Росс Макдональд - The Way Some People Die

I went to the phone in the hall and dialed my answering service. A Mrs. Caroline Standish had phoned on Monday and again on Tuesday. No, she hadn’t left her number; she said she would call again. A Mrs. Samuel Lawrence had phoned twice Tuesday morning. Tuesday afternoon a certain Lieutenant Gray had wanted to speak to me, very urgently. There had also been a call from Mr. Colton of the D. A.’s office. The only Wednesday call was long-distance from Palm Springs. A Mrs. Marjorie Fellows wanted me to call her back at the Oasis Inn.

“When did you get that last one?”

“About two hours ago. Mrs. Fellows called about ten thirty.”

I thanked the cool female voice, depressed the bar, and dialed Long Distance. They got me Marjorie Fellows person-to-person.

“This is Archer. You wanted to talk to me.”

“I do, very much. So many things have been happening, I don’t know which way to turn.” She sounded rather beaten and bewildered.

“Give me an example.”

“What did you say?”

“Give me an example, of the things that have been happening.”

“Oh, so many things. The police and – other things. I don’t like to speak of them over the telephone. You know these switchboard operators.” She said it with direct malice, to a hypothetical operator listening on the line. “Could you possibly come out and talk to me here?”

“It might be more convenient if you came to town.”

“I can’t. I have no car. Besides, I’m quite disorganized. I’ve been so depending on you. I don’t know anyone at all in southern California.” A whine ran through the flat mid-western voice, in and out in a pattern of self-pity. “You are a private detective, as Lieutenant Gary said?”

“I am. What happened to your car?”

“Henry – is using it.”

“You can fly in from Palm Springs in half an hour.”

“No, I couldn’t possibly fly. Don’t you understand, I’m terribly upset. I need your help, Mr. Archer.”

“Professionally speaking?”

“Yes, professionally speaking. Won’t you come out and have lunch with me at the Inn?”

I said I would, if she was willing to wait for a late lunch. I put on a tie and jacket, and loaded a revolver.

By-passing Palm Springs, I reached Oasis shortly after two thirty. Its grid of roads lay on the flat desert, a blueprint for a boom hopefully waiting for the boom to happen. An escarpment of black stone overshadowed the unbuilt town, its steep sides creased and folded like a stiff black tarpaulin thrown carelessly on the horizon. Beyond it the desert stretched into rainbow distances. The bright new copper penny of the sun spun in its heat against a flat painted sky.

The stucco buildings of the Oasis Inn were dazzling white in the daytime. It was a pueblo hotel with the main building fronting the road and about twenty detached cottages scattered behind it.

The watered lawn around them looked artificial and out of place, like a green broadloom carpet spread on the arid earth. I parked against the adobe wall beside the portico, and entered the lobby. Its air-conditioning chilled the sweat on my forehead. The big room was lined and furnished with light wood and leather, draped and upholstered with desert-colored cloth in Indian patterns. Whoever did it had both money and taste, an unusual combination anywhere.

The man behind the desk was expecting me. He called me by name and turned me over to a Filipino in a white-drill steward’s jacket. I followed his thin impassive back down a concrete walk between spaced rows of cottages. Several half-naked bodies, male and female, were broiling in the sun or reclining on long chairs in the shadowed porches: castaways from Hollywood and Chicago and New York. More castaways were grouped around the pool that shimmered at the rear of the compound. Dolce far niente with a dollar sign.

My Filipino guide led me onto the porch of one of the smaller cottages and knocked discreetly on the screen door. When Marjorie Fellows appeared he said “Mr. Archer” and vanished.

She looked larger than life in a sleeveless linen dress that emphasized the width of her shoulders and hips. “I’m so glad you could come, I really am.” She held the door for me and extended her hand at arm’s length. It was large and cold and moist, and it held on for some time.

I murmured appropriate greetings as I disengaged myself. She led me into her sitting-room and seated me in an armchair.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you,” she said. “They close the kitchens at three. I’m having shirred eggs with those cute little pork sausages they have. I ordered the same for you. Shirred eggs Bercy?”

I said that shirred eggs Bercy sounded delectable.

“Perhaps you’d like something to drink. You’ve had a long hot drive and all on my account. I owe you a nice cool drink.” She was hovering around my chair. She wasn’t built to hover, but she was hovering.

I said that I could do with a bottle of beer.

She went to the phone in a little skipping run that jolted the foundations of the building; turned with her hand on the receiver: “They have some very nice imported Loewenbrau, at least Henry likes it. Dark or light?”

“Dark will be fine.” While she placed the order, I looked around the room for traces of Henry. There were no traces of Henry.

When she returned to her hovering, I asked her: “Where’s your husband?”

Her face arranged itself in a meditative pout. Her large arms hung awkwardly at her sides. I felt a sudden sympathy for her, with a little insight mixed in. Her type had been invented to make men comfortable. Without a man to be nice to, she didn’t know what to do with herself at all. And she was without a man.

I wished I could recall my brusque question and wrap it up in a prettier parcel for her.

She understood the look on my face and answered it along with the question: “I’m glad you brought it up, honestly. It’s what I want to talk to you about, but I hated to broach the subject. I’m an awful dreamer, Mr. Archer. I live in a world of my own unless somebody snaps me out of it like you just did.”

She flung herself on a bright-patterned sofa, which sagged and creaked under her weight. Curiously enough, her legs were good. She arranged them in such a way that I couldn’t fail to notice the slimness of her ankles.

“The dirty bastard picked up and left me,” she said in a deep harsh voice. Her eyes were round with anger, or surprise at her own language. “Good heavens,” she said in her normal voice, “I never swear, honestly.”

“Swear some more. It will probably do you good.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” She had flushed to the ears. But she said: “I call him a dirty bastard because I believe he is one.”

“You’d better go back and take it from the beginning.”

“I hate to. I hate to talk about it, or even think about it. I’ve acted like a great fool. I let him take advantage of me all along the line.”

“Where did you get on?”

“Get on?”

“How did you happen to meet him?”

“Oh,” she said. “He was staying at the guest-ranch near Reno when I was waiting for my divorce. Everything was so romantic, and Henry could ride so well, and his conversation was so interesting. I sort of fell in love with him on the rebound.”

“Rebound?”

“From George, I mean. I was married to George for sixteen years and I guess I got bored with him, or we got bored with each other. It would have been seventeen years this coming June the 10th. We never went anywhere or did anything together any more. All George wanted to do was go out to the country club when he got finished at the office and try to break eighty. I always wanted to come out west but George never took me further than Minneapolis. The only reason we went to Minneapolis was because the business has a branch in Minneapolis. George is the secretary-treasurer of the Simplex Ball Bearing Company .” Pride and resentment and nostalgia warred in her expression. Nostalgia won. “I was a fool to leave him, a great fool, and now I’m having to take my medicine. I walked out on George, now Henry walks out on me. My second marriage lasted sixteen days.” The contrast was too much for her. It brought tears to her eyes, still puffed and red from previous tears.