Росс Макдональд - The Zebra-Striped Hearse

“You’ll have to learn a trade,” the snooty one said.

So far it was more or less the dream I had always had. Then something different happened. I said to the girl, rather snootily. “I have a trade, kiddo. I’m a detective. You’ll be reading about me in the papers.”

I woke up with a warm feeling in my chest and the small birds peeping outside the pale grey rectangle of the window. The dream had never ended this way before. Did it mean that I had made it? That didn’t seem likely. You went on making it, or trying to, all your life – working your way up the same old terraced slopes with different street names on them.

The Blackwell case came back on my mind, muffling the bird sounds and draining the last of the warm feeling from my chest. There were two cases, really. One belonged to me and one belonged to the authorities, but they were connected. The link between them was small but definite: the airline envelope with Q. R. Simpson’s name on it which Burke Damis, or possibly someone else, had left in the beach house. I wanted to explore the connection further, without too much interference from the police. The possibility existed that Damis had come by the envelope, or even used the name, quite innocently.

It was broad daylight and the birds had finished their matins when I went back to sleep. I slept late into the morning. Perhaps I was hoping for another good dream. More likely I was fixing my schedule so that I wouldn’t have time to report in to Peter Colton.

I had become a great frequenter of airports. Before I set out this time, I dug my birth certificate out of the strongbox in the bedroom closet. I had no definite plan to use it. I just thought it would be nice to have along.

The polite young man at the Mexicana desk greeted me like a long-lost brother. The crew I was interested in had already checked in for their flight, and the steward and stewardess had gone up to the restaurant for coffee. He was tall and dark; she was short and plump and pretty, with red hair. They both had on Mexicana uniforms, and I surely couldn’t miss them.

I picked them out in the murmurous cavern of the restaurant, hunched over coffee cups at one of the long counters. The girl had an empty stool beside her, and I slid onto it. She was certainly pretty, though the red hair that curled from under her overseas-type cap had been dyed. She had melting dark eyes and a stung-cherry mouth. Like American airline hostesses, she had on enough make-up to go on the stage.

She was talking in Spanish with the steward, and I waited for a pause in their conversation.

“Miss Gomez?”

“Yessir, what can I do for you?” she said in a pleasantly accented voice.

“I’m looking for a little information. A week ago yesterday, a man and woman I know took your flight from Guadalajara to Los Angeles. That was Monday, July the tenth. You may remember them, or one of them. The woman is quite tall, about your age, blonde. She often wears dark glasses, and she probably had on expensive clothes. Her name is Harriet Blackwell.”

She nodded her head emphatically. “I remember Miss Blackwell, yes – a very nice lady. The lady across from her was sick – we had some rough air out of Mazatlan – and she took care of the sick lady’s baby for her.” She said to the steward beside her: “You remember the tall lady who was so nice with the baby?”

“ Si .”

“Is Miss Blackwell all right?” she asked me solicitously.

“I think so. Why do you ask?”

“I thought of her afterward, after we landed. And now you are inquiring about her.”

“What did you think about her after you landed?”

“I thought – do you speak Spanish? I express myself better in Spanish.”

“Your English is ten times better than my Spanish will ever be.”

“ Gracias, señor .” She gave me a full dazzling smile. “Well, I saw her after we landed, going through Customs. She looked very – excited. I thought she was going to faint. I approached her and inquired if she was all right. The man with her said that she was all right. He didn’t like – he didn’t want me asking questions, so I went away.”

“Can you describe the man?”

“Yes.” She described Burke Damis. “A very beautiful young man,” she added with a trace of satire in her voice.

“What was his name?”

“I don’t remember.”

She turned to her companion and spoke in rapid Spanish. He shrugged. He didn’t remember either.

“Who would know?”

“You, perhaps,” she said pertly. “You said they were your friends.”

“I said I knew them.”

“I see. Are they in trouble?”

“That’s an interesting question. What brings it up?”

“You,” she said. “You look like trouble for them.”

“For him, not for her. Did they sit together on the plane?”

“Yes. They embarked together at Guadalajara. I noticed them, I thought they were recién casados – honeymooners. But they had different names.”

“What was his name?”

“I said I don’t remember. If I can find the passenger list–”

“Try and do that, will you?”

“You are a policeman?”

“An investigator.”

“I see. Where will I see you?”

“On the plane, if they have a seat for me.” I looked at my watch. I had half an hour till flight time.

“We are never crowded in the middle of the week.”

She turned out to be right. I bought a return ticket to Guadalajara from my courteous friend, leaving the date of my return open. At another desk in the same building I applied for a Mexican tourist card. The hurried clerk who took my application barely glanced at my birth certificate.

“I’ll type up your card pronto. Your plane will take off soon.”

In the time I had left, I made the necessary call to Colonel Blackwell. He picked up the phone on the first ring, as if he had been waiting there beside it.

“Mark Blackwell speaking.”

“This is Archer. Have you heard anything from Harriet?”

“No. I don’t expect to.” His voice rose shakily from the depths of depression. “You haven’t either, I take it.”

“No. I have been busy on the case. It took me to the Bay area last night.”

“Is that where they’ve gone?”

“It’s possible, but it’s not why I went up there. To make a long story short, I stumbled on a murder which Damis may be involved in.”

“A murder?” His voice sank almost out of hearing. He said in a rustling whisper: “You’re not trying to tell me that Harriet has been murdered?”

“No. It’s a man named Simpson, icepicked in Citrus Junction two months ago. I’m trying to trace his connection with Damis, and get a line on Damis’s identity and background. The next logical step, as I see it, is to go back to the point where Harriet met him and work forward from there. If it’s all right with you, I intend to fly down to Mexico.”

There was a long silence on the line. Outside the telephone booth, I could hear my flight being announced over the loudspeakers.

“Are you there, Colonel?”

“I’m here. You’re planning to go to Mexico, you say. When?”

“In about five minutes. It’s going to cost you a couple of hundred dollars–”

“Money is no object. By all means go if you think it will help.”

“I can’t guarantee any results, but it’s worth trying. Can you give me your ex-wife’s address in Ajijic?”

“She doesn’t have an address. But any member of the American community should be able to tell you where she lives. Pauline was never one to hide her light under a bushel.”

“Her last name is Hatchen?”

“That is correct. Good luck.” He sounded as though his own had run out.

The plane was barely half full. I had a window seat over the left wing. As the redheaded stewardess placed me in it, I noticed that she looked at me in a peculiar way.