Ross Macdonald - Lew Archer 01 - The Moving Target(aka Harper)(1949) (17 page)

 
          
“They
can afford to. They’ve got the operation blueprinted. Did you get anything on
the black limousine?”

 
          
“Too much.
There were twelve of them rented that day, but
most of them look legit. All but two came back to the agencies the same day.
The other two were taken for a week, paid in advance.”

 
          
“Descriptions?”

 
          
“Number one - a Mrs. Ruth Dickson, blond dame, around forty, living
at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
We checked there, and she’s registered but
she wasn’t in. Number two was a guy on his way to San Francisco. He hasn’t
turned in the car at that end; but it’s only two days, and he has it for a
week. Name of Lawrence Becker, a little thin guy not too well dressed -.”

 
          
“That
may be our man. Did you get the number?”

 
          
“Wait
a minute, I have it here - 62 S 895. It’s a 1940 Lincoln.”

 
          
“Agency?”

 
          
“The Deluxe in Pasadena.
I’ll go out there myself.”

 
          
“Get
the best description you can, and spread the word.”

 
          
“
Natch
!
But why
the sudden enthusiasm, Lew?”

 
          
“I
saw a man on the highway here
who
could fit your
description. He passed me in a long black car about the time the ransom note
was dropped. And the same Joe or his brother tried to, run me down with a blue
truck in Pacific Palisades this morning. He wears a peaked leather cap.”

 
          
“Why
didn’t you put the arm on him?”

 
          
“The
same reason you’re not going to. We don’t know where Sampson is, and if we
throw our weight around, we’ll never find out. Put out the word for tailing
purposes only.”

 
          
“
You telling
me my business?”

 
          
“Apparently.”

 
          
“All right.
Any more helpful hints?”

 
          
“Plant
a man in the Wild Piano when it opens.
Just in case -.”

 
          
“I’ve
already assigned him. Is that all?”

 
          
“Have
your office contact the Santa Teresa D. A. I’m turning the ransom note over to
them for fingerprinting. Good night and thanks.”

 
          
“Uh-huh.”

 
          
He
hung up, and the operator broke the connection. I kept the receiver to my ear,
listening to the dead line. In the middle of the conversation there had been a
click and crackle on the wire. It could have been a momentary break in the
connection, or it could have been a receiver being lifted on another extension.

 
          
A
full minute passed before I heard the faint metallic rustle of a receiver’s
being replaced somewhere in the house.

 
          
Mrs.
Kromberg
was in the kitchen with the cook, a
flustered white-haired woman with motherly hips. They both jumped when I opened
the door of the pantry.

 
          
“I
was using the phone,” I said.

 
          
Mrs.
Kromberg
managed a crumpled smile. “I didn’t hear you
in there.”

 
          
“How
many phones are there in the house?”

 
          
“Four or five.
Five.
Two upstairs,
three down.”

 
          
I
gave up the idea of checking the phones. Too many people had access to them.
“Where is everybody?”

 
          
“Mr.
Graves called the staff together in the front room. He wanted to know if
anybody saw the car that left the note.”

 
          
“Did
anybody?”

 
          
“No.
I heard a car a while back, but I didn’t think anything about it. They’re
always coming down here and turning around in the drive. They don’t know
it’s
dead end.” She moved closer to me and whispered confidentially:
“What was in the note, Mr. Archer?”

 
          
“They
want money,” I said as I went out.

 
          
Three
other servants passed me in the hallway, too young Mexicans in gardeners’
clothes, walking in single file with their heads down, and Felix bringing up
the rear. I raised a hand to him, but he didn’t respond. His eyes were opaque
and glittering like lumps of coal.

 
          
Graves
was squatting in front of the fireplace in the living-room turning a charred
log with a pair of tongs.

 
          
“What’s
the matter with the servants?” I asked him.

 
          
He
stood up with a grunt and glanced at the door. “They seem to know they’re under
suspicion.”

 
          
“I
wish they didn’t.”

 
          
“I
didn’t say anything to give them the idea. They got it by osmosis. I simply
asked them if they’d seen the car. What I really wanted, of course, was a look
at their faces before they could close them up.”

 
          
“You
think it’s an inside job, Bert?”

 
          
“Obviously
it’s not entirely one. But whoever put together that letter is too well posted.
How did he know, for example, that the money would be ready for a nine-o’clock
deadline?” He glanced at his watch. “Seventy minutes from now.”

 
          
“Sheer blind faith, maybe.”

 
          
“Maybe.”

 
          
“We
won’t argue. You’re probably right that it’s partly an inside job. Did anyone
see the car?”

 
          
“Mrs.
Kromberg
heard it. The others played dumb, or are.”

 
          
“And
nobody gave himself away?”

 
          
“No.
These Mexicans and Filipinos are hard to read.” He was careful to add: “Not
that I’ve any reason to suspect the gardeners, or Felix either.”

 
          
“What
about Sampson himself?”

 
          
He
looked at me ironically. “Don’t try to be brilliant, Lew. You never were too
strong on intuition.”

 
          
“It’s
merely a suggestion. If Sampson pays an eighty-percent income tax, he could
make himself a quick eighty grand by staging this.”

 
          
“I
admit it could be done -.”

 
          
“It
has been.”

 
          
“But
in Sampson’s case it’s fantastic.”

 
          
“Don’t
tell me he’s honest.”

 
          
He
picked up the tongs and struck the burning log. The sparks flew up like a swarm
of bright wasps. “Not by everybody’s standards. But he hasn’t got the kind of
brain for that sort of a setup. It’s too risky. Besides, he doesn’t need the
money. His oil properties are valued around five million, but they’re worth
more like twenty-five in terms of income. A hundred thousand dollars is small
change to Sampson. This kidnapping is the real thing, Lew. You can’t get around
it.”

 
          
“I’d
like to,” I said. “So many kidnappings end up in a murder of convenience.”

 
          
“This
one doesn’t have to,” he said, in a deep growling voice, “and, by God, it isn’t
going to! We’ll pay them their money, and if they don’t come through with
Sampson we’ll hunt them down.”

 
          
“I’m
with you.” But it was easier said than done. “Who delivers the lettuce?”

 
          
“Why not you?”

 
          
“For
one thing, they may know me. And I have something else to do. You do it, Bert.
And you’d better take Taggert along.”

 
          
“I
don’t like him.”

 
          
“He’s
a sharp kid, and he’s not afraid of a gun. If anything goes wrong, you may need
help.”

 
          
“Nothing
is going to go wrong. But I’ll take him if you say so.”

 
          
“I
say so.”

 
          
Mrs.
Kromberg
appeared in the hall doorway, nervously
pulling at the front of her smock. “Mr. Graves?”

 
          
“Well?”

 
          
“I
wish you’d talk to Miranda, Mr. Graves. I tried to take her up something to
eat, and she wouldn’t unlock the door. She wouldn’t even answer.”

 
          
“She’ll
be all
right,
I’ll talk to her later. Leave her alone
for now.”

 
          
“I
don’t like it when she acts this way. She’s so emotional.”

 
          
“Forget
it. Ask Mr. Taggert to meet me in the study, will you? And ask him to bring his
pistols - loaded.”

 
          
“Yes, sir.”
She was on the point of tears, but she
compressed her heavy lips and went away.

 
          
When
Graves turned from the door, I saw that she had communicated some of her
anxiety to him. One of his cheeks was twitching slightly. His eyes were looking
at something beyond the room.

 
          
“She’s
probably feeling guilty,” he said, half to himself.

 
          
“Guilty about what?”

 
          
“Nothing tangible.
I suppose it’s basically because she
hasn’t been able to take her brother’s place. She’s watched the old man going
downhill, and she probably feels he wouldn’t have gone down so far and so fast
if she could have got closer to him.”

 
          
“She
isn’t his wife,” I said. “What’s Mrs. Sampson’s reaction? Have you seen her?”

 
          
“A few minutes ago.
She’s taking it very nicely.
Reading a novel, in fact.
How do you like that?”

 
          
“I
don’t. Maybe she’s the one that should be feeling guilty.”

 
          
“It
wouldn’t help Miranda if she did. Miranda’s a funny girl. She’s very sensitive,
but I don’t think she knows it. She’s always sticking her neck out, living
beyond her emotional resources.”

 
          
“Are
you going to marry her, Bert?”

 
          
“I
will if I can.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve asked her more than once. She hasn’t
said no.”

 
          
“You
could take good care of her. She’s ripe for marriage.”

 
          
He
looked at me in silence for a moment. His lips continued to smile, but his eyes
flashed a hands-off signal. “She said you had quite a talk on your drive this
afternoon.”

 
          
“I
gave her some fatherly advice,” I said.
“About driving too
fast.”

 
          
“As long as you keep it on the paternal level.”
Abruptly he
changed the subject. “What about this character, Claude? Could he be in on the
kidnapping?”

 
          
“He
could be in on anything. I wouldn’t trust him with a burnt-out match. But I
didn’t get anything definite. He claimed he hadn’t seen Sampson for months.”

 
          
Straw-yellow
fog lamps brushed the side of the house, and a moment later a car door slammed.
“That must be the sheriff,” Graves said. “It took him a hell of a long time.”

 
          
The
sheriff came in with a great show of haste, like a sprinter breasting the tape.
He was a big man in a business suit, carrying a wide-brimmed rancher’s hat.
Like his clothes, his face was hybrid, half cop and half politician. The
sternness of his jaw was denied by the softness of his mouth, a loosely folded
mouth that liked women and drink and words.

 
          
He
thrust out his hand to Graves. “I would have been here sooner, but you asked me
to pick up Humphreys.”

 
          
The
other man, who had followed him quietly into the room, was wearing a tuxedo. “I
was at a party,” he said. “How are you, Bert?”

 
          
Graves
introduced me. The sheriff’s name was Spanner. Humphreys was the District
Attorney. He was tall and balding, with the lean face and haunted eyes of an
intellectual sharpshooter. He and Graves didn’t shake hands. They were too
close for that. Humphreys had been Deputy Prosecutor when Graves was District
Attorney. I stood back and let Graves do the talking. He told them what they
needed to know and left out what they didn’t need to know.

 
          
When
he had finished, the sheriff said: “The letter orders you to drive away in a
northern direction. That means he’ll be making his getaway in the other
direction, toward Los Angeles.”

 
          
“That’s
what it means,” Graves said.

 
          
“Now
if we set up a road block down the highway a piece, we should be able to catch
him.”

 
          
“We
can’t do that,” I said in words of one syllable. “If we do, we can kiss
good-bye to Sampson.”

 
          
“But
if we catch the kidnapper, we can make him talk -.”

 
          
“Hold
it, Joe,” Humphreys put in. “We’ve got to assume that there are more than one.
If we knock off one of them, the other or others will knock off Sampson. It’s
as clear as the nose on your face.”

 
          
“And
it’s in the letter,” I said. “Have you seen the letter?”

 
          
“Andrews
has it,” Humphreys said. “He’s my fingerprint man.”

 
          
“If
he finds anything, you should check with the F. B. I. files.” I sensed that I
was making myself unpopular, but I had no time to be tactful and I didn’t trust
small-time cops to know their business. I turned to the sheriff: “Are you in
touch with the L. A. County authorities?”

 
          
“Not
yet. I felt I should assess the situation first.”

 
          
“All
right, this is the situation. Even if we obey instructions to the letter,
there’s a better than fifty-fifty chance that Sampson won’t come out alive. He must
be able to identify at least one of the gang - the one that picked him up in
Burbank. That’s bad for him. You’ll make it worse if you try to trip the money
pickup. You’ll have a kidnapper in the county jail, and Sampson lying somewhere
with his throat cut. The best thing you can do is get on the wires. Let Graves
handle the business at this end.”