Ross Macdonald - Lew Archer 01 - The Moving Target(aka Harper)(1949) (11 page)

 
          
“Were
they like I said?”

 
          
“Marvelous!
I’m crazy about them.”

 
          
But
hot piano wasn’t my dish, and I’d picked the wrong words or overdone my praise.

 
          
The
bitterness of her mouth spread to her eyes and voice. “I don’t believe you.
Name one.”

 
          
“It’s
been a long time.”

 
          
“Did
you like my Gin Mill Blues?”

 
          
“I
did,” I said with relief. “You do it better than Sullivan.”

 
          
“You’re
a liar, Lew. I never recorded that number. Why would you want to make me talk too
much?”

 
          
“I
like your music.”

 
          
“Yeah.
You’re probably tone-deaf.” She looked intently into
my face. The mutable eyes had hard, bright diamond centers. “You could be a
cop, you know. You’re not the type, but there’s something about the way you
look at things, wanting them but not liking them. You got cop’s eyes - they
want to see people hurt.”

 
          
“Take
it easy, Betty. You’re only half psychic. I don’t like to see people hurt, but
I’m a cop.”

 
          
“Narcotics?”
Her face was brushed by white terror.

 
          
“Nothing like that.
A private cop.
I don’t want anything from you. I just happen to like your music.”

 
          
“You
lie.” In spite of her hatred and fear she was still whispering. Her voice was a
dry rustle. “You’re the one that answered Fay’s phone and said you were Troy.
What do you think you’re after?”

 
          
“A
man called Sampson. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him. You have.”

 
          
“I
never heard of him.”

 
          
“That’s
not what you said on the phone.”

 
          
“All
right, I’ve seen him in here like anybody else. Does that make me his nurse?
Why come to me? He’s just another barfly in my book.”

 
          
“You
came to me. Remember?”

 
          
She
leaned toward me, projecting hatred like a magnetic field. “Get out of here and
stay out.”

 
          
“I’m
staying.”

 
          
“You
think.” She jerked a taut white hand at the waiter, who came running.
“Call
Puddler
.
This jerk’s a
private cop.”

 
          
He
looked at me with uncertainty tugging at his blue-black face.

 
          
“Take
it easy,” I said.

 
          
She
stood up and went to the door behind the piano.
“
Puddler
!”
Every head in the room jerked up.

 
          
The
door sprang open, and the man in the scarlet shirt came out. His small eyes
moved from side to side, looking for trouble.

 
          
She
pointed a finger at me. “Take him out and work him over. He’s a peeper, trying
to pump me.”

 
          
I
had time to run, but I lacked the inclination. Three
runouts
were too many in one day. I went to meet him and took the sucker punch. The
scarred head rolled away easily. I tried with my right. He caught it on the
forearm and moved in.

 
          
His
dull eyes shifted. I had the funny feeling that they didn’t recognize me. One
fist came into my stomach. I dropped my guard. The other came into my neck
below the ear.

 
          
My
legs were caught by the edge of the platform. I fell against the piano.
Consciousness went out in jangling discord, swallowed by the giant shadow.

 
          
At
the bottom of a black box a futile little man was sitting with his back against
something hard. Something equally hard was hitting him in the face.
First on one side of the jaw, then on the other.
Every time
this happened his head bounced once against the hard surface behind him. This
distressing sequence - the blow followed by the bounce - continued with
montonous
regularity for a considerable period of time.
Each time the
fist
approached his jaw the futile man
snapped at it futilely with his aching teeth. His arms, however, hung
peacefully at his sides. His legs were remarkably inert and distant.

 
          
A
tall shadow appeared at the mouth of the alley, stood one-legged like a stork
for an instant,
then
limped grotesquely toward us.
Puddler
was too absorbed in his work to notice. The shadow
straightened up behind him and swung one arm high in the air. The arm came down
with a dark object swinging at the end of it. It made a cheerful sound, like
cracking walnuts, on the back of
Puddler’s
head. He
knelt in front of me. I couldn’t read his soul in his eyes because only the
whites were showing. I pushed him over backward.

 
          
Alan
Taggert put his shoe on and squatted beside me. “We better get out of here. I
didn’t hit him very hard.”

 
          
“Let
me know when you’re going to hit him hard. I want to be present.”

 
          
My
lips felt puffed. My legs were like remote and rebellious colonies of my body.
I established mandates over them and got to my feet. It was just as well I
couldn’t stand on one of them. I would have kicked the man on the pavement and
regretted it later - several years later.

 
          
Taggert
took hold of my arm and pulled me toward the mouth of the alley. A taxi with
one door open was standing at the curb. Across the street the stucco entrance
of the Wild Piano was deserted. He pushed me into the cab and got in after me.

 
          
“Where
do you want to go?”

 
          
My
brain was a vacuum for an instant. Then anger surged into the vacuum. “Home to
bed, but I’m not going. Swift’s on Hollywood Boulevard.”

 
          
“They’re
closed,” the driver said.

 
          
“My
car’s in their parking lot.” And my gun was in the car.

 
          
We
were halfway there before my brain caught up with my tongue. “Where in hell did
you come from?” I said to Taggert.

 
          
“Out of the everywhere into the here.”

 
          
I
snarled at him: “Don’t double-talk. I’m not in the mood.”

 
          
“Sorry,”
he said seriously. “I was looking for Sampson. There’s a place back there
called the Wild Piano. Sampson took me there once, and I thought I’d ask them
about him.”

 
          
“That’s
what I thought I’d do. You saw the answer they gave me.”

 
          
“How
did you happen to go there?”

 
          
I
couldn’t be bothered explaining. “I stumbled in. Then I stumbled out.”

 
          
“I
saw you coming out,” he said.

 
          
“Did
I walk out?”

 
          
“More or less.
You had some help. I waited in the taxi to
see what gave. When the bruiser took you into the alley I came in after you.”

 
          
“I
haven’t thanked you,” I said.

 
          
“Don’t
bother.” He leaned toward me and said in an earnest whisper: “You really think
Sampson’s been kidnapped?”

 
          
“I’m
not thinking so well just now. It’s one idea I had when I was having ideas.”

 
          
“Who
would have kidnapped him?”

 
          
“There’s
a woman named Estabrook,” I said, “a man named Troy. Ever meet him?”

 
          
“No,
but I’ve heard of the Estabrook woman. She was with Sampson in Nevada a couple
of months ago.”

 
          
“In what capacity?”
My bruised face felt like leering. I let
it leer.

 
          
“I
wouldn’t know for sure. She went there by car. The plane was out of commission,
and I was in Los Angeles with it. I never got to see her, but Sampson mentioned
her to me. As far as I could tell, they sat around in the sun talking about
religion. I think she’s a sidekick of this holy man Claude. The one Sampson
gave the mountain to.”

 
          
“You
should have told me before. That was her picture I showed you.”

 
          
“I
didn’t know that.”

 
          
“It
doesn’t matter now. I spent the evening with her. She was the woman I was with
in the
Valerio
.”

 
          
“She
was?” He seemed astonished. “Does she know where Sampson is?”

 
          
“It’s
possible she does, but she wasn’t saying. I’m going to pay her another visit
now. And I could use some help. Her household is a rather violent one.”

 
          
“Good!”
said Taggert.

 
          
My
reactions were still too slow, and I let him drive. He tended to bank on the
turns, but all went well until we got to the Estabrook house. It was dark. The
Buick was gone from the driveway, and the garage was empty. I knocked on the
front door with the muzzle of my gun. No answer.

 
          
“She
must have gotten suspicious,” Taggert said.

 
          
“We’ll
break in.”

 
          
But
the door was bolted and too strong for our shoulders. We went around to the
back. In the yard I stumbled over a smooth, round object that turned out to be
a beer bottle.

 
          
“Steady
there, old man,” Taggert said in a Rover Boy way. He seemed to be enjoying
himself.

 
          
He
flung himself with youthful abandon against the kitchen door. When we pushed
together it splintered at the lock and gave. We went through the kitchen into
the dark hall.

 
          
“You’re
not carrying a gun?” I said.

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“But
you know how to use one.”

 
          
“Naturally.
I prefer a machine gun,” he bragged.

 
          
I
handed him my automatic. “Make do with this.” I went to the front door, pulled
back the bolt, and opened it a crack. “If anybody comes let me know. Don’t show
yourself.”

 
          
He
took up his position with great solemnity, like a new sentry at Buckingham
Palace. I went the rounds of the living-room, the dining-room, the kitchen, the
bathroom, turning lights on and off. Those rooms were as I had seen them last.
The bedroom was slightly different.

 
          
The
difference was that the second drawer had nothing but stockings in it.
And a used envelope, torn and empty, which was crumpled in a corner
behind the stockings.
The envelope was addressed to Mrs. Estabrook at
the address I was visiting. Someone had scrawled some words and figures in
pencil on the back:
Avge
.
gross
$2000.
Avge
.
expense
(Max) $500.
Avge
.
net
$1500.

 
          
May
- 1500 x 31 - 46,500 less 6,500 (
emerg
.) - 40,000
40,000/2 = 20,000.

 
          
It
looked like a crude prospectus for a remarkably profitable business. One thing
I knew for sure: the Wild Piano wasn’t making that kind of money.

 
          
I
turned the envelope over again. It was dated April 30, a week before, and
postmarked Santa Maria. While that was sinking in, I heard a heavy motor
growling in the road. I snapped off the light and moved into the hall.

 
          
A
wave of light washed over the front of the house, poured in at the crack of the
door where Taggert was standing. “Archer!” he whispered hoarsely.

 
          
Then
he did a bold and foolish thing. He stepped out onto the porch, in the full
white glare, and fired the gun in his hand.

 
          
“Hold
it,” I said, too late. The bullet rapped metal and whined away in ricochet.
There was no answering shot.

 
          
I
elbowed past him and plunged down the front steps. A truck with a closed van
was backing out of the drive in a hurry. I sprinted across the lawn and caught
the truck in the road before it could pick up speed. The window was open on the
right side of the cab. I hooked my arm through it and braced one foot on the
fender. A thin white cadaver’s face turned toward me over the wheel, its small
frightened eyes gleaming. The truck stopped as if it had struck a stone wall. I
lost my grip and fell in the road.

 
          
The
truck backed away, changed gears with a grinding clash, and came toward me
while I was still on my knees. The bright lights hypnotized me for a second.
The roaring wheels bore down on me. I saw their intention and flung myself
sideways, rolled to the curb. The truck passed ponderously over the place in
the road where I had been, and went on up the street, the roar of its motor
mounting in pitch and volume. Its license plate, if it had one, wasn’t lighted.
The back doors were windowless.

 
          
When
I reached my car Taggert had started the engine. I pushed him out of the
driver’s seat and followed the truck. It was out of sight when we reached
Sunset. There was no way of knowing whether it had turned toward the mountains
or toward the sea.

 
          
I
turned to Taggert, who was sitting rather forlornly with the gun in his lap.
“Hold your fire when I tell you to.”

 
          
“It
was too late when you told me. I aimed over the driver’s head, anyway, to force
him out of the cab.”

 
          
“He
tried to run me down. He wouldn’t have got away if you could be trusted with
firearms.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry,” he said contritely. “I guess I was trigger happy.” He handed me the
gun, butt foremost.

 
          
“Forget
it.” I turned left toward the city. “Did you get a good look at the truck?”

 
          
“I
think it was Army surplus, the kind they used for carrying personnel. Painted
black, wasn’t it?”

 
          
“Blue.
What about the driver?”

 
          
“I
couldn’t make him out very well. He was wearing a peaked cap, that’s all I
could see.”

 
          
“You
didn’t see his front plate?”

 
          
“I
don’t think there was any.”

 
          
“That’s
too bad,” I said. “It’s barely possible Sampson was in that truck.
Or has been.”

 
          
“Really?
Do you think we should go to the police?”

 
          
“I
think we should. But first I’ll have to talk to Mrs. Sampson. Did you phone
her?”

 
          
“I
couldn’t get her. She was out with sleeping pills when I called her back. She
can’t sleep without them.”