The Archer Files

by Ross Macdonald

  “Lew Archer, Mr. Ralston,” Al said. “Lew’s a private detective. We used to work together.”

  “How utterly fascinating,” Mr. Ralston said. “Do you mind if I join you for a moment? I have some guests at the bar, but I can continue to act as host by remote control, so to speak.” He ordered a round of drinks for us and the sailors at the bar. His martini disappeared like ether in air.

  “I’ve often thought,” he said to me, “that the life of a detective would be an intensely interesting one. I rather fancy myself as a student of human nature, but my studies have been somewhat academic, you might say. Isn’t it true that one sees deepest into human nature in moments of strain, moments of crisis, the kind of moments that must be delightfully frequent in your own life, Mr. Archer?”

  “You see deep enough into certain aspects of human nature, I guess. Some of the things I’ve seen I’d just as soon forget.”

  “Such as?” said Mr. Ralston, his eyes bright with curiosity and alcohol.

  “Hatred. Greed. Jealousy. The three emotions that cause most crime. Impersonal love of inflicting pain is a fourth.”

  “Your word ‘impersonal’ is interesting,” Mr. Ralston said. “It implies a concept which has occurred to me, that sadism need not have a sexual content. Don’t you think, though, that there may be a fifth possibility? Surely people have stolen, even killed, for love. Or would your definition of love exclude the more criminal passions?”

  “This is where I came in,” Al Sablacan said to me. “I’ve got to mosey around a bit, anyway, and see that everything’s O.K.”

  “Hate is usually a more compelling motive than love,” I said when Al had excused himself. “I think you may be right about sadism, though. May I ask what your business is, or was, Mr. Ralston?”

  His thin expressive face registered a touch of shame. “I have to confess I never had any. Hence, perhaps, the abstraction of my psychological concepts. At one time, of course, I took a good deal of interest in my investments. In recent years much of my time has been devoted to my wife. She is not well, you see.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “No, Mr. Archer, Beatrice is not at all well. She is afflicted with a progressive muscular atrophy of the legs which has deprived her of all locomotive power. Her thigh, Mr. Archer, her thigh, is no thicker than my forearm.” He pushed up his shirt sleeve to exhibit his thin arm. “I often thank whatever gods there be that I am able to provide her with the best of loving care.”

  The singer returned to the piano bench and began to play. Mr. Ralston rose with courtly grace and excused himself. “There’s a number I’ve been intending to request all evening. I’m extremely fond of it.”

  The musician collected another of Mr. Ralston’s dollars and began to play “In a Little Spanish Town.” Mr. Ralston hummed the tune with her, meanwhile conducting an imaginary orchestra with great verve.

  “That’s the spirit, Mr. Ralston,” one of the sailors yelled. “If you had any hair you’d look exactly like Stokowski.”

  “Do not judge me by the hairiness or otherwise of my scalp,” Mr. Ralston said joyously. “Judge me by my musical imagination.”

  I finished my drink and went out to the lobby to look for Al.

  Whenever I visited him, Al had a cot set up for me in his ground floor room. At half-past twelve I was getting ready to roll into it, feeling pleasantly comatose from half a dozen bottles of beer. Al had finished his midnight rounds a few minutes before, and was taking off his tie in front of the mirror. There was a knock on the door, and he put his tie back on.

  It was one of the Filipino bellhops. “Mr. Sablacan,” he said excitedly when Al opened the door. “There are men swimming in the swimming pool. I told them they must not swim there at night, but they just laughed at me. I think you must come and kick them out.”

  “O.K., Louie. Are they guests?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Sablacan. Only Mr. Ralston.”

  “Mr. Ralston? Is he there?”

  “Yessir. He is bouncing on the diving board.”

  “Want to come along, Lew?”

  Mr. Ralston interested me, and I put my shirt back on and went along. He was standing on the board shining a big flashlight on the pool. Three young men were chasing each other around in the water, diving like porpoises and blowing like grampuses. When we got closer we could see that Mr. Ralston had nothing on but a pair of striped swimming trunks. The young men had nothing on at all.

  “Hey, Mr. Ralston,” Al shouted. “You can’t do this.”

  “A lady with a lamp shall stand in the great history of the land,” said Mr. Ralston.

  “He’s drunk as a lord,” Al said to me. “I guess this is one of the nights I put him to bed.”

  “You’ll have to tell your friends to get out of there,” he said to Mr. Ralston.

  “They are my guests,” Mr. Ralston shouted severely. “They expressed a wish to go swimming, and naturally I indulged them.”

  “Get the hell out of there!” Al roared across the water. “I’ll give you ten seconds and then I call the Shore Patrol.”

  The threat worked. The three sailors scrambled out of the pool and began to put on their clothes. Mr. Ralston came toward us, swinging the beam of the flashlight like a long luminous rod.

  “You’re not being very genial, Mr. Sablacan,” he said in a disappointed tone. “Boys will be boys, you know. In fact, boys will be boys will be boys.”

  “You’re no boy, Mr. Ralston. And it’s time for you to be in bed.”

  “He’s O.K.,” said one of the sailors, a dark boy with a pleasant smile. “He said it was all right for us to come in here. We sort of got the idea that it was his private pool.”

  Mr. Ralston made a diversion. “Indeed I am O.K.,” he said. “I am in superb physical shape.” He beat with a thin fist on his withered chest, which was sparsely covered with gray hairs. “What is more, I take it to be one of my perquisites to use this pool whenever I choose. My friends also.”

  The sailors had slipped away in the darkness. “Goodnight, Mr. Ralston,” they called from the gate, and went out through the lobby. I helped Al to persuade Mr. Ralston to retire to his bungalow. We left him at the door and went to bed.

  It was very early—scarcely dawn—when we were awakened by a knock at the door. Al rolled over and said sleepily, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Louie again, sorry, Mr. Sablacan. We caught one of those sailors trying to get into the pueblo, and he says he wants to talk to you.”

  “O.K., O.K.” Al rolled out of bed. “Hold him till I get there.”

  The dark young sailor was sitting in the lobby looking sheepish, with two bellhops standing over him.

  “Where did you catch him?” Al said.

  “He was trying to sneak through the lobby to the pueblo.”

  “My God!” Al yapped, his face bright red. “Don’t tell me you were trying to go for another swim.”

  “I lost my I.D. card last night,” the sailor said meekly. “I can’t get back to the ship without it.”

  “How do I know that’s true? We’ve had plenty of thieves around here.”

  “Mr. Ralston will vouch for me. I know his son.”

  “Mr. Ralston hasn’t got a son.”

  “His stepson, I mean. Johnny Swain. We’re on the same ship.”

  “We’re not going to bother Mr. Ralston at this hour of the morning, but I’ll give you one chance. We’ll go and look for your I.D. card—”

  “I think I must have dropped it when I took off my clothes.”

  It was there all right, lying in the grass beside the pool. James Denton, Seaman First Class, with his picture on it, looking sick.

  “I should turn it in to the Shore Patrol and let you explain how you lost it,” Al said.

  “But you’re not going to do that?”

  “But I’m not going to do that. Just don’t let me catch you taking advantage of Mr. Ralston, see?”

  “I wouldn’t take advantage of him,” James Dent
on said. “He’s a swell guy.”

  I had wandered to the edge of the pool and stood looking at the water, chlorine-green and smooth in the windless morning as polished agate. In the deepest corner I caught sight of something which shouldn’t have been there. It was the pale body of a little old man, curled and still in his quiet corner like a foetus in alcohol.

  James Denton had another swim after all. When he brought Mr. Ralston out of the pool, Mr. Ralston’s temperature was that of the water.

  “I guess this is partly my fault,” James Denton said miserably. “We wouldn’t let him come in last night, but I guess he came back after we left. He was a swell guy.

  “Jeez, that chlorine gets the eyes,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. But he was very young, and I suspected that he was crying.

  “Could Mr. Ralston swim?” I said to Al.

  “I don’t know, I never saw him swim. This is a terrible thing, Lew. So far as I know nobody ever drowned in this pool before.”

  He looked at Mr. Ralston and looked away. Mr. Ralston, with his blue face and red striped trunks, looked very small and weirdly pathetic on the grass. Al covered his face with a handkerchief.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess I better call Mr. Whittaker and the cops. Mr. Whittaker won’t like this.”

  Mr. Whittaker, who owned the Valeria Pueblo, didn’t like it. He was a small, spry, sharp-faced man with gray hair receding from hollow veined temples and hands that were never still. In his left cheek a tic jerked continually with an almost audible click. Whenever his cheek jerked Mr. Whittaker smiled to hide it, thus giving the impression of a rodent who periodically snarled.

  He arrived simultaneously with the police and fox-trotted about in the grass, frequently snarling. “A most unfortunate accident,” Mr. Whittaker said. “Clearly a most unfortunate accident. I trust the whole thing will be handled with a minimum of adverse publicity.”

  “It happens to all of us,” the police lieutenant said. “I’d just as well bump this way as any other way.”

  James Denton and Al told the story of the swimming party while Mr. Whittaker rubbed his hands together in neurotic glee.

  “Clearly a most unfortunate accident,” Mr. Whittaker said.

  “Looks as if you’re right,” the police lieutenant said. “But we’ll have to take the body for autopsy.”

  Mr. Ralston was taken away in a gray blanket.

  “Well, I guess that’s that,” Mr. Whittaker said frantically. “We’ve done all we can do.”

  “Who gets his money?” I said to Al.

  “Mrs. Ralston does,” said Mr. Whittaker. “Mrs. Ralston is practically the sole beneficiary. Poor woman.”

  “Who else profits by it?” I said.

  “His brother Alexander, who is also a resident of Los Angeles, and his stepson John Swain. But only small bequests.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand each. His wife’s nurse, Jane Lennon, was to get a very small bequest, five hundred dollars, I believe.”

  “How do you know?”

  The last question had gone too far, and Mr. Whittaker came to. “Just who are you, my man?”

  “The name is Archer. I’m a detective.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Archer,” Mr. Whittaker snarled ingratiatingly. “I’m a bit on edge this morning. Mr. Ralston was a very dear friend of mine.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. I’m only a private detective, and I have nothing to do with this case. Unless, of course, the hotel wants to hire me to investigate it.”

  “I don’t see that it requires investigation. It’s clearly—”

  “How much money did Mr. Ralston leave?”

  “A great deal,” Mr. Whittaker said reverently. “Well over a million.”

  “The accidental death of a millionaire always requires investigation,” I said. “I work quietly. For twenty dollars a day.” I was interested in the case and perfectly willing to make a little money out of my interest if I could.

  “He’s hot stuff, Mr. Whittaker,” Al said. “Lew and I used to work together. He’s cheap at the price.”

  “Naturally money is no object.” Mr. Whittaker polished his nails on the front of his Harris tweed jacket, examined them, polished them again. “No object whatever. Very well, Archer. See what you can find out.”

  “Twenty dollars a day in advance,” I said.

  He gave me twenty dollars. I said, “How do you happen to know the provisions of Mr. Ralston’s will?”

  “I witnessed it. He made no secret of it. He loved his wife, and he wanted her to have his money.”

  “Did she love him?”

  “Of course she loved him. Mrs. Ralston is a very fine and loyal woman. In spite of her grievous affliction, she made the old man an excellent wife.”

  “How old is she?”

  “In her early forties. I can’t see the point in these questions. I hope you’re not going to stir up any trouble?”

  “The trouble’s all over,” I said. “I’m just trying to understand it.”

  James Denton, the sailor, reminded us that he had been sitting silently on the grass ever since the police left. “Is it all right if I go?” he said. “I’m supposed to get back to the ship at San Pedro at nine, and I don’t think I’ll make it.”

  I said, “You’re a friend of Mr. Ralston’s stepson John Swain?”

  He stood up and said, “Yessir.”

  “Why didn’t John come along with you last night?”

  “He was restricted to the ship, because he was absent over leave at Pearl. I was here before with John, and Mr. Ralston said he’d be glad to see me any time.”

  “If you’re restricted to the ship, there’s no way you can get off, is that right?”

  “Yessir. There are guards on the gangways, and you have to report to the Master-at-Arms.”

  “What ship are you on?”

  “APA 237.”

  “Is there a phone aboard?”

  “Yessir.” He gave me the number.

  “If we need you we’ll get in touch with you. Were the other two boys from the same ship?”

  “Yessir.” He gave me their names and left.

  “Better call John Swain on the APA 237 and tell him to come here,” I said to Al. “If they won’t let him off, Mr. Whittaker will verify it.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Whittaker, who seemed happier when he had no decisions to make.

  Al went back to the main building to phone, and I asked Mr. Whittaker which was the Ralstons’ bungalow. He pointed to a long low stucco building, half hidden in flowering shrubbery, about fifty yards from the pool.

  “What’s the setup in there?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many rooms? How big a ménage? Sleeping arrangements and so on.”

  “Three bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchenette. Two bathrooms, one off Mr. Ralston’s bedroom, the other shared by Mrs. Ralston and her nurse. Mrs. Ralston has a full-time nurse, of course. I don’t know whether you knew she was a cripple.”

  “Yes, I know. The rooms are interconnecting, I suppose?”

  “All but the bathrooms and kitchenette open on the central hallway. I could draw you a plan—”

  “That’s hardly necessary. I thought I’d just go and take a look. And isn’t it about time somebody told Mrs. Ralston what happened to her husband?”

  “By Jove, I forgot about that.” He glanced at an octagonal platinum wristwatch which said seven-thirty. After a pause during which his cheek was active, he said, “I think I should consult her physician before breaking the news to Mrs. Ralston. In view of her physical condition. Excuse me.”

  He trotted stiffly away. I sauntered down the concrete walk to the Ralston bungalow. With all the Venetian blinds down it looked impassive yet vulnerable, like a face with closed eyes. For some reason I was leery of pressing the bell push, as if it might be a signal for something to jump out at me.

  What jumped out at me was a very pretty brunette in her
ripe late twenties and a fresh white nurse’s uniform.

  “Please don’t make any noise,” she said. “Mrs. Ralston is sleeping.”

  You look as if you could do with some sleep, I thought. There were blue-gray rings under her eyes and the flesh of her face drooped.

  I said, “Miss Lennon?”

  “Yes?” She stepped outside onto the little porch and closed the door behind her. I noticed that the concrete floor of the porch sloped up to the doorstep and down to the walk. Of course, Mrs. Ralston would have a wheelchair.

  “My name is Archer. Mr. Whittaker has hired me to investigate the death of Mr. Ralston.”

  “What?” The drooping flesh around her eyes and mouth slanted upward in lines of painful astonishment.

  “Mr. Ralston was drowned in the swimming pool last night. Can you throw any light on the accident?”

  “My God. This will kill Mrs. Ralston.”

  “It killed Mr. Ralston.”

  She looked at me narrowly. “When?”

  “One or two in the morning, I’d say. The police will be able to give a better estimate when they complete the autopsy.”

  “I can’t imagine,” she said.

  “You didn’t see or hear anything?”

  “Not a thing. Mrs. Ralston and I went to bed before midnight and slept right through. I just got up a few minutes ago. This will be a terrible shock to her.”

  “Do you sleep in the same room with her?”

  “Adjoining rooms. I keep the door open at night in case she needs me for anything.”

  “Where did Mr. Ralston sleep?”

  “His room is across the hall from ours. How on earth did he fall in?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did he go in for swimming?”

  “I’ve seen him swim. But he hardly went in at all the last few years. He was getting pretty old.”

  “How old?”

  “Seventy-three.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Don’t say anything to Mrs. Ralston just yet. Mr. Whittaker has gone to call her doctor.”