The Galton Case

by Ross Macdonald

  “Or as late as 1941?” I said.

  “That’s right. You see how little we have to go on.”

  “Do I get to take a look at what you have?”

  “Why not?”

  Mungan went into a back room and returned lugging a metal box about the size of a hope chest. He set it on top of his desk, unlocked it, lifted the lid. Its contents were jumbled like kindling. Only the vertebrae had been articulated with wire, and lay coiled on the heap like the skeleton of a snake. Mungan showed me where the neck bone had been severed by a cutting instrument.

  The larger bones had been labeled: left femur, left fibula, and so on. Mungan picked out a heavy bone about a foot long; it was marked “right humerus.”

  “This is the bone of the upper arm,” he said in a lecturer’s tone. “Come along on over to the window here. I want to show you something.”

  He held the bone to the light. Close to one knobbed end, I made out a thin line filled and surrounded by deposits of calcium.

  “A break?” I said.

  “I hope in more senses than one. It’s a mended fracture, the only unusual thing in the entire skeleton. Dineen says it was probably set by a trained hand, a doctor. If we could find the doctor that set it, it would answer some of our questions. So if you’ve got any ideas …” Mungan let his voice trail off, but his eyes stayed hard on my face.

  “I’ll do some telephoning.”

  “You can use my phone.”

  “A pay phone would suit me better.”

  “If you say so. There’s one across the street, in the hotel.”

  I found the telephone booth at the rear of the dingy hotel lobby, and placed a call to Santa Teresa. Sable’s secretary put him on the line.

  “Archer speaking, the one-man dragnet,” I said. “I’m in Luna Bay.”

  “You’re where?”

  “Luna Bay. It’s a small town on the coast south of San Francisco. I have a couple of items for you: a dead man’s bones, and a live boy. Let’s start with the bones.”

  “Bones?”

  “Bones. They were dug up by accident about six months ago, and they’re in the sheriff’s substation here. They’re unidentified, but the chances are better than even that they belong to the man I’m looking for. The chances are also better than even that he was murdered twenty-two years ago.”

  The line was silent.

  “Did you get that, Sable? He was probably murdered.”

  “I heard you. But you say the remains haven’t been identified.”

  “That’s where you can help me, if you will. You better write this down. There’s a fracture in the right humerus, close to the elbow. It was evidently set by a doctor. I want you to check on whether Tony Galton ever had a broken right arm. If so, who was the doctor that looked after it? It may have been Howell, in which case there’s no sweat. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”

  “Wait. You mentioned a boy. What’s he got to do with all this?”

  “That remains to be seen. He thinks he’s the dead man’s son.”

  “Tony’s son?”

  “Yes, but he isn’t sure about it. He came here from Michigan in the hope of finding out who his father was.”

  “Do you think he’s Tony’s son?”

  “I wouldn’t bet my life savings on it. I wouldn’t bet against it, either. He bears a strong resemblance to Tony. On the other hand, his story is weak.”

  “What story does he tell?”

  “It’s pretty long and complicated for the telephone. He was brought up in an orphanage, he says, went to college under an assumed name, came out here a month ago to find out who he really is. I don’t say it couldn’t have happened the way he says, but it needs to be proved out.”

  “What kind of a boy is he?”

  “Intelligent, well spoken, fairly well mannered. If he’s a con artist, he’s smooth for his age.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “You work very quickly,” he said.

  “I was lucky. What about your end? Has Trask got anything on my car?”

  “Yes. It was found abandoned in San Luis Obispo.”

  “Wrecked?”

  “Out of gas. It’s in perfectly good shape, I saw it myself. Trask has it impounded in the county garage.”

  “What about the man who stole it?”

  “Nothing definite. He probably took another car in San Luis. One disappeared late yesterday afternoon. Incidentally, Trask tells me that the Jaguar, the murder car, as he calls it, was another stolen car.”

  “Who was the owner?”

  “I have no idea. The Sheriff is having the engine number traced.”

  I hung up, and spent the better part of fifteen minutes thinking about Marion Culligan Matheson and her respectable life in Redwood City which I was going to have to invade again. Then I called Sable back. The line was busy. I tried again in ten minutes, and got him.

  “I’ve been talking to Dr. Howell,” he said. “Tony broke his right arm when he was in prep school. Howell didn’t set the break himself, but he knows the doctor who did. In any case, it was a fractured humerus.”

  “See if they can turn up the X-ray, will you? They don’t usually keep X-ray pictures this long, but it’s worth trying. It’s the only means I can think of for making a positive identification.”

  “What about teeth?”

  “Everything above the neck is missing.”

  It took Sable a moment to grasp this. Then he said: “Good Lord!” After another pause: “Perhaps I should drop everything and come up there. What do you think?”

  “It might be a good idea. It would give you a chance to interview the boy.”

  “I believe I’ll do that. Where is he now?”

  “Working. He works at a gas station in town. How long will it take you to get here?”

  “I’ll be there between eight and nine.”

  “Meet me at the sheriff’s substation at nine. In the meantime, is it all right if I take the local deputy into my confidence? He’s a good man.”

  “I’d just as soon you didn’t.”

  “You can’t handle murder without publicity.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Sable said acidly. “But then we don’t know for certain that the victim was Tony, do we?”

  Before I could give him any further argument, Sable hung up.

  chapter 12

  I PHONED the Santa Teresa courthouse. After some palaver, I got Sheriff Trask himself on the other end of the line. He sounded harried:

  “What is it?”

  “Gordon Sable just told me you traced the murder car in the Culligan case.”

  “A fat lot of good it did us. It was stolen in San Francisco night before last. The thief changed the license plates.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “San Francisco man. I’m thinking of sending somebody up to talk to him. Far as I can make out, he didn’t report the theft.”

  “That doesn’t sound so good. I’m near San Francisco now, in Luna Bay. Do you want me to look him up?”

  “I’d be obliged. I can’t really spare anybody. His name is Roy Lemberg. He lives at a hotel called the Sussex Arms.”

  An hour later, I drove into the garage under Union Square. Bolling said good-by to me at the entrance:

  “Good luck with your case.”

  “Good luck with your poem. And thanks.”

  The Sussex Arms was another side-street hotel like the one I had spent the night in. It was several blocks closer to Market Street, and several degrees more dilapidated. The desk clerk had large sorrowful eyes and a very flexible manner, as if he had been run through all the wringers of circumstance.

  He said Mr. Lemberg was probably at work.

  “Where does he work?”

  “He’s supposed to be a car salesman.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  “I don’t think he’s doing so good. He’s just on commission with a secondhand dealer. The reason I know, he tried to sell me a
car.” He snickered, as if he possessed the secret of a more advanced type of transportation.

  “Has Lemberg lived here long?”

  “A few weeks, more or less. This wouldn’t happen to be a police matter?”

  “I want to see him on personal business.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Lemberg is up in the room. She usually is.”

  “Try her, will you? My name is Archer. I’m interested in buying their car.”

  He went to the switchboard and relayed the message. “Mrs. Lemberg says come right on up. It’s three-eleven. You can take the elevator.”

  The elevator jerked me up to the third floor. At the end of the dust-colored hallway, a blonde in a pink robe gleamed like a mirage. Closer up, her luster was dimmer. She had darkness at the roots of her hair, and a slightly desperate smile.

  She waited until I was practically standing on her feet; then she yawned and stretched elastically. She had wine and sleep on her breath. But her figure was very good, lush-breasted and narrow-waisted. I wondered if it was for sale or simply on exhibition by the owner.

  “Mrs. Lemberg?”

  “Yeah. What’s all this about the Jag? Somebody phones this morning and he tells them it was stole. And now you want to buy it.”

  “Was the car stolen?”

  “That was just some of Roy’s malarkey. He’s full of it. You serious about buying?”

  “Only if he has clear title,” I said fussily.

  My show of reluctance made her eager, as it was intended to. “Come in, we’ll talk about it. The Jag is in his name, but I’m the one that makes the money decisions.”

  I followed her into the little room. At the chinks in the drawn blinds, daylight peered like a spy. She turned on a lamp and waved her hand vaguely toward a chair. A man’s shirt hung on the back of it. A half-empty half-gallon jug of muscatel stood on the floor beside it.

  “Siddown, excuse the mess. With all the outside work I do, I don’t get time to houseclean.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I model. Go ahead, siddown. That shirt is ready for the laundry, anyway.”

  I sat down against the shirt. She flung herself on the bed, her body falling automatically into a cheesecake pose:

  “Were you thinking of paying cash?”

  “If I buy.”

  “We sure could use a chunk of ready cash. What price did you have in mind? I’m warning you, I won’t let it go too cheap. That’s my chief recreation in life, driving out in the country. The trees and everything.” Her own words seemed to bewilder her. “Not that he takes me out in it. I hardly ever see the car any more. That brother of his monopolizes it. Roy’s so soft, he don’t stick up for his rights the way he should. Like the other night.”

  “What happened the other night?”

  “Just more of the same. Tommy comes up full of the usual. He’s got another one of these big job opportunities that never pan out. All he needs is a car, see, and he’ll be making a fortune in no time. So Roy lends him the car, just like that. Tommy could talk the fillings right out of his teeth.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Night before last, I think. I lose count of the nights and days.”

  “I didn’t know Roy had a brother,” I prompted her.

  “Yeah, he’s got a brother.” Her voice was flat. “Roy’s all fixed up with a brother, till death doth us part. We’d still be in Nevada, living the life of O’Reilly, if it wasn’t for that punk.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m talking too much.” But bad luck had dulled her brains, bad wine had loosened her tongue: “The Adult Authority said they’d give him a parole if he had somebody willing to be responsible. So back we move to California, to make a home for Tommy.”

  I thought: This is a home? She caught my look:

  “We didn’t always live here. We made a down payment on a real nice little place in Daly City. But Roy started drinking again, we couldn’t hold onto it.” She turned over onto her stomach, supporting her chin on her hand. Her china-blue eyes looked fractured in the light. “Not that I blame him,” she added more softly. “That brother of his would drive a saint to drink. Roy never hurt nobody in his life. Except me, and you expect that from any man.”

  I was touched by her asphalt innocence. The long curve of her hip and thigh, the rich flesh of her bosom, were like the disguise of a frightened adolescent.

  “What was Tommy in for?”

  “He beat up a guy and took his wallet. The wallet had three bucks in it, and Tommy was in for six months.”

  “That works out to fifty cents a month. Tommy must be quite a mastermind.”

  “Yeah, to hear him tell it. It was supposed to be longer, but I guess he’s good when he’s in, with somebody watching him. It’s just when he gets out.” She cocked her head sideways, and her bright hair fell across her hand. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. In my experience, the guys do most of the talking. I guess you have a talkable-attable face.”

  “You’re welcome to the use of it.”

  “Sanctuary mucho. But you came here to buy a car. I was almost forgetting. I worry so much, I forget things.” Her gaze slid down from my face to the muscatel jug. “I had a few drinkies, too, if the truth be knownst.” She drew a lock of hair across her eyes and looked at me through it.

  Her kittenish mood was depressing. I said: “When can I have a look at the Jaguar?”

  “Any time, I guess. Maybe you better talk to Roy.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Don’t ask me. Tell you the truth, I don’t even know if Tommy brought it back yet.”

  “Why did Roy say the car was stolen?”

  “I dunno. I was half asleep when he left. I didn’t ask him.”

  The thought of sleep made her yawn. She dropped her head and lay still. Traffic went by in the street like a hostile army. Then footsteps came down the corridor and paused outside the door. A man spoke softly through it:

  “You busy, Fran?”

  She raised herself on her arms like a fighter hearing a far-off count. “Is that you, hon?”

  “Yeah. You busy?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice. Come ahead in.”

  He flung the door open, saw me, and hung back like an interloper. “Excuse me.”

  His dark eyes were quick and uncertain. He was still in his early thirties, but he had a look about him, intangible and definite as an odor. The look of a man who has lost his grip and is sliding. His suit was sharply pressed, but it hadn’t been cleaned for too long. The very plumpness of his face gave it a lardlike inertness, as if it had stopped reacting to everything but crises.

  His face interested me. Unless I was getting hipped on family resemblances, he was an older softer version of the boy who’d stolen my car. This one’s dark curls were thinner and limper. And the violence of the younger man was petulance in him. He said to his wife:

  “You told me you weren’t busy.”

  “I’m not. I’m only resting.” She rolled over and sat up. “This gentleman wants to buy the Jaguar.”

  “It’s not for sale.” Lemberg closed the door behind him. “Who told you it was?”

  “Grapevine.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  He was quick on the uptake. I couldn’t hope to con him for long, so I struck at his vulnerable spot:

  “Your brother’s in trouble.”

  His gaze went to my shoulder, my hands, my mouth, and then my eyes. I think in his extremity he would have liked to hit me. But I could have broken him in half, and he must have known it. Still, anger or frustration made him foolish:

  “Did Schwartz send you to tell me this?”

  “Who?”

  “You needn’t play dumb. Otto Schwartz.” He gargled the words. “If he sent you, you can take a message back for me. Tell him to take a running jump in the Truckee River and do us all a favor.”

  I got up. Instinctively, one of Lemberg’s arms rose to guard his face. The gesture told
a lot about him and his background.

  “Your brother’s in very bad trouble. So are you. He drove down south to do a murder yesterday. You provided the car.

  “I didn’t know whah—” His jaw hung open, and then clicked shut. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of the family. Show me where Tommy is.”

  “But I don’t know. He isn’t in his room. He never came back.”

  The woman said: “Are you from the Adult Authority?”

  “No.”

  “Who are you?” Lemberg repeated. “What do you want?”

  “Your brother, Tommy.”

  “I don’t know where Tommy is. I swear.”

  “What’s Otto Schwartz got to do with you and Tommy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You brought up his name. Did Schwartz give Tommy a contract to murder Culligan?”

  “Who?” the woman said. “Who did you say got murdered?”

  “Peter Culligan. Know him?”

  “No,” Lemberg answered for her. “We don’t know him.”

  I advanced on him: “You’re lying, Lemberg. You better let down your back hair, tell me all about it. Tommy isn’t the only one in trouble. You’re accessory to any crime he did.”

  He backed away until the backs of his legs were touching the bed. He looked down at his wife as if she was his only source of comfort. She was looking at me:

  “What did you say Tommy did?”

  “He committed a murder.”

  “For gosh sake.” She swung her legs down and stood up facing her husband. “And you lent him the car?”

  “I had to. It was his car. It was only in my name.”

  “Because he was on parole?” I said.

  He didn’t answer me.

  The woman took hold of his arm and shook it. “Tell the man where he is.”

  “I don’t know where he is.” Lemberg turned to me: “And that’s the honest truth.”

  “What about Schwartz?”

  “Tommy used to work for him, when we lived in Reno. They were always asking him to come back to work.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Any dirty thing they could dream up.”

  “Including murder?”