Ross MACDONALD - The Moving Target

“Thank you,” her tiny caw said, as I climbed behind the wheel. “You saved my life, if that’s worth anything.”

“It isn’t worth much, but you’re going to pay me for it. The price is a hundred thousand – and Ralph Sampson.”

I parked the Buick in the road at the entrance to the bridge and kept the ignition key. As I lifted Betty Fraley out of the seat her right arm slipped around my shoulders. I could feel her small fingers on the nape of my neck.

“You’re very strong,” she said. “You’re Archer, aren’t you?” She looked up at me with a sly and feline innocence. She didn’t know about the blood on her face.

“It’s time you remembered me. Take your hand off me, or I’ll drop you.”

She lowered her eyelids. When I started to back my car she cried out suddenly: “What about them?”

“We don’t have room for them.”

“You’re going to let them go?”

“What do you want me to hold them for? Mayhem?” I found a wide place in the road and turned the car toward Sunset Boulevard.

Her fingers pinched my arm. “We’ve got to go back.”

“I told you to keep your hands off me. I don’t like what you did to Eddie any more than they do.”

“But they’ve got something of mine!”

“No,” I said. “I have it, and it isn’t yours anymore.”

“The key?”

“The key.”

She slumped down in the seat as if her spine had melted. “You can’t let them go,” she said sullenly. “After what they did to me. You let Troy run loose, and hell get you for today.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Forget about them and start worrying about yourself.”

“I haven’t got a future to worry about. Have I?”

“I want to see Sampson first. Then I’ll decide.”

“I’ll take you to him.”

“Where is he?”

“Not very far from home. He’s in a place on the beach about forty miles from Santa Teresa.”

“This is straight?”

“The straight stuff, Archer. But you wont let me go. You wont take money, will you?”

“Not from you.”

“Why should you?” she said nastily. “You’ve got my hundred grand.”

“I’m working for the Sampsons. They’ll get it back.”

“They don’t need the money. Why don’t you get smart, Archer? There’s another person in this with me. This other person had nothing to do with Eddie. Why don’t you keep the money and split it with this other person?”

“Who is he?”

“I didn’t say it was a man.” Her voice had recovered from the pressure of Marcie’s fingers, and she modulated it girlishly.

“You couldn’t work with a woman. Who’s the man?” She didn’t know that Taggert was dead, and it wasn’t the time to tell her.

“Forget it I thought for a minute maybe I could trust you. I must be going soft in the head.”

“Maybe you are. You haven’t told me where Sampson is. The longer it takes you to tell me, the less I’ll feel like doing anything for you.”

“He’s in a place on the beach about ten miles north of Buenavista. It used to be the dressing-room of a beach club that folded during the war.”

“And he’s alive?”

“He was yesterday. The first day he was sick from the chloroform, but he’s all right now.”

“He was yesterday, you mean. Is he tied up?”

“I haven’t seen him. Eddie was the one.”

“I suppose you left him there to starve to death.”

“I couldn’t go there. He knew me by sight. Eddie was the one he didn’t know.”

“And Eddie died by an act of God.”

“No, I killed him.” She said it almost smugly. “You’ll never be able to prove it, though. I wasn’t thinking of Sampson when I shot Eddie.”

“You were thinking of money, weren’t you? A two-way cut instead of a three-way cut.”

“I admit it was partly that, but only partly. Eddie pushed me around all the time I was a kid. When I finally got on my feet and was heading places, he sang me into the pen. I was using the stuff, but he was selling it. He helped the feds to hang conspiracy on me, and got off with a light sentence himself. He didn’t know I knew that, but I promised myself to get him. I got him when he thought he was riding high. Maybe he wasn’t so surprised. He told Marcie where to find me if anything went wrong.”

“It always does,” I said, “Kidnappings don’t come off. Especially when the kidnappers start murdering each other.”

I turned onto the boulevard and stopped at the first gas station I came to. She watched me remove the ignition key.

“What are you going to do?”

“Phone help for Sampson. He may be dying, and it’s going to take us an hour and half to get there. Has the place got a name?”

“It used to be the Sunland Beach Club. It’s a long green building. You can see it from the highway, out near the end of a little point.”

For the first time I was sure she was telling the truth. I called Santa Teresa from the station’s pay telephone while the attendant filled the tank of my car. I could watch Betty Fraley through the window.

Felix answered the phone. “This is the Sampson residence.”

“Archer speaking. Is Mr. Graves there?”

“Yes, sir. I will call him.”

Graves came to the phone. “Where the hell are you?”

“Los Angeles. Sampson is alive, or at least he was yesterday. He’s locked up in the dressing-room of a beach club called the Sunland. Know it?”

“I used to. It’s been out of business for years. I know where it is, north of Buenavista on the highway.”

“See how fast you can get there with first aid and food. And you better bring a doctor and the sheriff.”

“Is he in bad shape?”

“I don’t know. He’s been alone since yesterday. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I hung up on Graves and called Peter Colton. He was still on duty.

“I’ve got something for you,” I said. “Partly for you and partly for the Department of Justice.”

“Another migraine headache, no doubt.” He didn’t sound glad to hear from me. “This Sampson case is the mess of the century.”

“It was. I’m closing it today.”

His voice dropped a full octave. “Say again, please.”

“I know where Sampson is, and I’ve got the last of the kidnap gang with me now.”

“Don’t be coy, for Christ’s sake! Spill it. Where is he?”

“Out of your territory, in Santa Teresa County. The Santa Teresa sheriff is on his way to him now.”

“So you called up to brag, you poor narcissistic bastard. I thought you had something for me and the Department of Justice.”

“I have, but not the kidnapping. Sampson wasn’t carried across the state line, so the F. B. I, is out. The case has byproducts, though. There’s a canyon feeding into Sunset between Brentwood and the Palisades. The road that leads into it is Hopkins Lane. About five miles in, there’s a black Buick sedan in the road, past that a lane leading down to an un-painted pine cottage. There are four people in the cottage. One of them is Troy. Whether it knows it or not, the Department of Justice wants them.”

“What for?”

“Smuggling illegal immigrants. I’m in a hurry. Have I said enough?”

“For the present,” he said. “Hopkins Lane.”

Betty Fraley looked at me blankly when I went back to the car. Meaning returned to her eyes like a snake coming out of its hole. “Little man, what now?” she said.

“I did you a favor. I called the police to pick up Troy and the others.”

“And me?”

“I’m saving you.” I headed down Sunset towards U.S. 101.

“I’ll turn state’s evidence against him,” she said.

“You don’t have to. I can pin it on him myself.”