Росс Макдональд - The Instant Enemy

“I have to learn not to hope too much,” he said. “I have to school myself to remember that they have two strikes on them before I ever see them. One more and they’re whiffed.” He raised his head. “I wish you’d give me all the facts about Davy.”

“They wouldn’t make you any happier. And I don’t want you putting out an alarm for him and the girl. Not until I talk to my client, anyway.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Answer a few more questions. If you were high on Davy, why did you recommend six months in jail?”

“He needed it. He’d been stealing cars on impulse, probably for years.”

“For sale?”

“For joy riding. Or grief riding, as he calls it. He admitted when we’d established rapport that he had driven all over the state. He told me he was looking for his people, his own people. I believed him. I hated to send him to jail. But I thought six months in a controlled situation would give him a chance to cool off, time to mature.”

“Did it?”

“In some ways. He finished his high-school education and did a lot of extra reading. But of course he still has problems to work out – if he’ll only give himself the time.”

“Psychiatric problems?”

“I prefer to call them life problems,” Belsize said. “He’s a boy who never really had anybody or anything of his own. That is a lot of not-having. I thought, myself, a psychiatrist could help him. But the psychologist who tested him for us didn’t think he’d be a good investment.”

“Because he’s semi-psychotic?”

“I don’t pin labels on young people. I see their adolescent storms. I’ve seen them take every form that you could find in a textbook of abnormal psychology. But often when the storms pass, they’re different and better people.” His hands turned over, palms upward, on the table.

“Or different and worse.”

“You’re a cynic, Mr. Archer.”

“Not me. I was one of the ones who turned out different and better. Slightly better, anyway. I joined the cops instead of the hoods.”

Belsize said with a smile that crumpled his whole face: “I still haven’t made my decision. My clients think I’m a cop. The cops think I’m a hood-lover. But we’re not the problem, are we?”

“Do you have any idea where Davy would go?”

“He might go anywhere at all. Have you talked to his employer? I don’t recall her name at the moment but she’s a redheaded woman–”

“Laurel Smith. I talked to her. How did she get into the picture?”

“She offered him a part-time job through our office. This was when he got out of jail about two months ago.”

“Had she known him before?”

“I don’t believe so. I think she’s a woman who wanted someone to help.”

“And what did she expect in return?”

“You are a cynic,” he said. “People often do good simply because it’s their nature. I think Mrs. Smith may have had troubles of her own.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I had an inquiry on her from the sheriff’s office in Santa Teresa. This was about the time that Davy got out of jail.”

“An official inquiry?”

“Semi-official. A sheriff’s man named Fleischer came to my office. He wanted to know all about Laurel Smith and all about Davy. I didn’t tell him much. Frankly, I didn’t like him, and he wouldn’t explain why he needed the information.”

“Have you checked Laurel Smith’s record?”

“No. It didn’t seem necessary.”

“I would if I were you. Where did Davy live before he went to jail?”

“He’d been on his own for a year or more after he dropped out of high school. Living on the beaches in the summer, taking odd jobs in the winter.”

“Before that?”

“He lived with foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Spanner. He took their name.”

“Can you tell me where to find the Spanners?”

“They live in West Los Angeles. You can find them in the phone book.”

“Is Davy still in touch with them?”

“I don’t know. Ask them yourself.” The waitress brought our checks, and Belsize stood up to go.

THE CENTENNIAL SAVINGS building on Wilshire was a new twelve-story tower sheathed with aluminum and glass. An automatic elevator took me up to Sebastian’s office on the second floor.

The violet-eyed secretary in the outer room told me that Sebastian was expecting me. “But,” she added in an important tone, “Mr. Stephen Hackett is with him now.”

“The big boss himself?”

She frowned and shushed me. “Mr. Hackett came back from lunch with Mr. Sebastian. But he likes to stay incognito. This is just the second time I ever saw him myself.” She sounded as if they were having a visit from royalty.

I sat on a settee against the wall. The girl got up from her typewriter desk and, to my surprise, came and sat down beside me.

“Are you a policeman or a doctor or something?”

“I’m a something.”

She was offended. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“That’s true.”

She was silent for a time. “I’m concerned about Mr. Sebastian.”

“So am I. What makes you think I’m a doctor or a cop?”

“The way he talked about you. He’s very anxious to see you.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, but I heard him crying in there this morning.” She indicateci the door of the inner office. “Mr. Sebastian is a very cool person in general. But he was actually crying. I went in and asked him if I could help. He said nothing could help, that his daughter was very ill.” She turned and looked deep into my eyes with her ultraviolet ones. “Is that true?”

“It could be. Do you know Sandy?”

“I know her to see. What’s the matter with her?”

I didn’t have to offer a diagnosis. There was a soft scuffling of feet in the inner office. By the time Sebastian had opened the door the girl was back at her desk, looking as permanent as a statue in a niche.

Stephen Hackett was a well-kept man of forty or so, younger than I expected. His thick body borrowed some grace from his well-tailored tweeds, which looked like Bond Street. His scornful eyes flicked over me as if I was a misplaced piece of furniture. He gave the impression of wearing his money the way other men wear elevator shoes.

Sebastian clearly hated to see him go, and tried to follow him out to the elevator. Hackett turned at the door and gave him a quick handshake and a definite, “Good-bye. Keep up the good work.”

Sebastian came back to me with bright dreaming eyes. “That was Mr. Hackett. He likes my program very very much.” He was bragging to the girl as well as me.

“I knew he would,” she said. “It’s a brilliant program.”

“Yeah, but you never can tell.”

He took me into his office and closed the door. It wasn’t large, but it was a corner room overlooking the boulevard and the parking lot. I looked down and saw Stephen Hackett step over the door of a red sports car and drive away.

“He’s a terrific sportsman,” Sebastian said.

His hero worship annoyed me. “Is that all he does?”

“He keeps an eye on his interests, of course. But he doesn’t bother with active management.”

“Where does his money come from?”

“He inherited a fortune from his father. Mark Hackett was one of those fabulous Texas oilmen. But Stephen Hackett is a moneymaker in his own right. Just in the last few years, for example, he bought out Centennial Savings and put up this building.”

“Good for him. Jolly good for him.”

Sebastian gave me a startled look and sat down behind his desk. On it were stand-up photographs of Sandy and his wife, and a pile of advertising layouts. The top one said in archaic lettering: “We respect other people’s money just as profoundly as we respect our own.”