The Way Some People Die

by Ross Macdonald

  “Three?”

  “Dalling and Mario and Joe.”

  “I didn’t kill Joe. How could I? I can’t even swim.”

  “You’re a good liar, Galley. You have the art of mixing fact with your fantasy, and it’s kept you going for a week. But you’ve run out of lies now.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” she repeated. Her body was stiff in the chair, her hands clenched tight on the arms. “Why should I kill my own husband?”

  “Spare me the little-wife routine. It worked for a while, I admit. You had me and the cops convinced that you were shielding Joe. Now it turns my stomach. You had plenty of reasons to kill him, including thirty thousand dollars. It must have looked like a lot of money after years of nurse’s work on nurse’s pay. You probably married Joe with the sole intention of killing him as soon as he was loaded.”

  “What kind of a woman do you think I am?” Her face had lost its impassivity and was groping for an expression that might move me.

  I touched the dead man with the toe of my shoe. “I just saw you pump six .45 slugs into a man who was dying on his feet. Does that answer your question?”

  “I had to. I was terrified.”

  “Yeah. You have the delicate sensitivity of a frightened rattlesnake, and you react like one. You killed Mario because he figured out that you murdered his brother. Joe probably warned him about you.”

  “You’d have a hard time proving that.” Her eyes were like black charred holes in her white mask.

  “I don’t have to. Wait until the police lab men have a look at the deep-freeze unit in your kitchen.”

  “How—?” Her mouth closed tight, an instant too late. She had confirmed my guess.

  “Go on. How did I know that you kept Joe in cold storage for three days?”

  “I’m not talking.”

  “I didn’t know it until now. Not for certain. It clears up a lot of things.”

  “You’re talking nonsense again. Do I have to listen to you?”

  “Until the sheriff’s car gets here from Palm Springs, yes. There’s a lot of truth to be told, after all the lies, and if you won’t tell it I will. It might give you a little insight into yourself.”

  “What do you think you are, a psychoanalyst?”

  “Thank God I’m not yours. I wouldn’t want to have to explain what made you do what you did. Unless you were in love with Herman Speed?”

  She laughed. “That old stallion? Don’t be a silly boy. He was my patient.”

  “You used him then. You got the lowdown on Joe’s dope-smuggling from him. I take it he was glad enough to spoil the game for the man who fingered him and stole his business. Perhaps Speed was using you, at that. After talking to both of you, I imagine it was his idea in the first place. He was the brains—”

  “Speed?” I had touched a nerve. So it had been her idea.

  “Anyway, you went to San Francisco with him when he got out of the hospital. You sent your mother a Christmas card from there, and that was your first mistake—mixing sentiment with business. After you’d worked out the plan, you let your mother sweat out the next two months without hearing from you, because you intended to use her. You came back to Pacific Point and married Joe: no doubt he’d asked you before and was waiting for your answer. Speed went to Reno to try and raise the necessary money. Unfortunately he succeeded. Which brings us down to last Friday night—”

  “You,” she said, “not us. You lost me long ago. You’re all by yourself.”

  “Maybe some of the details are wrong or missing: they’ll be straightened out in court. I don’t know, for example, what you put in Joe’s food or drink Friday night when he came home from his last boat-trip. Chloral hydrate, or something that leaves no trace? You know more about things like that than I do.”

  “I thought you were omniscient.”

  “Hardly. I don’t know whether Dalling pushed in on your project, or was invited. Or was it a combination of both? In any case, you needed the use of this house of his, and you needed help. Speed was busy holding up his end of a phony honeymoon. Dalling was the best you could get in the clutch. When Joe went to sleep, Dalling helped you carry him out through his apartment and down the back way to the car. At this end, you hoisted him into the freezer and let him smother. So far it had been simple. Joe was dead, and you had the heroin. Speed had the money and the contacts. But your biggest problem still faced you. You knew if Dowser caught on to you, you wouldn’t live to enjoy your money. Perhaps you heard what his gorillas did to Mario Friday night, just on the off chance that he knew something about it. You had to clear yourself with Dowser. That’s where I came in, and that’s where you made your big mistake.”

  “Anything with you in it is a mistake. I only hope you repeat this fable in public, to the police. I’ll put you out of business.” But she couldn’t muster enough conviction to support the words. They sounded desperately thin.

  “I’ll be in business when you’re in Tehachapi, or in the gas chamber. You thought you could call me in to take a fall, then turn me off like a tap, or kiss me off with a little casual sex. It was a tricky idea, a little too tricky to work. You and your radio actor persuaded your mother to hire me to look for you: you probably wrote the script. Then you arranged for me to find you and be convinced that Joe was alive and kicking. Dalling sneaked up on the porch behind me and sandbagged me. You even faked a warning that came too late, to demonstrate good faith. You removed my gun and filed it for future reference. I don’t know whether you were already planning to kill your partner. You must have seen that he was going to pieces. But you kept him alive as long as possible, because you still needed his help.

  “Joe went back into the trunk of your car. In his condition, he must have made an awkward piece of luggage. You and Keith drove separately to Pacific Point. He got the body aboard the Aztec Queen, took it to sea, dumped it into the water, and swam ashore to your headlights. You took him back to the dock, where his car was, and the two of you drove to Los Angeles. That took care of the body, and more important, it took care of Dowser. It would be obvious, if and when the body was found, that Joe had drowned in a getaway attempt.

  “That left just one fly in your ointment, your partner. He was useful for physical work that you couldn’t do, like rowing dead bodies around harbors and starting boat-engines, but he was a moral weakling. You knew he couldn’t stand the pressure that was coming. Besides, he’d be wanting his share of the cash. So you went up to his apartment with him and paid him off with a bullet. A bullet from my gun. Hid my gun where the cops would be sure to find it. Went home to bed and, if I know your type, slept like a baby.”

  “Did I?”

  “Why not? You’d killed two men and kept yourself in the clear. I have an idea that you like killing men. The real payoff for you wasn’t the thirty thousand. It was smothering Joe, and shooting Keith and Mario. The money was just a respectable excuse, like the fifty dollars to a call-girl who happens to be a nymphomaniac. You see, Galley, you’re a murderer. You’re different from ordinary people, you like different things. Ordinary people don’t throw slugs into a dead man’s back for the hell of it. They don’t arrange their lives so they have to spend a week-end with a corpse. Did it give you a thrill, cooking your meals in the same room with him?”

  I had finally got to her. She leaned out of the chair towards me and spoke between bared teeth: “You’re a dirty liar! I couldn’t eat. I hated it. I had to get out of the house. By Sunday night I was going crazy with it—Joe crouched in there with frost on him—” A dry sob racked her. She covered her face with her hands.

  Somewhere in the distance a siren whined.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Sunday night Speed came to baby-sit for you. Later, when I talked to him, he covered for you. It will convict him along with you.”

  She mastered her sobbing, and spoke behind her hands: “I should have saved a bullet for you.”

  “I served your purpose, didn’t I? I couldn’t have done it better if you had br
iefed me. Of course you set it up for me rather nicely, phoning Dowser Tuesday morning to let him know you were available. You must have trusted me pretty far at that. I know three or four private operators who wouldn’t have followed you up to Dowser’s house. Ironic, isn’t it? I thought I was rescuing a maiden from a tower. Fall guys usually do, I guess. And the women who use them often make the mistake you did. They forget that even fall guys have minds of their own, until they fall for keeps.” I looked down at Mario, and her gaze followed mine. Her fingers were still spread across her face, as if she needed them to hold it together.

  The siren rose nearer and higher, building a thin arch of sound across the desert.

  “It’s sort of sad about you,” I said. “All that energy and ingenuity wasted, because you had to tie it in with murder. Now before the police get here, do you want to tell me where the money is? I need it for a client, and if I get it I’ll give you the best break I can.”

  “Go to hell.” Her eyes burned furiously between her fingers. “They won’t be able to hold me, you know that? They can’t prove anything, not a thing. I’m innocent, do you hear me?”

  I heard her.

  The siren whooped like a wolf in the street. Headlights swept the window.

  CHAPTER 36: After Galley was taken away, a deputy named Runceyvall and I spent an hour or so going over the house. Mario had left a trail of blood across the kitchen floor and out the back door to the attached garage. We followed it and found the place where the gun had been cached, behind a loose board in the wall between the garage and the house. It contained a box of .45 cartridges, but no money. We found only one other thing of any significance: a couple of black hairs stuck to the interior wall of the deep-freeze. I told Runceyvall to seal it shut, and explained why. Runceyvall thought the whole thing was delightful.

  Shortly after two I checked in at the Oasis Inn for the rest of the night. The clerk informed me that Mrs. Fellows was still registered. I asked to be called at eight.

  I was. When I had showered and looked at my beard in the bathroom mirror and put on the same dirty clothes, I strolled across the lawn to Marjorie’s bungalow. It was a dazzling morning. The grass looked as fresh as paint. Beyond a palm-leaf fence at the rear of the enclosure, a red tractor was pulling a cultivator up and down through a grove of date-palms that stood squat against the sky. High above them in ultramarine space, too high to be identified, a single bird circled on still wings. I thought it was an eagle or a hawk, and I thought of Galley.

  Marjorie was breakfasting alfresco under a striped orange beach umbrella. She had on a Japanese kimono that harmonized with the umbrella, if nothing else. At the table with her a gray-headed man in shorts was munching diligently on a piece of toast.

  She glanced up brightly when I approached, her round face glowing with sunburn and Gemütlichkeit: “Why, Mr. Archer, what a nice surprise! We were just talking about you, and wondering where you were.”

  “I slept here last night. Checked in late, and thought I wouldn’t disturb you.”

  “Now wasn’t that thoughtful,” she said to the gray-headed man. “George, this is Mr. Archer. My husband, Mr. Archer—my ex, I guess I should say.” Surprisingly, the large kimonoed body produced a girlish titter.

  George stood up and gave me a brisk hand-shake. “Glad to know you, Archer. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He had a thin flat chest, a sedentary stomach, a kind bewildered face.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you. From Marjorie.”

  “You have?” He bestowed a loving look on the top of her head. “I feel darn silly in these shorts. She made me wear ’em. Oh well, as long as there’s nobody here from Toledo—” He gazed short-sightedly around him, seeking spies.

  “You look handsome in them, George. Pull in your stomach now. I love you in them.” She turned to me with a queenly graciousness: “Please sit down, Mr. Archer. Have you had your breakfast? Let me order you some. George, bring Mr. Archer a chair from the porch and order more ham and eggs.” George marched away with his stomach held tautly in, his head held high.

  “I didn’t expect to find him here.”

  “Neither did I. Isn’t it wonderful? He saw my name in the papers and flew right down from Toledo on the first plane, just like a movie hero. I almost fainted yesterday when he walked in. To think that he really cares! Of course it was somewhat embarrassing last night. He had to sleep in a separate bungalow because we’re not legally married yet.”

  “Yet? Don’t you mean ‘any more’?”

  “Yet.” She blushed rosier. “We’re flying to San Francisco at noon to pick up the car there, and then we’ll drive over to Reno and be married. They don’t make you wait in Reno and George says he won’t wait a single minute longer than necessary.”

  “Congratulations, but won’t there be legal difficulties? You can have your marriage to Speed annulled, of course, since he married you under a false name. Only that will take time, even in Nevada.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Her face, blank and unsmiling now, showed the strain she was under. “The San Francisco police recovered my Cadillac last night. He left it in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, he’s dead. Several persons saw him jump.”

  It hit me hard, though Speed meant nothing to me. Now there were four men violently dead, five if I counted Mosquito. Galley and I between us had swept the board clean.

  “You didn’t find him, did you?” she was saying. “You didn’t reach him?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, you had nothing to do with his suicide? If I thought he did it because I hunted him down—it would be dreadful, wouldn’t it? I couldn’t face it.” She shut her eyes and looked like a well-fed baby blown up huge.

  There was only one possible answer: “I didn’t find him.”

  She breathed out. “I’m so relieved, so glad. I don’t give a hang for the money, now that I’ve got George back. I suppose it was swept out to sea with his body. George says we can probably deduct it from our income tax anyway.”

  George stepped off the porch with a deck-chair. “Is somebody using my name in vain?” he called out cheerfully.

  She smiled in response: “I was just telling Mr. Archer how wonderful it is to have you back, darling. It’s like waking up from a nightmare. Did you order the food?”

  “Coming right up.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” I said.

  They were nice people, hospitable and rich. I couldn’t stand their company for some reason, or eat their food. My mind was still fixed on death, caught deep in its shadow. If I stayed I’d have to tell them things that they wouldn’t like. Things that would spoil their fun, if anything could spoil their fun.

  “Must you go? I’m so sorry.” She was already reaching for her bag. “Anyway, you must let me pay you for your time and trouble.”

  “Fine. A hundred dollars will do it.”

  “I’m sorry it turned out the way it did. It’s hardly fair to you.” She rose and pressed the money into my hand.

  “Marjorie’s taken quite a shine to you, Archer. She’s actually a very remarkable woman. I never realized before what a very remarkable woman Marjorie is.”

  “Go on with you.” She pushed George playfully.

  “You are. You know you are.” He pushed her back.

  “I’m the silliest fat old woman in the world.” She tried to push him again but he clung to her hand.

  “Good-bye. Good luck. Give my regards to Toledo.”

  I left them playing and laughing like happy children. Above the date-palms, half-hidden in space, the unknown bird described its dark circles.

  The case ended where it began, among the furniture in Mrs. Lawrence’s sitting room. It was noon by then. The dim little room was pleasant after the heat of the desert. Mrs. Lawrence herself was pleasant enough, though she looked haggard. The police had come and gone.

  We sat together like strangers mourning at the funeral of a common fr
iend. She was wearing a rusty black dress. Even her stockings were black. Her drawn and sallow cheeks were spottily coated with white powder. She offered me tea which I refused because I had just eaten. Her speech and movements were slower but she hadn’t changed. Nothing would change her. She sat like a monument with her fists clenched on her knees:

  “My daughter is perfectly innocent, of course. As I told Lieutenant Gary this morning, she wouldn’t hurt a hair of anyone’s head. When she was a child, I couldn’t even force her to swat a fly, not if her life depended on it.” Her eyes were sunk deep in her head, under brows like stony caverns. “You believe her innocent.” It was a statement.

  “I hope she is.”

  “Of course. She’s never been well-liked. Girls who are pretty and clever are never well-liked. After her father died and our money went, she withdrew more and more into herself. She lived a dream-life all through high school and that didn’t help to make her popular. It earned her enemies, in fact. More than once they tried to get her into trouble. Even in the hospital it happened. There were unfounded accusations from various people who resented Galley’s having had a distinguished father—”

  “What sort of accusations?”

  “I wouldn’t taint my tongue with them, or offend your ears, Mr. Archer. I know that Galley is inherently good, and that’s enough. She always has been good, and she is now. I learned many years ago to close my ears to the base lying chatter of the world.” Her mouth was like iron.

  “I’m afraid your conviction isn’t enough. Your daughter is in a cell with a great deal of firm evidence against her.”

  “Evidence! A wild fabrication the police made up to conceal their own incompetence. They shan’t use my daughter for a scapegoat.”

  “Your daughter murdered her husband,” I said. It was the hardest speech I ever uttered. “The only question is, what are you going to do about it? Do you have any money?”

  “A little. About two hundred dollars. You are quite mistaken about Galley’s guilt, however. I realize that things look black for my girl. But as her mother I know that she is absolutely incapable of murder.”