Росс Макдональд - The Doomsters

“What are they?”

“Fire if fired upon. And that’s leaning way over backwards. You don’t play footsie with a homicidal psycho, Mister.”

He had a point: I’d tried to, and got my lumps. But you didn’t shoot him, either.

“He isn’t considered homicidal.”

I glanced at Zinnie for confirmation. She didn’t speak, or look in my direction. Her pretty head was cocked sideways in a strained listening attitude. The deputy said: “You should talk to the sheriff about that.”

“He didn’t threaten Yogan, did he?”

“Maybe not. The Jap and him are old pals. Or maybe he did, and the Jap ain’t telling us. We do know he’s carrying a gun, and he knows how to use it.”

“I’d like to talk to Yogan.”

“If you think it’ll do you any good. Last I saw of him he was in the bunkhouse.”

He pointed between the oaks to an old adobe which stood on the edge of the groves. Behind us, the sound of an approaching car floated over the housetop.

“Excuse me, Mr. Carmichael,” Zinnie said. “That must be my husband.”

Walking quickly, she disappeared around the side of the house. Carmichael pulled his gun and trotted after her. I followed along, around the attached greenhouse which flanked the side of the house.

A silver-gray Jaguar stopped behind the Buick convertible in the driveway. Running across the lawn toward the sports car, under the towering sky, Zinnie looked like a little puppet, black and white and gold, jerked across green baize. The big man who got out of the car slowed her with a gesture of his hand. She looked back at me and the deputy, stumbling a little on her heels, and assumed an awkward noncommittal pose.

THE DRIVER of the Jaguar had dressed himself to match it. He had on gray flannels, gray suede shoes, a gray silk shirt, a gray tie with a metallic sheen. In striking contrast, his face had the polished brown finish of hand-rubbed wood. Even at a distance, I could see he used it as an actor might. He was conscious of planes and angles, and the way his white teeth flashed when he smiled. He turned his full smile on Zinnie.

I said to the deputy: “That wouldn’t be Jerry Hallman.”

“Naw. It’s some doctor from town.”

“Grantland?”

“I guess that’s his name.” He squinted at me sideways. “What kind of detective work do you do? Divorce?”

“I have.”

“Which one in the family hired you, anyway?”

I didn’t want to go into that, so I gave him a wise look and drifted away. Dr. Grantland and Zinnie were climbing the front steps. As she passed him in the doorway, Zinnie looked up into his face. She inclined her body so that her breast touched his arm. He put the same arm around her shoulders, turned her away from him, and propelled her into the house.

Without going out of my way to make a lot of noise, I mounted the veranda and approached the screen door. A carefully modulated male voice was saying: “You’re acting like a wild woman. You don’t have to be so conspicuous.”

“I want to be. I want everyone to know.”

“Including Jerry?”

“Especially him.” Zinnie added illogically: “Anyway, he isn’t here.”

“He soon will be. I passed him on the way out. You should have seen the look he gave me.”

“He hates anybody to pass him.”

“No, there was more to it than that. Are you sure you haven’t told him about us?”

“I wouldn’t tell him the time of day.”

“What’s this about wanting everybody to know then?”

“I didn’t mean anything. Except that I love you.”

“Be quiet. Don’t even say it. You could throw everything away, just when I’ve got it practically made.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll tell you afterwards. Or perhaps I won’t tell you at all. It’s working out, and that’s all you need to know. Anyway, it will work out, if you can act like a sensible human being.”

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Then remember who you are, and who I am. I’m thinking about Martha. You should be, too.”

“Yes. I forget her sometimes, when I’m with you. Thank you for reminding me, Charlie.”

“Not Charlie. Doctor. Call me doctor.”

“Yes, Doctor.” She made the word sound erotic. “Kiss me once, Doctor. It’s been a long time.”

Having won his point, he became bland. “If you insist, Mrs. Hallman.”

She moaned. I walked to the end of the veranda, feeling a little let down because Zinnie’s vivacity hadn’t been for me. I lit a consolatory cigarette.

At the side of the house, childish laughter bubbled. I leaned on the railing and looked around the corner. Mildred and her niece were playing a game of catch with a tennis ball. At least it was catch for Mildred, when Martha threw the ball anywhere near her. Mildred rolled the ball to the child, who scampered after it like a small utility infielder in fairy blue. For the first time since I’d met her, Mildred looked relaxed.

A gray-haired woman in a flowered dress was watching them from a chaise longue in the shade. She called out: “Martha! You mustn’t get overtired. And keep your dress clean.”

Mildred turned on the older woman: “Let her get dirty if she likes.”

But the spell of the game was broken. Smiling a perverse little smile, the child picked up the ball and threw it over the picket fence that surrounded the lawn. It bounced out of sight among the orange trees.

The woman on the chaise longue raised her voice again: “Now look what you’ve done, you naughty girl – you’ve gone and lost the ball.”

“Naughty girl,” the child repeated shrilly, and began to chant: “Martha’s a naughty girl, Martha’s a naughty girl.”

“You’re not, you’re a nice girl,” Mildred said. “The ball isn’t lost. I’ll find it.”

She started for the gate in the picket fence. I opened my mouth to warn her not to go into the trees. But something was going on in the driveway behind me. Car wheels crunched in the ground, and slid to a stop. I turned and saw that it was a new lavender Cadillac with gold trim.

The man who got out of the driver’s seat was wearing fuzzy tweeds. His hair and eyes had the same coloring as Carl, but he was older, fatter, shorter. Instead of hospital pallor, his face was full of angry blood.

Zinnie came out on the veranda to meet him. Unfortunately her lipstick was smeared. Her eyes looked feverish.

“Jerry, thank God you’re here!” The dramatic note sounded wrong, and she lowered her voice: “I’ve been worried sick. Where on earth have you been all day?”

He stumped up the steps and faced her, not quite as tall as she was on her heels. “I haven’t been gone all day. I drove down to see Brockley at the hospital. Somebody had to give him the bawling-out be had coming to him. I told him what I thought of the loose way they run that place.”

“Was that wise, dear?”

“It was some satisfaction, anyway. These bloody doctors! They take the public’s money and–” He jerked a thumb toward Grantland’s car: “Speaking of doctors, what’s he doing here? Is somebody sick?”

“I thought you knew, about Carl. Didn’t Ostie stop you at the road?”

“I saw his car there, he wasn’t in it. What about Carl?”

“He’s on the ranch, carrying a gun.” Zinnie saw the shock on her husband’s face, and repeated: “I thought you knew. I thought that’s why you were staying away, because you’re afraid of Carl.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” he said, on a rising note.

“You were, the day he left here. And you should be, after the things he said to you.” She added, with unconscious cruelty, perhaps not entirely unconscious: “I believe he wants to kill you, Jerry.”