Ross Macdonald - Lew Archer 01 - The Moving Target(aka Harper)(1949) (30 page)

 
          
“Very
well,” the whisper said. A light switched on. Mrs.
Kromberg
stood back to let me enter.

 
          
Mrs.
Sampson leaned on her elbows, blinking in the light. Her brown face was drugged
and sodden with sleep or the hope of sleep. The round dark tips of her breasts
stared through the silk pajamas like dull eyes.

 
          
I
shut the door behind me. “Your husband is dead.”

 
          
“Dead,”
she repeated after me.

 
          
“You
don’t seem surprised.”

 
          
“Should
I be surprised? You don’t know the dreams I’ve been having. It’s terrible when
you can’t quiet your mind, when you’re far enough gone to see the faces but you
can’t quite go to sleep. The faces have been so vivid tonight. I saw his face
all bloated by the sea, threatening to devour me.”

 
          
“Did
you hear what I said, Mrs. Sampson? Your husband is dead. He was murdered two
hours ago.”

 
          
“I
heard you. I knew I was going to outlive him.”

 
          
“Is
that all it means to you?”

 
          
“What
more should it mean?” Her voice was blurred and empty of feeling, a wandering
sibilance adrift in the deep channel between sleep and waking. “I was widowed
before, and I felt it then. When Bob was killed I cried for days. I’m not going
to grieve for his father. I wanted him to die.”

 
          
“You
have your wish, then.”

 
          
“Not
all of my
wish. He died too soon, or not soon enough.
Everybody died too soon. If Miranda had married the other one, Ralph would have
changed his will and I’d have it all for myself.” She looked up at me slyly. “I
know what you must be thinking, Archer.
That I’m an evil
woman.
But I’m not evil really. I have so little, don’t you see? I have
to look after the little that I have.”

 
          
“Half
of five million dollars,” I said.

 
          
“It’s
not the money. It’s the power it gives you. I needed it so badly. Now Miranda
will go away and leave me all alone. Come and sit beside me for a minute. I
have such terrible fears before I go to sleep. Do you think I’ll have to see
his face every night before I go to sleep?”

 
          
“I
don’t know, Mrs. Sampson.” I felt pity for her, but the other feelings were
stronger. I went to the door and shut it on her.

 
          
Mrs.
Kromberg
was still in the hall. “I heard you say that
Mr. Sampson is dead.”

 
          
“He
is. Mrs. Sampson is too far gone to talk. Do you know where Miranda is?”

 
          
“Some
place downstairs, I think.”

 
          
I
found her in the living-room, hugging her legs on a hassock beside the
fireplace. The lights were out, and through the great central window I could
see the dark sea and the silverpoint horizon.

 
          
She
looked up when I entered the room, but she didn’t rise to greet me. “Is that
you, Archer?”

 
          
“Yes.
I have some things to tell you.”

 
          
“Have
you found him?” A glowing log in the fireplace lit up her head and neck with a
fitful rosiness. Her eyes were a wide and steady black.

 
          
“Yes.
He’s dead.”

 
          
“I
knew that he’d be dead. He’s been dead from the beginning, hasn’t he?”

 
          
“I
wish I could tell you that he had.”

 
          
“What
do you mean?”

 
          
I
put off explaining what I meant. “I recovered the money.”

 
          
“The money?”

 
          
“This.”
I tossed the bag at her feet.
“The hundred thousand.”

 
          
“I
don’t care about it. Where did you find him?”

 
          
“Listen
to me, Miranda. You’re on your own.”

 
          
“Not
entirely,” she said. “I married Albert this afternoon.”

 
          
“I
know. He told me. But you’ve got to get out of this house and look after
yourself. The first thing you’ve got to do is put that money away. I went to a
lot of trouble to get it back, and you may
be needing
part of it.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry. Where shall I put it?”

 
          
“The safe in the study, until you can get to a bank.”

 
          
“All right.”
She rose with a sudden decisiveness and led the
way into the study. Her arms were stiff and her shoulders high, as if they were
resisting a downward pressure.

 
          
While
she was opening the safe I heard a car go down the drive. She turned to me with
an awkward movement more appealing than grace. “Who was that?”

 
          
“Albert
Graves. He drove me out here.”

 
          
“Why
on earth didn’t he come in?”

 
          
I
gathered the remnants of my courage together, and told her: “He killed your
father tonight.”

 
          
Her
mouth moved breathlessly and then forced out words. “You’re joking, aren’t you?
He couldn’t have.”

 
          
“He
did.” I took refuge in facts. “I found out this afternoon where your father was
being held. I phoned Graves from Los Angeles and told him to get there as soon
as he could, with the sheriff. Graves got there ahead of me, without the
sheriff. When I arrived, there was no sign of him. He’d parked his car
somewhere out of sight and was still inside the building with your father. When
I went inside, he hit me from behind and knocked me out. When I came to, he
pretended he’d just arrived. Your father was dead. His body was still warm.”

 
          
“I
can’t believe Albert did it.”

 
          
“You
do believe it, though.”

 
          
“Have
you proof?”

 
          
“It
will have to be technical proof. I had no time to look for it. It’s up to the
police to find the proof.”

 
          
She
sat down limply in a leather armchair. “So many people have died. Father, and

Alan -.”

 
          
“Graves
killed them both.”

 
          
“But
he killed Alan to save you. You told me -.”

 
          
“It
was a complex killing,” I said, “a justifiable homicide and something more. He
didn’t have to kill Taggert. He’s a good shot. He could have wounded him. But
he wanted Taggert dead. He had his reasons.”

 
          
“What
possible reasons?”

 
          
“I
think you know of one.”

 
          
She
raised her face in the light. It seemed to me that she had made a choice
between a
number
of different things and settled on
boldness. “Yes, I do. I was in love with Alan.”

 
          
“But
you were planning to marry Graves.”

 
          
“I
hadn’t made up my mind until last night. I was going to marry someone, and he
seemed to be the one. ‘It is better to marry than to burn.’ “

 
          
“He
gambled on you, and won. But the other thing he had gambled on didn’t happen.
Taggert’s
partner failed to kill your father. So Graves
strangled your father himself.”

 
          
She
spread one hand over her eyes and forehead. The blue veins in her temples were
young and delicate. “It’s incredibly ugly,” she said. “I can’t understand how
he did it.”

 
          
“He
did it for money.”

 
          
“But
he’s never cared for money. It’s one of the things I admired in him.” She
removed her hand from her face, and I saw that she was smiling bitterly. “I
haven’t been wise in my admirations.”

 
          
“There
may have been a time when Graves didn’t care about money. There may be places
where he could have stayed that way. Santa Teresa isn’t one of them. Money is
lifeblood in this town. If you don’t have it, you’re only half alive. It must
have galled him to work for millionaires and handle their money and have
nothing of his own. Suddenly he saw his chance to be a millionaire himself. He
realized that he wanted money more than anything else on earth.”

 
          
“Do
you know what I wish at this moment?” she said. “I wish I had no money and no
sex. They’re both more trouble than they’re worth to me.”

 
          
“You
can’t blame money for what it does to people. The evil is in people, and money
is the peg they hang it on. They go wild for money when they’ve lost their
other values.”

 
          
“I
wonder what happened to Albert Graves.”

 
          
“Nobody
knows. He doesn’t know himself. The important thing now is what is going to
happen to him.”

 
          
“Do
you have to tell the police?”

 
          
“I’m
going to tell them. It will make it easier for me if you agree.
Easier for you in the long run, too.”

 
          
“You’re
asking me to share the responsibility, but you don’t really care what I think.
You’re going to tell them anyway. Yet you admit you haven’t any proof.” She
moved restlessly in the chair.

 
          
“He
won’t deny it if he is accused. You know him better than I do.”

 
          
“I
thought I knew him well. Now I’m uncertain - about everything.”

 
          
“That’s
why you should let me go ahead. You have doubts to resolve, and you can’t
resolve them by doing nothing. You can’t go on living with uncertainty,
either.”

 
          
“I’m
not sure I have to go on living.”

 
          
“Don’t
go romantic on me,” I said harshly. “Self-pity isn’t your way out. You’ve had
terrible luck with two men. I think you’re a strong enough girl to take it. I
told you before that you’ve got a life to make. You’re on your own.”

 
          
She
inclined toward me. Her breasts leaned out from her body, vulnerable and soft.
Her mouth was soft. “I don’t know how to begin. What shall I do?”

 
          
“Come
with me.”

 
          
“With you?
You want me to go with you?”

 
          
“Don’t
try to shift your weight to me, Miranda. You’re a lovely girl, and I like you
very much, but you’re not my baby. Come with me, and we’ll talk to the D. A.
Well let him decide.”

 
          
“Very well.
We’ll go to Humphreys. He’s always been close to
Albert.”

 
          
She
drove me up a winding road to the mesa that overlooked the city. When she
stopped in front of Humphreys’ redwood bungalow, another car was standing in
the drive.

 
          
“That’s
Albert’s car,” she said. “Please go in alone. I don’t want to see him.”