The Instant Enemy

by Ross Macdonald

  A Cadillac coupe displaying a doctor’s caduceus was standing in front of the house. A youthful-looking man with clever eyes and iron-gray hair met me at the door.

  “I’m Dr. Converse. Are you from the police?”

  “No, I’m a private detective working for Mrs. Marburg.” I told him my name.

  “She didn’t mention you.” He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. “Exactly what has been going on around here? Has something happened to Stephen Hackett?”

  “Didn’t Mrs. Marburg tell you?”

  “She gave me some intimations of disaster. But she seems to think she can undo the mischief by not talking about it. She made a fearful row when I insisted on calling the police.”

  “What’s her big objection to the police?”

  “She has a fixed idea that they’re corrupt and incompetent. I suppose she’s entitled to it, after what happened to her previous husband.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I assumed you knew. He was shot to death on the beach about fifteen years ago. I’m not too clear about the details—it was before my time—but I don’t believe the killer was ever found. Anyway, getting back to the present, I explained to Mrs. Marburg that the law requires physicians and hospitals to report all serious injuries.”

  “Are we talking about Lupe?”

  “Yes. I called an ambulance and sent him to the hospital.”

  “Is he seriously hurt?”

  “I wouldn’t attempt to say. I’m an internist, not a brain surgeon, and these head injuries can be tricky. I’m putting him in the hands of a competent man, Dr. Sunderland at St. John’s Hospital.”

  “Is Lupe conscious?”

  “Yes, but he refuses to talk about what happened.” The doctor’s fingers tweezered my upper arm. He was wearing some piny scent which made me want to sneeze. “Do you know who hit him over the head?”

  “It was a seventeen-year-old girl. Lupe’s probably ashamed of it.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Sandy Sebastian.”

  He frowned in a puzzled way. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Sandy isn’t a rough girl at all.”

  “How well do you know her, doctor?”

  “I’ve seen her once or twice, professionally. That was some months ago.” His fingers tightened on me. “What happened with her and Lupe, anyway? Did he attempt to attack her?”

  “You’ve got it turned around. Sandy and her boyfriend were on the attack. Lupe was defending himself and I assume Mr. Hackett.”

  “What’s happened to Mr. Hackett? Surely you can tell me, I’m his physician.” But Converse lacked authority. He looked and sounded like a society doctor who made his living by talking to money in the proper tone of voice. “Has he been injured, too?”

  “He’s been kidnapped.”

  “For ransom?”

  “For kicks, apparently.”

  “And Miss Sebastian and her friend are responsible?”

  “Yes. I caught Sandy last night and brought her home. She’s with her parents in Woodland Hills. She’s not in very good shape emotionally, and I think a doctor should see her. If you’re her doctor—”

  “I’m not.” Dr. Converse let go of me and moved away as if I’d suddenly become contaminated. “I saw her just once, last summer, and I haven’t seen her since. I can’t call up her home and force my professional attentions on her.”

  “I suppose not. What did you treat her for last summer?”

  “It would hardly be professional to tell you.”

  Communications had suddenly broken down. I went inside to talk to Mrs. Marburg. She was in the living room, half lying on a long chair with her back to the window. There were bluish bulges under her eyes. She hadn’t changed her clothes since the night before.

  “No luck, eh?” she said hoarsely.

  “No. Did you sleep at all?”

  “Not a wink. I had a bad night. I couldn’t get a doctor to come out here. When I finally got Dr. Converse, he insisted on informing the police.”

  “I think it’s a good idea. We should lay the whole thing out for them. They can do things I couldn’t do if I hired a thousand men. They have a new statewide computer system for spotting cars, for example. The best chance we have is to pick up Sebastian’s car.”

  She drew air hissingly between her teeth. “I wish I’d never heard of that creep or his wretched little daughter.”

  “I caught the girl, if that’s any comfort to you.”

  Mrs. Marburg sat up straight. “Where is she?”

  “At home with her mother and father.”

  “I wish you’d brought her to me. I’d give a good deal to know what goes on in her head. Did you question her?”

  “Some. She won’t talk freely.”

  “What was her motivation?”

  “Sheer malice, as far as I can see. She wanted to hurt her father.”

  “Then why in God’s name didn’t they kidnap him?”

  “I don’t know. Did the girl have any trouble with your son?”

  “Certainly not. Stephen treated her very well. It was Gerda who was her special friend, of course.”

  “Where is Mrs. Hackett?”

  “Gerda’s still in her room. She might as well sleep, she’s no particular help to anybody. She’s no better than Sidney.”

  She spoke with the fretful impatience of near-despair. Mrs. Marburg was evidently one of those stubborn souls who reacted to trouble by trying to take charge of a situation and make all the decisions. But the thing was slipping out of her hands, and she knew it.

  “You can’t stay up forever and do everything yourself. This could turn into a long siege. And it could end badly.”

  She leaned sideways toward me. “Is Stephen dead?”

  “We have to face that possibility. Spanner isn’t playing games. He’s homicidal, apparently.”

  “How do you know that?” She was angry. “You’re trying to frighten me, aren’t you? So I’ll cooperate with the police.”

  “I’m giving you the facts, so you can make a good decision. In the course of the night Spanner laid your son out across a railroad track. He intended to let a freight train run over him.”

  She looked at me in astonishment. “A freight train?”

  “I know it sounds wild, but it happened. The girl saw it happen. She got scared and ran out on Spanner at that point, which makes it fairly certain she isn’t lying.”

  “What happened to Stephen?”

  “Spanner changed his mind when the girl got away. But he could try it again. There’s a lot of railroad track in California,and freight trains are running all the time.”

  “What is he trying to do to us?”

  “I doubt that he could tell you if you asked him. He seems to be acting out a childhood memory.”

  “That sounds like phony psychology to me.”

  “It isn’t, though. I’ve talked to Davy Spanner’s high-school counselor in Santa Teresa. His father was killed by a train at that same spot, when he was three. Davy saw it happen.”

  “Where is the place?”

  “In the northern part of Santa Teresa County, near Rodeo City.”

  “I’m not familiar with that territory.”

  “Neither am I. Of course they may be hundreds of miles away from there by now. In northern California or out of the state in Nevada or Arizona.”

  She pushed my words away as if they were flies buzzing around her head. “You are trying to frighten me.”

  “I wish I could, Mrs. Marburg. You have nothing to gain by keeping this business private. I can’t find your son by myself, I don’t have the leads. The leads I do have should go to the police.”

  “I haven’t had good luck with the local police.”

  “You mean in the death of your husband?”

  “Yes.” She gave me a level look. “Who’s been talking?”

  “Not you. I think you should. The murder of your husband and the ta
king of your son may be connected.”

  “I don’t see how they could be. The Spanner boy couldn’t have been more than four or five when Mark Hackett was killed.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “He was shot on the beach.” She rubbed her temple as if her husband’s death had left a permanent sore spot in her mind.

  “Malibu Beach?”

  “Yes. We have a beach cottage, and Mark often went for an evening stroll down there. Someone came up behind him and shot him in the head with a handgun. The police arrested a dozen or more suspects—mostly transients and beach bums—but they never got enough evidence to lay charges.”

  “Was he robbed?”

  “His wallet was taken. They never recovered it either. You can see why I’m not a great admirer of the local police.”

  “Still they have their uses, and they’re coming out here anyway. I need your permission to talk to them, freely.”

  She sat still and solemn. I could hear her breathing, measuring out the slow seconds.

  “I have to take your advice, don’t I? If Stephen was killed because I decided wrong, I couldn’t live with it. Go ahead, Mr. Archer, do what you want to do.” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand, then called me back from the door. “I want you to stay with it, of course.”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “If you do find Stephen yourself, and bring him home safely, I’m still prepared to pay you a hundred thousand. Do you need money for expenses, now?”

  “It would help. I’m co-opting another man, a San Francisco detective named Willie Mackey. Do you want to advance me a thousand?”

  “I’ll write you a check. Where’s my bag?” She raised her voice and called: “Sidney! Where’s my bag?”

  Her husband came from the adjoining room. He was wearing a paint-daubed smock and had a spot of red paint on his nose. His eyes looked through us as if we were transparent.

  “What is it?” he said impatiently.

  “I want you to find my bag.”

  “Find it yourself. I’m working.”

  “Don’t use that tone on me.”

  “I wasn’t aware of any particular tone.”

  “We won’t argue. Go and find my bag. It will do you no harm to do something useful for a change.”

  “Painting is useful.”

  She half-rose from the long chair. “I said we wouldn’t argue. Get my bag. I think I left it in the library.”

  “All right, if you want to make a major issue out of it.”

  He went and got her bag, and she wrote me a check for a thousand dollars. Marburg went back to his painting.

  Then two deputies arrived from the sheriff’s office, and Mrs. Marburg and I talked to them in the main living room. Dr. Converse stood listening just inside the door, his clever glance moving from face to face.

  Later I talked to an officer of the highway patrol, and after that to a sheriff’s captain named Aubrey. He was a big middle-aged man with a big man’s easy confidence. I liked him. Dr. Converse was gone by this time, and with a single exception I held nothing back from Aubrey.

  The single exception was the Fleischer angle. Jack Fleischer was a recently retired officer of the law, and officers of the law tend to hang together protectively in a pinch. I felt that Fleischer’s role in the case should be investigated by free lances like me and Willie Mackey.

  To keep everything even, I stopped by the Purdue Street station on my way into town. Detective-Sergeant Prince was in a rage so black that his partner Janowski was worried about him. Laurel Smith had died during the night.

  chapter 17

  I CLIMBED THE STAIRS to my second-floor office on knees that shook under me. It was a few minutes past ten by the wall clock. I called my answering service. A few minutes before ten, Willie Mackey had called me from San Francisco. I returned the call now, and got Willie in his Geary Street office.

  “Nice timing, Lew. I was just trying to phone you. Your man Fleischer checked in at the Sandman about 3 a.m. I put a man on him and made a deal with the night keyboy. The keyboy handles the switchboard after midnight. Fleischer left a call for seven thirty and as soon as he got up he phoned a certain Albert Blevins at the Bowman Hotel. That’s in the Mission District. Fleischer came up to the city and he and Blevins had breakfast together in a cafeteria on Fifth Street. Then they went back to Blevins’s hotel and apparently they’re still there, in his room. Does all this mean anything to you?”

  “The name Blevins does.” It was the name on Laurel’s Social Security card. “Find out what you can about him, will you, and meet me at San Francisco Airport?”

  “What time?”

  I got a plane schedule out of my desk. “One o’clock, in the bar.”

  I made an airline reservation and drove out to Los Angeles International. It was a clear bright day at both ends of the flight. When my jet came down over San Francisco Bay I could see the city standing up like a perpendicular dream and past it to the curved dark blue horizon. The endless roofs of the bedroom towns stretched southward along the Peninsula farther than I could see.

  I found Willie in the airport bar drinking a Gibson. He was a smart experienced man who copied his style of life from the flamboyant San Francisco lawyers who often employed him. Willie spent his money on women and clothes, and always looked a little overdressed, as he did now. His gray hair had once been black. His very sharp black eyes hadn’t changed in the twenty years I’d known him.

  “Albert Blevins,” he said, “has lived in the Bowman Hotel for about a year. It’s a pensioners’ hotel, one of the better ones in the Mission District.”

  “Just how old is he?”

  “Maybe sixty. I don’t know for sure. You didn’t give me much time, Lew.”

  “There isn’t much time.”

  I told him why. Willie was a money player, and his eyes shone like anthracite coal when he heard about Hackett’s wealth. A chunk of it would buy him a new young blonde to break his heart with again.

  Willie wanted another Gibson and some lunch, but I steered him to an elevator and out to the parking lot. He backed his Jaguar out of its slot and headed up Bayshore to the city. The aching blue water and the endless mud flats gave me the pang of remembered younger days.

  Willie broke into my thoughts. “What’s Albert Blevins got to do with the Hackett snatch?”

  “I don’t know, but there has to be some connection. A woman named Laurel Smith who died last night—homicide victim—used to call herself Laurel Blevins. Fleischer knew her in Rodeo City fifteen years ago. Around the same time, and the same locality, an unidentified man was decapitated by a train. Apparently he was Davy Spanner’s father. Deputy Fleischer handled the case, and put it in the books as accidental death.”

  “And you say it wasn’t?”

  “I’m suspending judgment. There’s still another connection. Spanner was Laurel Smith’s tenant and employee, and I suspect they were closer than that, maybe very close.”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “I don’t think so. The point is that the people and the places are starting to repeat.” I told Willie about the midnight scene at the railroad crossing. “If we can get Fleischer and Blevins to talk, we may be able to shut the case down in a hurry. Particularly Fleischer. For the past month he’s been bugging Laurel’s apartment in Pacific Palisades.”

  “You think he killed her?”

  “He may have. Or he may know who did.”

  Willie concentrated on the traffic as we entered the city. He left his car in an underground garage on Geary Street. I walked up to his office with him to see if the tail on Fleischer had called in. He had. Fleischer had left Blevins at the Bowman Hotel, and at the time of the call was inside the shop of the Acme Photocopy Service. This was Fleischer’s second visit to the Acme Photocopy Service. He had stopped there on his way to the Bowman Hotel.

  I did the same. The Acme Service was a one-man business conducted in a narrow store on Market Street. A thin man with a cough labo
red over a copying machine. For five quick dollars he told me what Fleischer had had copied. On his first visit it was the front page of an old newspaper, on his second an even older birth certificate.

  “Whose birth certificate?”

  “I don’t know. Just a minute. Somebody called Jasper, that was the first name, I think.”

  I waited, but nothing else came. “What was in the newspaper?”

  “I didn’t read it. If I read everything I copy, I’d go blind.”

  “You say it was old. How old?”

  “I didn’t look at the date, but the paper had turned pretty yellow. I had to handle it carefully.” He coughed, and lit a cigarette in reflex. “That’s all I can tell you, mister. What’s it all about?”

  I took that question to the Bowman Hotel. It was a grimy white brick building whose four rows of evenly spaced front windows had a view of the railroad yards. Some of the windows had wooden boxes nailed to their outside sills in lieu of refrigerators.

  The lobby was full of old men. I wondered where all the old women were.

  One of the old men told me that Albert Blevins’s room was on the second floor at the end of the hall. I went up and knocked on the door.

  A husky voice said: “Who is it?”

  “My name is Archer. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Blevins.”

  “What about?”

  “Same thing as the other fellow.”

  A key turned in the lock. Albert Blevins opened the door a few inches. He wasn’t terribly old, but his body was warped by use and his seamed face was set in the cast of permanent stubborn failure. His clear blue eyes had the oddly innocent look of a man who had never been completely broken in to human society. You used to see such men in the small towns, in the desert, on the road. Now they collected in the hollow cores of the cities.

  “Will you pay me same as the other fellow?” he said.

  “How much?”

  “The other fellow gave me fifty dollars. Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.” A horrible suspicion ravaged his face. “Say, you’re not from Welfare?”

  “No.”

  “Thank Jehosophat for that. You get a lucky windfall, they take it off your Welfare and that wipes out your luck.”