“No,” she said. “Carl needed hospital treatment. I signed the necessary papers. That was all aboveboard. Only, Jerry made me and Carl sign other papers at the same time, making him Carl’s legal guardian. I didn’t know what it meant. I thought it was just a part of the commitment. But it means that as long as Carl is ill, Jerry controls every penny of the estate.”
Her voice had risen. She brought it under control and said more quietly: “I don’t care about myself. I’d never go back there anyway. But Carl needs the money. He could get better treatment—the best psychiatrists in the country. It’s the last thing Jerry wants, to see his brother cured. That would end the guardianship, you see.”
“Does Carl know all this?”
“No, at least he’s never heard it from me. He’s mad enough at Jerry as it is.”
“Your brother-in-law sounds charming.”
“Yes indeed he is.” Her voice was thin. “If it was just a question of saving Jerry, I wouldn’t move a step in his direction. Not a step. But you know what will happen to Carl if he gets into any kind of trouble. He’s already got more guilt than he can bear. It could set him back years, or make him permanent—No! I won’t think about it. Nothing is going to happen.”
She twisted in the seat away from me, as though I represented the things she feared. The road had become a green trench running through miles of orange trees. The individual rows of trees, slanting diagonally from the road, whirled and jumped backward in staccato movement. Mildred peered down the long empty vistas between them, looking for a man with straw-colored hair.
A large wooden sign, painted black on white, appeared at the roadside ahead: Hallman Citrus Ranch. I braked for the turn, made it on whining tires, and almost ran down a big old man in a sheriff’s blouse. He moved away nimbly, then came heavily back to the side of the car. Under a wide-brimmed white hat, his face was flushed. Veins squirmed like broken purple worms under the skin of his nose. His eyes held the confident vacancy that comes from the exercise of other people’s power.
“Watch where you’re going, bud. Not that you’re going anywhere, on this road. What do you think I’m here for, to get myself a tan?”
Mildred leaned across me, her breast live against my arm:
“Sheriff! Have you seen Carl?”
The old man leaned to peer in. His sun-wrinkles deepened and his mouth widened in a smile which left his eyes as vacant as before. “Why hello, Mrs. Hallman, I didn’t see you at first. I must be going blind in my old age.”
“Have you seen Carl?” she repeated.
He made a production out of answering her, marching around to her side of the car, carrying his belly in front of him like a gift. “Not personally, I haven’t. We know he’s on the ranch, though. Sam Yogan saw him to talk to, not much more than an hour ago.”
“Was he rational?”
“Sam didn’t say. Anyway, what would a Jap gardener know about it?”
“A gun was mentioned,” I said.
The sheriff’s mouth drooped at the corners. “Yeah, he’s carrying a gun. I don’t know where in hell he got hold of it.”
“How heavy a gun?”
“Sam said not so heavy. But any gun is too big when a man is off his rocker.”
Mildred let out a small cry.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Hallman. We got the place staked out. We’ll pick him up.” Tipping his hat back, he pushed his face in at her window. “You better get rid of your boyfriend before we do pick him up. Carl won’t like it if you got a boyfriend, driving his car and all.”
She looked from him to me, her mouth a thin line. “This is Sheriff Ostervelt, Mr. Archer. I’m sorry I forgot my manners. Sheriff Ostervelt never had any to remember.”
Ostervelt smirked. “Take a joke, eh?”
“Not from you,” she said without looking at him.
“Still mad, eh? Give it time. Give it time.”
He laid a thick hand on her shoulder. She took it in both of hers and flung it away from her. I started to get out of the car.
“Don’t,” she said. “He only wants trouble.”
“Trouble? Not me,” Ostervelt said. “I try to make a little joke. You don’t think it’s funny. Is that trouble, between friends?”
I said: “Mrs. Hallman’s expected at the house. I said I’d drive her there. Much as I’d love to go on talking to you all afternoon.”
“I’ll take her to the house.” Ostervelt gestured toward the black Mercury Special parked on the shoulder, and patted his holster. “The husband’s lurking around in the groves, and I don’t have the men to comb them for him. She might need protection.”
“Protection is my business.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m a private detective.”
“What do you know? You got a license, maybe?”
“Yes. It’s good statewide. Now do we go, or do we stay here and have some more repartee?”
“Sure,” he said, “I’m stupid—just a stupid fool, and my jokes ain’t funny. Only I got an official responsibility. So you better let me see that license you say you got.”
Moving very slowly, the sheriff came around to my side of the car again. I slapped my photostat into his hand. He read it aloud, in an elocutionary voice, pausing to check the physical description against my appearance.
“Six-foot-two, one-ninety,” he repeated. “A hunk of man. Love those beautiful blue eyes. Or are they gray, Mrs. Hallman? You’d know.”
“Leave me alone.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Sure. But I better drive you up to the house in person. Hollywood here has those beautiful powder-blue eyes, but it don’t say here”—he flicked my photostat with his forefinger—“what his score is on a moving target.”
I picked the black-and-white card out of his hand, released the emergency brake, stepped on the gas. It wasn’t politic. But enough was enough.
chapter 9
THE private road ran ruler-straight through the geometric maze of the orange trees. Midway between the highway and the house, it widened in front of several barnlike packing-sheds. The fruit on the trees was unripe, and the red-painted sheds were empty and deserted-looking. In a clearing behind them, a row of tumbledown hutches, equally empty, provided shelter of a sort for migrant pickers.
Nearly a mile further on, the main house stood back from the road, half-shadowed by overarching oaks. Its brown adobe walls looked as indigenous as the oaks. The red Ford station wagon and the sheriff’s patrol car on the curving gravel driveway seemed out of place, or rather out of time. The thing that struck me most as I parked in the driveway was a child’s swing suspended by new rope from a branch of one of the trees. No one had mentioned a child.
When I switched off the Buick’s engine, the silence was almost absolute. The house and its grounds were tranquil. Shadows lay soft as peace in the deep veranda. It was hard to believe the other side of the postcard.
The silence was broken by a screen door’s percussion. A blonde woman wearing black satin slacks and a white shirt came out on the front veranda. She folded her arms over her breasts and stood as still as a cat, watching us come up the walk.
“Zinnie,” Mildred said under her breath. She raised her voice: “Zinnie? Is everything all right?”
“Oh fine. Just lovely. I’m still waiting for Jerry to come home. You didn’t see him in town, did you?”
“I never see Jerry. You know that.”
Mildred halted at the foot of the steps. There was a barrier of hostility, like a charged fence, between the two women. Zinnie, who was at least ten years older, held her body in a compact defensive posture against the pressure of Mildred’s eyes. Then she dropped her arms in a rather dramatic gesture which may have been meant for me.
“I hardly ever see him myself.”
She laughed nervously. Her laugh was harsh and unpleasant, like her voice. It was easy for me to overlook the unpleasantness. She was a beautiful woman, and her green eyes were interested in me. The
waist above her snug hips was the kind you can span with your two hands, and would probably like to.
“Who’s your friend?” she purred.
Mildred introduced me.
“A private detective yet,” Zinnie said. “The place is crawling with policemen already. But come on in. That sun is misery.”
She held the door for us. Her other hand went to her face where the sun had parched the skin, then to her sleek hair. Her right breast rose elastically under the white silk shirt. A nice machine, I thought: pseudo-Hollywood, probably empty, certainly expensive, and not new; but a nice machine. She caught my look and didn’t seem to mind. She switch-hipped along the hallway, to a large, cool living-room.
“I’ve been waiting for an excuse to have a drink. Mildred, you’ll have ginger ale, I know. How’s your mother, by the way?”
“Mother is fine. Thank you.” Mildred’s formality broke down suddenly. “Zinnie? Where is Carl now?”
Zinnie lifted her shoulders. “I wish I knew. He hasn’t been heard from since Sam Yogan saw him. Ostervelt has several deputies out looking for him. The trouble is, Carl knows the ranch better than any of them.”
“You said they promised not to shoot.”
“Don’t worry about that. They’ll take him without any fireworks. That’s where you come in, if and when he shows up.”
“Yes.” Mildred stood like a stranger in the middle of the floor. “Is there anything I can do now?”
“Not a thing. Relax. I need a drink if you don’t. What about you, Mr. Archer?”
“Gibson, if it’s available.”
“That’s handy, I’m a Gibson girl myself.” She smiled brilliantly, too brilliantly for the circumstances. Zinnie seemed to be a trier, though, whatever else she was.
Her living-room bore the earmarks of a trier with a restless urge to be up to the minute in everything. Its bright new furniture was sectional, scattered around in cubes and oblongs and arcs. It sorted oddly with the dark oak floor and the heavily beamed ceiling. The adobe walls were hung with modern reproductions in limed oak frames. A row of book-club books occupied the mantel above the ancient stone fireplace. A free-form marble coffee-table held Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue and a beautiful old silver handbell. It was a room in which an uneasy present struggled to overcome the persistent past.
Zinnie picked up the bell and shook it. Mildred jumped at the sound. She was sitting very tense on the edge of a sectional sofa. I sat down beside her, but she paid no attention to my presence. She turned to look out the window, toward the groves.
A tiny girl came into the room, pausing near the door at the sight of strangers. With light blond hair and delicate porcelain features, she was obviously Zinnie’s daughter. The child was fussily dressed in a pale blue frock with a sash, and a matching blue ribbon in her hair. Her hand crept toward her mouth. The tiny fingernails were painted red.
“I was ringing for Juan, dear,” Zinnie said.
“I want to ring for him, Mummy. Let me ring for Juan.”
Though the child wasn’t much more than three, she spoke very clearly and purely. She darted forward, reaching for the handbell. Zinnie let her ring it. Above its din, a white-jacketed Filipino said from the doorway:
“Missus?”
“A shaker of Gibsons, Juan. Oh, and ginger ale for Mildred.”
“I want a Gibson, too,” the little girl said.
“All right, darling.” Zinnie turned to the houseboy: “A special cocktail for Martha.”
He smiled comprehendingly, and disappeared.
“Say hello to your Aunt Mildred, Martha.”
“Hello, Aunt Mildred.”
“Hello, Martha. How are you?”
“I’m fine. How is Uncle Carl?”
“Uncle Carl is ill,” Mildred said in a monotone.
“Isn’t Uncle Carl coming? Mummy said he was coming. She said so on the telephone.”
“No,” her mother cut in. “You didn’t understand what I said, dear. I was talking about somebody else. Uncle Carl is far away. He’s living far away.”
“Who is coming, Mummy?”
“Lots of people are coming. Daddy will be here soon. And Dr. Grantland. And Aunt Mildred is here.”
The child looked up at her, her eyes clear and untroubled. She said: “I don’t want Daddy to come. I don’t like Daddy. I want Dr. Grantland to come. He will come and take us to a nice place.”
“Not us, dear. You and Mrs. Hutchinson. Dr. Grantland will take you for a ride in his car, and you’ll spend the day with Mrs. Hutchinson. Maybe all night, too. Won’t that be fun?”
“Yes,” the child answered gravely. “That will be fun.”
“Now go and ask Mrs. Hutchinson to give you your lunch.”
“I ate my lunch. I ate it all up. You said I could have a special cocktail.”
“In the kitchen, dear. Juan will give you your cocktail in the kitchen.”
“I don’t want to go in the kitchen. I want to stay here, with people.”
“No, you can’t.” Zinnie was getting edgy. “Now be a nice girl and do what you’re told, or I’ll tell Daddy about you. He won’t like it.”
“I don’t care. I want to stay here and talk to the people.”
“Some other time, Martha.” She rose and hustled the little girl out of the room. A long wail ended with the closing of a door.
“She’s a beautiful child.”
Mildred turned to me. “Which one of them do you mean? Yes, Martha is pretty. And she’s bright. But the way Zinnie is handling her—she treats her as if she were a doll.”
Mildred was going to say more, but Zinnie returned, closely followed by the houseboy with the drinks. I drank mine in a hurry, and ate the onion by way of lunch.
“Have another, Mr. Archer.” One drink had converted Zinnie’s tension into vivacity, of a sort. “We’ve got the rest of the shaker to knock back between us. Unless we can persuade Mildred to climb down off her high wagon.”
“You know where I stand on the subject.” Mildred gripped her glass of ginger ale defensively. “I see you’ve had the room redone.”
I said: “One’s enough for me, thanks. What I’d like to do, if you don’t object, is talk to the man who saw your brother-in-law. Sam something?”
“Sam Yogan. Of course, talk to Sam if you like.”
“Is he around now?”
“I think so. Come on, I’ll help you find him. Coming, Mildred?”
“I’d better stay here,” Mildred said. “If Carl comes to the house, I want to be here to meet him.”
“Aren’t you afraid of him?”
“No, I’m not afraid of him. I love my husband. No doubt it’s hard for you to understand that.”
The hostility between the two women kept showing its sharp edges. Zinnie said:
“Well, I’m afraid of him. Why do you think I’m sending Martha to town? And I’ve got half a mind to go myself.”
“With Dr. Grantland?”
Zinnie didn’t answer. She rose abruptly, with a glance at me. I followed her through a dining-room furnished in massive old mahogany, into a sunlit kitchen gleaming with formica and chrome and tile. The houseboy turned from the sink, where he was washing dishes:
“Yes, Missus?”
“Is Sam around?”
“Before, he was talking to policeman.”
“I know that. Where is he now?”
“Bunkhouse, greenhouse, I dunno.” The houseboy shrugged. “I pay no attention to Sam Yogan.”
“I know that, too.”
Zinnie moved impatiently through a utility room to the back door. As soon as we stepped outside, a young man in a western hat raised his head from behind a pile of oak logs. He came around the woodpile, replacing his gun in its holster, swaggering slightly in his deputy’s suntans.
“I’d stay inside if I was you, Mrs. Hallman. That way we can look after you better.” He looked inquiringly at me.
“Mr. Archer is a private detective.”
A peevish look cro
ssed the young deputy’s face, as though my presence threatened to spoil the game. I hoped it would. There were too many guns around.
“Any sign of Carl Hallman?” I asked him.
“You check in with the sheriff?”
“I checked in.” Ostensibly to Zinnie, I said: “Didn’t you say there wouldn’t be any shooting? That the sheriff’s men would take your brother-in-law without hurting him?”
“Yes. Sheriff Ostervelt promised to do his best.”
“We can’t guarantee nothing,” the young deputy said. Even as he spoke, he was scanning the tree-shaded recesses of the back yard, and the dense green of the trees that stretched beyond. “We got a dangerous man to deal with. He bust out of a security ward last night, stole a car for his getaway, probably stole the gun he’s carrying.”
“How do you know he stole a car?”
“We found it, stashed in a tractor turnaround between here and the main road. Right near where the old Jap ran into him.”
“Green Ford convertible?”
“Yeah. You seen it?”
“It’s my car.”
“No kidding? How’d he happen to steal your car?”
“He didn’t exactly steal it. I’m laying no charges. Take it easy with him if you see him.”
The deputy’s face hardened obtusely. “I got my orders.”
“What are they?”
“Fire if fired upon. And that’s leaning way over backwards. You don’t play footsie with a homicidal psycho, Mister.”
He had a point: I’d tried to, and got my lumps. But you didn’t shoot him, either.
“He isn’t considered homicidal.”
I glanced at Zinnie for confirmation. She didn’t speak, or look in my direction. Her pretty head was cocked sideways in a strained listening attitude. The deputy said:
“You should talk to the sheriff about that.”
“He didn’t threaten Yogan, did he?”
“Maybe not. The Jap and him are old pals. Or maybe he did, and the Jap ain’t telling us. We do know he’s carrying a gun, and he knows how to use it.”
“I’d like to talk to Yogan.”
“If you think it’ll do you any good. Last I saw of him he was in the bunkhouse.”
He pointed between the oaks to an old adobe which stood on the edge of the groves. Behind us, the sound of an approaching car floated over the housetop.
The Doomsters Page 5