Росс Макдональд - The Barbarous Coast

“It’s one of my favorite photographs,” Bassett said. “It was taken a couple of years ago, when Hester was in training for the nationals.”

“Taken here?”

“Yes. We let her use our tower for practicing, as I said.”

“Who are her friends in the picture?”

“The boy used to be our lifeguard. The girl was a young friend of Hester’s. She worked in the snack bar here, but Hester was grooming her for competitive diving.”

“Is she still around?”

“I’m afraid not.” His face lengthened. “Gabrielle was killed.”

“In a diving accident?”

“Hardly. She was shot.”

“Murdered?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Who did it to her?”

“The crime was never solved. I doubt that it ever will be now. It happened nearly two years ago, in March of last year.”

“What did you say her name was?”

“Gabrielle. Gabrielle Torres.”

“Any relation to Tony?”

“She was his daughter.”

THERE WAS A HEAVY KNOCK on the door. Bassett shied like a frightened horse.

“Who is it?”

The knock was repeated. I went to the door. Bassett neighed at me: “Don’t open it.”

I turned the key in the lock and opened the door a few inches against my foot and shoulder. George Wall was outside. His face was greenish-gray in the reflected light. The torn white meat of his leg showed through a rip in his trousers. He breathed hard into my face: “Is he in here?”

“How did you get in?”

“I came over the fence. Is Bassett in here?”

I looked at Bassett. He was crouched behind the desk, with only his white eyes showing, and his black gun. “Don’t let him come in. Don’t let him touch me.”

“He’s not going to touch you. Put that down.”

“I will not. I’ll defend myself if I have to.”

I turned my back on his trigger-happy terror. “You heard him, Wall. He has a gun.”

“I don’t care what he has. I’ve got to talk to him. Is Hester here?”

“You’re on the wrong track. He hasn’t seen her for months.”

“Naturally he says that.”

“I’m saying it, too. She worked here during the summer, and left some time in September.”

His puzzled blue look deepened. His tongue moved like a slow red snail across his upper lip. “Why wouldn’t he see me before, if she’s not with him?”

“You mentioned horsewhipping, remember? It wasn’t exactly the approach diplomatic.”

“I don’t have time for diplomacy. I have to fly home tomorrow.”

“Good.”

His shoulder leaned into the opening. I felt his weight on the door. Bassett’s voice rose an octave: “Keep him away from me!”

Bassett was close behind me. I turned with my back against the door and wrenched the gun out of his hand and put it in my pocket. He was too angry and scared to say a word. I turned back to Wall, who was still pressing in but not with all his force. He looked confused. I spread one hand on his chest and pushed him upright and held him. His weight was stubborn and inert, like a stone statue’s.

A short, broad-shouldered man came down the steps from the vestibule. He walked toward us fussily, almost goose-stepping, glancing out over the pool and at the sea beyond it as if they were his personal possessions. The wind ruffled his crest of silver hair. Self-importance and fat swelled under his beautifully tailored blue flannel jacket. He was paying no attention to the woman trailing along a few paces behind him.

“Good Lord,” Bassett said in my ear, “it’s Mr. and Mrs. Graff. We can’t have a disturbance in front of Mr. Graff. Let Wall come in. Quickly, man!”

I let him in. Bassett was at the door, bowing and smiling, when the silver-haired man came up. He paused and chopped the air with his nose. His face was brown and burnished-looking.

“Bassett? You’ve got the extra help lined up for tonight? Orchestra? Food?”

“Yes, Mr. Graff.”

“About drinks. We’ll use the regular bar bourbon, not my private stock. They’re all barbarians, anyway – none of them knows the difference.”

“Yes, Mr. Graff. Enjoy your swim.”

“I always enjoy my swim.”

The woman came up behind him, moving a little dazedly, as though the sunlight distressed her. Her black hair was pulled back severely from a broad, flat brow, to which her Greek nose was joined without indentation. Her face was pale and dead, except for the dark searchlights of her eyes, which seemed to contain all her energy and feeling. She was dressed in black jersey, without ornament, like a widow.

Bassett bade her good-morning. She answered with sudden animation that it was a lovely day for December. Her husband strode away toward the cabañas . She followed like a detached shadow. Bassett sighed with relief.

“Is he the Graff in Helio-Graff?” I said.

“Yes.”

He edged past Wall to his desk, rested a haunch on one corner, and fumbled with his pipe and tobacco pouch. His hands were shaking. Wall hadn’t moved from the door. His face was red in patches, and I didn’t like the glacial stare of his eyes. I kept my bulk between the two men, watching them in turn like a tennis referee.

Wall said throatily: “You can’t lie out of it, you must know where she is. You paid for her dancing lessons.”

“Dancing lessons? I?” Bassett’s surprise sounded real.

“At the Anton School of Ballet. I spoke to Anton yesterday afternoon. He told me she took some dancing lessons from him, and paid for them with your check.”

“So that’s what she did with the money I lent her.”

Wall’s lip curled to one side. “You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you? Why would you lend her money?”

“I like her.”

“I bet you do. Where is she now?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. She left here in September. I haven’t set eyes on Miss Campbell since.”

“The name is Mrs. Wall, Mrs. George Wall. She’s my wife.”

“I’m beginning to suspect that, old boy. But she used her maiden name when she was with us. She was planning to divorce you, I understood.”

“Who talked her into that?”

Bassett gave him a long-suffering look. “If you want the truth, I tried to talk her out of it. I advised her to go back to Canada, to you. But she had other plans.”

“What other plans?”

“She wanted a career,” Bassett said with a trace of irony. “She was brought up in the Southland here, you know, and she had the movie fever in her blood. And of course her diving gave her a taste for the limelight. I honestly did my best to talk her out of it. But I’m afraid I made no impression on her. She was determined to find an outlet for her talent – I suppose that explains the dancing lessons.”

“Does she have talent?” I said.

Wall answered: “She thinks she has.”

“Come now,” Bassett said with a weary smile. “Let’s give the lady her due. She’s a lovely child, and she could develop–”

“So you paid for her dancing lessons.”

“I lent her money. I don’t know how she spent it. She took off from here very suddenly, as I was telling Archer. One day she was living quietly in Malibu, working at her diving, making good contacts here. And the next day she’d dropped out of sight.”

“What sort of contacts?” I said.

“A good many of our members are in the industry.”

“Could she have gone off with one of them?”

Bassett frowned at the idea. “Certainly not to my knowledge. You understand, I made no attempt to trace her. If she chose to leave, I had no right to interefere.”

“I have a right.” Wall’s voice was low and choked. “I think you’re lying about it. You know where she is, and you’re trying to put me off.”