Росс Макдональд - Trouble Follows Me

It was nearly nine o’clock by my wristwatch. Mary would be expecting to hear from me. I called her hotel from a pay phone in the postoffice and she answered her room phone on the first ring, “Sam?” There was impatience in her voice.

“I’m sorry for calling so late. I had some business to attend to.” If I could avoid it, I didn’t intend to tell her about Bessie Land’s death.

But she knew. “I saw the papers, Sam. It frightens me.”

“It frightens me, too. That’s why I–” I broke off. Hefler had said the case was confidential. I supposed that included Mary, though she knew almost as much about it as I did.

“Why you what?”

“That’s one of the reasons I want to see you tonight. I need cheering up.”

“I do, too. But I’ve got some good news to tell you. News isn’t always bad.”

“I’ll be over right away. Have you had dinner?”

“Not yet. Give me twenty minutes to dress.”

“Not a minute longer.”

“You’re sweet.” She hung up, and I rushed back to the apartment to change my clothes.

She came to dinner in a dark-blue knitted evening gown which made her shoulders dazzling. Her yellow hair was upswept from her sleek neck like a bright summer flower on a graceful stalk. The sight of her changed my mood. She symbolized all the bright soft pleasant things which I had been missing for a year. Beside her young beauty, warm and glowing across the candle-lit table, the dark things which had happened in the night outside seemed impossibly ugly and fantastic. For a time they seemed the shadow violence of fiction, the falseface evil, the wax-dummy death.

Over our Martinis she asked me about Bessie Land’s death. But Bessie Land had receded into another country.

“God knows what happened. I don’t. Anyway, it’s out of my hands.”

“What do you mean?”

“The police are handling it. It’s their business, and they think it’s suicide, so as far as I’m concerned it’s suicide.” The Martini went through my empty stomach into my veins and made me say: “I came on this leave to have some fun, and I’m going to have it if half the population of Detroit falls dead in their tracks.”

She looked at me with a cold half-smile. “You’re pretty callous, aren’t you, Sam?”

“Most people are. I’m just being candid about it.”

“I suppose you’re right. Most people are too busy looking out for number one to care much about anyone else.” She finished her cocktail and lowered her glass. She looked at me with the air of one who has swallowed a hard truth and been strengthened by it.

“Of course the callousness isn’t entirely real,” I said. “Puncture the outer crust and you’ll find a weak gruel made out of sour grapes, spilt milk, and wounded feelings.”

“Block that metaphor. Are you really such a cynic as you pretend to be?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been in the Navy so long I don’t know what I’m like. But I know what I like. You.”

Her eyes, half-transparent and of indeterminate color in the candlelight, looked narrowly into mine. “I can’t make you out. I can’t make out whether you’re an intellectual or a roughneck.”

“Both,” I said lightly, but I was secretly flattered by the discussion. “I’m an intellectual among roughnecks and a roughneck among intellectuals.”

“Whatever that means. What do you care about?”

“I used to think I wanted to be a great reporter. You know, to put my finger on the shame of the cities and all such stuff. But that petered out the last year or two.”

“Isn’t there anything you want? And if you say me I’ll scream.”

“I’m pretty sure I want to make money, I don’t much care how. That’s happened to more than half the men I know in the Navy. Get badly frightened a few times and you lose your idealism.”

Her lips parted and her eyes were inwardly intent on something that she was going to say. Just then the waiter arrived with some dishes. She didn’t say it.

We ate in silence for a minute or two. Then she said: “We won’t be seeing much more of each other.”

“I know. Two more weeks.”

“Two more days. I’ve been offered a job in San Diego. That’s my news.”

“I thought you said it was good news.”

“It is. It’s a pretty good job. In the Naval Supply Depot.”

I didn’t like the prospect of her going away, and that made me captious. “It’ll probably fold when the war ends.”

“I know. But while it lasts I’ll feel I’m – you know, making a direct contribution.” She flushed slightly, and her voice was embarrassed. “I went into the whole thing with the Navy today, and it’s settled.”

All I could think of to say was: “I wish I was going with you.”

“Why don’t you?” Her smile was challenging.

“Maybe I will. You say you’re leaving in two days?”

“If I can get a reservation. I have a priority.”

“Anyway, I’ll come and see you in Diego before I go out again.”

“Why don’t you come with me on Saturday? We could have a wonderful trip.” Her clear eyes, reflecting the flickering candles as tiny moving flames, held the promise of a warm soft-lit room.

That night as I lay by myself in my bachelor bed, I thought of what a wonderful trip we could have. After all, there was nothing to keep me in Detroit. My girl had married and gone away. Most of my friends were in uniform and on other continents. And the one person I really liked to be with was going to San Diego and wanted me to come along.

I went to sleep without making up my mind, but in the morning it was made up for me. I was awakened by the telephone beside my bed.

“Ensign Drake?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Hefler. We just got a teletype I thought you’d be interested in. Keep it to yourself, of course.”

Hangover and sleepiness made my voice a little sharp. “There aren’t more than one or two spies in the room.” Joe Scott was huddled in his blankets in the other bed, sleeping like a dead man.

“You understand we must take precautions,” Hefler said in a school-teacher’s tone. “I called to tell you that we’ve gotten word on the whereabouts of Hector Land.”

“Is he in Detroit?”

“Far from it. A big Negro answering to his description crossed the Mexican border at Tia Juana three days ago. He used a stolen Identity Card and a stolen Liberty Pass. As of this morning he hasn’t re-crossed the border. A search is being made for him.”

“I appreciate your calling, Mr. Hefler.”

“I thought it might put your mind at rest to know that Land is nowhere near Detroit. Good morning.” He hung up.

Joe rolled over in bed and sat up with a grunt. The early morning greyness of his face was stippled with black beard. “Who the hell makes phone calls this early in the morning?” he said.

“A friend of mine.”

“I didn’t know Hefler was a friend of yours. That was the name I heard, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, but keep it to yourself. He asked me not to talk about it.”

“Is he after this Hector Land?”

“I said I wasn’t supposed to talk about it.”

“O.K., O.K., we won’t talk about it.” He yawned elaborately, giving me a view of the fillings in his wisdom teeth. “It’s just that I came across something last night that I thought might interest you. The paper put me on the background of the Land case. Only now I can’t tell you about it on account of we took an oath not to talk about it, didn’t we?”

I threw a pillow at his head. He caught it and threw it back.

“Spill it,” I said. “And don’t tell me I can read it in the papers.”

“You can’t read it in the papers,” Joe said more seriously. “It’s not that kind of a story. The city editor killed it but quick.”