Росс Макдональд - The Zebra-Striped Hearse

I showed him my license and told him I was interested in a man named Quincy Ralph Simpson. “The Los Angeles D. A.’s office says you reported him missing about two weeks ago.”

He said after a ruminative pause: “Have you spotted him?”

“I may have.”

“Where?”

“In the Los Angeles area. Do you have a picture of Simpson?”

“I’ll see.” He went into the back of the office, rummaged through a drawerful of bulletins and circulars, and came back empty-handed. “I can’t find any, sorry. But I can tell you what he looks like. Medium height, about five-nine or -ten; medium build, one-sixty-five or so; black hair; I don’t know the color of his eyes; no visible scars or other distinguishing marks.”

“Age?”

“About my age. I’m twenty-nine. Is he your man?”

“It’s possible.” Just barely possible. “Is Simpson wanted for anything?”

“Non-support, maybe, but I don’t know of any complaint. What makes you think he’s wanted?”

“The fact that you can describe him.”

“I know him. That is, I’ve seen him around here.”

“Doing what?”

He leaned on the counter with a kind of confidential hostility. “I’m not supposed to talk about what I see around here, friend. You want to know anything about that, you’ll have to take it up with the boys upstairs.”

“Is Captain Royal upstairs?”

“The Captain’s off duty. I wouldn’t want to disturb him at home. You know him well?”

“We worked together on a case.”

“What case was that?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about it, friend. Can you give me Mrs. Simpson’s address?”

He reached under the counter and produced a phone book which he pushed in my direction. Q. R. Simpson was listed, at 2160 Marvista Drive. My taxi driver told me that this was in a tract on the far side of Skyline, toward Luna Bay: a five-dollar run.

We drove through darkening hills and eventually turned off the road past a tattered billboard which announced: “No Down Payment. No Closing Costs.” The tract houses were new and small and all alike and already declining into slums. Zigzagging through the grid of streets like motorized rats in a maze, we found the address we were looking for.

It stood between two empty houses, and had a rather abandoned air itself. The tiny plot of grass in front of it looked brown and withered in the headlights. A 1952 Ford convertible with the back window torn out was parked in the carport.

I asked the driver to wait, and rang the doorbell. A young woman answered. The door was warped, and she had some trouble opening it all the way.

She was a striking brunette, very thin and tense, with a red slash of mouth and hungry dark eyes. She had on a short black tight dress which revealed her slender knees and only half concealed her various other attractions.

She was aware of these. “This isn’t free show night. What is it you want?”

“If you’re Mrs. Simpson, I’d like to talk about your husband.”

“Go ahead and talk about him. I’m listening.” She cocked her head in an angry parody of interest.

“You reported him missing.”

“Yes, I reported him missing. I haven’t set eyes on him for two whole months. And that suits me just fine. Who needs him?” Her voice was rough with grief and resentment. She was looking past me across the scraggy untended lawn. “Who’s that in the taxi?”

“Just the driver. I asked him to wait for me.”

“I thought it might be Ralph,” she said in a different tone, “afraid to come in the house and all.”

“It isn’t Ralph. You say he’s been gone a couple of months, but you only reported him missing two weeks ago.”

“I gave him all the leeway I could. He’s taken off before, but never for this long. Mr. Haley at the motel said I ought to clue in the cops. I had to go back to work at the motel. Even with that I can’t keep up the house payments without some help from Ralph. But a lot of good it did telling the cops. They don’t do much unless you can prove foul play or something.” She wrinkled her expressive upper lip. “Are you one?”

“I’m a private detective.” I told her my name. “I ran into a man today who could be your missing husband. May I come in?”

“I guess so.”

She moved sideways into her living room, glancing around as if to see it through a visitor’s eyes. It was tiny and clean and poor, furnished with the kind of cheap plastic pieces that you’re still paying installments on when they disintegrate. She turned up the three-way lamp and invited me to sit at one end of the chesterfield. She sat at the other end, hunched forward, her sharp elbows resting on her knees.

“So where did you see him?”

“Malibu.”

I wasn’t paying much attention to what I said. There was a framed oil painting on the wall above the television set. Though it was recognizable as a portrait of Mrs. Simpson, it looked amateurish to me. I went over and examined it more closely.

“That’s supposed to be me,” she said behind me.

“It’s not a bad likeness. Did your husband do it?”

“Yeah. It’s a hobby he has. He wanted to take it up seriously at one time but a man he knew, a real painter, told him he wasn’t good enough. That’s the story of his life, hopeful beginnings and nothing endings. So now he’s living the life of Riley in Malibu while I stay here and work my fingers to the bone. What’s he doing, beachcombing?”

I didn’t answer her question right away. A dog-eared paperback entitled The Art of Detection lay on top of the television set. It was the only book I could see in the room. I picked it up and riffled through the pages. Many of them were heavily underlined; some of them were illustrated with bad cartoons penciled in the margins.

“That was another one of Ralph’s big deals,” she said. “He was going to be a great detective and put us on easy street. Naturally he didn’t get to first base. He never got to first base with any of his big wheels and deals. A man he knows on the cops told him with his record–” She covered her mouth with her hand.

I laid the book down. “Ralph has a record?”

“Not really. That was just a manner of speaking.” Her eyes had hardened defensively. “You didn’t tell me what he was doing in Malibu.”

“I’m not even certain it was your husband I saw there.”

“What did he look like?”

I described Burke Damis, and thought I caught the light of recognition in her eyes. But she said definitely: “It isn’t him.”

“I’d like to be sure about that. Do you have a photograph of Ralph?”

“No. He never had his picture taken.”

“Not even a wedding picture?”

“We had one taken, but Ralph never got around to picking up the copies. We were married in Reno, see, and he couldn’t hold on to the twenty dollars long enough. He can’t keep away from the tables when he’s in Reno.”

“Does he spend much time in Reno?”

“All the time he can get away from work. I used to go along with him, I used to think it was fun. I had another think coming. It’s the reason we never been able to save a nickel.”

I moved across the room and sat beside her. “What does Ralph do for a living, Mrs. Simpson?”

“Anything he can get. He never finished high school, and that makes it tough. He’s a pretty good short-order cook, but he hated the hours. Same with bartending, which he did for a while. He’s had some good-paying houseboy jobs around the Peninsula. But he’s too proud for that kind of work. He hates to take orders from people. Maybe,” she added bitterly, “he’s too proud for any kind of work, and that’s why he ran out on me.”

“How long ago did he leave?”