Росс Макдональд - The Zebra-Striped Hearse

“There wasn’t much to know. She was just a country girl from the sticks. I sort of befriended her when she lost her job. Then Ralph introduced her to Campion, and that was that.”

“You said Ralph had a crush on her.”

“I wouldn’t put it that strong. Dolly was a beautiful kid, but he never made a play for her. He just wanted to look after her. She was pretty helpless. She didn’t belong up here.”

“Where did she belong?”

“Let’s see, she told me once where she came from. It was some place down in the orange belt. She used to talk about the orange blossoms.”

“Citrus Junction?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“Ralph was murdered in Citrus Junction.”

THE CABIN STOOD on a wooded point which projected into the lake below the road. I left the car at the top of the lane and told Fawn to stay in it, out of sight. She crouched down in the front seat, peering like a frightened bush-bunny over the edge of the door.

I made my way down the rutted dirt lane, walking quietly, like Natty Bumppo. Starshine filtering down between the black conifers hung in the air like the ghost of light. A ramp of solider light slanted from the window of the cabin.

I approached it from the side and looked in. A man who wasn’t Campion was standing in front of the stone fireplace, in which a low fire burned. He was talking to somebody or something.

“Eat it up, Angelo. Enjoy yourself. We’ve got to keep your weight up, old boy.”

Unless there was someone in the shadowed bunks against the far wall, he seemed to be alone in the room. He was a small man with a dark head and a thin neck like a boy’s. He wore a plaid shirt under a sleeveless red vest.

I saw when he moved that he was holding a young hawk, perched on the knuckles of his gauntleted left hand. The brown bird was tearing with its beak at something red held between the man’s thumb and forefinger.

“Gorge yourself,” he said indulgently. “Daddy wants you to be a big, healthy boy.”

I waited until the bird had finished his red meal. Then I knocked on the door. The small man unlatched it and looked out curiously through rimless spectacles. The hawk’s flecked golden eyes were impassive. I was just another human being.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” I said to both of them. “I was told a man named Bruce Campion lived here at one time.”

His eyes hardened perceptibly behind the glasses. He said in a careful, cultivated voice: “That’s true enough. Last summer before I went to Europe I lent Campion the use of my place. He spent August and part of September here, he told me. Then he got married and moved out.”

“Do you know what happened to him after that?”

“No. I’ve been on my sabbatical, and rather completely out of touch with my friends in this country. I spent the entire year in Europe and the Near East.”

“Campion is a friend of yours?”

“I admire his talent.” He was weighing out his words. “I try to be useful to talent when I can.”

“Have you seen Campion recently?”

The question seemed to disturb him. He looked sideways at the hawk perched on his upright fist, as if the bird might provide an answer or an augury. The bird sat unblinking, its great eyes bright and calm.

“I don’t wish to be rude,” the bird man said. “But I’d certainly feel more comfortable if I knew you had authority to ask me questions.”

“I’m a private detective co-operating with several law-enforcement agencies.” I gave him my name.

“Co-operating in what?”

“The investigation of a pair of murders, possibly three murders.”

He swallowed and grew pale, as though he had swallowed the blood out of his face. “In that case, come in. Don’t mind Michelangelo. He’s completely indifferent to people.”

But the hawk jumped straight up when I entered the room. Held by the leather jesses on its legs, it hung in the air for a moment beating its wings and fanning wind into my face. Then its master thrust his fist up, and the bird returned to its perch.

We sat facing each other with the bird between us.

“I’m Dr. Damis,” he said. “Edmund B. Damis. I teach at Berkeley, in the art department.” He seemed to be marshaling his professional defenses.

“Is that how you happen to know Campion?”

“I met him some years ago, in Chicago. I was a docent at the Art Institute while he was studying there. I admired his painting, as I said, and I’ve kept in touch with him. Or rather he has kept in touch with me.”

It was a cold account. He was preserving his distance from Campion.

“He’s a good painter, I’ve heard. Is he a good man?”

“I wouldn’t care to pass judgment on him. He lives as he can. I took the easy way, myself.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I teach for a living and do my painting, such as it is, on Sundays and on sabbaticals. Campion lives for his work. He cares for nothing else,” he said with some feeling.

“You sound almost as though you envied him.”

“I almost do.”

“It may be a two-way envy, Dr. Damis. Is your middle name Burke, by any chance?”

“It is. My father was an admirer of Edmund Burke.”

“Did you know that Campion’s been using part of your name as an alias? He’s been calling himself Burke Damis.”

He flushed with displeasure. “Blast him, I wish he’d leave me and my things alone.”

“Has he been at your things?”

“I mean this place. He left it like a pigsty when he moved out last fall. I had to spend most of the last week cleaning it up. Frankly, I’ve had enough of Bruce and his messy life and his outré relationships.”

“Are you thinking of his relationships with women?”

“I was, yes. We won’t go into them. I’ve long since given up trying to purge those Augean stables.”

“I wish you would go into them.”

“I prefer not to. They’re excessively boring to me. They invariably follow the same sadomasochistic pattern. Bruce has always regarded women as his legitimate prey.”

“Prey is quite a dramatic word. It reminds me of your hawk.”

He nodded, as though I’d paid them both a subtle compliment. The hawk sat still as a figurine on his hand. It occurred to me that this Damis might be attached to Campion and the hawk in similar ways, watching through rimless spectacles as the two predators vaulted into space and took their pleasure.

“It brings up the fact,” I went on, “that Campion’s wife was strangled two months ago. Campion is wanted for the murder. Did you know that, Dr. Damis?”

“I most assuredly did not. I just flew in from Italy last week, and I came directly here.” He was pale as bone now, and almost chattering. “I’ve been utterly out of touch with everyone and everything.”

“But you’ve been in touch with Campion.”

“How do you know that?”

“Call it intuition. You’d talk about him differently if you hadn’t seen him for a year. Now when and where did you see him?”

“This morning,” he said with his eyes on the floor. “Bruce came here this morning. He’d walked halfway around the lake during the night, and he looked perfectly ghastly.”

“What did he come to you for?”

“Refuge, I suppose. He admitted that he was in trouble, but he didn’t say what kind, and I swear he said nothing about his wife. He wanted to stay here with me. I didn’t see that it was possible, or that I owed it to him. He’s always been the taker and I’ve been the giver, as it is. Besides, I’ve reached a crucial stage in training my hawk.” He smoothed the long feathers of its tail.

“When did he leave here?”

“Around noon. I gave him lunch. Naturally I had no idea that I was harboring a fugitive from justice.”