Росс Макдональд - The Zebra-Striped Hearse

“No. Are you implying that he was lying in wait for her or something equally melodramatic?”

“My questions don’t imply anything. They’re simply questions. Do you happen to know where they first met?”

“At a party at Helen Wilkinson’s. I wasn’t there, so I can’t tell you who introduced whom to whom, or who was the aggressor, shall we say. I do know it was love at first sight.” She added dryly: “On her part.”

“What about his part?”

Her clear brow knotted, and she looked almost ugly for a moment. “It’s hard to say. He dropped me like the proverbial hotcake when she hove into sight. He dropped his painting, too. He spent all his time with her for weeks, and finally went off with her. Yet the few times I saw them together – he was still living here, but I arranged to see as little of him as possible – I got the impression that he wasn’t terribly attracted to her.”

“What do you base that on?”

“Base is too definite a word for what I have to go on – the way he looked at her and the way he didn’t look. He struck me as a man doing a job, doing it with rather cold efficiency. That may be wishful thinking on my part.”

I doubted that it was. I’d seen the lack of interest in his face the day before, in the Malibu house, when Harriet ran to him across the room.

“I don’t believe you do much wishful thinking, Miss Castle.”

“Do I not? But they didn’t seem to talk about each other, as people in love are supposed to. As Burke and I did when we were – together.” The ugly darkness caught in her brow again. “They talked about how much money her father had, and what a beautiful place he maintained at Lake Tahoe. Things like that,” she said contemptuously.

“Just what was said about the place at Tahoe?”

“She described it to him in some detail, as if she was trying to sell a piece of real estate. I know I’m being hard on her, but it was hard to listen to. She went on for some time about the great oaken beams, and the stone fireplace where you could roast an ox if you had an ox, and the picture window overlooking the lake. The disheartening thing was, Burke was intensely interested in her very materialistic little recital.”

“Did she say anything about taking him there?”

“I believe she did. Yes, I remember she suggested that it would be an ideally secluded place for a honeymoon.”

“This may be the most helpful thing you’ve told me yet,” I said. “How did you happen to overhear it, by the way?”

She tugged at one of her earrings in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to let that slip. I might as well confess, though, while I’m confessing all. I eavesdropped on them. I didn’t intend to do it, but he brought her to the studio several nights in a row, and my good intentions broke down. I had to know what they were saying to each other.” Her voice took on a satiric lilt: “So she was saying that her father had oodles of money and three houses, and Burke was drinking it in. Maybe he had an underprivileged childhood, who knows?”

“It’s a funny thing about con men, they often come from respectable well-heeled families.”

“He isn’t a confidence man. He’s a good painter.”

“I have to reserve my judgment, on both counts. It might be a good idea for you to reserve yours.”

“I’ve been trying, these last weeks. But it’s fearfully hard, when you’ve made a commitment–” She moved her hands helplessly.

“I’d like to have a look at the studio you rented him. Would that be possible?”

“If you think it will help in any way.”

On the far side of the courtyard, where a Volkswagen was parked for the night, a detached brick building with a huge window stood against the property wall. She unlocked the door and turned on a lamp inside. The big bare-walled room smelled of insecticide. Several unsittable-looking pigskin-covered chairs were distributed around the tile floor. A cot with its thin mattress uncovered stood in one corner. The only sign of comfort was the hand-woven drapes at the big window.

“He lived frugally enough here,” I said.

“Just like a monk in his cell.” Her inflection was sardonic. “Of course I’ve stripped the place since he moved out. That was a week ago Sunday.”

“He didn’t fly to Los Angeles until the following day.”

“I presume he spent the last night with her.”

“They were spending nights together, were they?”

“Yes. I don’t know what went on in the course of the nights. You mustn’t think I spied on them persistently. I only broke down the once.” She folded her arms across her breasts and stood like a small monument, determined never to break down again. “You see me in my nakedness, Mr. Archer. I’m the classic case of the landlady who fell in love with her star boarder and got jilted.”

“I don’t see you in that light at all.”

“What other light could you possibly see me in?”

“You’d be surprised. Have you ever been married, Miss Castle?”

“Once. I left Vassar to get married, to a poet, of all things. It didn’t work out.”

“So you exiled yourself to Mexico?”

“It’s not that simple, and neither am I,” she said with a complicated smile. “You couldn’t possibly understand how I feel about this place. It’s as ancient as the hills and as new as the Garden of Eden – the real New World – and I love to be a part of it.” She added sadly, her mind revolving around a single pole: “I thought that Burke was beginning to feel the same.”

I moved around the room and in and out of the bathroom at the rear. It was all bare and clean and unrevealing. I came back to her.

“Did Damis leave much behind him, in the way of things?”

“He left no personal things, if that’s what you’re interested in. He had nothing when he came here and not much more when he left, except for his brushes.”

“He came here with nothing at all?”

“Just the clothes he had on, and they were quite used up. I persuaded him to have a suit made in Guad. Yes, I paid for it.”

“You did a lot for him.”

“ Nada .”

“Did he give you anything in return?”

“I didn’t want anything from him.”

“No keepsakes or mementos?”

She hesitated. “Burke gave me a little self-portrait. It’s only a sketch he tossed off. I asked him for it.”

“May I see it?”

“If you like.”

She locked up the studio and took me back across the courtyard to her bedroom. Framed in bamboo, the small black and white picture hung on the wall above her smooth bed. The sketch was too stylized to be a perfect likeness, and one eye was for some reason larger than the other, but Burke Damis was easily recognizable in it. He glared out somberly from a nest of crosshatched lines.

Anne Castle stood and answered his look with defensive arms folded across her breasts.

“I have a favor to ask you. A big one.”

“You want the sketch,” she said.

“I promise you’ll get it back.”

“But you must know what he looks like. You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”

“I’ve seen him, but I don’t know who I’ve seen.”

“You think he’s using a false name?”

“I believe he’s using at least two aliases. Burke Damis is one. Quincy Ralph Simpson is another. Did he ever use the Simpson name when he was with you?”

She shook her head. The movement left her face loose and expectant.

“He came to Mexico under the Simpson name. He used it again when he left. There’s a strange thing about the name Quincy Ralph Simpson. The man who originally owned it is dead.”

Her head moved forward on her neck. “How did he die?”

“Of an icepick in the heart, two months ago, in a town near Los Angeles called Citrus Junction. Did Burke ever mention Citrus Junction to you?”