Meet Me at the Morgue

by Ross Macdonald

  “The same dress she had on before, gray cotton, and that brown coat. She had a yellow rayon scarf over her head. My old woman lent it to her to wear.”

  “Any money?”

  “Not that I know of. We treated her to the drive-in movie last night. So this morning she runs out on us, just when we need her. That’s gratitude.”

  “You’d better broadcast a description: Highway Patrol and city police as well as the sheriff’s cars. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s hitch-hiking north on the highway. Unless she stole a car.”

  “She’d have no trouble hitch-hiking, not with that figure. What are you going to do, Howie?”

  “Sit tight. I had enough running around over the weekend to last me the rest of the year. If you hear anything, call me at my office.”

  “Will do.”

  I crossed the street to the small restaurant that subsisted on the courthouse trade. I felt empty, in more than the physical sense. I had seen and heard a great deal in the last two days, and needed time to absorb the experience. My emotions were in the state of suspension that sometimes precedes a violent change.

  The tower clock struck the quarter hour as I stepped up onto the curb. It was a quarter past eleven, too late for morning coffee, too early for lunch. I felt relieved. The courthouse crowd would be after me for a story when they saw me, and I wasn’t sure what story I had to tell. I wasn’t satisfied with my Grand Jury testimony. I knew what I had seen and heard, the shape and impact of the events. Their meaning still eluded me.

  Wondering if Molly had found the meaning and eloped with it, I pushed in the screen door of the restaurant. Its dim brown interior and never-failing odor of cooking grease did nothing to stir my appetite. I sat on a stool at the counter and ordered coffee.

  The place was empty, except for a couple in the back booth. Their heads were close together. I recognized them when my eyes became adapted to the dimness: Ann Devon and Larry Seifel.

  Ann, who was facing in my direction, saw me at the same moment. She waved and called the length of the room:

  “Howie! Come and join us.”

  Reluctantly, I carried my slopping white mug to their booth. I had no desire to talk to anybody. With what seemed a similar reluctance, Seifel got out of his seat and slid in beside Ann. I sat opposite them.

  “What’s the good word, children?” I was conscious of a phoniness in my voice.

  Ann misinterpreted it. “I’m taking my lunch hour early,” she said in some embarrassment. “Larry wanted to talk to me.”

  “A reasonable wish. He shows good taste.” The phoniness was persisting. The scene in the mortuary the night before was too heavy to be pushed out of my mind.

  Seifel was pale and tired-looking. He smiled self-consciously, but no charm came. “You don’t mind, do you, Cross?”

  “Why should I? Ann runs her own schedule.”

  “I’m afraid you will mind, though, when I tell you what I wanted to talk to her about.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’ve been persuading Ann to leave her job.”

  “We’re going to be married,” she said. “Larry just asked me now, and I accepted.”

  “I hope you’ll be happy.”

  She looked happy. Her face was glowing, and her eyes were bright. She turned to Seifel like a flower to the sun. He was trying hard, but he would never be really happy. He was a self-tormented man, living in the past or for the future, always despising the present that could save him. His present was an aching hollow inside of him, yearning like a woman to be filled.

  He said through a pained grin: “I have heard heartier congratulations on occasions like this.”

  “Now you.” Ann stroked his arm. “It won’t be right away of course, Howie. We’ll have time to break in a new assistant for you.”

  “Have you thought of staying on in the department after your marriage?”

  “We thought of it. I’m afraid it’s not possible. You see, we’re leaving town.”

  “And going where?”

  “Seattle, probably. We both want something different from this place.”

  “I’ll be sorry to see you go.”

  “So will Mother,” Seifel said. “Mother is staying here. I had it out with her last night. We settled a lot of things last night.”

  Ann lowered her eyes, and smiled to herself.

  “I also talked to Forest last night,” he said. “About my father. Forest promised to do his best to keep it out of the newspapers. I hope he does, for Mother’s sake.”

  “Not for yours?”

  “I don’t give a damn. The man was my father. If anybody wants to make anything out of it—”

  Ann interceded gently: “Nobody wants to make anything out of it, Larry.”

  His truculence disappeared suddenly, passing over like a squall. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table, inquiring with boyish earnestness: “Who killed him, Cross? Do you know who killed my father?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Neither does Forest. He hasn’t even a lead. He says the kind of icepick that was used can be bought in hundreds of hardware and grocery stores.” A shadow crossed his face. There was malice in it, and a tragic fear. “Do you suppose that Mother—?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t have said it. I’ve been having a bad time with Mother. But she’s through running my life for me. I’m going into criminal practice. I’m sick of living on the surface of things. One thing I’ve got out of this mess: it’s brought my life into focus, I hope. I’ve been playing around, making and spending money, shining up to old ladies—it isn’t good enough. You can use life, or you can waste it. I’m going to use it.”

  “That was quite a speech.”

  “It wasn’t a speech. It’s what I’m going to do. I tell you, Cross, life is a serious business.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  His teeth came together with an audible click. The muscles swelled in the corners of his jaws. “There are a lot of things I don’t feel like going into. One thing I’ve got to say. I made a bad mistake yesterday in the desert. I’ve been thinking about it off and on ever since.”

  “Stop thinking about it. We all make mistakes.”

  Ann said: “What are you two talking about now?”

  “I told you yesterday, I fired a shot at Miner. If I hadn’t, we would have taken him alive.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe Miner is better off dead.” I finished my coffee and got up. “Good luck.”

  He rose to shake hands with me. Each of us tried to crush the other’s hand. Neither of us succeeded.

  Ann, who was tipsy on morning coffee and love, called out after me: “Why don’t you get married, Howie? Everybody’s doing it.”

  I said that I intended to, but not out loud.

  CHAPTER 27: My office telephone was ringing when I went in. I got to it before the ringing ended. It was Sam Dressen.

  “Have you spotted her?”

  “The HP saw her, some time around ten thirty. She was thumbing rides on the highway, a block north of where it crosses Cacique Street.”

  “Going which way?”

  “North. You were right, Howie. She isn’t there now. I checked.”

  “They didn’t see who picked her up?”

  “Naw, they weren’t paying any attention. They figured she was a high-school kid or something. Think I should start an all-points?”

  “What does the D.A. say? She’s his witness.”

  “I can’t get to him. The jury’s still in session, and he’s questioning Mrs. Miner.”

  “Molly may have simply gone home.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Just above Pacific Palisades. I think I’ll take a run up there.”

  “Why don’t we both go?”

  “Fine. We’ll make it faster in one of your cars.”

  “Be out front in two minutes flat.”

  Sam had cut his teeth on a ste
ering-wheel and had an intuitive traffic-sense. In spite of the noontime jam in the Long Beach bottleneck, and without benefit of siren, the souped-up sheriff’s car took us to the Palisades in a little over an hour. We parked it at a service station a hundred yards beyond the photography studio.

  There was a fire-engine-red convertible standing in front of it. The door of the shop was ajar. In the high sun, the hand-tinted photographs on display in the window wore a hectic flush, like the products of an overenthusiastic undertaker’s art.

  I left Sam on guard outside and entered the shop as quietly as I could. There were voices in the studio behind the thin-paneled door. I heard a man’s voice first, speaking in quick, clipped accents that I didn’t recognize immediately:

  “Fifty-fifty is the best I could do. I’d be running a very big risk.”

  And then Molly’s voice: “Who isn’t running a big risk? My offer is ten thousand, take it or leave it.”

  “It isn’t enough. I’m expected to do all the work.”

  “What work? I’m putting the finger on her for you. All you got to do is grab the loot. It’s like picking a plum off a tree.”

  “Grand larceny,” he said. “A grand larceny tree. I’m sorry, doll. For a measly ten grand, you’re going to have to buy yourself another boy.”

  “Where does the larceny come in? She stole the money. You take it away from her, she can’t even raise a squawk.”

  “How do I know she won’t?”

  “Because I’m telling you. Because she’s as hot as the hinges, hotter than we’ll ever be.”

  “You’ve told me a lot of tales at one time and another. They averaged out about a fact to a carload.”

  “This is the straight dope, unless I’m right off the beam.” Molly’s voice was thinning out under pressure. “She’s got the money, she must have. All we do is find out where it is and take it off her.”

  “All I do, you mean. I should go into the holdup business for ten grand. Even if your dope is straight, which I seriously doubt—”

  “Fifteen then. You’re the sharpest. I can’t handle it myself and I can’t take time to argue.”

  “Twenty-five,” he said. “For anything less I can’t afford to touch it, believe me, kid. I’m a respectable businessman, remember, I have a lot to lose.”

  “You’re respectable, sure, so what are you worried about. She’d never go near the law. If she did, you’re a detective, aren’t you? You’re only doing your job.”

  The man’s voice came into context. He was Lemp’s ex-employer, Molly’s ex-admirer, Bourke.

  “Uh-uh,” he said. “I don’t like it. You can’t sell it to me for anything less than an even split. For twenty-five, I’ll go against my grain and take my chances. Bear in mind that I’m the one with everything to lose.”

  “What about me? I got my career. If I didn’t need a wardrobe for the sake of my career, you don’t think I’d be going into this?”

  “Twenty-five grand will buy you a lot of draperies.”

  “Fifteen will buy you Carol back,” she said with a flash of spite.

  “Twenty-five,” he said. “Is it twenty-five?”

  “I guess it’ll have to be. You always were a dirty gouging chiseler.”

  “Sticks and stones will break my bones. If I don’t look out for myself, nobody else will. R.K.O., kid, let’s get down to cases. Where is the femme?”

  “She’s down in Pacific Point. I saw her this morning.”

  “You’re sure it’s the same one?”

  “I couldn’t be wrong. She let her hair grow out, and she’s older, but I’d know her anywhere.”

  “Have you seen her before?”

  “I didn’t have to. Kerry had this picture of her that he took. He had it with him all through his time in the pen. I found it in the cupboard with his things, after he left. I was going to tear it up.”

  “What for?”

  “She was the one that fingered him way back in ’46.”

  “Is that why you’re so eager?”

  “Maybe it is, at that. Why should she get away with everything and make money into the bargain?”

  “Why should we?” Bourke asked her cheerfully.

  “I need the money. I don’t know about you, but if anybody ever needed money, I need money.”

  “Get me the picture,” he said. “I’ll take it with me. And hurry it up. We don’t want to be here when your friends arrive from down south.”

  I leaned back against the counter, very carefully.

  Molly’s footsteps receded. A door creaked open. She came back across the room, her feet dragging thoughtfully.

  “Hurry it up.”

  “I am hurrying. Can you imagine Kerry ever falling for her? She hasn’t got half my looks.”

  “You’re the best,” he said sardonically. “Let me see.”

  “Don’t grab. Even Kerry, with all that talent he had, he couldn’t make her look good.”

  “This is talent?”

  “Kerry was very talented and artistic. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Snap out of it,” he said roughly. “Kerry was a bum and you’re another.”

  “Then you’re another.”

  “You may be right at that. Now listen to me. I’m stashing you in a place I know in Venice, a garage apartment off the speedway. Are you set?”

  “How do I know you’ll ever come back?”

  “I’m not that much of a bum. Besides, I got a business I can’t leave. How do I know this red-head has the money?”

  “Nobody else could have. Only she isn’t a red-head any more. She let her hair grow out, I told you. It’s gray.”

  “Where do I look for her?”

  “I’ll lay it out for you on the way. We better go round by Sepulveda. They’re probably watching the highway for me by now.”

  “If we get stopped, I’m taking you into custody. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand. They can’t do nothing to me. I wasn’t under arrest or anything. I’m clean.”

  “Sure, you have that chlorophyll sweetness. I’ve always loved it in you.”

  “Go button it where it flaps.”

  The doorknob rotated, and the door opened inward. Bourke saw me. His hand slid up like a white lizard under his left lapel. I drove my left hand under it, into his body. He swung his left at me, but he was off balance. I brought my right around over his arm, and found his jaw. He looked away to his right in dazed surprise. My left hand met him there.

  Bourke went to his knees in the doorway. His head bowed forward in a profound salaam, and bumped the floor. Sam came around from behind me and took the blue revolver out of his hand.

  At the back of the cluttered studio, Molly was trying to open the door. The reflection of the sea shone through the curtained windows like a dim blue hope, lighting one side of her face. It was drawn, like carved white bone, and hungry-looking.

  The bolt stuck fast in the socket. She never did get the door open.

  I left her struggling and chattering in Sam’s old arms, and went back to Bourke. He was prone on the floor under the hollow counter. I pulled him up to a sitting position and found the photograph in the breast pocket of his natty checkered jacket. When I released him, he fell back under the counter. He lay gasping for air, his head rolling back and forth like a restless infant’s, in months’ accumulation of dirt.

  It was a wallet-sized photograph, tinted amateurishly with oils. The colors were faded, as if long nights of looking had worn them thin. Still I could see the traces of red on the mouth and the high cheekbones, the brownish tinge in the eyes, the coarse henna lights in the hair. Amy Miner.

  CHAPTER 28: When we reached the Pacific Point courthouse, Amy had finished proclaiming her innocence to the Grand Jury, and had been released from custody. The D.A. came out of the jury session to talk to me. He felt, and the jurors agreed, that Fred Miner was definitely guilty, but Amy wasn’t. I didn’t argue. Instead I gave him Molly and the photograph.

  According to the
bailiff, Amy had walked out of the sheriff’s office a free woman shortly before two o’clock. Helen Johnson had called for her in the Lincoln. Presumably Helen had driven Amy home with her.

  It was ten minutes after three.

  I phoned from Sam Dressen’s office. Jamie answered, breathily: “Hi. Is that you, Mummy?”

  “This is Howard Cross.”

  “Hi, Howard. I thought you were my Mummy.”

  “Where is your Mummy?”

  “Oh, she went for a ride, I guess.”

  “Where to?”

  “San Francisco, I guess. My Grandma’s here.”

  The telephone was taken away from him. A woman’s voice said sharply, over his protests:

  “Who is speaking, please?”

  “Howard Cross.”

  “Oh, yes. Helen has mentioned you. I’m her mother.”

  “Has she really gone to San Francisco?”

  “Of course not. Jamie must have got it mixed up. She’s on her way to San Diego with Mrs. Miner. I expect her home early this evening, if you’d like to leave a message.”

  “Where are they going in San Diego?”

  “To Mrs. Miner’s family home. Helen insisted on driving her down. I thought myself that it was a case of leaning over backwards—”

  “Do you know the address?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. They wouldn’t be there yet, in any case. They only left a very short time ago.” Her voice, which was pleasantly harsh, took on a roguish lilt. “I think Helen expected you to call, Mr. Cross. In case you did, she left a little message for you. She said there were no hard feelings. And may I say for myself, as Jamie’s grandmother, I’m looking forward—”

  “Thank you.” I hung up on her.

  Sam, who had his moments, was ready with a San Diego directory. “Do you know her maiden name, Howie?”

  “Wolfe. Amy Wolfe.” I spelled it out.

  There were a number of Wolfes in the directory. We left their names and numbers in the communications room and took a radio car. The dispatcher reached us by short wave before we passed La Jolla. The one we wanted was Daniel Wolfe, who ran a grocery store in the east end.

  Danny’s Neighborhood Market was on a corner in a working-class residential district. The store had been built onto the front of an old two-story frame house, so long ago that it was now old itself. On the front window someone had written smearily in soap: Special—Fresh Ranch Eggs. There was no sign of Helen’s car. Except for a pair of young women wheeling baby carriages half a block away, and an old dog couchant in the road, the street was deserted. The dusty palms that lined it stirred languidly in the late-afternoon breeze.