Росс Макдональд - The Goodbye Look

“On account of me?”

“Of course not. Will you promise me one thing, though?”

“After I know what it is.”

“Don’t tell anyone about Sonny. You know, my little La Jolla postal clerk. I made a mistake in talking about him to you.”

“Has Sonny cropped up again?”

She nodded. Her eyes were somber. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“I have no reason to.”

I was hedging a little, and she sensed this. “Lew? I know you’re a powerful man, and a very one-way man. Promise me you won’t do anything to us. Give Ralph and me a chance to work this thing out.”

I stepped away from her. “I can’t make a blind commitment. And you’re not being clear, as you bloody well know.”

She made an anguished monkey-face which wiped out her good looks. “I can’t be clear. This is a problem that won’t be solved by talking. There are too many people involved, and too many years of life.”

“Who are the people involved?”

“Ralph and I and the Chalmerses and the Truttwells–”

“And Sonny?”

“Yes. He’s in it.” The focus of her eyes shifted to something beyond my knowledge. “That’s why you mustn’t tell anyone what I told you.”

“Why did you tell me?”

“I thought you might be able to advise me, that we might become better friends than we have.”

“Give it more time.”

“That’s what I’m asking you for.”

Betty was waiting impatiently in the parking lot. Her gaze narrowed on the lower part of my face.

“There’s lipstick on you. Wait.” She got a piece of tissue out of her bag and dabbed at me quite hard. “There. That looks better.”

In her car, she spoke to me in a neutral voice: “Are you having an affair with Mrs. Smitheram?”

“We’re friends.”

She said in the same neutral tone: “No wonder I can’t trust anybody, or do anything for Nick.” She turned to me: “If you’re such a good friend of Mrs. Smitheram’s, why won’t she let me see Nick?”

“Her husband is the doctor. She’s only a technician, she says.”

“Why won’t her husband let him go?”

“They’re holding Nick for his protection. Against what or who isn’t clear, but I agree he needs protection. It shouldn’t be handled entirely by his doctor, though. He needs legal counsel.”

“If you’re trying to bring my father into this–” Her knuckles struck the wheel of her car in a sharp blow that must have hurt her.

“He is in it, Betty. There’s not much use arguing about it. And you’re not really helping Nick by turning against your father.”

“He’s the one who turned against us – against Nick and me.”

“Maybe so. But we need his help.”

“I don’t,” she said loudly and indecisively.

“Anyway, I need yours. Will you drive me to his office?”

“All right. But I’m not going in.”

She took me to the parking lot behind her father’s building. A polished black Rolls was standing in one of the Reserved slots.

“That’s the Chalmerses’ car,” Betty said. “I thought they’d had a falling-out with father.”

“Maybe they’re falling back in. What time is it?”

She looked at her wristwatch. “Four thirty-five. I’ll wait out here for you.”

I was interested in the Rolls. I went and looked it over, admiring its deep leather upholstery and walnut trim. The whole car was immaculate, except for a yellow spillage on a plaid traveling rug in the back seat. It looked like a dried froth of vomit.

I scraped some of it up with the edge of a plastic credit card. When I looked up a thin man in a dark suit and a chauffeur’s cap was coming toward me across the parking lot. It was the Chalmerses’ houseman, Emilio.

“Get away from that car,” he said.

“All right.”

I slammed the rear door of the Rolls and stepped away from it. Emilio’s black eyes focused on the card in my hand. He made a grab for it. I pulled it out of his reach.

“Give me that.”

“The hell I will. Who’s been sick in the car, Emilio?”

The question worried him. I asked it again. His anger evaporated suddenly. He turned away from me and climbed in behind the wheel of the Rolls, raising the automatic window on my side.

“What was all that about?” Betty said as we walked away.

“I’m not sure. What kind of a character is he?”

“Emilio? He’s pretty dour.”

“Is he honest?”

“He must be. He’s been with the Chalmerses for over twenty years.”

“What sort of life does he lead?”

“A very quiet bachelor life, I believe. But I’m no great authority on Emilio. What’s that yellow stuff on the card?”

“That’s a good question. Do you have an envelope?”

“No. But I’ll get one.”

She entered the building through the back door and came out right away with one of her father’s business envelopes. I put my findings in it, with her help, sealed and initialed it.

“What laboratory does your father use?”

“Barnard’s. It’s between here and the courthouse.”

I handed her the envelope. “I want this tested for chloral hydrate and Nembutal. They’re fairly simple tests, I believe, and they can be done right now if you tell them your father says it’s urgent. And tell them to take good care of the sample, will you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Will you bring me the results? I’ll probably still be in your father’s office. You can wear a disguise or something.”

She refused to smile. But she trotted dutifully away on the errand. I could feel new adrenalin in my own veins, making me feel stronger and more aggressive. If my hunch was good, the froth of vomit in the envelope could break the case.

I went into Truttwell’s building and started along the corridor to the waiting room at the front. I was stopped at an open door by Trutttwell’s voice:

“Archer? I’d just about given up on you.”

He drew me into his law library, which was completely lined with shelves of reference books. A young man in an Ivy League suit was working over a film projector. A screen had already been set up at the far end of the room.

Truttwell surveyed me with not very sympathetic eyes “Where have you been?”

I told him, and dropped the subject. “I gather you bought Mrs. Swain’s home movies.”

“No money changed hands,” he said with satisfaction. “I persuaded Mrs. Swain it was her duty to serve the truth. Also I let her keep the Florentine box, which was her mother’s. In return she gave me some film. Unfortunately, the reel I’m about to show you is nearly twenty-six years old and in rather poor condition. It broke as I was running it through just now.” He turned to the young man at the projector. “How are you doing, Eddie?”

“I’m splicing it. It should be ready in a minute.”

Truttwell said to me: “Do me a favor, Archer. Irene Chalmers is in the waiting room.”

“Is she back in the fold?”

“She will be,” he said with a glint of teeth. “At the moment she’s here rather against her will. Just go and make sure she doesn’t run away.”

“What are you planning to spring on her?”

“You’ll see.”

“That her maiden name was really Rita Shepherd?”

Truttwell’s satisfied look fell apart. A kind of rivalry had been growing between us, perhaps rising from the fact that Betty had trusted me.

“How long have you known that?” he said in a prosecutor’s voice.

“About five seconds. I’ve suspected it since last night.” It wouldn’t have been a good idea to tell him that the idea had come to me in a dream about my grandmother.

As I moved along the corridor, the dream came back into my mind and blunted my aggression. Mrs. Shepherd merged with the memories of my grandmother long since buried in Martinez. The passion with which Mrs. Shepherd had guarded her daughter’s secret gave it some value.