Ross MACDONALD - The Moving Target

“Albert Graves shot him.”

“Albert?” Her giggle passed back and forth like a quick spark between laughter and hysteria. “Albert did that?”

“He’s a dead shot – we used to do a lot of target-shooting together,” I said. “If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here with you now.”

“Do you like being here with me now?”

“It makes me a little sick. You’re trying to swallow these things without going to pieces, and you can’t get them down.”

Her glance traveled down my body, and she grinned as much like a monkey as a pretty girl could. “Did it make you sick when I kissed you?”

“You could tell it didn’t. But it’s confusing to be in a room with five or six competing personalities.”

“Sick-making, you mean,” she said with her monkey grin.

“You’ll be the sick one if you don’t settle down. Find out what you feel about this business, and have a good cry, or you’ll end up schizo.”

“I always was a schizoid type,” she said. “But why should I cry, Herr Doktor ?”

“To see if you can.”

“You don’t take me seriously, do you, Archer?”

“I can’t afford to put my hand in a cleft tree.”

“My God,” she said. “I’m sick-making, I’m schizo, I’m split wood. What do you really think of me?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’d have a better idea if you’ll tell me where you went last night.”

“Last night? Nowhere.”

“I understand you did a lot of driving in the red Packard convertible last night.”

“I did, but I didn’t go anywhere. I was just driving. I wanted to be by myself to make up my mind.”

“About what?”

“About what I’m going to do. Do you know what I’m going to do, Archer?”

“No. Do you?”

“I want to see Albert,” she said. “Where is he?”

“In the bathhouse, where it happened. Taggert’s there, too.”

“Take me to Albert.”

We found him on the screened veranda sitting over the dead man. The sheriff and the District Attorney were looking at Taggert’s face, which was still uncovered, and listening to Graves’s story. All three stood up for Miranda.

She had to step over Taggert in order to reach Albert Graves. She did this without a downward glance at the uncovered face. She took one of Graves’s hands between hers and raised it to her lips. It was his right hand she kissed, the one that had fired the gun.

“I’ll marry you now,” she said.

Whether Graves knew it or not, he’d had his reason for shooting Alan Taggert through the head.

For half a minute nobody spoke. The lovers stood together above the body. The others stood and watched them.

“We’d better get out of here, Miranda,” Graves said finally. He glanced at the District Attorney. “If you’ll excuse us? Mrs. Sampson will have to be told about this.”

“Go ahead, Bert,” Humphreys said.

While a man from his office took notes, and another photographed the body on the floor, Humphreys questioned me. His questions covered the ground quickly and thoroughly. I told him who Taggert was, how he died, and why he had to die. Sheriff Spanner listened restlessly, biting a cigar to shreds.

“There will have to be an inquest,” Humphreys said. “You and Bert are in the clear, of course. Taggert had a deadly weapon in his hand and was obviously intending to use it. Unfortunately this shooting leaves us worse off than before. We have practically no leads.”

“You’re forgetting Betty Fraley.”

“I’m not forgetting her. But we haven’t caught her, and even if we do, we can’t be certain that she knows where Sampson is. The problem hasn’t changed, and we’re no nearer to its solution than we were yesterday. The problem is to find Sampson.”

“And the hundred thousand dollars,” Spanner said.

Humphreys looked up impatiently. “The money is secondary, I think.”

“Secondary, yes, but a hundred thousand in cash is always important.” He tugged at his elastic lower lip. His gray eyes shifted to me. “If you’re finished with Archer here, I want to have a talk with him.”

“Take him,” Humphreys said coldly. “I’ve got to get back to town.” He took the body with him.

When we were alone the sheriff got up heavily and stood over me.

“Well?” I said. “What’s the trouble, Sheriff?”

“Maybe you can tell me.” He folded his thick arms across his chest.

“I’ve told you what I know.”

“Maybe so. You didn’t tell me everything you should of last night. I heard from your friend Colton this morning. He told me about the limousine this Lassiter was driving: it came from a car-rental in Pasadena, and you knew it.” He raised his voice suddenly, as if he hoped to startle me into a confession. “You didn’t tell me you saw it before, when the ransom note was delivered.”

“I saw one like it. I didn’t know it was the same car.”

“But you guessed it was. You told Colton it was. You gave the information to an officer that couldn’t use it because he’s got no jurisdiction in this county. But you didn’t tell me, did you? If you had, we could have taken him. We could have stopped the shooting and saved the money–”

“But not Sampson,” I said.

“You’re not the judge of that.” His face was bursting at the seams with angry blood. “You took things in your own hands and interfered with my duty. You withheld information. Right after Lassiter got shot, you disappeared. You were the only witness, and you disappeared. A hundred thousand dollars disappeared at the same time.”

“I don’t like the implication.” I stood up. He was a big man, and our eyes were level.

“ You don’t like it. How do you think I like it? I’m not saying you took the money – that remains to be seen. I’m not saying you shot Lassiter. I’m saying you could have. I want your gun, and I want to know what you were doing when my deputy caught up with you down south. And I want to know what you were doing after that.”

“I was looking for Sampson.”

“You were looking for Sampson,” he said, with heavy irony. “You expect me to take your word for that.”

“You don’t have to take my word. I’m not working for you.”

He leaned toward me with his hands on his hips. “If I wanted to be ugly, I could put you away this minute.”

My patience broke. “Don’t look now,” I said, “but you are ugly.”

“Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“A sheriff. A sheriff with a tough case on his hands, and no ideas. So you’re looking for a goat.”

The blood went out of his face, leaving it haggard with rage. “They’ll hear about this in Sacramento,” he stuttered. “When your license comes up–”

“I’ve heard that one before. I’m still in business, and I’ll tell you why. I’ve got a clean record, and I don’t push people around until they start to push me.”

“So you’re threatening me!” His right hand fumbled for the holster on his hip. “You’re under arrest, Archer.”

I sat down and crossed my legs. “Take it easy, Sheriff. Sit down and relax. We’ve got some things to talk over.”

“I’ll talk to you at the courthouse.”

“No,” I said. “Here. Unless you want to take me to the immigrant inspector.”

“What’s he got to do with it?” He wrinkled up his eyelids in an effort to look shrewd, and succeeded in looking puzzled. “You’re not an alien?”

“I’m a native son,” I said. “Is there an immigrant inspector in town?”

“Not in Santa Teresa. The nearest ones are at the federal office in Ventura. Why?”

“Do you do much work with them?”

“A fair amount. When I pick up an illegal alien I turn him over. You trying to kid me, Archer?”