Росс Макдональд - The Doomsters

“Do you think you were wrong?”

“Maybe I was. If I did make a mistake, like La Guardia said, it was a beaut: they don’t come often like that. I know I shouldn’t admit it to an ex-competitor. On the other hand, you were never a very serious competitor. They went to you when they couldn’t afford me.” Scott was trying to carry it off lightly, but his face was heavy. “On the other hand, I wouldn’t want you to climb way out on a limb, and get it sawed off from under you.”

“So?”

“So take a piece of advice from an old pro who started in the rack – in the business, before you learned toilet control. You’re wasting your time on this one.”

“I don’t think so. You gave me what I need.”

“Then I better give you something you don’t need, just so you won’t get elated.” Scott looked the opposite of elated. His voice dragged slower and slower. “Don’t start to spend your piece of that five million until after you deposit the check. You know there’s a little rule of law that says a murderer can’t benefit from the estate of his victim.”

“Are you trying to tell me Carl Hallman murdered his father?”

“I heard the old man died of natural causes. I didn’t investigate his death. It looks as if somebody ought to.”

“I intend to.”

“Sure, but don’t be surprised if you come up with an answer you don’t like.”

“Such as?”

“You said it a minute ago yourself.”

“You’ve got some inside information?”

“Only what you told me, and what the old man told me when his lawyer sent for me. You know why he wanted me to make a confidential investigation of that drowning?”

“He didn’t trust the local law.”

“Maybe. The main reason was, he suspected his own son of knocking out the mother and throwing her in the water. And I’m beginning to think that’s what actually happened.”

I’d seen it coming from a long way off, but it hit me hard, with the weight of Glenn Scott’s integrity behind it.

“Do you know what the Senator’s suspicions were based on?”

“He didn’t tell me much about that. I assumed he knew his own boy better than I did. I never even got to meet the boy. I talked to the rest of the family, though, and I gathered that he was very close to his mother. Too close for comfort, maybe.”

“Close like Oedipus?”

“Could be. There was apron-string trouble, all right. The mother raised a hell of a stink when he went away to college. She was a clutcher, for sure, and not very stable, like I said. Could be he thought he had to kill her to get free. There’ve been cases like that. I’m only brainstorming, understand. You won’t quote me.”

“Not even to myself. Where was Carl when she died?”

“That’s just the trouble, I don’t know. He was going to school in Berkeley at the time, but he left there about a week before it happened. Dropped out of sight for maybe ten days, all told.”

“What did he say he was doing?”

“I don’t know. The Senator wouldn’t even let me ask him. It wasn’t a very satisfactory case to work on. As you’ll discover.”

“I already have.”

I PARKED on upper Main Street, in front of a flat-topped building made of pink stucco and glass brick. An imitation flagstone walk led through well-trimmed shrubbery to a door inset in one corner. A small bronze plate beside the door announced discreetly: J. Charles Grantland, M. D.

The waiting-room was empty, except for a lot of new-looking furniture. A fairly new-looking young woman popped up behind a bleached oak counter in the far corner beside an inner door. She had dark, thin good looks which needed a quick paint job.

“Mr. Archer?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, doctor’s still busy. We’re behind schedule today. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

I said I didn’t mind. She took down my address.

“Were you in an accident, Mr. Archer?”

“You could call it that.”

I sat in the chair nearest her, and took a folded newspaper out of my jacket pocket. I’d bought it on the street a few minutes earlier, from a Mexican newsboy crying murder. I spread it out on my knees, hoping that it might make a conversation piece.

The Hallman story had Eugene Slovekin’s by-line under a banner heading: Brother Sought in Shooting . There was a three-column picture of the Hallman brothers in the middle of the page. The story began in a rather stilted atmospheric style which made me wonder if Slovekin had been embarrassed by the writing of it:

“In a tragedy which may parallel the ancient tragedy of Cain and Abel, violent death paid a furtive and shocking visit today to a well-known local family. Victim of the apparent slaying was Jeremiah Hallman, 34, prominent Buena Vista Valley rancher. His younger brother, Carl Hallman, 24, is being sought for questioning in the shooting. Mr. Hallman, son of the recently deceased Senator Hallman, was found dead at approximately one o’clock this afternoon by his family physician, Dr. Charles Grantland, in the conservatory of the Hallman estate.

“Mr. Hallman had been shot twice in the back, and apparently died within seconds of the shooting. A pearl-handled revolver, with two cartridges discharged, was found beside the body, lending a touch of fantastic mystery to the case. According to family servants the murder gun formerly belonged to the late Mrs. Alicia Hallman, mother of the victim.

“Sheriff Duane Ostervelt, who was on the scene within minutes of the shooting, stated that the murder weapon was known to be in the possession of Carl Hallman. Young Hallman was seen on the ranch immediately prior to the shooting. He escaped last night from the State Hospital, where he had been a patient for some months. According to members of the family, young Hallman has been a longtime victim of mental illness. An all-points search is being made for him, by the local sheriff’s department and city and state police.

“Contacted by long-distance telephone, Dr. Brockley of the State Hospital staff said that young Hallman was suffering from manic-depressive psychosis when admitted to the hospital six months ago. According to Dr. Brockley, Hallman was not considered dangerous, and was thought to be ‘well on the road to recovery.’ Dr. Brockley expressed surprise and concern at the tragic outcome of Hallman’s escape. He said that the local authorities were informed of the escape as soon as it occurred, and expressed the hope that the public would ‘take a calm view of the situation. There is no violence in Hallman’s hospital record,’ Dr. Brockley said. ‘He is a sick boy who needs medical care.’

“A similar view was expressed by Sheriff Ostervelt, who says that he is organizing a posse of a hundred or more local citizens to supplement the efforts of his department in the search. The public is asked to be on the lookout for Hallman. He is six feet three inches tall, of athletic build, blue-eyed, with light hair cut very short. When last seen he was wearing a blue work shirt and blue dungaree trousers. According to Sheriff Ostervelt, Hallman may be accompanied by Thomas Rica, alias Rickey, a fellow-escapee from…”

The story was continued on the second page. Before turning over, I took a close look at the picture of the two brothers. It was a stiffly posed portrait of the sort that photographers make to commemorate weddings. Both brothers wore boiled shirts and fixed smiles. Their resemblance was accentuated by this, and by the fact that Jerry hadn’t grown fat when the picture was taken. The caption was simply: “The Hallman brothers (Carl on the right).”

The dark girl coughed insinuatingly. I looked up and saw her leaning far out over her counter, slightly cross-eyed with desire to break the silence.