Росс Макдональд - The Doomsters

“When did they find her?”

“Next day.”

“Did Grantland come to see you before they found her?”

“Long before. He got to the ranch around midnight. I was still awake, I couldn’t sleep.”

“And Mrs. Hallman had left the house around dinner time?”

“Yes, around seven o’clock. She always ate at seven. That night she didn’t eat, though.”

“Had Grantland seen her between dinner time and midnight?”

“Not that I know of. I took it for granted he was looking for her. I never thought to ask him. I was so full of myself, and the guilt I felt. I just spilled out everything about her and the gun and me letting her go without a by-your-leave, and my wicked thoughts. Dr. Grantland said I was over exhausted, and blaming myself too much. She’d probably turn up all right. But if she didn’t I was to say that I didn’t know anything about any gun. That she just slipped out on me, and I took it for granted she went to town for something, maybe to see her grandchild, I didn’t know what. I wasn’t to mention him coming out here either. That way, they’d be more likely to believe me. Anyway, I did what Dr. Grantland said. He was a doctor. I’m only a special nurse. I don’t pretend to be smart.”

She let her face fall into slack and stupid folds, as if to relieve herself of responsibility. I couldn’t blame her too much. She was an old woman, worn out by her ordeal of conscience, and it was getting late.

ROSE PARISH came quietly into the room. She looked radiant and slightly disorganized.

“I finally got her to sleep. Goodness, it’s past eleven. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long.”

“It’s all right. You didn’t keep me waiting.”

I spent most of my working time waiting, talking and waiting. Talking to ordinary people in ordinary neighborhoods about ordinary things, waiting for truth to come up to the surface. I’d caught a glimpse of it just now, and it must have showed in my eyes.

Rose glanced from me to Mrs. Hutchinson. “Has something happened?”

“I talked his arm off, that’s what happened.” The old woman’s face had resumed its peculiar closed look. “Thank you for helping out with the child. You ought to have some of your own to look after.”

Rose flushed with pleasure, then shook her head quite sharply, as if to punish herself for the happy thought. “I’d settle for Martha any day. She’s a little angel.”

“Sometimes,” Mrs. Hutchinson said.

A rattle in the street drew my attention back to the window. An old gray pickup had come off the highway. It slowed down as it passed the house, and stopped abreast of the station wagon. A slight, wiry figure got out of the truck on the right-hand side and walked around the back of it to the wagon. I recognized Sam Yogan by his quick unhurried movements.

The truck was rattling away on Elmwood by the time I reached the wagon. Yogan was behind the wheel, trying to start it. It wouldn’t start for him.

“Where are you going, Sam?”

He looked up and smiled when he saw me. “Back to the ranch. Hello.”

He turned the motor over again, but it refused to catch. It sounded as though it was out of gas.

“Leave it, Sam. Get out and leave it.”

His smile widened and became resistant. “No, sir. Mrs. Hallman says take it back to the ranch.”

“Did she tell you herself?”

“No, sir. Garageman phoned Juan, Juan told me.”

“Garageman?”

“Yessir. He said Mrs. Hallman said to pick up the car on Chestnut Street.”

“How long ago did he call?”

“Not so long. Garageman says hurry up. Juan brought me in right away.”

He tried the motor again, without success. I reached across him and removed the ignition key.

“You might as well get out, Sam. The fuel line’s probably cut.”

He got out and started for the front of the hood. “I fix it, eh?”

“No. Come here.”

I opened the back door and showed him Zinnie Hallman. I watched his face. There was nothing there but an imperturbable sorrow. If he had guilty knowledge, it was hidden beyond my reach. I didn’t believe he had.

“Do you know who killed her?”

His black eyes looked up from under his corrugated forehead. “No, sir.”

“It looks like whoever did it tried to blame it on you. Doesn’t that make you mad?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t you have any idea who it was?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you remember the night old Mrs. Hallman died?”

He nodded.

“You let her off on the wharf, I believe.”

“The street in front of the wharf.”

“What was she doing there?”

“Said she had to meet somebody.”

“Did she say who?”

“No, sir. She told me go away, don’t wait. She didn’t want me to see, maybe.”

“Did she have her gun?”

“I dunno.”

“Did she mention Dr. Grantland?”

“I don’t think.”

“Did Dr. Grantland ever ask you about that night?”

“No, sir.”

“Or give you a story to tell?”

“No, sir.” He gestured awkwardly toward the body. “We ought to tell the police.”

“You’re right. You go and tell them, Sam.”

He nodded solemnly. I handed him the key to the wagon and showed him where to find the sergeant’s party. As I was starting my own car, Rose came out of the house and got in beside me. I turned onto Elmwood, bumped over the bridge, and accelerated. The arching trees passed over us with a whoosh, like giant dark birds.

“You’re in an awful hurry,” she said. “Or do you always drive like this?”

“Only when I’m frustrated.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. Did I do something to make you angry?”

“No.”

“Something has happened, hasn’t it?”

“Something is going to. Where do you want to be dropped off?”

“I don’t want to be.”

“There may be trouble. I think I can promise it.”

“I didn’t come to Purissima with the idea of avoiding trouble. I didn’t come to get killed in an auto accident, either.”

The lights at the main-street intersection were flashing red. I braked to a hard stop. Rose Parish didn’t go with the mood I was in. “Get out.”

“I will not.”

“Stop asking questions then.” I turned east toward the hills.

“I will not. Is it something about Carl?”

“Yes. Now hold the thought.”

It was an early-to-bed town. There was practically no traffic. A few drunks drifted and argued on the pavement in front of the bars. Two night-blooming tarts or their mothers minced purposefully toward nothing in particular. A youth on a stepladder was removing the lettering from the shabby marquee of the Mexican movie house. AMOR was the only word that was left. He started to take that down.

In the upper reaches of the main street there was no one on foot at all. The only human being in sight was the attendant of an all-night gas station. I pulled in to the curb just below Grantland’s office. A light shone dimly inside, behind the glass bricks. I started to get out. Some kind of animal emerged from the shrubbery and crawled toward me onto the sidewalk.

It was a human kind of animal, a man on his hands and knees. His hands left a track of blood, black as oil drippings under my headlights. His arms gave away and he fell on his side. His face was the dirty gray of the pavement. Rica again.

Rose went to her knees beside him. She gathered his head and shoulders into her lap.

“Get him an ambulance. I think he’s cut his wrists.”

Rica struggled feebly in her arms. “Cut my wrists hell. You think I’m one of your psychos?”

His red hands struck at her. Blood daubed her face and smeared the front of her coat. She held him, talking softly in the voice she used for Martha: “Poor man, you hurt yourself. How did you hurt yourself?”