Росс Макдональд - The Instant Enemy

“You,” she said.

Hackett went on with a faint whine in his voice: “I want to finish what I had to say. I learned that Jasper was at the ranch with his wife, and I drove up there. This was the second or third day after he murdered Dad. I accused him of the crime. He came at me with an ax. Fortunately I was stronger than he was, or luckier. I got the ax away from him and crushed his skull with it.”

“So you were the man with the beard?”

“Yes. I’d grown a beard when I was a student in London.”

“Was Laurel there when you killed Jasper?”

“Yes. She saw it happen.”

“And the boy Davy?”

“He was there, too. I can hardly blame him for what he did to me.” Hackett touched his swollen mouth and discolored eyes.

“What happened between you and Davy?”

“He gave me a very bad time, as you know. At first he meant to put me under a train. Then he changed his mind and forced me to show him the way to the ranch. He seemed to be trying to reconstruct what happened, and he made me confess what I’ve just told you. He gave me a terrible beating. He talked as if he meant to kill me but he changed his mind again.”

“Did you tell him you were his father, his natural father?”

A one-sided grin of surprise pulled up the corner of Hackett’s mouth and narrowed one eye. It resembled the effects of a mild paralytic stroke. “Yes, I did. I am.”

“What happened after you told him that?”

“He untaped my wrists and ankles. We had a talk. He did most of the talking. I promised him money, and even recognition, if that was what he wanted. But he was mainly interested in getting at the truth.”

“The fact that you killed Jasper?”

“Yes. He didn’t remember me consciously at all. He’d blacked out on the whole thing.”

“It isn’t entirely clear to me,” I said. “The way you tell it, you killed Jasper in self-defense. Even without that, I agree that no jury would have convicted you, of anything worse than manslaughter. Why did you cover up, and go to such lengths to dispose of the body?”

“That wasn’t my doing. It was Laurel’s. I suppose she felt guilty about our affair in Texas. And I admit I felt guilty, about that and everything else. Don’t forget that Jasper was my brother. I felt like Cain himself.”

He may have felt like Cain, once long ago, but at the moment he sounded phony to me. His mother stirred and erupted again:

“Talk is expensive. Haven’t you learned that yet? You want this s.o.b. to own you outright?”

Hackett watched my face as he answered her: “I don’t believe Mr. Archer is a blackmailer.”

“Hell, he doesn’t call it that. None of them do. They call it investigation, or personal research, or scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch yours. So we buy him an apartment house to live in, and an office building to keep his files in, and he pays us five cents on the dollar.” She stood up. “What’s the ante, this time, you s.o.b.?”

“Don’t keep saying that, Etta. It spoils the maternal image. I’ve been wondering where Laurel got her apartment building and where your mother got hers.”

“Leave my mother out of this, my mother has nothing to do with this.” I seemed to have touched Mrs. Marburg on a nerve. “Have you been talking to Alma?”

“A little. She knows a lot more than you think she does.”

For the first time in our acquaintance, Mrs. Marburg’s eyes reflected real fear. “What does she know?”

“That Jasper killed Mark Hackett. And I think she thinks that you put Jasper up to it.”

“The hell I did! It was Jasper’s own idea.”

Mrs. Marburg had blundered, and she knew it. The fear in her eyes began to spill across the rest of her face.

“Did Jasper tell you he killed Mark?” I said.

She considered the long-term consequences of her answer and finally said: “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago, and I was very upset.”

“So you’re taking the Fifth. Maybe the tape will remember.” I reached for the recorder, intending to switch it on.

“Wait,” Mrs. Marburg said. “What will you take to stop right here? Just walk out and forget about us? How much?”

“I haven’t given the matter any thought.”

“Think about it now. I’m offering you a million dollars.” She held her breath, and added: “Tax-free. You could live like a king.”

I looked around the room. “Is this the way kings live?”

Hackett spoke from his dunce’s stool: “It’s no use, Mother. It’s going to be our word against his. So we better stop talking to him, just as you said.”

“You hear that?” Mrs. Marburg said to me. “A million, taxfree. That’s our final offer. You don’t have to do a thing for it. Just walk away.”

Hackett was watching my face. “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “He doesn’t want our money. He wants our blood.”

“Be quiet both of you.”

I switched on the recorder, turned the tape back a little, and heard Davy’s voice say again: “–or you’re lying to me. Which is it?”

Then Laurel’s voice: “You mustn’t be so hard on me. I didn’t lie either time. The man the train ran over really was your father.”

“That’s not what you said the other night. You said that Stephen Hackett was my father.”

“He was.”

I looked at Hackett. He was listening intently, his eyes still focused on my face. His own face seemed queerly starved. The scorn in his eyes had changed to a chilly loneliness.

Davy said: “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t want you to, Davy. I don’t want to dig up the past.”

“But I have to know who I am,” he said in a chanting rhythm. “I have to, it’s important to me.”

“Why? You’re my son and I love you.”

“Then why won’t you tell me who my father was?”

“I have. Can’t we leave it at that? We’ll only stir up trouble.”

The door opened.

“Where are you going?” Laurel said.

“My bird is waiting. Sorry.”

The door closed. Laurel cried a little, then made a drink. She yawned. There were night movements, an inner door closing. Night sounds, cars in the street.

I speeded up the tape and jumped it ahead and heard a voice which had to be my own, saying: “–sounds like a poolroom lawyer to me.”

Laurel’s voice answered mine: “Davy’s more than that. He’s more than just a talker. And he isn’t the poolroom type. He’s a serious boy.”

“What’s he serious about?”

“He wants to grow up and be a man and do something useful.”

“I think he’s conning you, Mrs. Smith,” I heard my strange voice say, a long time ago.

I moved the tape ahead again and heard the familiar noise of the apartment door being opened. Laurel said: “What do you want?”

No answer, except the sound of the door being closed. Then Hackett’s voice:

“I want to know who you’ve been talking to. I had a phone call last night–”

“From Davy?”

“From Jack Fleischer. Who the hell is Davy?”

“Don’t you remember, Jasper?” Laurel said.

The sound of a blow on flesh was followed by Laurel’s sigh, then other blows until the sighing changed to snoring. I was watching the man who called himself Stephen Hackett. He sat tense on his stool. He seemed to be excited by the noises, emotionally transported to Laurel’s apartment.

I broke the spell: “What did you hit her with, Jasper?”

He let his breath out in a kind of soughing whine. Even his mother had turned her eyes away from him.

I said to her: “What did he hit her with?”

“How in God’s name should I know?”

“He went to you immediately afterward. He probably disposed of the weapon at your house. But mainly I think he wanted moral support. When he came back here that afternoon he brought you along with him.”