Росс Макдональд - The Barbarous Coast

His earnest eloquence lacked conviction. Graff had lived too long among actors. He was a citizen of the unreal city, a false front leaning on scantlings.

“Don’t tack to me about justice, Graff. You’ve been covering up murder for nearly two years.”

“I have suffered terribly for those two years. I have suffered enough, and paid enough. It has cost me tremendous sums.”

“I wonder. You used your name to pay off Stern. You used your corporation to pay off Leonard and the Campbell girl. It’s a nice trick if you can work it, letting Internal Revenue help you pay your blackmail.”

My guess must have been accurate. Graff wouldn’t try to argue with it. He looked down at the valuable gun in my hand. It was the single piece of physical evidence that would force his name into the case. He said urgently: “Give me my gun.”

“So you can put me down with it?’

Somewhere on the highway, above the rooftop, a siren whooped.

“Hurry up,” he said.”The police are coming. Remove the shells and give me the gun. Take the money in the safe.”

“Sorry, Graff, I have a use for the gun. It’s Tony’s justifiable-homicide plea.”

He looked at me as if I was a fool. I don’t know how I looked at Graff, but it made him drop his eyes and turn away. I closed the safe and spun the dials and rehung the photograph of the three young divers. Caught in unchanging flight, the two girls and the boy soared between the sea and the sky’s bright desolation.

The siren’s whoop was nearer and louder, like an animal on the roof. Before the sheriff’s men walked in, I laid the Walther pistol on the floor near Bassett’s outflung hand. Their ballistics experts would do the rest.

The End