What did he do in the war?”

“He was a naval pilot when he was younger than Nick is now. He thinks Nick is a terrible rebel.” She paused. “He isn’t really. I admit he was pretty wild-eyed at one time. That was several years ago, before Nick settled down to study. He was doing so well until last week. Then everything went smash.”

I waited. Tentative as a bird, she slid off the arm of the chesterfield and plopped down beside me. She made a sour face and shut her eyes tight, holding back tears. In a minute she went on:

“I think that woman is at the bottom of it. I know what that makes me. But how can I help being jealous? He dropped me like a hotcake and took up with a woman old enough to be his mother. She’s even married.”

“How do you know that?”

“He introduced her to me as Mrs. Trask. I’m pretty sure she’s from out of town – there are no Trasks in the phone book.”

“He introduced you?”

“I forced him to. I saw them together in the Lido Restaurant. I went to their table and stayed there until Nick introduced me to her and the other man. His name was Sidney Harrow. He’s a bill collector from San Diego.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Not exactly. I found out.”

“You’re quite a finder-outer.”

“Yes,” she said, “I am. Ordinarily I don’t believe in snooping.” She gave me a half-smile. “But there are times when snooping is called for. So when Mr. Harrow wasn’t looking I picked up his parking ticket, which was lying on the table beside his plate. I took it out to the Lido parking lot and got the attendant to show me which was his car. It was a junky old convertible, with the back window torn out. The rest was easy. I got his name and address from the car registration in the front and put in a call to his place in San Diego, which turned out to be a collection agency. They said he was on his vacation. Some vacation.”

“How do you know he isn’t?”