Росс Макдональд - Black Money

“And Ginny was supposed to graduate this year?”

“Yes. She took a couple of years out. She was a receptionist at Dr. Sylvester’s clinic, but she got sick of that and went back to school last year.”

“Was your man Tappinger one of her professors?”

“He taught most of her French courses.”

“Is Tappinger good at his subject?”

“Ginny thought so, and she was one of his best student.”

“Then he should be willing to help us out.”

I told Peter to make an appointment with the professor, for this afternoon if possible, and said I would meet him in the parking lot. I didn’t want Martel to see us leaving together.

“Mr. Jamieson just left,” the woman at the front desk said. “I don’t know how you missed him.”

She had a gently modulated voice, and she sounded real concerned. I took a closer look at her. She was a subdued young woman dressed in a brown tweed suit. Her dark hair framed an oval, piquant face. She was too heavily made up, but that was occupational.

“I talked to Mr. Jamieson inside, but don’t mention it to anyone.”

“Why should I mention it to anyone?” she said.

“Somebody might ask you.”

“I never discuss the goings and comings of the members and their guests. Besides, I don’t remember your name.”

“Archer, Lew Archer.”

“I’m Ella Strome.”

The nameplate on the desk in front of her said: Mrs. Strome, Club Secretary . She saw me looking at it and added in a neutral tone: “I’m not married at present.”

“Neither am I. What time do you get off for dinner?”

“Tonight I don’t. We’re having a dinner-dance. But thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

In the parking lot by the tennis courts, Peter was waiting for me in his Corvette. The place was surrounded by massed green clouds of eucalyptus trees, and their faintly medicinal scent flavored the air. Only one of the half-dozen courts was in use: a pro in a “Tennis Club” sweatshirt was showing a very small girl how to serve, while her mother watched from the sidelines.

“Professor Tappinger isn’t in his office and he isn’t at home,” Peter said. “His wife said he should be on his way home.”

“I can use a little more time here. I understand Mrs. Bagshaw lives at the club.”

“She’s in one of the cottages.”

He gestured toward the trees at the back of the lot.

“Have you asked her any questions about Martel?”

“No.”

“But you know Mrs. Bagshaw?”

“Not that well. I know everyone in Montevista,” he added without enthusiasm. “And they know me, I guess.”

I went through the eucalyptus grove and through a gate in a picket fence, which enclosed an expanse of lawn next to the pool enclosure. A dozen or so gray-painted brick cottages were dispersed around the lawn, shielded from their neighbors by patio walls and flowering shrubs. A small Mexican in a khaki coverall was manipulating a hose among the shrubbery.

“ Buenos dias .”

“It is a fine day,” he said with a white flash of teeth, and turned the stream from his hose toward the sky, like a fountain. “You looking for somebody?”

“Mrs. Bagshaw.”

“That’s her cottage there.”

Its roof was half-hidden by a purple avalanche of bougainvillea. “She just came back a couple of minutes ago.”

Mrs. Bagshaw turned out to be one of the poolside bridge-players, the one who had ordered the coffee. She was an alert-looking seventy or so.

“Didn’t I see you talking to Stanley just now?” she asked me at the door.

“I was, yes.”

“And then to Mr. Martel?”

“Yes.”

“And now you come to me. It’s an interesting progression.”

She shook her white curls. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or discomfited.”

“Don’t be either, Mrs. Bagshaw. My name is Archer, and I’m a detective, as you may have guessed.”

She let me into a sitting room, which contained too much furniture. The Oriental rug on the floor was so good I hated to step on it. She noticed my noticing it.

“It doesn’t go with this place at all. But I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.”

Without changing her tone, she said: “Sit down. I suppose you’re engaged in the current village sport of prying into Francis Martel’s affairs.”

“It’s my profession, not my sport.”

“Who brought you here?” she said brusquely.

“A local family.”

“Marietta Fablon?”

“She’s interested in the outcome of my researches, yes.”

“Researches is a glossy word for what you do, Mr. Archer. You’re driving Mr. Martel out of town. Is that your purpose?”

“No.”

“I wonder about that. He’s leaving, you know. He told me so not fifteen minutes ago.”

“Is Ginny Fablon going with him?”

She lowered her eyes to her lap. “Miss Fablon was not discussed. She is in any case a young woman of twenty-four – at her age I had been married for five years – and she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself and making her own choices.”

Her voice, which had faltered for a moment, regained its strength. “More capable than most young women, in my opinion.”

“So you think she’s going with him.”

“I don’t know. But this is a free country, I believe.”

“It is for people who know what and who they’re dealing with. You can’t make valid choices without facts.”

She shook her curls. Her face remained unshaken, like cement. “I don’t wish to be lectured at. I brought Francis Martel into Montevista ah – circles, and I feel perfectly sanguine about doing so. I like him. It’s true I can’t provide you with a copy of his genealogical tree. But I’m sure it’s a good one. He’s one of the most distinguished young Frenchmen of my acquaintance.”

“He is a Frenchman, then?”

“Is there any doubt of that?”

“There’s always doubt, until the facts are established.”

“And you are the great arbiter of the facts, are you?”

“In my own investigations I naturally tend to be.”

It was a fairly sharp interchange, and it made her angry. She resolved her anger by laughing out loud at me. “You talk up don’t you?”

“I might as well. I’m not getting anywhere anyway.”

“That’s because there’s nowhere to get. Merely because Mr. Martel doesn’t look like other people, they assume there’s some dark secret in his past. The trouble with my neighbors is a simple one. They haven’t enough to do, and they live like the Scilly islanders by taking in each other’s dirty linen. If there isn’t enough dirty linen to go around, they manufacture it.”

She must be uncertain, I thought, or she wouldn’t be talking so much and so well. Martel was in some degree her responsibility. She said into the silence between us: “Have you found out anything against him?”

“Not really. Not yet.”

“You imply that you expect to.”

“I don’t know. How did you become acquainted with him, through a real-estate broker?”

“Oh no, we have friends in common.”

“Here in Montevista?”

“In Washington,” she said, “more precisely, in Georgetown. General Bagshaw and I once lived in Georgetown.”

“And you met Martel there?”

“I didn’t say that. He knew some old neighbors of ours–” She hesitated, looking at me doubtfully. “I don’t believe I ought to give you their name.”

“It would help if you did.”

“No. They’re very fine and gentle people, and I don’t want them bothered with this sort of thing.”

“Martel used them as a reference. They might not approve of that. They may not even know him.”

“I’m sure they do.”