Росс Макдональд - The Instant Enemy

Ruth Marburg surprised me. I’d temporarily forgotten about the money she’d promised. She hadn’t. Without having to be reminded, she took me into the library and wrote a check.

“I’ve postdated this a week.” She stood up, waving the check to dry the ink. “I don’t keep this much in the bank. I’m going to have to transfer some funds and sell some securities.”

“There’s no hurry.”

“Good.” She handed me the little yellow slip. It was for the amount she had promised.

“You’re an unusual rich woman,” I said. “Most of them scream bloody murder over a nickel.”

“I haven’t always been rich. Now I have more money than I can spend.”

“So have I, now.”

“Don’t let it fool you. A hundred grand is chicken feed these days. Uncle Sam will cut it in half for you. If you take my advice you’ll put the rest in real estate and watch it grow.”

Somehow, I didn’t think I would. I put the check away in my wallet. It excited me in a way I didn’t quite like. Underlying the excitement was a vague depression, as if I belonged to the check in a way, instead of having it belong to me.

Ruth Marburg reached up and touched my cheek. It wasn’t a pass, but it was a gesture of possession. “Aren’t you happy, Lew? May I call you Lew?”

“Yes and yes.”

“You don’t look happy. You should be. You’ve done a wonderful thing, for all of us. I’m eternally grateful to you.”

“Good.” But it wasn’t so good. Even her repeated thanks were a subtle form of possession, taking and not giving.

“How on earth did you pull it off?” she said.

I told her, very briefly, about the series of leads, from Fleischer to Albert Blevins and Alma Krug, which took me to the shack where her son was held; and what I found there.

“You’ve had a terrible night. You must be exhausted.” She touched my cheek again.

“Don’t do that please.”

She withdrew her hand as if I’d tried to bite it. “What’s the matter?”

“You bought your son with this check. Not me.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. It was a friendly gesture. Heavens, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“The hell you are.”

She chose to take this as a compliment, and it soothed her injured feelings. “You really are tired, aren’t you, Lew? Did you get any sleep at all?

“Not much.”

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go to bed and get some sleep now? Stephen and Gerda have plenty of room.”

The invitation sounded so good that I started yawning, like an addict for a fix. But I told her I preferred my own bed.

“You’re very independent, aren’t you, Lew?”

“I guess I am.”

“I feel the same way myself. I only wish Sidney had some of the same spirit.”

She sounded like a mother talking about her backward little boy.

“Speaking of Sidney, I wonder if I can get him to drive me. My car’s over in the Valley.”

“Of course. I’ll tell him. There’s just one thing before you leave,” she said. “Mr. Thorndike will want to talk to you.”

She went and got the heavy-shouldered man. Thorndike introduced himself as a special agent of the FBI. Ruth left us together in the library and Thorndike debriefed me, recording what I said on a portable tape recorder.

“I don’t mean to be critical,” he said, “since it all worked out. But that was kind of a wild idea, going up against a kidnapper with nobody but a high-school counselor to back you up. You could have got what Fleischer got.”

“I know that. But this is a peculiar kind of kidnapper. I don’t believe he’d shoot Langston.”

“Anyway, he didn’t get a chance to.”

Thorndike’s manner was a little superior, like a teacher giving an oral quiz to a not very apt pupil. I didn’t mind. I had brought Hackett in. He hadn’t.

CAPTAIN AUBREY of the sheriff’s department arrived, and Thorndike went to talk to him. I closed the door of the library behind Thorndike and pushed the button in the knob which locked the door. It was the first time I’d been alone in a lighted place since I took the photocopies from Jack Fleischer’s body.

I spread them out on a table by the windows and pulled back the drapes. The copy of the birth certificate stated that Henrietta R. Krug had been born in Santa Teresa County on October 17, 1910, the daughter of Joseph and Alma Krug. It was signed by Richard Harlock, M.D., of Rodeo City.

The other photocopy was more interesting. It showed a part of the front page of the Santa Teresa Star for May 28, 1952. Under the heading “Oil Tycoon Slaying Still Unsolved” and the subheading “Youth Gang Sought,” was the following short account, datelined Malibu:

“The May 24 beach shooting of Mark Hackett, well-known Malibu citizen and Texas oil millionaire, is still under investigation by the police. According to Deputy Robert Aubrey of the sheriffs Malibu substation, more than a dozen suspects have been arrested and released. A gang of motorcyclists which was reported in the Malibu area on the night of May 24 is being sought for questioning.

“Hackett was shot to death while walking on the beach on the evening of May 24. His wallet was taken. Police have recovered a revolver which has been identified as the murder weapon. The dead man is survived by his widow and his son, Stephen.”

On the same page there was a story, with the dateline “Rodeo City (by Special Correspondent),” under the heading “Death on the Rails Strikes Again”:

“Riding the rails, which is reputed to be the cheapest way to travel, is costing some travelers their lives. Over the past several years, the lonely stretch of tracks south of Rodeo City has been the scene of a number of fatal accidents. Beheadings, dismemberments, and other mutilations have occurred.

“The most recent victim of the railroad jinx, and the second to die this year, was found early this morning by Sheriffs Deputy Jack Fleischer of the Rodeo City substation. The body, which bore no identification, was that of a man in his middle twenties. His head had been severed from his body.

“According to Deputy Fleischer, the man’s clothes marked him as a transient laborer. He had more than twenty dollars in his pockets, ruling out suspicion of foul play.

“A touching aspect of the accident was revealed by Deputy Fleischer to this reporter. The victim was accompanied by a small boy, approximately three years old, who apparently spent the night by his father’s body. The child has been placed in Children’s Shelter pending further investigation.”

Besides confirming what I already knew, this second story suggested that Fleischer had deliberately closed off the investigation. He must have known who the victim was; possibly he removed identification. The money in the dead man’s pockets didn’t rule out the possibility of murder, or the possibility that Fleischer himself had committed it.

I was struck by the sequence of the two deaths, three or four days apart. It could have been a coincidence, but it was clear enough that Fleischer hadn’t thought so. Also it seemed very likely that Captain Aubrey was that same Deputy Aubrey who had dealt with Mark Hackett’s murder fifteen years ago.

I found Captain Aubrey in the living room with Thorndike and Dr. Converse. Hackett wasn’t seriously injured, the doctor was telling them, but he was suffering from a certain degree of shock. He didn’t feel that his patient should be questioned any further until he’d had some rest. The policemen didn’t argue.

When Converse had finished, I drew him into the next room, out of earshot.

“What is it now?” he said impatiently.

“The same old question, about Sandy Sebastian. What did you treat her for last summer?”