The Instant Enemy

by Ross Macdonald

  I went up front with him. The other attendant got into the back with Hackett. We found our left turn and climbed through the hills to Hackett’s gate.

  It was just a few minutes past six. Coming over the pass we were met by the full blaze of the morning sun, like an avalanche of light.

  Ruth Marburg and Gerda Hackett came out of the house together. Ruth’s face was lined and bleary-eyed and joyful. She ran heavily toward me and pressed my hands and thanked me. Then she turned to her son, who was being lifted out of the ambulance by the attendants. She bent over him and hugged him, crying and exclaiming over his wounds.

  Gerda Hackett stood behind her. She looked a little piqued, as if she felt upstaged by Ruth’s display of emotion. But she got her hug in, too, while Sidney Marburg and Dr. Converse stood and watched.

  There was a third man, fortyish and heavy-shouldered, with a square unsmiling face. He acted as if he was in charge. When Hackett stood up shakily and insisted on walking into the house, instead of being carried, the heavy-shouldered man assisted him. Dr. Converse followed them in, looking rather ineffectual.

  Ruth Marburg surprised me. I’d temporarily forgotten about the money she’d promised. She hadn’t. Without having to be reminded, she took me into the library and wrote a check.

  “I’ve postdated this a week.” She stood up, waving the check to dry the ink. “I don’t keep this much in the bank. I’m going to have to transfer some funds and sell some securities.”

  “There’s no hurry.”

  “Good.” She handed me the little yellow slip. It was for the amount she had promised.

  “You’re an unusual rich woman,” I said. “Most of them scream bloody murder over a nickel.”

  “I haven’t always been rich. Now I have more money than I can spend.”

  “So have I, now.”

  “Don’t let it fool you. A hundred grand is chicken feed these days. Uncle Sam will cut it in half for you. If you take my advice you’ll put the rest in real estate and watch it grow.”

  Somehow, I didn’t think I would. I put the check away in my wallet. It excited me in a way I didn’t quite like. Underlying the excitement was a vague depression, as if I belonged to the check in a way, instead of having it belong to me.

  Ruth Marburg reached up and touched my cheek. It wasn’t a pass, but it was a gesture of possession. “Aren’t you happy, Lew? May I call you Lew?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “You don’t look happy. You should be. You’ve done a wonderful thing, for all of us. I’m eternally grateful to you.”

  “Good.” But it wasn’t so good. Even her repeated thanks were a subtle form of possession, taking and not giving.

  “How on earth did you pull it off?” she said.

  I told her, very briefly, about the series of leads, from Fleischer to Albert Blevins and Alma Krug, which took me to the shack where her son was held; and what I found there.

  “You’ve had a terrible night. You must be exhausted.” She touched my cheek again.

  “Don’t do that please.”

  She withdrew her hand as if I’d tried to bite it. “What’s the matter?”

  “You bought your son with this check. Not me.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. It was a friendly gesture. Heavens, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

  “The hell you are.”

  She chose to take this as a compliment, and it soothed her injured feelings. “You really are tired, aren’t you, Lew? Did you get any sleep at all?

  “Not much.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go to bed and get some sleep now? Stephen and Gerda have plenty of room.”

  The invitation sounded so good that I started yawning, like an addict for a fix. But I told her I preferred my own bed.

  “You’re very independent, aren’t you, Lew?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “I feel the same way myself. I only wish Sidney had some of the same spirit.”

  She sounded like a mother talking about her backward little boy.

  “Speaking of Sidney, I wonder if I can get him to drive me. My car’s over in the Valley.”

  “Of course. I’ll tell him. There’s just one thing before you leave,” she said. “Mr. Thorndike will want to talk to you.”

  She went and got the heavy-shouldered man. Thorndike introduced himself as a special agent of the FBI. Ruth left us together in the library and Thorndike debriefed me, recording what I said on a portable tape recorder.

  “I don’t mean to be critical,” he said, “since it all worked out. But that was kind of a wild idea, going up against a kidnapper with nobody but a high-school counselor to back you up. You could have got what Fleischer got.”

  “I know that. But this is a peculiar kind of kidnapper. I don’t believe he’d shoot Langston.”

  “Anyway, he didn’t get a chance to.”

  Thorndike’s manner was a little superior, like a teacher giving an oral quiz to a not very apt pupil. I didn’t mind. I had brought Hackett in. He hadn’t.

  chapter 24

  CAPTAIN AUBREY of the sheriff’s department arrived, and Thorndike went to talk to him. I closed the door of the library behind Thorndike and pushed the button in the knob which locked the door. It was the first time I’d been alone in a lighted place since I took the photocopies from Jack Fleischer’s body.

  I spread them out on a table by the windows and pulled back the drapes. The copy of the birth certificate stated that Henrietta R. Krug had been born in Santa Teresa County on October 17, 1910, the daughter of Joseph and Alma Krug. It was signed by Richard Harlock, M.D., of Rodeo City.

  The other photocopy was more interesting. It showed a part of the front page of the Santa Teresa Star for May 28, 1952. Under the heading “Oil Tycoon Slaying Still Unsolved” and the subheading “Youth Gang Sought,” was the following short account, datelined Malibu:

  “The May 24 beach shooting of Mark Hackett, well-known Malibu citizen and Texas oil millionaire, is still under investigation by the police. According to Deputy Robert Aubrey of the sheriffs Malibu substation, more than a dozen suspects have been arrested and released. A gang of motorcyclists which was reported in the Malibu area on the night of May 24 is being sought for questioning.

  “Hackett was shot to death while walking on the beach on the evening of May 24. His wallet was taken. Police have recovered a revolver which has been identified as the murder weapon. The dead man is survived by his widow and his son, Stephen.”

  On the same page there was a story, with the dateline “Rodeo City (by Special Correspondent),” under the heading “Death on the Rails Strikes Again”:

  “Riding the rails, which is reputed to be the cheapest way to travel, is costing some travelers their lives. Over the past several years, the lonely stretch of tracks south of Rodeo City has been the scene of a number of fatal accidents. Beheadings, dismemberments, and other mutilations have occurred.

  “The most recent victim of the railroad jinx, and the second to die this year, was found early this morning by Sheriffs Deputy Jack Fleischer of the Rodeo City substation. The body, which bore no identification, was that of a man in his middle twenties. His head had been severed from his body.

  “According to Deputy Fleischer, the man’s clothes marked him as a transient laborer. He had more than twenty dollars in his pockets, ruling out suspicion of foul play.

  “A touching aspect of the accident was revealed by Deputy Fleischer to this reporter. The victim was accompanied by a small boy, approximately three years old, who apparently spent the night by his father’s body. The child has been placed in Children’s Shelter pending further investigation.”

  Besides confirming what I already knew, this second story suggested that Fleischer had deliberately closed off the investigation. He must have known who the victim was; possibly he removed identification. The money in the dead man’s pockets didn’t rule out the possibility of murder, or the possibility that Fleischer himself had co
mmitted it.

  I was struck by the sequence of the two deaths, three or four days apart. It could have been a coincidence, but it was clear enough that Fleischer hadn’t thought so. Also it seemed very likely that Captain Aubrey was that same Deputy Aubrey who had dealt with Mark Hackett’s murder fifteen years ago.

  I found Captain Aubrey in the living room with Thorndike and Dr. Converse. Hackett wasn’t seriously injured, the doctor was telling them, but he was suffering from a certain degree of shock. He didn’t feel that his patient should be questioned any further until he’d had some rest. The policemen didn’t argue.

  When Converse had finished, I drew him into the next room, out of earshot.

  “What is it now?” he said impatiently.

  “The same old question, about Sandy Sebastian. What did you treat her for last summer?”

  “I can’t possibly tell you. It wouldn’t be ethical without the patient’s permission.” Converse paused, and his eyebrows went up. “Did you put Dr. Jeffrey up to calling me last night?”

  “Not exactly. I asked him the same question I’m asking you.”

  “Well, I’m not answering either of you,” Converse said flatly. “The girl’s in enough trouble as it is.”

  “I’m trying to get her out of trouble.”

  “You’re going about it rather strangely, aren’t you?”

  I threw him a question from left field. “Was she taking drugs last summer, something like that?”

  “I refuse to answer.” But his clever eyes flickered in a way that said yes.

  “Psychedelic drugs?”

  His curiosity overcame his ethics, or whatever they were. “What makes you suggest that?”

  “I heard she was suicidal. A bad trip on LSD sometimes has that effect. I’m sure you know that, doctor.”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you sit down and talk about it with me?”

  “No sir, I will not. I have no right to discuss my patient’s private affairs.”

  “Sandy’s affairs are pretty public now. And I’m on her side, remember.”

  Converse shook his head. “You really must excuse me. I have hospital rounds to make.”

  “How’s Lupe?”

  “He’s doing fine now.”

  “Is Lupe on drugs by any chance?”

  “How on earth should I know?”

  Converse turned abruptly and went away.

  Captain Aubrey was waiting for me in the living room. Thorndike had filled him in on my report, but he had some further questions.

  “You’ve been close to this case from the beginning,” he said. “How do you think it all started?”

  “It started the day that Davy Spanner and Sandy Sebastian got together. They’re both badly alienated, young people with a grudge.”

  “I know something about Spanner. He’s a psycho with a record. He shouldn’t have been out on the streets.” His eyes were a cold gray. “Fortunately he won’t be out much longer. I’ve been in touch with Rodeo City. They found the Sebastian girl’s car north of the ranch, hub-deep in the mud. Spanner won’t get far without it. The Santa Teresa County authorities expect to take him today.”

  “Then what?”

  “Spanner’s their baby.” Aubrey’s phrase hit me queerly, and broke into multiple meanings. “They want him for first-degree murder, and that takes care of him. The problem of the girl is more complicated. For one thing, she’s a juvenile, with a clean record. Also she ran out on Spanner before the Fleischer murder was committed. Lucky for her.”

  “Sandy’s no criminal. She wanted to quit as soon as she saw crime was for real.”

  “You’ve talked to her, haven’t you? What gets into a girl like that?” Aubrey was genuinely disturbed. “I’ve got a daughter sixteen. She’s a good girl. So was this one apparently. How do I know my own daughter won’t walk up to somebody some fine day and crack his skull with a tire iron?”

  “I think Sandy had a grudge against Lupe. The case may have started right there.”

  “What did she have against him?”

  “I better not say until I can prove it, Captain.”

  He leaned toward me, red in the face, remembering his own daughter. “Did he have sexual congress with her?”

  “Not that I know of. Whatever happened between them will all come out in the wash. The probation people will be going over her with a fine-tooth comb.”

  Aubrey gave me an impatient look, and turned to leave.

  I detained him. “There’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about. Let’s go out to your car. It’s more private.”

  He shrugged. We went outside. Aubrey got in behind the wheel of his unmarked car, and I slid in beside him.

  “Are you the same Aubrey who used to work out of the Malibu station?”

  “I am. It’s why I was assigned to this one.”

  “This is the second major crime in the Hackett family, I’ve been told.”

  “That’s right. The senior Mr. Hackett—his name was Mark—was shot on the beach.”

  “Did you ever get a line on the killer?”

  “No. These hit-and-run crimes are hard to solve.” Aubrey sounded apologetic. “The trouble is there’s generally no provable connection between the robber and his victim.”

  “Was robbery the motive?”

  “Apparently. Hackett’s wallet was taken, and he carried a lot of money. Which wasn’t the wisest thing to do under the circumstances. He had a hideaway cottage on the beach, and he made a habit of walking down there at night, all by himself. Some thief with a gun caught onto the habit, and took him for his roll.”

  “Did you arrest anyone?”

  “We picked up dozens of suspects. But we couldn’t pin the crime on any one of them.”

  “Do you remember any of their names?”

  “Not at this late date.”

  “I’ll try one on you, anyway. Jasper Blevins.”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid it rings no bell. Who is Jasper Blevins?”

  “Davy Spanner’s father. According to an old Santa Teresa newspaper, he died under a train near Rodeo City, about three days after Mark Hackett was murdered.”

  “So?”

  “It’s an interesting coincidence.”

  “Maybe. I run into these coincidences all the time. Sometimes they mean something, other times they don’t.”

  “This one does.”

  “Do you mean there’s a causal connection between these two crimes—Mark Hackett’s murder and his son’s kidnapping?”

  “Some kind of a connection, anyway. According to a newspaper account, you recovered the revolver Mark Hackett was shot with.”

  Aubrey turned and looked at me appraisingly. “You do your homework, don’t you?”

  “Did you ever trace the revolver to its owner?”

  Aubrey was slow in answering. “The queer thing is,” he said finally, “the gun belonged to Hackett himself, in a sense—”

  “That suggests a family affair.”

  Aubrey lifted the flat of his hand above the wheel. “Let me finish. The gun belonged to Hackett in the sense that one of his oil companies had purchased it. They stored it in an unlocked drawer in their Long Beach office. It wasn’t kept proper track of, and it simply disappeared, apparently some time before the murder.”

  “Disgruntled employee?”

  “We went into that pretty thoroughly. But we didn’t come up with anything tangible. The trouble was, Hackett had quite a number of disgruntled employees. He’d recently moved here from Texas, and he was riding herd on them Texas style. He was very unpopular with his people. But we couldn’t prove that any one of them killed him. He had nearly five hundred employees in Long Beach alone, and a good half of them hated his guts.”

  “What was the name of his company?”

  “Corpus Christi Oil and Gas. Mark Hackett originally came from Corpus Christi. He should have stayed there.”

  Aubrey punched my arm in a friendly way, and turned his ignition key.
I wandered into the house.

  chapter 25

  GERDA HACKETT was in the picture gallery, standing absorbed in front of a painting. It showed a man in a geometrical maze, and seemed to show that the man and the maze were continuous with each other.

  “Are you interested in painting, Mrs. Hackett?”

  “Yes. Particularly in Klee. I sold this picture to Mr. Hack—to Stephen.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I worked in a gallery in München, a very good gallery.” Her voice was thick with nostalgia. “It was how I met my husband. But if I had a second chance I would stay in Germany.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like it here. Such dreadful things happen to people.”

  “At least you got your husband back.”

  “Yes.” But this failed to cheer her. She turned to me with a vague ambiguous light in her blue eyes. “I’m very grateful, really. You saved his life and I want to thank you. Vielen Dank.”

  She pulled my face down and kissed me. This gesture was unexpected, perhaps even by her. It may have started out as a thank-you kiss, but it turned into something more involved. Her body leaned into me. Her tongue pushed into my mouth like a blind worm looking for a home.

  I didn’t like the woman that well. I took her by the arms and released myself. It was like handling a soft statue.

  “Am I no good?” she said. “Am I not attractive?”

  “You’re very attractive,” I said, stretching the truth a little. “The trouble is, I work for your husband and this is his house.”

  “He wouldn’t carel” The ambiguous light in her eyes crystallized in a kind of helpless anger. “Do you know what they’re doing? She’s on the bed beside him feeding him soft-boiled eggs with a spoon.”

  “That sounds like an innocent pastime.”

  “It’s no jokel She is his mother. He has an Oedipus fixation on her, and she encourages it.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I can see it with my own eyes. She is the seductive mother. The soft-boiled eggs are symbolic. Everything is symbolic!”

  Gerda was disheveled and close to tears. She was one of those women who dishevel easily, as if the fronts they turned to the world were precarious to begin with. She would never be the equal of her mother-in-law.