Росс Макдональд - The Far Side of the Dollar

He shook the knife, point foremost, at Hillman’s face.

Hillman looked scared and sick and obstinate. “It must have been somebody else. He must be mistaken.”

“No. He knows you personally.”

“I don’t know him.”

“You’re a very well known man, sir, and Mr. Botkin is certain that you were in his store early this month. Perhaps I can refresh your recollection. You mentioned to Mr. Botkin, in connection with the purchase of this knife, that you were planning a little trip to Oregon with your son. You also complained to Botkin, as a lower Main Street businessman, about an alleged laxness at The Barroom Floor. It had to do with selling liquor to minors, I believe. Do you remember the conversation now?”

“No,” Hillman said. “I do not. The man is lying.”

“Why would he be lying?”

“I have no idea. Go and find out. It’s not my job to do your police work for you.”

He stood up, dismissing Bastian. Bastian was unwilling to be dismissed. “I don’t think you’re well advised to take this attitude, Mr. Hillman. If you purchased this knife from Mr. Botkin, now is the time to say so. Your previous denial need never go out of this room.”

Bastian looked to me for support. I remembered what Botkin had said to me about The Barroom Floor. It was practically certain that his conversation with Hillman had taken place. It didn’t follow necessarily that Hillman had bought the knife, but he probably had.

I said: “It’s time all the facts were laid out on the table, Mr. Hillman.”

“I can’t tell him what isn’t so, can I?”

“No. I wouldn’t advise that. Have you thought of talking this over with your attorney?”

“I’m thinking about it now.”

Hillman had sobered. Droplets of clear liquid stood on his forehead as if the press of the situation had squeezed the alcohol out of him. He said to Bastian: “I gather you’re more or less accusing me of murder.”

“No, I am not.”

Bastian added in a formal tone: “You can, of course, stand on your constitutional rights.”

Hillman shook his head angrily. Some of his fine light hair fell over his forehead. Under it his eyes glittered like metal triangles. He was an extraordinarily handsome man. His unremitting knowledge of this showed in the caressive movement of the hand with which he pushed his hair back into place.

“Look,” he said, “could we continue this seance in the morning? I’ve had a hard week, and I’d like a chance to sleep on this business. I’ve had no real sleep since Monday.”

“Neither have I,” Bastian said.

“Maybe you need some sleep, too. This harassing approach isn’t really such a good idea.”

“There was no harassment.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Hillman’s voice rose. “You brought that knife into my home and shook it in my face. I have a witness to that,” he added, meaning me.

I said: “Let’s not get bogged down in petty arguments. Lieutenant Bastian and I have some business to discuss.”

“Anything you say to him you’ll have to say in front of me.”

“All right.”

“After I talk to the boy,” Bastian said.

Hillman made a curt gesture with his hand. “You’re not talking to him. I don’t believe I’ll let you talk to him tomorrow, either. There are, after all, medical considerations.”

“Are you a medical man?”

“I have medical men at my disposal.”

“I’m sure you do. So do we.”

The two men faced each other in quiet fury. They were opposites in many ways. Bastian was a saturnine Puritan, absolutely honest, a stickler for detail, a policeman before he was a man. Hillman’s personality was less clear. It had romantic and actorish elements, which often mask deep evasions. His career had been meteoric, but it was the kind of career that sometimes left a man empty-handed in middle life.

“Do you have something to say to the Lieutenant?” Hillman asked me. “Before he leaves?”

“Yes. You may not like this, Mr. Hillman. I don’t. Last night a young man driving a late-model blue Chevrolet was seen in the driveway of the Barcelona Hotel. It’s where Mike Harley was found stabbed, with that knife.” I pointed to the evidence box on the table. “The young man has been tentatively identified as Dick Leandro.”

“Who made the identification?” Bastian said.

“Ben Daly, the service-station operator.”

“The man who killed Sipe.”

“Yes.”

“He’s either mistaken or lying,” Hillman said. “Dick drives a blue car, but it’s a small sports car, a Triumph.”

“Does he have access to a blue Chevrolet?”

“Not to my knowledge. You’re surely not trying to involve Dick in this mess.”

“If he’s involved, we have to know about it.” I said to Bastian: “Maybe you can determine whether he borrowed or rented a blue Chevrolet last night. Or it’s barely possible that he stole one.”

“Will do,” Bastian said.

Hillman said nothing.

BASTIAN PICKED UP his evidence case and shut it with a click. He walked out without a sign to either of us. He was treating Hillman as if he no longer existed. He was treating me in such a way that I could stay with Hillman.

Hillman watched him from the entrance to the library until he was safely across the reception hall and out the front door. Then he came back into the room. Instead of returning to the table where I was, he went to the wall of photographs where the squadron on the flight deck hung in green deep-sea light.

“What goes on around here?” he said. “Somebody took down Dick’s picture.”

“I did, for identification purposes.”

I got it out of my pocket. Hillman came and took it away from me. The glass was smudged by lingers, and he rubbed it with the sleeve of his jacket.

“You had no right to take it. What are you trying to do to Dick, anyway?”

“Get at the truth about him.”

“There is no mysterious truth about him. He’s a perfectly nice ordinary kid.”

“I hope so.”

“Look here,” he said, “you’ve accomplished what I hired you to do. Don’t think I’m ungrateful – I’m planning to give you a substantial bonus. But I didn’t hire you to investigate those murders.”

“And I don’t get the bonus unless I stop?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He spread his hands on the table and leaned above me, heavy-faced and powerful. “Just how do you get to talk to your betters the way you’ve been talking to me?”

“By my betters you mean people with more money?”

“Roughly, yes.”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Hillman. I rather like you. I’m trying to talk straight to you because somebody has to. You’re headed on a collision course with the law. If you stay on it, you’re going to get hurt.”

His face stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He didn’t like to be told anything. He liked to do the telling.

“I could buy and sell Bastian.”

“You can’t if he’s not for sale. You know damn well he isn’t.”

He straightened, raising his head out of the light into the greenish shadow. His face resembled old bronze, except that it was working. After a time he said: “What do you think I ought to do?”

“Start telling the truth.”

“Dammit, you imply I haven’t been.”

“I’m doing more than imply it, Mr. Hillman.”

He turned on me with his fists clenched, ready to hit me. I remained sitting. He walked away and came back. Without whisky, he was getting very jumpy.

“I suppose you think I killed them.”

“I’m not doing any speculating. I am morally certain you bought that knife from Botkin.”

“How can you be certain?”