Росс Макдональд - The Chill

“What do you think happened to Mrs. Kincaid?” His question was cold and formal, disclaiming all interest in the answer to it.

“I was hoping you’d have some ideas on the subject. She’s been missing for nearly three weeks. I don’t like it. It’s true that girls are always disappearing, but not on their honeymoons – not when they love their husbands.”

“She loves hers, does she?”

“He thinks so. How was she feeling when you saw her? Was she depressed?”

“I wouldn’t say that. She was surprised to see me,”

“Because she hadn’t seen you for so long?”

He sneered at me hairily. “Don’t bother trying to trap me. I told you she wasn’t my daughter. She didn’t know me from Adam.”

“What did you find to talk about with her?”

“We didn’t talk.” He paused. “Maybe I asked her a few questions.”

“Such as?”

“Who her father was. Who her mother was. Where she came from. She said she came from Los Angeles. Her maiden name was Dolly something – I forget the name. Her parents were both dead. That’s about all.”

“It took you quite a while to get that much out of her.”

“I was only there five or ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”

“The desk clerk said an hour.”

“He made a mistake.”

“Or maybe you did, Mr. Begley. Time passes very rapidly sometimes.”

He clutched at this dubious excuse. “Maybe I did stay longer than I realized. I remember now, she wanted me to stay and meet her husband.” His eyes held steady, but they had taken on a faint lying sheen. “He didn’t come and didn’t come, so I left.”

“Did you suggest seeing her again?”

“No. She wasn’t that interested in my story.”

“You told her your story?”

“I told her about my daughter, naturally, just like I told you.”

“I don’t understand it. You say you were out of the country for ten years. Where?”

“In New Caledonia, mostly. I worked for a chrome mine there. They shut it down last spring and shipped us home.”

“And now you’re looking for your daughter?”

“I’d certainly like to put my hands on her.”

“So she can be a bridesmaid at your wedding?” I wanted to see how sharp a needle he would take.

He took this one without a word.

“What happened to your wife?”

“She died.” His eyes were no longer steady. “Look, do we have to go into all this? It’s bad enough losing your loved ones without having it raked up and pushed in your face.” I couldn’t tell if his self-pity was false: self-pity always is to some extent.

“It’s too bad you lost your family,” I said. “But what did you expect when you left the country for ten years?”

“It wasn’t my choice. How would you like to get shanghaied and not be able to get back?”

“Is that your story? It isn’t a likely one.”

“My story is wilder than that, but we won’t go into it. You wouldn’t believe me, anyway. Nobody else has.”

“You could always try me.”

“It would take all day. You’ve got better things to do than talk to me.”

“Name one.”

“You said there’s a young lady missing. Go and find her.”

“I was hoping you could help me. I still am hoping, Mr. Begley.”

He looked down at his feet. He was wearing huaraches. “I’ve told you all I know about her. I should never have gone to that hotel in the first place. Okay, so I made a mistake. You can’t hang a man for a little mistake in judgment.”

“You’ve mentioned murder once, and hanging once. I wonder why.”

“It was just a manner of speaking.” But the confidence was seeping out of him through the holes my needle had made. He said with a rising inflection: “You think I murdered her?”

“No. I do think this. Something happened between you, or something was said, that might explain why she left so suddenly. Give it some thought, will you?”

Slowly, perhaps involuntarily, he raised his head and looked up at the sun. Under his tilted beard his neck was pale and scrawny. It gave the impression that he was wearing the kind of mask Greek actors wore, covering him completely from my eyes.

“No. Nothing was said like that.”

“Was there any trouble between you?”

“No.”

“Why did she let you come to her room?”

“I guess she was interested in my story. I talked to her on the house phone, said she resembled my daughter. It was just a foolish impulse. I knew as soon as I saw her that she wasn’t.”

“Did you make arrangements to see her again?”

“No. I’d certainly like to.”

“Did you wait outside the hotel for her, or agree to meet her at the bus station?”

“I did not. What are you trying to nail me for? What do you want?”

“Just the truth. I’m not satisfied I’ve been getting it from you.”

He said in a sudden spurt of fury: “You’ve got as much as–” He began to regret the outburst before it was over, and swallowed the rest of the words.

But he turned his back on me and went inside, slamming the door. I waited for a little while, and gave up on him. I walked back along the sandy access lane to our cars.

The blonde woman, Madge Gerhardi, was sitting beside Alex in his red Porsche. He looked up with shining eyes.

“Mrs. Gerhardi has seen her. She’s seen Dolly.”

“With Begley?”

“No, not with him.” She opened the door and squeezed out of the little car. “It was at that garage that specializes in fixing foreign cars. I drive an MG myself, and I had it in for a lube job. The girl was there with an old woman. They went away together in an old brown Rolls. The girl was doing the driving.”

“Are you certain of the identification?” I showed her the picture again.

She nodded over it emphatically. “I’m certain, unless she has a twin. I noticed her because she was so stunning.”

“Do you know who the old woman was?”

“No, but the man at the garage ought to be able to tell you.” She gave us directions, and started to edge away. “I better get back to the house. I snuck out along the beach, and Chuck will be wondering where I am.”

A mechanic lying face up on a creeper rolled out from under the raised front end of a Jaguar sedan. I saw when he stood up that he was a plump Mediterranean type with “Mario” embroidered on his coverall. He nodded enthusiastically when I asked him about the old Rolls and the old lady.

“That’s Mrs. Bradshaw. I been looking after her Rolls for the last twelve years, ever since she bought it. It’s running as good now as the day she bought it.” He looked at his greasy hands with some satisfaction, like a surgeon recalling a series of difficult but successful operations. “Some of the girls she gets to drive her don’t know how to treat a good car.”

“Do you know the girl who’s driving her at present?”

“I don’t know her name. Mrs. Bradshaw has quite a turnover with her drivers. She gets them from the college mostly. Her son is Dean at the college, and he won’t let the old lady do her own driving. She’s crippled with rheumatics, and I think she was in a smashup at one time.”

I cut in on Mario’s complicated explanations and showed him the print. “This girl?”

“Yeah. She was here with Mrs. Bradshaw the other day. She’s a new one. Like I said, Mrs. Bradshaw has quite a turnover. She likes to have her own way, and these college girls don’t take orders too well. Personally I always hit it off with Mrs. Bradshaw–”

“Where does she live?”

Alex sounded anxious, and Mario was slightly infected by his anxiety. “What is it you want with her?”

“She’s not the one I’m interested in. The girl is my wife.”