Росс Макдональд - The Zebra-Striped Hearse

A greenish pallor had invaded her face, as though the light had changed. Without thinking about it, I touched her temple where the hair was wet. She leaned her head against my hand.

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” I said. “You realize we have to go on to the end.”

“I suppose we do. I lied to you about the topcoat, of course. He bought it when we were on our honeymoon – we ran into some cold weather in Toronto. Mark said it would come in handy when we went up to Tahoe in the spring. I suppose Ralph Simpson found it there, and brought it to Mark for an accounting. Mark took the icepick the Stones had given us–” Her voice broke. “These things are all mixed up with our marriage,” she said. “You’d think he was trying to make a Black Mass of our wedding ceremony.”

She shuddered. I found myself crouching with my arms around her, her tears wetting my collar. After a while the tears stopped coming. Later still she drew away from me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let my emotions go at your expense.”

I touched the tragic hollow in her cheek. She turned away from my hand.

“Please. Thank you, but also please. I have to think of just one thing, and that’s my duty to Mark.”

“Isn’t that pretty well washed out?”

She raised her eyes. “You’ve never been married, have you?”

“I have been.”

“Well, you’ve never been a woman. I have to follow through on this marriage, no matter what Mark has done to it. For my sake as well as his.” She hesitated. “Surely I won’t have to stand up in court and testify about these things – the icepick, and the coat, and Dolly?”

“A wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband. You probably know that from your social-working days.”

“Yes. I’m not thinking too well. I’m still in shock, I guess. I feel as though I’d been stripped naked and was about to be driven through the streets.”

“There will be bad publicity. It’s one reason I had to get the facts from you tonight. I’d like to protect you as much as possible.”

“You’re a thoughtful man, Mr. Archer. But what can you do?”

“I can do your talking to the police for you, up to a point.”

Her mind caught on the word police. “Did I understand from your telephone conversation just now that you’re asking the Tahoe police to arrest Mark?”

“I asked a friend in Reno, a detective I’ve been using, to find out if your husband is up there. He’s going to call me back.”

“Then what?”

“Your husband will be arrested, if he’s there. He may not be within five thousand miles of Tahoe.”

“I’m sure he is. He was so concerned about Harriet.”

“Or about his own skin.”

She looked at me with sharp dislike.

“You might as well face this, too,” I said. “There’s a very good chance that your husband left here this morning with no intention of ever coming back. What time did he leave, by the way?”

“Early, very early. I wasn’t up. He left me a note.”

“Do you still have the note?”

She opened the top drawer of her desk and handed me a folded piece of stationery. The writing was a hasty scratching which I could hardly decipher:

Isobel, I’m off to Tahoe. It is too grinding to sit and wait for news of Harriet. I must do something, anything. It’s best you stay here at home. I’ll see you when this is over. Please think of me with affection, as I do you.

Mark

“It could be a farewell note,” I said.

“No. I’m sure he’s gone to Tahoe. You’ll see.”

I dropped the subject, pending Arnie’s call. Some time went by. I sat in a straight-backed chair by the French doors. The dark sky was turning pale. House lights pierced the emerging hills, like random substitutes for the fading stars.

Isobel Blackwell sat with her head on her arms. She was as quiet as a sleeper, but I knew by the rhythm of her breathing that she was awake.

“There’s one thing I’d like to have clear,” I said to her back. “Is it possible that Mark killed Ronald Jaimet?”

She pretended not to hear me. I repeated the question in the same words and the same tone. She said without raising her head: “It isn’t possible. They were dear friends. Mark went to enormous trouble to bring Ronald down from the high country. He was almost dead from exhaustion when he got to Bishop. He needed medical attention himself.”

“That doesn’t prove anything about the accident. Was there any indication that it was a planned accident?”

She turned on me fiercely. “There was not. What are you trying to do to me?”

I wasn’t sure myself. There were obscure areas in the case, like blank spaces on a map. I wanted to fill them in. I also wanted to wean Isobel Blackwell away from her marriage before she went down the drain with it. I’d seen that happen to sensitive women who would rather die in a vaguely hopeful dream than live in the agonizing light of wakefulness.

I tried to tell her some of these things, but she cut me short.

“It’s quite impossible. I know how Ronald died, and I know how Mark felt about it. He was completely broken up, as I told you.”

“A murder can do that to a man. A first murder. Was Mark in love with you four years ago when Ronald died?”

“He most assuredly was not.”

“Can you be certain?”

“I can be very certain. He was infatuated with – a girl.”

“Dolly Stone?”

She nodded, slowly and dismally. “It wasn’t what you think, not at that time. It was more of a father-daughter thing, the kind of relationship he had with Harriet when she was younger. He brought Dolly gifts when he came to visit us, he took her for little outings. She called him uncle.”

“What happened on the little outings?”

“Nothing. Mark wouldn’t sink that low – not with a young girl.”

“You used the word ‘infatuated.’ ”

“I shouldn’t have. It was Ronald’s word really. He took a much stronger view of it than I did.”

“Ronald knew all about it then?”

“Oh yes. He was the one who put a stop to it.”

“How?”

“He talked to Mark. I wasn’t in on the proceedings, but I know they weren’t pleasant. However, their friendship survived.”

“But Ronald didn’t.”

She got to her feet blazing with anger. “You have a vile imagination and a vicious tongue.”

“That may be. We’re not talking about imaginary things. Did the Dolly issue come up shortly before Ronald’s death?”

“I refuse to discuss this any further.”

The telephone punctuated her refusal. It buzzed like a rattlesnake beside her; she started as though it was one. I walked around her and answered it.

“Arnie here, Lew. Blackwell didn’t turn up at the dragging operations. Sholto was there all day, and he says that Blackwell hasn’t been at the lodge since the middle of May. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Get this. Harriet’s car has been spotted. It was found abandoned off the highway north of Malibu. We just got word from the CHP. What does that mean to you?”

“More driving. I’ll go out there and take a look at the car.”

“About Blackwell, what do we do if he shows up?”

“He won’t. But if he does, stay close to him.”

Arnie said with a strain of grievance in his voice: “It would help if I knew what the problem was.”

“Blackwell is a suspect in two known murders, two other possibles. The ones I know about for sure are Dolly Stone and Ralph Simpson. He’s probably armed and dangerous.”

Isobel Blackwell struck me on the shoulder with her fist and said: “No!”

“Are you all right, Lew?” Arnie’s voice had altered, become soothing, almost caressing. “You haven’t been sitting up all night with a bottle?”