Росс Макдональд - The Ivory Grin

The dreams she had been battling in her sleep were taking over her waking mind. I didn’t say a word.

“Naturally I took the first chance I had to get out of that stinking flat with the arguments. The social workers were snooping on me, making me stay in nights where the old man could get at me. Sam saved my life. He picked me up in a movie one day. I thought he was a wolf at first, but he was innocent. It was really funny to see a doctor so innocent. Sam was a Navy medico then, stationed at Great Lakes. He was the first man that wanted to marry me, and I took him up on it. He had his orders to California and he was leaving the next week. We came out here together.”

“Did he know what he was getting?”

“He could see me,” she said levelly. “I admit I didn’t tell him I was jumping probation. But let’s get one thing straight about Sam and me, before we drop the subject. I was the one that was doing him the favor. I always have been.”

Looking at her and thinking of her husband, I believed her. “It’s a pretty colorful background for a small-town doctor’s wife. And I don’t imagine you’ve told me the half of it.”

“I don’t imagine I have. More coffee?”

“More information. When did you and Benning come out here?”

“The spring of 1943. They gave him duty at Port Hueneme because it was near his home here. We rented a cottage in Arroyo Beach for six months. Then he was shipped out. The next two years he was at sea, medical officer on a big transport. I saw him a few times when it came into San Francisco.”

“Who else were you seeing?”

“That’s a hell of a question.”

“A hell of an answer. Why did you leave Benning two years ago?”

“You’ve really been snooping, eh? I had my private reasons.”

“You ran away with Singleton, didn’t you?”

She had started to rise from the table, and froze for an instant, leaning on it, with her face averted. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

“Singleton was incinerated this morning. I’ve made it my business to find out who struck the match. It’s a queer thing you’re not interested.”

“Is it?”

She poured herself another cup of coffee, with steady hands. Somewhere in the Chicago wilderness, or beating around the country in wartime and peacetime, she had gathered strength and learned balance. I looked at her firm white legs. She caught my look and returned it in a slow curve. To a window-peeper it would have seemed like a pleasant domestic scene on a Sunday morning. I almost wished it was.

I got up and looked out of the window. The backyard was overgrown with brown weeds and cluttered with the detritus of years. At its rear a small ramshackle barn sagged in the shade of a pepper tree.

She came up behind me. I felt her breath on my neck. Her body touched my back: “You don’t want to make trouble for me, Archer. I’ve had plenty of trouble. I could use a little peace in my old age.”

I turned, softly ambushed by her hips. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five. Church lasts a long time in these parts. He usually stays for Sunday school, too.”

I took her head in my hands. Her breasts were full and strong between us. Her hands moved on my back. I was looking at the part-line that ran white through her dull black hair. Where the part divided it there were narrow vestiges of blondeness at the roots.

“I’ve never trusted blondes, Bess.”

“I’m a natural brunette,” she said thickly.

“You’re a natural liar, anyway.”

“Maybe I am,” she said in a different voice. “I feel like nothing at all. This business has torn me in half, if you want the truth. I’m only trying to hold myself together and stay on this side of the walls.”

“And keep your friends out of trouble.”

“I have no friends.”

“What about Una Durano?”

Her face went stupid, with ignorance or surprise.

“She bought you a hat last spring. I think you know her well.”

Her mouth twisted in a grimace which threatened to turn to crying. She was silent.

“Who killed Singleton?”

She wagged her head from side to side. The short black hair fell over her face. Her face was gray and wretched. I felt ashamed of what I was doing to her, and went on doing it: “You were with Singleton when he left Arroyo Beach. Was it a snatch? Did you finger him for a mob, and then have to kill him? Did you have to kill him because Lucy got ideas? Did Lucy dream a five-grand dream and have to die before it came true?”

“You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t finger Charlie Singleton. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, or Lucy either. She was a friend of mine, like you said.”

“Go on.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m not a squealer. I can’t.”

“Come down to the morgue and have a look at Charlie. You’ll talk then.”

“No.” The word was like a retching in her insides. “Lay off me a little. Promise to lay off me, and I’ll tell you something you don’t know. Something important.”

“How important?”

“Will you lay off me? I swear I’m absolutely clean.”

“Let’s have the one big fact.”

Her head was down, but her slant blue gaze was on my face. “It isn’t Charlie Singleton in the morgue.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is Singleton?”

“I can’t answer any more questions. You promised you’d let me alone.”

“How do you know it isn’t Singleton?”

“That wasn’t in the bargain,” she said faintly. Behind fluttering eyelids, her blue gaze jumped like an unsteady gas flame.

“I’ll put it as a hypothetical question. You know it wasn’t Singleton this morning, because he was killed two weeks ago. He was shot, and you saw it happen. Yes or no?”

She didn’t answer at all. Instead she fell forward against me, heavily. Her breath came fast as a small animal’s. I had to hold her up.

A high-pitched voice flicked at my back: “Take your hands off my wife.”

Dr. Benning was standing just inside the kitchen door, with one hand on the knob. A black leather Bible was under his arm and his hat was on his head. I moved between him and his wife. “I was waiting to see you, doctor.”

“Filth,” he cried. “Ordure. I come home from the House of God–” The trembling of his mouth ruined the sentence.

“Nothing happened,” the woman said behind me.

Benning had the eyes of a pole-axed steer. His hand on the doorknob and his shoulder against the jamb were supporting his weight. His body vibrated grossly like a tuning fork: “You’re lying to me, both of you. You had your hands on her. Carnal knowledge–” The words knotted in his throat and almost choked him. “Like dogs. Like two dogs in the kitchen of my home.”

“That’s enough.” The woman stepped around me. “I’ve heard enough from you, after I told you nothing happened. What would you do if it had?”

He answered disconnectedly: “I gave you a helping hand. I lifted you out of the gutter. You owe everything to me.” The shock had sprung a booby-trap of clichés in his head.

“Good gray doctor Good-Samaritan! What would you do if anything had happened?”

He choked out: “A man can take so much from a woman. I have a gun in my desk–”

“So you’ll shoot me down like the dog I am, eh?” She planted herself firmly on braced legs. Leaning towards him in a fishwife attitude, her body seemed to be reveling in its power, drawing terrific energy from his weakness.

“I’ll kill myself,” he cried on a high note.

A few tears squeezed from his eyes and ran down into the failure marks that dragged from the wings of his nose. He was the suicidal man who never quite nerved himself to suicide. I realized suddenly why his description of Lucy’s fears had sounded so convincing. They were his own.