The Doomsters

by Ross Macdonald

  He grinned. “I got an antidote.”

  “What have you got on him, Tom?”

  “Do I look crazy enough to tell you?”

  “You told Carl Hallman.”

  “Did I? Maybe he thinks I did. I told him any little thing that came into my little pointed head.”

  “What were you trying to do to him?”

  “Just stir him up a little. I had to get out of that ward. I couldn’t make it alone.”

  “Why did you send Hallman to me?”

  “Get him off my hands. He was in my way.”

  “You must have had a better reason than that.”

  “Sure. I’m a do-gooder.” His wise grin turned malign. “I thought you could use the business.”

  “Carl Hallman’s got a murder rap on his hands, did you know that?”

  “I know it.”

  “If I thought you talked him into it—”

  “What would you do? Slap my wrist, do-gooder?”

  He looked at me through the glass wall with lazy curiosity, and added casually: “Anyway, he didn’t shoot his brother. He told me so himself.”

  “Has he been here?”

  “Sure he was here. He wanted Maude to hide him out. She wouldn’t touch him with gloves on.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “A couple of hours, maybe. He took off for town when Maude and Dutch gave him the rush.”

  “Did he say where he was going in town?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t shoot his brother, you say?”

  “That’s right, he told me that.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “I had to believe him, because I did it myself.” Tom looked at me dead-pan. “I flew over there by helicopter, see. In my new supersonic helicopter with the synchronized death-ray gun.”

  “Turn off the stardrive, Tom. Tell me what really happened.”

  “Maybe I will, if you give me back my needle.”

  His eyes held a curious mixture of plea and threat. They looked expectantly at the bright instrument in my fist. I was tempted to let him have it, on the chance that he knew something I could use. A few more caps in those black veins wouldn’t make any difference. Except to me.

  I was sick of the whole business. I threw the needle into the square pink bathtub. It smashed to pieces.

  Tom looked at me incredulously, “What did you do that for?”

  Sudden fury shook him, too strong for his nerves to carry. It broke through into grief. He flung himself face down on the pink tile floor, sobbing in a voice like fabric tearing.

  In the intervals of the noise he made, I heard other noises behind me. Maude was coming through the jungle-colored living-room. A gun gleamed dully blue in her white hand. The man called Dutch was a pace behind her. His grin was broken-toothed. I could see why my knuckles were sore.

  “What goes on?” Maude cried. “What did you do to him?”

  “Took his needle away. See for yourself.”

  She didn’t seem to hear me. “Come out of there. Leave him alone.” She pushed the gun toward my face.

  “Let me at him. I’ll clobber the bastard,” the man behind her lisped in punchy eagerness.

  An Argyle sock hung heavy and pendulous from his hand. It reminded me of the blackjack in my pocket. I backed out of the doorway to gain elbowroom, and swung the leather club over and down at Maude’s wrist.

  She hissed with pain. The gun clanked at her feet. Dutch went down on his hands and knees after it. I hit him on the back of the head with the blackjack, not too hard, just hard enough to stretch him on his face again. The heavy sock fell from his numb hand, some of its sand spilling out.

  Maude was scrambling in the doorway for the gun. I pushed her back and picked it up and put it in my pocket. It was a medium-caliber revolver and it made a very heavy pocket. I put the blackjack in my other pocket so that I wouldn’t walk lopsided.

  Maude leaned on the wall outside the door, holding her right wrist in her left hand. “You’re going to be sorry for this.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Not from me you haven’t, or you wouldn’t be running around making trouble for people. Don’t think it’s going to last. I got the top law in this county in my pocket.”

  “Tell me more,” I said. “You have a lovely singing voice. Maybe I can arrange a personal appearance, in front of the Grand Jury.”

  Her ugly mouth said yah at me. Her left hand came out stiff, its carmine talons pointed at my eyes. It was more of a threat than attempt, but it made me despair of our relationship.

  I left her and found a back way out. There were soft lights and loud noises in the cottages on the terraces, music, female laughter, money, kicks.

  chapter 22

  I DROVE back toward Purissima, keeping a not very hopeful lookout for Carl Hallman. Just outside the city limits, where the highway dipped down from the bluffs toward the sea, I saw a huddle of cars on the shoulder. Two of the cars had red pulsating lights. Other lights were moving on the beach.

  I parked across the highway and got the flashlight out of my dash compartment. Before I closed it, I relieved my pockets of the gun and the blackjack and locked them up. I descended a flight of concrete steps which slanted down to the beach. Near their foot, the vestiges of a small fire glowed. Beside it, a blanket was spread on the sand, weighted down by a picnic basket.

  Most of the lights were far up the beach by now, bobbing and swerving like big slow fireflies. Between me and the dim thumping line of the surf, a dozen or so people were milling aimlessly. A man detached himself from the shadowy group and trotted toward me, soft-footed in the sand.

  “Hey! That’s my stuff. It belongs to me.”

  I flashed my light across him. He was a very young man in a gray sweatshirt with a college letter on the front of it. He moved as though he had won the letter playing football.

  “What’s the excitement about?” I said.

  “I’m not excited. I just don’t like people messing around with my stuff.”

  “Nobody’s messing around with your stuff. I mean the excitement up the beach.”

  “The cops are after a guy.”

  “What guy is that?”

  “The maniac—the one that shot his brother.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “I hope to tell you. I was the one that raised the alarm. He walked right up to Marie when she was sitting here. Lord knows what would have happened if I hadn’t been within reach.” The boy arched his shoulders and stuck out his chest.

  “What did happen?”

  “Well, I went up to the car to get some cigarettes, and this guy came out of the dark and asked Marie for a sandwich. It wasn’t just a sandwich that he wanted, she could tell. A sandwich was just the thin edge of the wedge. Marie let out a yell, and I came down the bank and threw a tackle at him. I could have held him, too, except that it was dark and I couldn’t see what I was doing. He caught me a lucky blow in the face, and got away.”

  I turned my light on his face. His lower lip was swollen.

  “Which way did he go?”

  He pointed along the shore to the multicolored lights of the Purissima waterfront. “I would have run him down, only maybe he had confederates, so I couldn’t leave Marie here by herself. We drove to the nearest gas station and I phoned in the alarm.”

  The onlookers on the beach had begun to straggle up the concrete steps. A highway patrolman approached us, the light from his flash stabbing at the pockmarked sand. The boy in the sweatshirt called out heartily:

  “Anything else I can do?”

  “Not right now there isn’t. He got clean away, it looks like.”

  “Maybe he swam out to sea and went aboard a yacht and they’ll put him ashore in Mexico. I heard the family is loaded.”

  “Maybe,” the patrolman said drily. “You’re sure you saw the man? Or have you been seeing too many movies?”

  The boy retorted hotly: “You think I smacked myself in
the mouth?”

  “Sure it was the man we’re looking for?”

  “Of course. Big guy with light-colored hair in dungarees. Ask Marie. She had a real good look at him.”

  “Where is your girlfriend now?”

  “Somebody took her home, she was pretty upset.”

  “I guess we better have her story. Show me where she lives, eh?”

  “I’ll be glad to.”

  While the young man was dousing the fire with sand and collecting his belongings, another car stopped on the roadside above us. It was an old black convertible which looked familiar. Mildred got out and started down the steps. She came so blindly and precipitously that I was afraid she’d fall and plunge headlong. I caught her at the foot of the steps with one arm around her waist.

  “Let me go!”

  I let her go. She recognized me then, and returned to her mind’s single track: “Is Carl here? Have you seen him?”

  “No—”

  She turned to the patrolman: “Has my husband been here?”

  “You Mrs. Hallman?”

  “Yes. The radio said my husband was seen on Pelican Beach.”

  “He’s been and gone, ma’am.”

  “Gone where?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know. Do you have any ideas on the subject?”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “Has he got any close friends in Purissima—somebody he might go to?”

  Mildred hesitated. The faces of curious onlookers strained out of the darkness toward her. The boy in the sweatshirt was breathing on the back of her neck. He spoke as if she were deaf or dead:

  “This is the guy’s wife.”

  The patrolman looked disgusted. “Break it up, eh? Move along there now.” He turned back to Mildred: “Any ideas, ma’am?”

  “I’m sorry—it’s hard for me to think. Carl had lots of friends in high school. They all dropped away. He didn’t see anyone the last year or so.” Her voice trailed off. She seemed confused by the lights and the people.

  I said, as stuffily as possible: “Mrs Hallman came here to look for her husband. She doesn’t have to answer questions.”

  The patrolman’s light came up to my face. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of the family. I’m going to take her home.”

  “All right. Take her home. She shouldn’t be running around by herself, anyway.”

  With a hand under her elbow, I propelled Mildred up the steps and across the highway. Her face was an oval blur in the dark interior of my car, so pale that it seemed luminous.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Home, as I said. Is it far from here?”

  “A couple of miles. I have my own car, thank you, and I’m perfectly fit to drive it. After all, I drove it here.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you relaxed?”

  “With Carl still being hunted? How can I? Anyway, I’ve been home all day. You said he might come to the house, but he never did.”

  Exhaustion or disappointment overcame her. She sat inertly, propped doll-like in the seat. Headlights went by in the road like brilliant forlorn hopes rushing out of darkness into darkness.

  “He may be on his way there now,” I said. “He’s hungry, and he must be bone-tired. He’s been on the run for a night and a day.” And another night was beginning.

  Her hand moved from her mouth to my arm. “How do you know he’s hungry?”

  “He asked a girl on the beach for a sandwich. Before that he went to a friend, looking for shelter. Friend may be the wrong word. Did Carl ever mention Tom Rica to you?”

  “Rica? Isn’t that the fellow who escaped with him? His name was in the paper.”

  “That’s right. Do you know anything else about him?”

  “Just from what Carl said.”

  “When was that?”

  “The last time I saw him, in the hospital. He told me how this Rica man had suffered in the ward. Carl was trying to make it easier for him. He said that Rica was a heroin addict.”

  “Did he tell you anything more about him?”

  “Not that I remember. Why?”

  “Rica saw Carl, not more than a couple of hours ago. If Rica can be believed. He’s staying with a woman named Maude, at a place called the Buenavista Inn, just a few miles down the highway. Carl went there looking for a place to hole up.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mildred said. “Why would Carl go to a woman like that for help?”

  “You know Maude, do you?”

  “Certainly not. But everybody in town knows what goes on at that so-called Inn.” Mildred looked at me with a kind of terror. “Is Carl mixed up with those people?”

  “It doesn’t follow. A man on the run will take any out he can think of.”

  The words didn’t sound the way I’d meant them to. Her head went down under the weight of the heavy image they made. She sighed again.

  It was hard to listen to. I put my arm around her. She held herself stiff and silent against my shoulder.

  “Relax. This isn’t a pass.”

  I didn’t think it was. Possibly Mildred knew better. She pulled herself away from me and got out of my car in a single flurry of movement.

  Most of the cars across the highway had left as we sat talking. The road was empty except for a heavy truck highballing down the hill from the south. Mildred stood at the edge of the pavement, silhouetted by its approaching lights.

  The situation went to pieces, and came together in the rigid formal clarity of a photographed explosion. Mildred was on the pavement, walking head down in the truck’s bright path. It bore down on her as tall as a house, braying and squealing. I saw its driver’s lantern-slide face high above the road, and Mildred in the road in front of the giant tires.

  The truck stopped a few feet short of her. In the sudden vacuum of sound, I could hear the sea mumbling and spitting like a beast under the bank. The truck-driver leaned from his cab and yelled at Mildred in relief and indignation:

  “Damn fool woman! Watch where you’re going. You damn near got yourself killed.”

  Mildred paid no attention to him. She climbed into the Buick, waited until the truck was out of the way, and made a sweeping turn in front of me. I was bothered by the way she handled herself and the car. She moved and drove obliviously, like someone alone in black space.

  chapter 23

  MY quasi-paternal instinct followed her home; I went along for the ride. She made it safely, and left the black convertible at the curb. When I pulled in behind it, she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk:

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “Seeing Millie home.”

  Her response was flat. “Well, I’m home.”

  The old house leaned like a tombstone on the night. But there were lights inside, behind cracked blinds, and the sound of a broken soprano voice. I got out and followed Mildred up the walk:

  “You almost got yourself run over.”

  “Did I?” She tinned at the top of the veranda steps. “I don’t need a keeper, thank you. In fact, all I want is to be let alone.”

  “The deep tangled wildwood,” the lost and strident voice sang from the house. “And all the loved songs that my infancy knew.”

  “Is your mother all right, Mildred?”

  “Mother’s just dandy, thank you. She’s been drinking all day.” She looked up and down the dark street and said in a different voice: “Even the crummy people who live on this street look down their noses at us. I can’t put up a front any more. I’d simply like to crawl into a hole and die.”

  “You need some rest.”

  “How can I get any rest? With all this trouble on my shoulders? And that?”

  Cast by the light from one of the front windows, her shadow lay broken on the steps. She gestured toward the window. Behind it her mother had finished her song and was playing some closing bars on a badly tuned piano.

  “Anyway,” Mildred said, “I have to go to work tomorrow morning. I can’t miss anothe
r half day.”

  “Who do you work for, Simon Legree?”

  “I don’t mean that. Mr. Haines is very nice. It’s just, if I go off schedule, I’m afraid I’ll never get back on.”

  She fumbled in her black plastic bag for her key. The doorknob turned before she touched it. The outside light came on over our heads. Mrs. Gley opened the door, smiling muzzily:

  “Bring your friend in, dear. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Your mother’s always pleased and proud to entertain your friends.”

  Mrs. Gley didn’t seem to recognize me; I was part of the indiscriminate past blurred out by the long day’s drinking. She was glad to see me anyway.

  “Bring your friend in, Mildred. I’ll pour him a drink. A young man likes to be entertained; that’s something you’ve got to learn. You’ve wasted too much of your youth on that good-for-nothing husband—”

  “Stop making a fool of yourself,” Mildred said coldly.

  “I am not making a fool of myself. I am expressing the feelings of my womanly heart. Isn’t that so?” she appealed to me. “You’ll come in and have a drink with me, won’t you?”

  “Be glad to.”

  “And I’ll be glad to have you.”

  Mrs. Gley spread her arms out in a welcoming gesture, and toppled toward me. I caught her under the arms. She giggled against my shirt front. With Mildred’s help, I walked her into the sitting-room. She was awkward to handle in her draperies, like a loosely shrouded corpse.

  But she managed to sit upright on the sofa and say in gracious tones:

  “Excuse me. I was overcome by dizziness for a moment. The shock of the night air, you know.”

  Like someone struck by a bullet, invisible and inaudible, she fell softly sideways. Very soon, she began to snore.

  Mildred straightened our her mother’s legs, smoothed her purplish red hair and put a cushion under her head. She took off her own cloth coat and covered the lower part of her mother’s body. She did these things with neutral efficiency, without tenderness and without anger, as though she’d done them many times before and expected to do them many times again.

  In the same neutral way, like an older woman speaking to a younger, she said: “Poor mother, have sweet dreams. Or no dreams. I wish you no dreams at all.”