The Name is Archer, page 9
part #1.01 of Lew Archer Series
“You look uncomfortable,” she said. “Why don’t you come swimming with me?”
“My hydrophobia won’t let me. Sorry.”
“What a pity. I hate to do things alone.”
Silliman nudged me gently. He said in an undertone: “I really must be getting back to the gallery. I can call a cab if you prefer.”
“No, I’ll drive you.” I wanted a chance to talk to him in private.
There were quick footsteps in the patio below. I looked down and saw the naked crown of Hilary Todd’s head. At almost the same instant he glanced up at us. He turned abruptly and started to walk away, then changed his mind when Silliman called down.
“Hello there. Are you looking for the Turners?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Sarah Turner’s reaction to the sound of his voice. She stiffened, and her hand went up to her flaming hair.
“They’re up here,” Silliman said.
Todd climbed the stairs with obvious reluctance. We passed him going down. In a pastel shirt and a matching tie under a bright tweed jacket he looked very elegant, and very self-conscious and tense. Sarah Turner met him at the head of the stairs. I wanted to linger a bit, for eavesdropping purposes, but Silliman hustled me out.
“Mrs. Turner seems very much aware of Todd,” I said to him in the car. “Do they have things in common?”
He answered tartly: “I’ve never considered the question. They’re no more than casual acquaintances, so far as I know.”
“What about Hugh? Is he just a casual acquaintance of hers, too?”
He studied me for a minute as the convertible picked up speed. “You notice things, don’t you?”
“Noticing things is my business.”
“Just what is your business? You’re not an artist?”
“Hardly. I’m a private detective.”
“A detective?” He jumped in the seat, as if I had offered to bite him. “You’re not a friend of Western’s then? Are you from the insurance company?”
“Not me. I’m a friend of Hugh’s, and that’s my only interest in this case. I more or less stumbled into it.”
“I see.” But he sounded a little dubious.
“Getting back to Mrs. Turner—she didn’t make that scene with her husband for fun. She must have had some reason. Love or hate.”
Silliman held his tongue for a minute, but he couldn’t resist a chance to gossip. “I expect that it’s a mixture of love and hate. She’s been interested in Hugh ever since the Admiral brought her here. She’s not a San Marcos girl, you know.” He seemed to take comfort from that. “She was a Wave officer in Washington during the war. The Admiral noticed her—Sarah knows how to make herself conspicuous—and added her to his personal staff. When he retired he married her and came here to live in his family home. Alice’s mother has been dead for many years. Well, Sarah hadn’t been here two months before she was making eyes at Hugh.” He pressed his lips together in spinsterly disapproval. “The rest is local history.”
“They had an affair?”
“A rather one-sided affair, so far as I could judge. She was quite insane about him. I don’t believe he responded, except in the physical sense. Your friend is quite a demon with the ladies.” There was a whisper of envy in Silliman’s disapproval.
“But I understood he was going to marry Alice.”
“Oh, he is, he is. At least he certainly was until this dreadful business came up. His—ah—involvement with Sarah occurred before he knew Alice. She was away at art school until a few months ago.”
“Does Alice know about his affair with her stepmother?”
“I daresay she does. I hear the two women don’t get along at all well, though there may be other reasons for that. Alice refuses to live in the same house; she’s moved into the gardener’s cottage behind the Turner house. I think her trouble with Sarah is one reason why she came to work for me. Of course, there’s the money consideration, too. The family isn’t well off.”
“I thought they were rolling in it,” I said, “from the way he brushed off the matter of the insurance. Twenty-five thousand dollars, did you say?”
“Yes. He’s quite fond of Hugh.”
“If he’s not well heeled, how does he happen to have such a valuable painting?”
“It was a gift, when he married his first wife. Her father was in the French Embassy in Washington, and he gave them the Chardin as a wedding present. You can understand the Admiral’s attachment to it.”
“Better than I can his decision not to call in the police. How do you feel about that, doctor?”
He didn’t answer for a while. We were nearing the center of the city and I had to watch the traffic. I couldn’t keep track of what went on in his face.
“After all it is his picture,” he said carefully. “And his prospective son-in-law.”
“You don’t think Hugh’s responsible, though?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’m thoroughly rattled. And I won’t know what to think until I have a chance to talk to Western.” He gave me a sharp look. “Are you going to make a search for him?”
“Somebody has to. I seem to be elected.”
When I let him out in front of the gallery, I asked him where Mary Western worked.
“The City Hospital.” He told me how to find it. “But you will be discreet, Mr. Archer? You won’t do or say anything rash? I’m in a very delicate position.”
“I’ll be very suave and bland.” But I slammed the door hard in his face.
There were several patients in the X-ray waiting room, in various stages of dilapidation and disrepair. The plump blonde at the reception desk told me that Miss Western was in the dark room. Would I wait? I sat down and admired the way her sunburned shoulders glowed through her nylon uniform. In a few minutes Mary came into the room, starched and controlled and efficient-looking. She blinked in the strong light from the window. I got a quick impression that there was a lost child hidden behind her façade.
“Have you seen Hugh?”
“No. Come out for a minute.” I took her elbow and drew her into the corridor.
“What is it?” Her voice was quiet, but it had risen in pitch. “Has something happened to him?”
“Not to him. Admiral Turner’s picture’s been stolen from the gallery. The Chardin.”
“But how does Hugh come into this?”
“Somebody seems to think he took it.”
“Somebody?”
“Mrs. Turner, to be specific.”
“Sarah! She’d say anything to get back at him for ditching her.”
I filed that one away. “Maybe so. The fact is, the Admiral seems to suspect him, too. So much so that he’s keeping the police out of it.”
“Admiral Turner is a senile fool. If Hugh were here to defend himself—”
“But that’s the point. He isn’t.”
“I’ve got to find him.” She turned towards the door.
“It may not be so easy.”
She looked back in quick anger, her round chin prominent. “You suspect him, too.”
“I do not. But a crime’s been committed, remember. Crimes often come in pairs.”
She turned, her eyes large and very dark. “You do think something has happened to my brother.”
“I don’t think anything. But if I were certain that he’s all right, I’d be on my way to San Francisco now.”
“You believe it’s as bad as that,” she said in a whisper. “I’ve got to go to the police.”
“It’s up to you. You’ll want to keep them out of it, though, if there’s the slightest chance—” I left the sentence unfinished.
She finished it: ‘That Hugh is a thief? There isn’t. But I’ll tell you what we’ll do. He may be up at his shack in the mountains. He’s gone off there before without telling anyone. Will you drive up with me?” She laid a light hand on my arm. “I can go myself if you have to get away.”
“I’m sticking around,” I said. “Can you get time off?”
“I’m taking it. All they can do is fire me, and there aren’t enough good technicians to go around. Anyway, I put in three hours’ overtime last night. Be with you in two minutes.”
And she was.
I put the top of the convertible down. As we drove out of the city the wind blew away her smooth glaze of efficiency, colored her cheeks and loosened her sleek hair.
“You should do this oftener,” I said.
“Do what?”
“Get out in the country and relax.”
“I’m not exactly relaxed, with my brother accused of theft, and missing into the bargain.”
“Anyway, you’re not working. Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you work too hard?”
“Has it ever occurred to you that somebody has to work or nothing will get done? You and Hugh are more alike than I thought.”
“In some ways that’s a compliment. You make it sound like an insult.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, exactly. But Hugh and I are so different. I admit he works hard at his painting, but he’s never tried to make a steady living. Since I left school, I’ve had to look after the bread and butter for both of us. His salary as resident painter keeps him in artist’s supplies, and that’s about all.”
“I thought he was doing well. His show’s had a big advance buildup in the L.A. papers.”
“Critics don’t buy pictures,” she said bluntly. “He’s having the show to try to sell some paintings, so he can afford to get married. Hugh has suddenly realized that money is one of the essentials.” She added with some bitterness, “The realization came a little late.”
“He’s been doing some outside work, though, hasn’t he? Isn’t he a part-time agent or something?”
“For Hendryx, yes.” She made the name sound like a dirty word. “I’d just as soon he didn’t take any of that man’s money.”
“Who’s Hendryx?”
“A man.”
“I gathered that. What’s the matter with his money?”
“I really don’t know. I have no idea where it comes from. But he has it.”
“You don’t like him?”
“No. I don’t like him, and I don’t like the men who work for him. They look like a gang of thugs to me. But Hugh wouldn’t notice that. He’s horribly dense where people are concerned. I don’t mean that Hugh’s done anything wrong,” she added quickly. “He’s bought a few paintings for Hendryx on commission.”
“I see.” I didn’t like what I saw, but I named it. “The Admiral said something about Hugh trying to buy the Chardin for an unnamed purchaser. Would that be Hendryx?”
“It could be,” she said.
“Tell me more about Hendryx.”
“I don’t know any more. I only met him once. That was enough. I know that he’s an evil old man, and he has a bodyguard who carries him upstairs.”
“Carries him upstairs?”
“Yes. He’s crippled. As a matter of fact, he offered me a job.”
“Carrying him upstairs?”
“He didn’t specify my duties. He didn’t get that far.” Her voice was so chilly it quick-froze the conversation. “Now could we drop the subject, Mr. Archer?”
The road had begun to rise towards the mountains. Yellow and black Slide Area signs sprang up along the shoulders. By holding the gas pedal nearly to the floor, I kept our speed around fifty.
“You’ve had quite a busy morning,” Mary said after a while, “meeting the Turners and all.”
“Social mobility is my stock in trade.”
“Did you meet Alice, too?” I said I had.
“And what did you think of her?”
“I shouldn’t say it to another girl, but she’s a lovely one.”
“Vanity isn’t one of my vices,” Mary said. “She’s beautiful. And she’s really devoted to Hugh.”
“I gathered that.”
“I don’t think Alice has ever been in love before. And painting means almost as much to her as it does to him.”
“He’s a lucky man.” I remembered the disillusioned eyes of the self-portrait, and hoped that his luck was holding.
The road twisted and climbed through red clay cutbanks and fields of dry chaparral.
“How long does this go on?” I asked.
“It’s about another two miles.”
We zigzagged up the mountainside for ten or twelve minutes more. Finally the road began to level out. I was watching its edge so closely that I didn’t see the cabin until we were almost on top of it. It was a one-story frame building standing in a little hollow at the edge of the high mesa. Attached to one side was an open tarpaulin shelter from which the rear end of a gray coupe protruded. I looked at Mary.
She nodded. “It’s our car.” Her voice was bright with relief. I stopped the convertible in the lane in front of the cabin. As soon as the engine died, the silence began. A single hawk high over our heads swung round and round on his invisible wire. Apart from that, the entire world seemed empty. As we walked down the ill-kept gravel drive, I was startled by the sound of my own footsteps.
The door was unlocked. The cabin had only one room. It was a bachelor hodgepodge, untouched by the human hand for months at a time. Cooking utensils, paint-stained dungarees and painter’s tools and bedding were scattered on the floor and furniture. There was an open bottle of whiskey, half empty, on the kitchen table in the center of the room. It would have been just another mountain shack if it hadn’t been for the watercolors on the walls, like brilliant little windows, and the one big window which opened on the sky.
Mary had crossed to the window and was looking out. I moved up to her shoulder. Blue space fell away in front of us all the way down to the sea, and beyond to the curved horizon. San Marcos and its suburbs were spread out like an air map between the sea and the mountains.
“I wonder where he can be,” she said. “Perhaps he’s gone for a hike. After all, he doesn’t know we’re looking for him.”
I looked down the mountainside, which fell almost sheer from the window.
“No,” I said. “He doesn’t.”
The red clay slope was sown with boulders. Nothing grew there except a few dust-colored mountain bushes. And a foot, wearing a man’s shoe, which projected from a cleft between two rocks.
I went out without a word. A path led round the cabin to the edge of the slope. Hugh Western was there, attached to the solitary foot. He was lying, or hanging, head down with his face in the clay, about twenty feet below the edge. One of his legs was doubled under him. The other was caught between the boulders. I climbed around the rocks and bent down to look at his head.
The right temple was smashed. The face was smashed; I raised the rigid body to look at it. He had been dead for hours, but the sharp strong odor of whiskey still hung around him.
A tiny gravel avalanche rattled past me. Mary was at the top of the slope.
“Don’t come down here.”
She paid no attention to the warning. I stayed where I was, crouched over the body, trying to hide the ruined head from her. She leaned over the boulder and looked down, her eyes bright black in her drained face. I moved to one side. She took her brother’s head in her hands.
“If you pass out,” I said, “I don’t know whether I can carry you up.”
“I won’t pass out.”
She lifted the body by the shoulders to look at the face. It was a little unsettling to see how strong she was. Her fingers moved gently over the wounded temple. “This is what killed him. It looks like a blow from a fist.”
I kneeled down beside her and saw the row of rounded indentations in the skull.
“He must have fallen,” she said, “and struck his head on the rocks. Nobody could have hit him that hard.”
“I’m afraid somebody did, though.” Somebody whose fist was hard enough to leave its mark in wood.
Two long hours later I parked my car in front of the art shop on Rubio Street. Its windows were jammed with Impressionist and Post-Impressionist reproductions, and one very bad original oil of surf as stiff and static as whipped cream. The sign above the windows was lettered in flowing script: Chez Hilary. The cardboard sign on the door was simpler and to the point; it said: Closed.
The stairs and hallway seemed dark, but it was good to get out of the sun. The sun reminded me of what I had found at high noon on the mesa. It wasn’t the middle of the afternoon yet, but my nerves felt stretched and scratchy, as though it was late at night. My eyes were aching.
Mary unlocked the door of her apartment, stepped aside to let me pass. She paused at the door of her room to tell me there was whiskey on the sideboard. I offered to make her a drink. No, thanks, she never drank. The door shut behind her. I mixed a whiskey and water and tried to relax in an easy chair. I couldn’t relax. My mind kept playing back the questions and the answers, and the questions that had no answers.
We had called the sheriff from the nearest firewarden’s post, and led him and his deputies back up the mountain to the body. Photographs were taken, the cabin and its surroundings searched, many questions asked. Mary didn’t mention the lost Chardin. Neither did I.
Some of the questions were answered after the county coroner arrived. Hugh Western had been dead since sometime between eight and ten o’clock the previous night; the coroner couldn’t place the time more definitely before analyzing the stomach contents. The blow on the temple had killed him. The injuries to his face, which had failed to bleed, had probably been inflicted after death. Which meant that he was dead when his body fell or was thrown down the mountainside.
His clothes had been soaked with whiskey to make it look like a drunken accident. But the murderer had gone too far in covering, and outwitted himself. The whiskey bottle in the cabin showed no fingerprints, not even Western’s. And there were no fingerprints on the steering wheel of his coupe. Bottle and wheel had been wiped clean.
I stood up when Mary came back into the room. She had brushed her black hair gleaming, and changed to a dress of soft black jersey which fitted her like skin. A thought raced through my mind like a nasty little rodent. I wondered what she would look like with a beard.
