The Instant Enemy

by Ross Macdonald

  “Look here, Archer, I don’t see why you can’t go out and talk to Mr. Hackett. Without telling him who’s involved. You wouldn’t have to mention my name or Sandy’s.”

  “Is that what you want me to do?”

  “It’s the only sensible course. I can’t believe that they’re really planning anything drastic. Sandy’s not a criminal.”

  “A young girl is whatever she runs with, usually.”

  “Not my daughter. She’s never been in any kind of trouble.”

  I was tired of arguing with Sebastian. He was a man who believed whatever made him feel better at the moment.

  “Have it your way. Was Hackett on his way home when he left you?”

  “Yes, I think he was. You will go and see him then?”

  “If you insist.”

  “And keep us out of it?”

  “I may not be able to. Remember Hackett saw me in your office.”

  “Give him a story. You stumbled across this information and brought it to me because I work for his company. You and I are old friends, nothing more.”

  A good deal less. I made no promises. He told me how to find Hackett’s place, and gave me his unlisted telephone number.

  chapter 8

  I CALLED THE NUMBER from Malibu. A woman answered, and told me in a foreign accent that her husband wasn’t home but she expected him at any moment. When I mentioned Sebastian’s name she said she’d have someone meet me at the gate.

  It was only a couple of miles from downtown Malibu. The gate was ten feet high, topped with barbed wire. On either side of it, a heavy wire fence plastered with “NO TRESPASSING” signs stretched off into the hills as far as I could see.

  The man who was waiting for me at the gate was a lean Spanish type. His tight pants and loose haircut gave a youthful impression which his dark and ageless eyes repudiated. He made no attempt to conceal the heavy revolver in the belt holster under his jacket.

  Before he opened the gate he made me show him the photostat of my license. “Okay, man. I guess it’s okay.”

  He unlocked the gate and let me drive in, relocked it as I waited behind his jeep.

  “Is Mr. Hackett here yet?”

  He shook his head, got into his jeep, and led me up the private blacktop road. Once we had rounded the first curve, the place seemed almost as remote and untouched as backcountry. Quail were calling in the brush, and smaller birds were eating the red berries off the toyon. A couple of soaring vultures balanced high on a thermal were keeping an eye on things.

  The road mounted a low pass and ran along the crest of the wide earth dam which held back the water of the artificial lake. There were ducks on the water, pintails and cinnamon teal, and mud hens in the grass around its shore.

  My escort drew his revolver and, without stopping his jeep, shot the nearest mud hen. I think he was showing off to me. All the ducks flew up, and all the mud hens but one ran like hell into the water, like little animated cartoons of terrified people.

  The house was on a rise at the far end of the lake. It was wide and low and handsome, and it fitted the landscape so well that it looked like a piece of it.

  Mrs. Hackett was waiting on the terrace in front of the house. She had on a brown wool suit, and her long yellow hair was done up in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She was in her early thirties, pretty and plump and very fair. She called out angrily to the man in the jeep: “Was it you who fired that gun?”

  “I shot a mud hen.”

  “I’ve asked you not to do that. It drives away the ducks.”

  “There’s too many mud hens.”

  She went pale. “Don’t talk back to me, Lupe.”

  They glared at each other. His face was like carved saddle leather. Hers was like Dresden porcelain. Apparently the porcelain won. Lupe drove away in the jeep and disappeared into one of the outbuildings.

  I introduced myself. The woman turned to me, but Lupe was still on her mind. “He’s insubordinate. I don’t know how to handle him. I’ve been in this country for over ten years and I still don’t understand Americans.” Her accent was Middle European, probably Austrian or German.

  “I’ve been here for over forty,” I said, “and I don’t understand Americans, either. Spanish-Americans are particularly hard to understand.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not much help.” She smiled, and made a small helpless gesture with her fairly wide shoulders.

  “What’s Lupe’s job?”

  “He looks after the place.”

  “Singlehanded?”

  “It isn’t as much work as you might think. We have a bonded maintenance service for the house and grounds. My husband dislikes to have servants underfoot. I miss having servants myself, we always had servants at home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Bayerne,” she said with heavy nostalgia. “Near München. My family has lived in the same house since the time of Napoleon.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Ten years. Stephen brought me to this country ten years ago. I’m still not used to it. In Germany the servant classes treat us with respect.”

  “Lupe doesn’t act like a typical servant.”

  “No, and he isn’t typical. My mother-in-law insisted that we hire him. He knows that.” She sounded like a woman who needed someone to talk to. She must have heard herself. “I’m afraid I’m talking too much. But why are you asking me these questions?”

  “It’s a habit of mine. I’m a private detective.”

  Her eyes blurred with apprehension. “Has Stephen had an accident? Is that why he hasn’t come home?”

  “I hope not.”

  She looked at me accusingly. I was the messenger who brought bad news.

  “You said on the telephone you were a friend of Keith Sebastian’s.”

  “I know him.”

  “Has something happened to my husband? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “No. I suppose I’d better tell you why I’m here. May I sit down?”

  “Of course. But come inside. It’s getting cold out here in the wind.”

  She led me through a glass door, up a short flight of steps, and along a well-lit gallery hung with pictures. I recognized a Klee and a Kokoschka and a Picasso, and thought it was no wonder the place had a fence around it.

  The living room commanded a broad view of the sea, which seemed from this height to slant up to the horizon. A few white sails clung to it like moths on a blue window.

  Mrs. Hackett made me sit in an austere-looking steel-and-leather chair which turned out to be comfortable.

  “Bauhaus,” she said instructively. “Would you like a drink? Benedictine?”

  She got a stone bottle and glasses out of a portable bar and poured small drinks for us. Then sat down confidentially with her round silk knees almost touching mine. “Now what is all this business?”

  I told her that in the course of an investigation which I didn’t specify, I’d stumbled on a couple of facts. Taken together they suggested that she and her husband might be in danger of robbery or extortion.

  “Danger from whom?”

  “I can’t name names. But I think you’d be well advised to have the place guarded.”

  My advice was punctuated by a distant sound that resembled machine-gun fire. Hackett’s red sports car came into view and scooted around the lake toward the house.

  “Ach!” Mrs. Hackett said. “He’s brought his mother with him.”

  “Doesn’t she live here?”

  “Ruth lives in Bel-Air. We are not enemies but neither are we friends. She is too close to Stephen. Her husband is younger than Stephen.”

  I seemed to have won Mrs. Hackett’s confidence, and wondered if I really wanted it. She was handsome but a little fat and dull, and full of unpredictable emotions.

  Her husband had stopped below the terrace and was helping his mother out of the car. She looked about his age, and dressed it. But if Hackett was forty, his mother had to be at least fifty-si
x or seven. As she came across the terrace on his arm, I could see the years accumulate behind her youthful façade.

  Mrs. Hackett went to the window and waved at them rather lifelessly. The sight of her husband’s mother seemed to drain her of energy.

  The mother was introduced to me as Mrs. Marburg. She looked at me with the arithmetical eye of an aging professional beauty: would I be viable in bed?

  Her son’s eye was equally cold and calculating, but he was interested in other questions: “Didn’t I see you in Keith Sebastian’s office?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you followed me out here? Why? I see you’ve made yourself cozy.”

  He meant the glasses on the coffee table. His wife flushed guiltily. His mother said in chiding coquetry: “I know you have a passion for privacy, Stephen. But don’t be nasty, now. I’m sure the nice man has a very good explanation.”

  She reached for his hand. Hackett winced away from her touch, but it seemed to ground some of his static. He said in a more reasonable tone: “What is your explanation?”

  “It was Sebastian’s idea.” I sat down and repeated the story I’d told his wife.

  It seemed to upset all three of them. Hackett got a bottle of bourbon out of the portable bar and, without offering any of it around, poured himself a solid slug which he knocked back.

  His German wife began to weep, without any sound, and then her hair came loose and flooded her shoulders. Hackett’s mother sat down beside his wife and patted her broad back with one hand. The other hand plucked at her own throat where crepe had gathered in memory of her youth.

  “It would help,” Mrs. Marburg said to me, “if you’d lay out all the facts for us. By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Lew Archer. I’m sorry I can’t tell you much more than I have.”

  “But who are these people? How do we know they exist?”

  “Because I say so.”

  Hackett said: “You could be angling for a bodyguard job.”

  “Guarding bodies isn’t my idea of a decent job. I can give you the name of a good firm if you like.” None of them seemed interested. “Of course you can do as you choose. People generally do.”

  Hackett saw that I was getting ready to leave.

  “Now don’t rush away, Mr. Archer. I really do appreciate your coming here.” The whisky had humanized him, softening his voice and his perspective. “And I certainly don’t mean to be inhospitable. Have a drink.”

  “One was enough, thanks.” But I felt more friendly toward him. “You haven’t had any threatening phone calls? Or letters asking for money?”

  Hackett looked at his wife, and they both shook their heads. He said: “May I ask a question? How do you know this-ah-criminal plot is directed against me?—against us?”

  “I don’t. But the people involved had a map of your place.”

  “This place, or the beach cottage?”

  “This place. I thought that was good enough reason to come out here and talk to you.”

  “You’re very thoughtful,” Ruth Marburg said. Her voice was pleasant and a little coarse, a blend of Western drawls ranging from the Pacific Coast to the Gulf Coast. Under the sound of money, her voice remembered times when there hadn’t been any. “I think we should pay Mr. Archer for his time.”

  Hackett got his wallet out and from the assortment of bills it contained selected a twenty. “This will take care of your time.”

  “Thanks, it’s already taken care of.”

  “Go ahead, take it,” Mrs. Marburg said. “It’s good clean oil money.”

  “No thanks.”

  Hackett looked at me in surprise. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had refused a small piece of his money. When I made a move to leave he followed me into the gallery and started to name the artists represented.

  “Do you like pictures?”

  “Very much.”

  But Hackett’s recital bored me. He told me how much each picture cost and how much it was worth now. He said he had made a profit on every picture he’d bought in the past ten years.

  “Bully for you.”

  He cocked a pale eye at me. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good.” But he was peeved. I’d failed to show proper respect for him and his money. “After all, you said that you were interested in paintings. These are some of the most valuable modern paintings in California.”

  “You told me.”

  “Very well, if you’re not interested.” He turned away, and then came back to me. “One thing I don’t understand. Where does Keith Sebastian come in on all this?”

  I told the lie I’d hoped to avoid telling: “I knew Keith worked for one of your companies. I went to him, and he sent me out here.”

  “I see.”

  Before Hackett saw too much, I got into my car and started for the gate. Lupe followed me in his jeep.

  The ducks had not returned to the lake. The frightened mud hens had crossed to the far shore. In the distance they looked like a congregation of mourners.

  chapter 9

  ON MY WAY BACK into the city I stopped at the Laurel Apartments to see if Davy and Sandy had come back there. The door of Laurel Smith’s apartment was standing partly open. She didn’t answer when I knocked. I listened, and heard the sound of snoring deep inside the place. I guessed that Laurel had drunk herself unconscious.

  But when I went in and found her in the bathtub, I saw that she’d been hit by something heavier than alcohol. Her nose was bleeding and swollen; her eyes were puffed shut, her lips cut. The bathtub was dry, except for splashes of blood. Laurel still had on her orange and black housecoat.

  I went to the phone and called the police, and asked at the same time for an ambulance. In the minutes before they arrived I gave the place a quick shakedown. The first thing I looked at was the portable television set. Laurel’s account of winning it in a contest had sounded to me like a plant.

  I took the back off. Glued to the inside of the cabinet was a plastic-encased bug, a miniature radio transmitter no larger than a pack of cigarettes. I left the bug where it was, and replaced the back of the set.

  The other unusual thing I found was a negative fact. Nothing I came across in my hurried search suggested that Laurel Smith had a personal history: no letters or old photographs or documents. I did find, in a purse in a bedroom drawer, a savings bank book with deposits totaling over six thousand dollars, and a dog-eared Social Security card in the name of Laurel Blevins.

  The same drawer contained a sparsely populated address-book in which I found two names I recognized: Jacob Belsize, and Mr. and Mrs. Edward Spanner. I made a note of the Spanners’ address, which wasn’t too far from my own apartment in West Los Angeles. Then I put everything back in the drawer and pushed it shut.

  I could hear the sound of the police siren rising from Pacific Coast Highway. It was a sound I hated: the howl of disaster in the urban barrens. It climbed Chautauqua and died like a wolf in Elder Street. The ambulance was whining in the distance.

  I knew the two policemen who came in. Janowski and Prince were detective-sergeants from the Purdue Street station, men in their late thirties who were proud of their work and good at it. I had to tell them what I was doing there, but I suppressed Sandy’s name. I gave them Davy Spanner’s.

  Prince said: “Did Spanner do that?” He jerked his thumb toward the bathroom, where by now two ambulance men were getting Laurel Smith onto a stretcher.

  “I doubt it. They were good friends.”

  “How good?” Janowski said. He was a homely broad-faced Baltic type with a fair delicate skin.

  “She gave him a job when he got out of jail.”

  “That’s pretty good friends,” Prince said. “What was he in for?”

  “Car theft.”

  “So now he’s doing postgraduate work in mayhem.” Prince took crime personally. He was a former Golden Gloves welterweight who could have gone either way in his own life. L
ike me.

  I didn’t argue with them. If they picked up Davy, they’d probably be doing him a favor. And the afternoon was slipping away. I wanted to see the Spanners before it got too late.

  We went outside and watched Laurel Smith being lifted into the ambulance. Three or four of the apartment dwellers, all women, had drifted out onto the sidewalk. Laurel was their landlady, and they undoubtedly knew her, but they didn’t come too near. The snoring woman gave off the germs of disaster.

  Janowski said to one of the attendants: “How bad is she hurt?”

  “It’s hard to say, with head injuries. She has a broken nose, and jaw, maybe a fractured skull. I don’t think it was done with fists.”

  “With what?”

  “A sap, or a truncheon.”

  Prince was questioning the women from the apartment building: none of them had heard or seen a thing. They were quiet and subdued, like birds when a hawk is in the neighborhood.

  The ambulance rolled away. The women went into the building. Prince got into the police car and made a report in a low-pitched monotone.

  Janowski went back into Laurel’s apartment. I walked up to Los Baños Street for a second look at the house with volcanic rock built into the front. The drapes were still drawn. The Cougar was no longer in the driveway.

  I wandered around to the back and found an unblinded sliding glass door. The room inside contained no furniture. I looked around the small back yard. It was overgrown with dry crabgrass, which the rains had failed to revive, and surrounded by a five-foot grapestake fence.

  A woman looked over the fence from the next yard. She was an attempted blonde whose eyes were magnified by purple eye shadow.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for the man of the house.”

  “Big fellow with a bald head?”

  “That’s him.”

  “He left about an hour ago. It looked to me like he was moving out. Which would suit me just fine.”

  “How so?”

  She threw me a sorrowful purple look over the grapestake fence. “You a friend of his?”