Росс Макдональд - The Barbarous Coast

I sat down at the hall table with my beer and tried to draft an answer. It was hard. Mona passed out at parties because she had lost a husband in Korea and a small son at Children’s Hospital. I began to remember that I had no son, either. A man got lonely in the stucco wilderness, pushing forty with no chick, no child. Mona was pretty enough, and bright enough, and all she wanted was another child. What was I waiting for? A well-heeled virgin with her name in the Blue Book?

I decided to call Mona. The telephone rang under my hand. “Mercero?” I said,

But it was Bassett’s voice, breathy in my ear: “I tried to get you earlier.”

“I’ve been here for the last half-hour.”

“Does that mean you’ve found her, or given up?’

“Found her and lost her again.” I explained how, to the accompaniment of oh’s and ah’s and tut-tot’s from the other end of the line. “This hasn’t been one of my days so far. My biggest mistake was taking Wall along.”

“I hope he’s not badly hurt?” There was a vein of malice in Bassett’s solicitude.

“He’s a hardhead, he’ll survive.”

“Why do you suppose she ran away from him this time?”

“Simple panic, maybe. Maybe not. There seems to be more to this than a lost-wife case. Gabrielle Torres keeps cropping up.”

“It’s odd you should mention her. I’ve been thinking about her off and on all morning – ever since you commented on her picture.”

“So have I. There are three of them in the picture: Gabrielle and Hester and Lance. Gabrielle was murdered, the murderer hasn’t been caught. The other two were very close to her. Lance was her cousin. Hester was her best friend.”

“You’re not suggesting that Lance, or Hester–?” His voice was hushed, but buzzing with implications.

“I’m only speculating. I don’t think Hester killed her friend. I do think she knows something about the murder that nobody else knows,”

“Did she say so?”

“Not to me. To her husband. It’s all pretty vague. Except that nearly two years later she turns up in Coldwater Canyon. She’s suddenly prosperous, and so is her little friend with the big fists.”

“It does give one to think, doesn’t it?” He tittered nervously. “What do you have in mind?”

“Blackmail is most obvious, and I never rule out the obvious. Lance spread the word that he’s under contract at Helio-Graff, and it seems to be legit. The question is, how did he latch on to a contract with a big independent? He’s a good-looking boy, but it takes more than that these days. You knew him when he was a lifeguard at the Club?”

“Naturally. Frankly, I wouldn’t have hired him if his uncle hadn’t been extremely persistent. We generally use college boys in the summer.”

“Did he have acting ambitions?”

“Not to my knowledge. He was training to be a pugilist.” Bassett’s voice was contemptuous.

“He’s an actor now. It could be he’s an untutored genius – stranger things have happened – but I doubt it. On top of that, Hester claims to have a contract, too.”

“With Hello-Graff?”

“I don’t know. I intend to find out.”

“You’ll probably find it’s with Hello-Graff.” His voice had become sharper and more definite. “I’ve hesitated to tell you this, though it’s what I called you about. In my position, one acquires the habit of silence. However, I was talking to a certain person this morning, and Hester’s name came up. So did the name of Simon Graff. They were seen together in rather compromising circumstances.”

“Where?”

“In a hotel in Santa Monica – the Windsor, I believe.”

“It fits. She used to live there. When was this?”

“A few weeks ago. My informant saw them coming out of a room on one of the upper floors. At least, Mr. Graff came out. Hester only came as far as the door.”

“Who is your informant?”

“I couldn’t possibly tell you that, old man. It was one of our members.”

“So is Simon Graff.”

“Don’t think I’m not aware of it. Mr. Graff is the most powerful single member of the Club.”

“Aren’t you sticking your neck out, telling me this?”

“Yes. I am. I hope my confidence in you – in your discretion – hasn’t been misplaced.”

“Relax. I’m a clam. But what about your switchboard?”

“I’m on the switchboard myself,” he said.

“Is Graff still out there?”

“No. He left hours ago.”

“Where can I find him?”

“I have no idea. He’s having a party here tonight, but you mustn’t approach him. You’re not on any account to approach him.”

“All right.” But I made a mental reservation. “This secret informant of yours – it wouldn’t be Mrs. Graff?”

“Of course not.” His voice was fading. Either he was lying, or the decision to tell me about the Windsor Hotel episode had drained his energy. “You mustn’t even consider such a thought.”

“All right,” I said, considering it.

I called the Highway Patrol number and got Mercero: “Sorry, Lew, no can do. Three accidents since you called, and I’ve been hopping.” He hung up on me.

It didn’t matter. A pattern was forming in the case, like a motif in discordant, angry music. I had the slimmest of leads, a sunhat from a shop in Santa Monica. I also had the queer tumescent feeling you get when something is going to break.

I looked in on George before I left the house. He was snoring. I shouldn’t have left him.

THE TAOS SHOP was a little tourist shop on the Coast Highway. It sold Navajo blankets and thunderbird necklaces and baskets and hats and pottery in an atmosphere of disordered artiness. A mouse blonde in a brown Indian blouse clicked her wampum at me languidly and asked me what I desired, a gift for my wife perhaps? I told her I was looking for another man’s wife. She had romantic plum-colored eyes, and it seemed like the right approach. She said: “How fascinating. Are you a detective?”

I said I was.

“How fascinating.”

But when I told her about the hat, she shook her head regretfully. “I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s one of ours, all right – we import them ourselves from Mexico. But we sell so many of them, I couldn’t possibly–” She waved a willowy arm toward a tray piled with hats at the far end of the counter. “Perhaps if you described her?”

I described her. She shook her head dolefully. “I never could tell one Hollywood blonde from another.”

“Neither could I.”

“Ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredths of them are blonde out of a bottle, anyway. I could be a blonde if I wanted to, just with a rinse now and then. Only I’ve got too much personal pride.” She leaned toward me, and her wampum swung invitingly over the counter. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“Thanks for trying. It was an off-chance anyway.” I started out, and turned. “Her name is Hester Wall, by the way. That doesn’t ring a bell?”

“Hester? I know of a Hester, but her last name isn’t Wall. Her mother used to work here.”

“What is her last name?”

“Campbell.”

“She’s the one: Campbell’s her maiden name.”

“Now’ isn’t that fascinating?”” She smiled in dimpled glee, and her large eyes glowed. “The most exciting things happen to people, don’t you think? I suppose you’re looking for her about her inheritance?”

“Inheritance?”

“Yes. It’s why Mrs. Campbell quit her job, on account of her daughter’s inheritance. Don’t tell me she’s come into another fortune!”

“Who did she inherit the first one from?”

“Her husband, her late husband.” She paused, and her soft mouth quivered. “It’s sort of sad, when you realize, nobody inherits anything unless somebody else dies.”