Росс Макдональд - The Barbarous Coast

His lower lip and jaw stuck out, changing the shape of his face into something unformed and ugly. His shoulders leaned outward from the door. I watched his fists clench, white around the knuckles.

“Act your age,” I said.

“I’ve got to find out where she is, what happened to her.”

“Wait a minute, George.” Bassett pointed his pipe like a ken gun, a wisp of smoke at the stem.

“Don’t call me George. My friends call me George.”

“I’m not your enemy, old boy.”

“And don’t call me old boy.”

“Young boy, then, if you wish. I was going to say, I’m sorry this ever came up between us. Truly sorry. I’ve done you no harm, believe me, and I wish you well.”

“Why don’t you help me, then? Tell me the truth: is Hester alive?”

Bassett looked at him in dismay.

I said: “What makes you think she isn’t?”

“Because she was afraid. She was afraid of being killed.”

“When was this?”

“The night before last Christmas night. She phoned long-distance to the flat in Toronto. She was terribly upset, crying into the telephone.”

“What about?”

“Someone had threatened to kill her, she didn’t say who. She wanted to get out of California. She asked me if I was willing to take her back. I was, and I told her so. But before we could make any arrangements, the call was cut off. Suddenly she wasn’t there, there was nobody there on the end of the line.”

“Where was she calling from?”

“Anton’s Ballet School on Sunset Boulevard. She had the charges reversed, so I was able to trace the call. I flew out here as soon as I could get away, and saw Anton yesterday. He didn’t know about the telephone call, or he said he didn’t. He’d been throwing some kind of a party for his students that night, and thing were pretty confused.”

“Your wife is still taking lessons from him?”

“I don’t know. I believe so.”

“He should have her address, then.”

“He says not. The only address she gave him was the Channel Club here.” He threw a suspicious look in Bassett’s direction. “Are you certain she doesn’t live here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She never did. I invite you to check on that. She rented a cottage in Malibu – I’ll look up the address for you. The landlady lives next door, I believe, and you can talk to her. She’s Mrs. Sarah Lamb – an old friend and employee of mine. Just mention my name to her.”

“So she can lie for you?” Wall said.

Bassett rose and moved toward him, tentatively. “Won’t you listen to reason, old boy? I befriended your wife. It’s rather hard, don’t you think, that I should have to suffer for my good deeds. I can’t spend the whole day arguing with you. I’ve an important party to prepare for tonight.”

“That’s no concern of mine.”

“No, and your affairs are no concern of mine. But I do have a suggestion. Mr. Archer is a private detective. I’m willing to pay him, out of my own pocket, to help you find your wife. On condition that you stop badgering me. Now, is that a fair proposal or isn’t it?”

“You’re a detective?” Wall said.

I nodded.

He looked at me doubtfully. “If I could be sure this isn’t a put-up job– Are you a friend of Bassett’s?”

“Never saw him until this morning. Incidentally, I haven’t been consulted about this deal.”

“It’s right down your alley, isn’t it?” Bassett said smoothly. “What’s your objection?”

I had none, except that there was trouble in the air and it was the end of a rough year and I was a little tired. I looked at George Wall’s pink, rebellious head. He was a natural-born trouble-maker, dangerous to himself and probably to other people. Perhaps if I tagged along with him, I could head off the trouble he was looking for. I was a dreamer.

“How about it, Wall?”

“I’d like to have your help,” he answered slowly. “I’d rather pay you myself, though.”

“Absolutely not!” Bassett said. “You must let me do something – I’m interested in Hester’s welfare, too.”

“So I gather.” Wall’s voice was surly.

I said: “We’ll toss for it. Heads Bassett pays, tails Wall.” I flipped a quarter and slapped it down on the desk. Tails. I was George Wall’s boy. Or he was mine.

GRAFF was floating on his back in the pool when George Wall and I went outside. His brown belly swelled above its surface like the humpback of a Galapagos tortoise. Mrs. Graff, fully clothed, was sitting by herself in a sunny corner. Her black dress and black hair and black eyes seemed to annul the sunlight. Her face and body had the distinction that takes the place of beauty in people who have suffered long and hard.

She interested me, but I didn’t interest her. She didn’t even raise her eyes when we passed.

I led Wall out to my car. “You better duck down in the seat when we get up to the gate. Tony might take a pot shot at you.”

“Not really?”

“He might. Some of these old fighters can get very upset very quickly, especially when you take a poke at them.”

“I didn’t mean to do that. It was a rotten thing to do.”

“It wasn’t smart. Twice this morning you nearly got yourself shot. Bassett was scared enough to do it, and Tony was mad enough. I don’t know how it is in Canada, but you can’t throw your weight around too much in these parts. A lot of harmless-looking souls have guns in their drawers.”

His head sank lower. “I’m sorry.”

He sounded more than ever like an adolescent who hadn’t caught up with his growth. I liked him pretty well, in spite of that. He had the makings, if he lived long enough for them to jell.

“Don’t apologize to me. The life you save may be your own.”

“But I’m really sorry. The thought of Hester with that old sissy – I guess I lost my head.”

“Find it again. And for God’s sake, forget about Bassett. He’s hardly what you’d call a wolf.”

“He gave her money. He admitted it.”

“The point is, he did admit it. Probably somebody else is paving her bills now.”

He said in a low growling voice: “Whoever it is, I will kill him.”

“No, you won’t.”

He sat in stubborn silence as we drove up to the gate. The gate was open. From the door of the gatehouse, Tony waved to me and made a face at Wall.

“Wait,” George said. “I want to apologize to him.”

“No. You stay in the car.”

I made a left turn onto the coast highway. It followed the contour of the brown bluffs, then gradually descended toward the sea. The beach cottages began, passing like an endless and dilapidated freight train.

“I know how terrible I look to you,” George blurted. “I’m not usually like this. I don’t go around flexing my muscles and threatening people.”

“That’s good.”

“Really,” he said. “It’s just – well, I’ve had a bad year.”

He told me about his bad year. It started at the Canadian National Exhibition, in August of the previous year. He was a sportswriter on the Toronto Star , and he was assigned to cover the aquacade. Hester was one of the featured tower divers. He’d never cared much about diving – football was his sport – but there was something special about Hester, a shine about her, a kind of phosphorescence. He went back to see her on his own time, and took her out after the show.

The third night, she came out of a two-and-a-half too soon, struck the water flat, and was pulled out unconscious. They took her away before he could get to her. She didn’t appear for her act the following night. He found her eventually in a hotel on lower Yonge Street. Both her eyes were black and bloodshot. She said she was through with diving. She’d lost her nerve.