Росс Макдональд - The Far Side of the Dollar

She composed her face and sat down in the armchair again, with great calm, to show me how well she was handling hers.

“But what if they can’t, Mrs. Brown?”

“Then they can’t, that’s all.”

I made one more attempt. “Do you go to church?”

“Naturally I do.”

“You could talk these problems over with your minister.”

“What problems? I’m not aware of any outstanding problems.”

She was in despair so deep that she wouldn’t even look up toward the light. I think she was afraid it would reveal her to herself.

I turned to other matters. “You mentioned a suitcase that your daughter left behind. Is it still here in the house?”

“It’s up in her room. There isn’t much in it. I almost threw it out with the trash, but there was always the chance that she would come back for it.”

“May I see it?”

“I’ll go and get it.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d sooner go up to her room.”

“I don’t mind.”

We went upstairs together, Mrs. Brown leading the way. She turned on the light in a rear bedroom and stood back to let me enter.

The room provided the first clear evidence that she had been hit very hard by Carol’s running away. It was the bedroom of a high-school girl. The flouncy yellow cover on the French provincial bed matched the yellow flounces on the dressing table, where a pair of Kewpie-doll lamps smiled vacantly at each other. A floppy cloth dog with his red felt tongue hanging out watched me from the yellow lamb’s wool rug. A little bookcase, painted white like the bed, was filled with high-school texts and hospital novels and juvenile mysteries. There were college pennants tacked around the walls.

“I kept her room as she left it,” Mrs. Brown said behind me.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess I always thought that she’d come home in the end. Well, she did a few times. The suitcase is in the closet.”

The closet smelled faintly of sachet. It was full of skirts and dresses, the kind girls wore in high school a half-generation before. I began to suspect that the room and its contents had less to do with Carol than with some secret fantasy of her mother’s. Her mother said, as if in answer to my thought: “I spend a lot of time here in this room. I feel very close to her here. We really were quite close at one time. She used to tell me everything, all about the boys she dated and so on. It was like living my own high school days over again.”

“Is that good?”

“I don’t know.”

Her lips gnawed at each other. “I guess not, because she suddenly turned against me. Suddenly she closed up completely. I didn’t know what went on in her life, but I could see her changing, coarsening. She was such a pretty girl, such a pure looking girl.”

Her mouth was wrenched far off center and it remained that way, as if the knowledge of her loss had fallen on her like a cerebral stroke.

The suitcase was an old scuffed cowhide one with Rob Brown’s initials on it. I pulled it out into the middle of the floor and opened it. Suddenly I was back in Dack’s Auto Court opening Carol’s other suitcase. The same sour odor of regret rose from the contents of this one and seemed to permeate the room.

There was the same tangle of clothes, this time all of them women’s skirts and dresses and under-things and stockings, a few cosmetics, a paperback book on the divination of dreams. A hand-scrawled piece of paper was stuck in this as a bookmark. I pulled it out and looked at it. It was signed “Your Brother ‘Har’.”

DEAR Mixx, I’m sorry you and Carole are haveing a “tough time” and I enclose a money order for fifty which I hope will help out you have to cash it at a post-office. I would send more but things are a little “tight” since I got married to Lila shes a good girl but does not believe that blood is thicker than water which it is. You asked me do I like bing married well in some ways I really like it in other ways I dont Lila has very strong ideas of her own. Shes no “sinsational” beauty like Carole is but we get long.

Im sorry you lost your job Mike unskilled jobs are hard to come by in these times I know you are a good bartender and that is a skill you should be able to pick up something in that line even if they are prejudiced like you say. I did look up Mr. Sipe like you asked me to but he is in no position to do anything for anybody hes on the skids himself the Barcelona went bankrupt last winter and now old Sipe is just watchman on the place but he sent his best regards for old time sake he wanted to know if you ever developed a left.

I saw another “friend” of yours last week I mean Captain Hillman I know you bear a grudge there but after all he treated you pretty good he could have sent you to prison for ten years. No Im not rakeing up old recrimations because Hillman could do something for you if he wanted you ought to see the raceing yacht he has thats how I saw him went down to Newport to take some sailing pictures. I bet he has twenty-five thousand in that yacht the guy is loaded. I found out he lives with his wife and boy in Pacific Point if you want to try him for a job hes head of some kind of “smogless industry.”

Well thats about all for now if you deside to come out to “sunny Cal” you know where we live and dont worry Lila will make you welcome shes a good soul “at heart.”

SINCERELY YOURS

Mrs. Brown had come out of her trance and moved toward me with a curious look.

“What is that?”

“A letter to Mike from his brother Harold. May I have it?”

“You’re welcome to it.”

“Thank you. I believe it’s evidence. It seems to have started Mike thinking about the possibility of bleeding the Hillmans for money.”

And it explained, I thought, why Harold had blamed himself for instigating the crime.

“May I read it?”

I handed it to her. She held it at arm’s length, squinting.

“I’m afraid I need my glasses.”

We went downstairs to the living room, where she put on horn-rimmed reading glasses and sat in her armchair with the letter. “Sipe,” she said when she finished reading it. “That’s the name I was trying to think of before.”

She raised her voice and called: “Robert! Come in here.”

Rob Brown answered from the back of the house: “I was just coming.”

He appeared in the doorway carrying a clinking pitcher and three glasses on a tray. He said with a placatory look at his wife: “I thought I’d make some fresh lemonade for the three of us. It’s a warm night.”

“That was thoughtful, Robert. Put it down on the coffee table. Now, what was the name of the ex-policeman that Mike left town with, the first time?”

“Sipe. Otto Sipe.”

He flushed slightly. “That man was a bad influence, I can tell you.”

I wondered if he still was. The question seemed so urgent that I drove right back to the airport and caught the first plane out, to Salt Lake City. A late jet from Minneapolis rescued me from a night in the Salt Lake City airport and deposited me at Los Angeles International, not many miles from the Barcelona Hotel, where a man named Sipe was watchman.

I HAD A gun in a locked desk drawer in my apartment, and one in my office. The apartment in West Los Angeles was nearer. I went there.

It was in a fairly new, two-story building with a long roofed gallery on which the second-floor apartments opened directly. Mine was the second-floor back. I parked in the street and climbed the outside stairs.

It was the dead dull middle of the night, the static hour when yesterday ended and tomorrow gathered its forces to begin. My own forces were running rather low, but I wasn’t tired. I had slept on the planes. And my case was breaking, my beautiful terrible mess of a case was breaking.