Росс Макдональд - The Ivory Grin

I set the cat on the floor, and moved across the room to the door she had closed. On the other side of it, she was saying, in clipped telephone accents: “He claims to be employed by Mrs. Charles Singleton.” A silence, lightly scratched by the sound of the telephone. Then: “I absolutely won’t, I promise you. Of course, I understand perfectly. I did want to get your view of the matter.” Another scratchy silence. Denise intoned a saccharine good-night and hung up.

I tiptoed back to my seat, with the gray cat weaving between my legs. It paraded back and forth in front of me, rubbing its sides on my trousers and looking up at my face with remote female disdain.

I said: “Scat.”

Denise re-entered the room with a foaming glass in each hand. She said to the cat: “Doesn’t the nasty mans like kitty-witties?”

The cat paid no attention.

I said: “There’s a story about Confucius, Mrs. Grinker. He was a pre-Communist Chinaman.”

“I know who Confucius is.”

“It seems a stable burned down in a neighboring village, call it Bella City. Confucius wanted to know if any men were hurt. He didn’t ask about the horses.”

It hit her. The foam slopped over the rims of the beer-glasses and down across her fingers. She set the glasses on the coffee-table. “You can like cats and people, too,” she said doubtfully. “I have a son in college, believe it or not. I even had a husband at one time. Whatever happened to him?”

“I’ll look for him when I finish the case I’m on.”

“Don’t bother. Aren’t you going to drink your beer?” She sat on the edge of the couch, wiping her wet fingers with a piece of Kleenex.

“The case I’m on,” I said, “involves one dead woman and one missing man. If your cat had been run over by a hit-run driver, and somebody knew his license number, you’d expect to be told it. Who were you telephoning just now?”

“Nobody. It was a wrong number.” Her fingers were twisting the damp Kleenex into a small cup-shaped object, roughly the shape of a woman’s hat.

“The telephone didn’t ring.”

She looked up at me with pain on her large face. “This woman is one of my customers. I can vouch for her.” The pain was partly economic and partly moral.

“How did Lucy Champion get the hat? Does your customer explain that?”

“Of course. That’s why it’s so utterly pointless to bring her name into it. Lucy Champion used to be her maid. She ran away some time ago, without giving notice. She stole the hat from her employer, and other things as well.”

“What other things? Jewelry?”

“How did you know that?”

“I got it from the horse’s mouth. Maybe horse isn’t the right word. Mrs. Larkin is more of the pony type.”

Denise didn’t react to the name. Her quick unconscious fingers had moulded the Kleenex hat into a miniature replica of the black-and-gold turban. She noticed what her fingers had been making, and tossed it in front of the cat. The cat pounced.

The woman wagged her head from side to side. The metal curlers clicked dully like disconnected thoughts. “All this is very confusing. Oh well, let’s drink up.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to confusion. And universal darkness covers all.”

I reached for my beer. The sagging springs of the studio couch threw us together, shoulder to shoulder. “Where did you pick that up?”

“I went to school once, strangely enough. That was before I came down with a bad case of art. What did you say the name was?”

“Archer.”

“I know that. The woman’s name, who told you about the stolen jewelry.”

“Mrs. Larkin. It’s probably an alias. Her first name is Una.”

“Small and dark? Fiftyish? Mannish type?”

“That’s Una. Was she your customer?”

Denise frowned into her beer, sipped meditatively, came up with a light foam mustache. “I shouldn’t be talking out loud like this. But if she’s using an alias, there must be something fishy.” Her dubious expression hardened into self-concern: “You wouldn’t quote me, to her or anybody else? My business is on the edge of nothing, I have a boy to educate, I can’t afford any sort of trouble.”

“Neither can Una, or whatever her name is.”

“It’s Una Durano, Miss Una Durano. At least that’s what she goes by here. How did you happen to know her?”

“I worked for her at one time, briefly.” The afternoon seemed very long ago.

“Where does she come from?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m much more interested in where she is now.”

“I might as well tell all,” Denise said wryly. “She lives on the Peppermill estate, leased it early last spring. I heard she paid a fantastic sum: a thousand dollars a month.”

“The diamonds are real, then?”

“Oh yes, the diamonds are real.”

“And just where is the Peppermill estate?”

“I’ll tell you. But you won’t go and see her tonight?” She pressed my arm with strong fingers. “If you do, she’ll realize I told tales out of school.”

“This is real life, Denise.”

“I know it. It’s my personal real life. The hundred dollars she paid me for that hat took care of the rent that month.”

“What month was it?”

“March, I think. It was the first one she bought in my shop. She’s been back a couple of times since.”

“It must have looked good on her, if anything could.”

“Nothing could. She has no feminine quality. Anyway, she didn’t buy the turban to wear herself. She paid for it, with a hundred-dollar bill. But it was the other woman with her tried it on and wore it out of the shop.” Her hand was still on my arm, like a bird that had settled on a comfortable roost for the night. She felt my muscles tense. “What’s the matter?”

“The other woman. Describe her.”

“She was a lovely girl, much younger than Miss Durano. A statuesque blonde, with the most wonderful blue eyes. She looked like a princess in my hat.”

“Did she live with Miss Durano?”

“I can’t say, though I saw them together several times. The blonde woman only came into my shop that once.”

“Did you catch her name?”

“I’m afraid not. Is it important?” Her fingers were sculpturing the muscle patterns in my forearm.

“I don’t know what’s important and what isn’t. You have been helpful though.” I stood up out of her grasp.

“Aren’t you going to finish your beer? You can’t go out there tonight. It’s after midnight.”

“I think I’ll have a look at the place. Where is it?”

“I wish you wouldn’t. Promise me anyway you won’t go in anyway and talk to her, not tonight.”

“You shouldn’t have phoned her,” I said. “But I’ll make you a better promise. If I find Charlie Singleton, I’ll buy the most expensive hat in your store.”

“For your wife?”

“I’m not married.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Well. To get to the Peppermill house, you turn left at the ocean boulevard and drive out to the end of town, past the cemetery. It’s the first big estate beyond the cemetery. You’ll know it by the greenhouses. And it has its own landing field.”

She rose heavily and crossed the room to the door. The cat had torn the Kleenex hat into shreds that littered the carpet like dirty snowflakes.

I drove back to the ocean boulevard and turned south. A fresh breeze struck the windwing and was deflected into my face, carrying moisture and smells. Behind the whizzing palm trees on the margin of my headlights, the sea itself streamed silver under the moon.

The boulevard curved left away from the beach. It climbed a grade past wind-tormented evergreens huddled arthritically on the hillside. A stone wall sprang up beside the road, amplifying the hum of the tires and the mutter of the engine. Beyond the wall, stone angels pointed at the sky; saints spread their arms in iron benediction.