Росс Макдональд - The Doomsters

“It was then he got really nasty. He told me I’d better be careful what I said. That Carl had confessed the murder of his father, and he was the only one who knew. He’d keep it quiet if I’d be nice to him. Otherwise there’d be a trial, he said. Even if Carl wasn’t convicted we’d be given the kind of publicity that people can’t live through.” Her voice sank despairingly. “The kind of publicity we’re going to have to live through now.”

Mildred turned and looked out across the green country as if it were a wasteland. She said, with her face averted: “I didn’t give in to him. But I was afraid to reject him as flatly as he deserved. I put him off with some sort of a vague promise, that we might get together sometime in the future. I haven’t kept the promise, needless to say, and I never will.” She said it calmly enough, but her shoulders were trembling. I could see the rim of one of her ears, between silky strands of hair. It was red with shame or anger. “The horrible old man hasn’t forgiven me for that. I’ve lived in fear for the last six months, that he’d take action against Carl – drag him back to stand trial.”

“He didn’t, though,” I said, “which means that the confession was probably a phony. Tell me one thing, could it have happened the way Ostervelt claimed? I mean, did your husband have the opportunity?”

“I’m afraid the answer is yes. He was roaming around the house most of the night, after the quarrel with his father. I couldn’t keep him in bed.”

“Did you ask him about it afterwards?”

“At the hospital? No, I didn’t. They warned me not to bring up disturbing subjects. And I was glad enough to let sleeping dogs lie. If it was true, I felt better not knowing than knowing. There’s a limit to what a person can bear to know.”

She shuddered, in the chill of memory.

The front door of the greenhouse was flung open suddenly. Carmichael backed out, bent over the handles of a covered stretcher. Under the cover, the dead man huddled lumpily. The other end of the stretcher was supported by the deputy coroner. They moved awkwardly along the flagstone path toward the black panel truck. Against the sweep of the valley and the mountains standing like monuments in the sunlight, the two upright men and the prostrate man seemed equally small and transitory. The living men hoisted the dead man into the back of the truck and slammed the double doors. Mildred jumped at the noise.

“I’m terribly edgy, I’d better get out of here. I shouldn’t have gone into – all that. You’re the only person I’ve ever told.”

“It’s safe with me.”

“Thank you. For everything, I mean. You’re the only one who’s given me a ray of hope.”

She raised her hand in good-by and went down the steps into sunlight which gilded her head. Ostervelt’s senescent passion for her was easy to understand. It wasn’t just that she was young and pretty, and round in the right places. She had something more provocative than sex: the intense grave innocence of a serious child, and a loneliness that made her seem vulnerable.

I watched the old Buick out of sight and caught myself on the edge of a sudden hot dream. Mildred’s husband might not live forever. His chances of surviving the day were not much better than even. If her husband failed to survive, Mildred would need a man to look after her.

I gave myself a mental kick in the teeth. That land of thinking put me on Ostervelt’s level. Which for some reason made me angrier at Ostervelt.

THE DEPUTY CORONER had lit a cigar and was leaning against the side of the panel truck, smoking it. I strolled over and took a look at my car. Nothing seemed to be missing. Even the key was in the ignition. The additional mileage added up, so far as I could estimate, to the distance from the hospital to Purissima to the ranch.

“Nice day,” the deputy coroner said.

“Nice enough.”

“Too bad Mr. Hallman isn’t alive to enjoy it. He was in pretty good shape, too, judging from a superficial examination. I’ll be interested in what his organs have to say.”

“You’re not suggesting he died of natural causes.”

“Oh, no. It’s merely a little game I play with myself to keep the interest up.” He grinned, and the sunlight glinted on his spectacles in cold mirth. “Not every doctor gets a chance to know his patients inside and out.”

“You’re the coroner, aren’t you?”

“Deputy coroner. Ostervelt’s the coroner – he wears two hats. Actually I do, too. I’m pathologist at the Purissima Hospital. Name’s Lawson.”

“Archer.” We shook hands.

“You from one of the L. A. papers? I just got finished talking to the local man.”

“I’m a private investigator, employed by a member of the family. I was wondering about your findings.”

“Haven’t got any yet. I know there’re two bullets in him because they went in and didn’t come out. I’ll get ’em when I do the autopsy.”

“When will that be?”

“Tonight. Ostervelt wants it quick. I ought to have it wrapped up by midnight, sooner maybe.”

“What happens to the slugs after you remove them?”

“I turn ’em over to the sheriff’s ballistics man.”

“Is he any good?”

“Oh, yeah, Durkin’s a pretty fair technician. If it gets too tough, we send the work up to the L. A. Police Lab, or to Sacramento. But this isn’t a case where the physical evidence counts for much. We pretty well know who did it. Once they catch him, he shouldn’t be hard to get a story out of. Ostervelt may not bother doing anything with the slugs. He’s a pretty easy-going guy. You get that way after twenty-five or thirty years in office.”

“Worked for him long?”

“Four-five years. Five.” He added, a little defensively: “Purissima’s a nice place to live. The wife won’t leave it. Who can blame her?”

“Not me. I wouldn’t mind settling here myself.”

“Talk to Ostervelt, why don’t you? He’s understaffed – always looking for men. You have any police experience?”

“A few years back. I got tired of living on a cop’s salary. Among other things.”

“There are always ways of padding it out.”

Not knowing how he meant me to take that, I looked into his face. He was sizing me up, too. I said: “That was one of the other things I got tired of. But you wouldn’t think there’d be much of that in this county.”

“More than you think, brother, more than you think. We won’t go into that, though.” He took a bite out of the tip of his cigar and spat it into the gravel. “You say you’re working for the Hallman family?”

I nodded.

“Ever been in Purissima before?”

“Over the years, I have.”

He looked at me with curiosity. “Are you one of the detectives the Senator brought in when his wife drowned?”

“No.”

“I just wondered. I spent several hours with one of them – a smart old bulldog named Scott. You wouldn’t happen to know him? He’s from L. A. Glenn Scott?”

“I know Scott. He’s one of the old masters in the field. Or he was until he retired.”

“My impression exactly. He knew more about pathology than most medical students. I never had a more interesting conversation.”

“What about?”

“Causes of death,” he said brightly. “Drowning and asphyxiation and so on. Fortunately I’d done a thorough post-mortem. I was able to establish that she died by drowning; she had sand and fragments of kelp in her bronchial tubes, and the indicated saline solution in her lungs.”

“There wasn’t any doubt of it, was there?”

“Not after I got through. Scott was completely satisfied. Of course I couldn’t entirely rule out the possibility of murder, but there were no positive indications. It’s almost certain that the contusions were inflicted after death.”