Ross MACDONALD - The Moving Target

“Descriptions?”

“Number one – a Mrs. Ruth Dickson, blond dame, around forty, living at the Beverly Hills Hotel. We checked there, and she’s registered but she wasn’t in. Number two was a guy on his way to San Francisco. He hasn’t turned in the car at that end; but it’s only two days, and he has it for a week. Name of Lawrence Becker, a little thin guy not too well dressed–”

“That may be our man. Did you get the number?”

“Wait a minute, I have it here – 62 S 895. It’s a 1940 Lincoln.”

“Agency?”

“The Deluxe in Pasadena. I’ll go out there myself.”

“Get the best description you can, and spread the word.”

“Natch! But why the sudden enthusiasm, Lew?”

“I saw a man on the highway here who could fit your description. He passed me in a long black car about the time the ransom note was dropped. And the same Joe or his brother tried to, run me down with a blue truck in Pacific Palisades this morning. He wears a peaked leather cap.”

“Why didn’t you put the arm on him?”

“The same reason you’re not going to. We don’t know where Sampson is, and if we throw our weight around, we’ll never find out. Put out the word for tailing purposes only.”

“You telling me my business?”

“Apparently.”

“All right. Any more helpful hints?”

“Plant a man in the Wild Piano when it opens. Just in case–”

“I’ve already assigned him. Is that all?”

“Have your office contact the Santa Teresa D. A. I’m turning the ransom note over to them for fingerprinting. Good night and thanks.”

“Uh-huh.”

He hung up, and the operator broke the connection. I kept the receiver to my ear, listening to the dead line. In the middle of the conversation there had been a click and crackle on the wire. It could have been a momentary break in the connection, or it could have been a receiver being lifted on another extension.

A full minute passed before I heard the faint metallic rustle of a receiver’s being replaced somewhere in the house.

Mrs. Kromberg was in the kitchen with the cook, a flustered white-haired woman with motherly hips. They both jumped when I opened the door of the pantry.

“I was using the phone,” I said.

Mrs. Kromberg managed a crumpled smile. “I didn’t hear you in there.”

“How many phones are there in the house?”

“Four or five. Five. Two upstairs, three down.”

I gave up the idea of checking the phones. Too many people had access to them. “Where is everybody?”

“Mr. Graves called the staff together in the front room. He wanted to know if anybody saw the car that left the note.”

“Did anybody?”

“No. I heard a car a while back, but I didn’t think anything about it. They’re always coming down here and turning around in the drive. They don’t know it’s dead end.” She moved closer to me and whispered confidentially: “What was in the note, Mr. Archer?”

“They want money,” I said as I went out.

Three other servants passed me in the hallway, too young Mexicans in gardeners’ clothes, walking in single file with their heads down, and Felix bringing up the rear. I raised a hand to him, but he didn’t respond. His eyes were opaque and glittering like lumps of coal.

Graves was squatting in front of the fireplace in the living-room turning a charred log with a pair of tongs.

“What’s the matter with the servants?” I asked him.

He stood up with a grunt and glanced at the door. “They seem to know they’re under suspicion.”

“I wish they didn’t.”

“I didn’t say anything to give them the idea. They got it by osmosis. I simply asked them if they’d seen the car. What I really wanted, of course, was a look at their faces before they could close them up.”

“You think it’s an inside job, Bert?”

“Obviously it’s not entirely one. But whoever put together that letter is too well posted. How did he know, for example, that the money would be ready for a nine-o’clock deadline?” He glanced at his watch. “Seventy minutes from now.”

“Sheer blind faith, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“We won’t argue. You’re probably right that it’s partly an inside job. Did anyone see the car?”

“Mrs. Kromberg heard it. The others played dumb, or are.”

“And nobody gave himself away?”

“No. These Mexicans and Filipinos are hard to read.” He was careful to add: “Not that I’ve any reason to suspect the gardeners, or Felix either.”

“What about Sampson himself?”

He looked at me ironically. “Don’t try to be brilliant, Lew. You never were too strong on intuition.”

“It’s merely a suggestion. If Sampson pays an eighty-percent income tax, he could make himself a quick eighty grand by staging this.”

“I admit it could be done–”

“It has been.”

“But in Sampson’s case it’s fantastic.”

“Don’t tell me he’s honest.”

He picked up the tongs and struck the burning log. The sparks flew up like a swarm of bright wasps. “Not by everybody’s standards. But he hasn’t got the kind of brain for that sort of a setup. It’s too risky. Besides, he doesn’t need the money. His oil properties are valued around five million, but they’re worth more like twenty-five in terms of income. A hundred thousand dollars is small change to Sampson. This kidnapping is the real thing, Lew. You can’t get around it.”

“I’d like to,” I said. “So many kidnappings end up in a murder of convenience.”

“This one doesn’t have to,” he said, in a deep growling voice, “and, by God, it isn’t going to! We’ll pay them their money, and if they don’t come through with Sampson we’ll hunt them down.”

“I’m with you.” But it was easier said than done. “Who delivers the lettuce?”

“Why not you?”

“For one thing, they may know me. And I have something else to do. You do it, Bert. And you’d better take Taggert along.”

“I don’t like him.”

“He’s a sharp kid, and he’s not afraid of a gun. If anything goes wrong, you may need help.”

“Nothing is going to go wrong. But I’ll take him if you say so.”

“I say so.”

Mrs. Kromberg appeared in the hall doorway, nervously pulling at the front of her smock. “Mr. Graves?”

“Well?”

“I wish you’d talk to Miranda, Mr. Graves. I tried to take her up something to eat, and she wouldn’t unlock the door. She wouldn’t even answer.”

“She’ll be all right, I’ll talk to her later. Leave her alone for now.”

“I don’t like it when she acts this way. She’s so emotional.”

“Forget it. Ask Mr. Taggert to meet me in the study, will you? And ask him to bring his pistols – loaded.”

“Yes, sir.” She was on the point of tears, but she compressed her heavy lips and went away.

When Graves turned from the door, I saw that she had communicated some of her anxiety to him. One of his cheeks was twitching slightly. His eyes were looking at something beyond the room.

“She’s probably feeling guilty,” he said, half to himself.

“Guilty about what?”

“Nothing tangible. I suppose it’s basically because she hasn’t been able to take her brother’s place. She’s watched the old man going downhill, and she probably feels he wouldn’t have gone down so far and so fast if she could have got closer to him.”

“She isn’t his wife,” I said. “What’s Mrs. Sampson’s reaction? Have you seen her?”

“A few minutes ago. She’s taking it very nicely. Reading a novel, in fact. How do you like that?”

“I don’t. Maybe she’s the one that should be feeling guilty.”