The Archer Files

by Ross Macdonald

  “What about your daughter?” Alice was still at the window, working at her picture and paying no attention to our voices. “Doesn’t she know that Hugh is dead?”

  “Yes. She knows. You mustn’t misunderstand what Alice is doing. There are many ways of enduring grief, and we have a custom in the Turner family of working it out of our system. Hard work is the cure for a great many evils.” He changed the subject, and his tone, abruptly. “And what is your idea of what’s happened?”

  “It’s no more than a suspicion, a pretty foggy one. I’m not sure who stole your picture, but I think I know where it is.”

  “Well?”

  “There’s a man named Walter Hendryx who lives in the foothills outside the city. You know him?”

  “Slightly.”

  “He probably has the Chardin. I’m morally certain he has it, as a matter of fact, though I don’t know how he got it.”

  The Admiral tried to smile, and made a dismal failure of it. “You’re not suggesting that Hendryx took it? He’s not exactly mobile, you know.”

  “Hilary Todd is very mobile,” I said. “Todd visited Hendryx this morning. I’d be willing to bet even money he had the Chardin with him.”

  “You didn’t see it, however?”

  “I don’t have to. I’ve seen Todd.”

  A woman’s voice said from the shadow of the back porch: “The man is right, Johnston.”

  Sarah Turner came down the path towards us, her high heels spiking the flagstones angrily.

  “Hilary did it!” she cried. “He stole the picture and murdered Hugh. I saw him last night at midnight. He had red mountain clay on his clothes.”

  “It’s strange you didn’t mention it before,” the Admiral said dryly.

  I looked into her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the eyelids were swollen with weeping. Her mouth was swollen, too. When she opened it to reply, I could see that the lower lip was split.

  “I just remembered.”

  I wondered if the blow that split her lip had reminded her.

  “And where did you see Hilary Todd last night at midnight?”

  “Where?”

  In the instant of silence that followed, I heard footsteps behind me. Alice had come out of her cottage. She walked like a sleepwalker dreaming a bad dream, and stopped beside her father without a word to any of us.

  Sarah’s face had been twisting in search of an answer, and found it. “I met him at the Presidio. I dropped in there for a cup of coffee after the show.”

  “You are a liar, Sarah,” the Admiral said. “The Presidio closes at ten o’clock.”

  “It wasn’t the Presidio,” she said rapidly. “It was the bar across the street, the Club Fourteen. I had dinner at the Presidio, and I confused them—”

  The Admiral brushed past her without waiting to hear more, and started for the house. Alice went with him. The old man walked unsteadily, leaning on her arm.

  “Did you really see Hilary last night?” I asked her.

  She stood there for a minute, looking at me. Her face was disorganized, raddled with passion. “Yes, I saw him. I had a date with him at ten o’clock. I waited in his flat for over two hours. He didn’t show up until after midnight. I couldn’t tell him that.” She jerked one shoulder contemptuously toward the house.

  “And he had red clay on his clothes?”

  “Yes. It took me a while to connect it with Hugh.”

  “Are you going to tell the police?”

  She smiled a secret and unpleasant smile. “How can I? I’ve got a marriage to go on with, such as it is.”

  “You told me.”

  “I like you.” Without moving, she gave the impression of leaning towards me. “I’m fed up with all the little stinkers that populate this town.”

  I kept it cool and clean, and very nasty: “Were you fed up with Hugh Western, Mrs. Turner?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard that he dropped you hard a couple of months ago. Somebody dropped him hard last night in his studio.”

  “I haven’t been near his studio for weeks.”

  “Never did any posing for him?”

  Her face seemed to grow smaller and sharper. She laid one narrow taloned hand on my arm. “Can I trust you, Mr. Archer?”

  “Not if you murdered Hugh.”

  “I didn’t; I swear I didn’t. Hilary did.”

  “But you were there last night.”

  “No.”

  “I think you were. There was a charcoal sketch on the easel, and you posed for it, didn’t you?”

  Her nerves were badly strained, but she tried to be coquettish. “How would you know?”

  “The way you carry your body. It reminds me of the picture.”

  “Do you approve?”

  “Listen, Mrs. Turner. You don’t seem to realize that that sketch is evidence, and destroying it is a crime.”

  “I didn’t destroy it.”

  “Then where did you put it?”

  “I haven’t said I took it.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yes, I did,” she admitted finally. “But it isn’t evidence in this case. I posed for it six months ago, and Hugh had it in his studio. When I heard he was dead this afternoon, I went to get it, just to be sure it wouldn’t turn up in the papers. He had it on the easel for some reason, and had ruined it with a beard. I don’t know why.”

  “The beard would make sense if your story was changed a little. If you quarreled while Hugh was sketching you last night, and you hit him over the head with a metal fist. You might have drawn the beard yourself, to cover up.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If I had anything to cover up I would have destroyed the sketch. Anyway, I can’t draw.”

  “Hilary can.”

  “Go to hell,” she said between her teeth. “You’re just a little stinker like the rest of them.”

  She walked emphatically to the house. I followed her into the long, dim hallway. Halfway up the stairs to the second floor she turned and flung down to me: “I hadn’t destroyed it, but I’m going to now.”

  There was nothing I could do about that, and I started out. When I passed the door of the living room, the Admiral called out, “Is that you, Archer? Come here a minute, eh?”

  He was sitting with Alice on a semicircular leather lounge, set into a huge bay window at the front of the room. He got up and moved toward me ponderously, his head down like a charging bull’s. His face was a jaundiced yellow, bloodless under the tan.

  “You’re entirely wrong about the Chardin,” he said. “Hilary Todd had nothing to do with stealing it. In fact, it wasn’t stolen. I removed it from the gallery myself.”

  “You denied that this morning.”

  “I do as I please with my own possessions. I’m accountable to no one, certainly not to you.”

  “Dr. Silliman might like to know,” I said with irony.

  “I’ll tell him in my own good time.”

  “Will you tell him why you took it?”

  “Certainly. Now, if you’ve made yourself sufficiently obnoxious, I’ll ask you to leave my house.”

  “Father.” Alice came up to him and laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Archer has only been trying to help.”

  “And getting nowhere,” I said. “I made the mistake of assuming that some of Hugh’s friends were honest.”

  “That’s enough!” he roared. “Get out!”

  Alice caught up with me on the veranda. “Don’t go away mad. Father can be terribly childish, but he means well.”

  “I don’t get it. He lied this morning, or else he’s lying now.”

  “He isn’t lying,” she said earnestly. “He was simply playing a trick on Dr. Silliman and the trustees. It’s what happened to Hugh afterwards that made it seem important.”

  “Did you know that he took the picture himself?”

  “He told me just now, before you came into the house. I made him tell you.”

  “You’d better let Silliman in on the joke,”
I said unpleasantly. “He’s probably going crazy.”

  “He is,” she said. “I saw him at the gallery this afternoon, and he was tearing his hair. Do you have your car?”

  “I came up here in a taxi.”

  “I’ll drive you down.”

  “Are you sure you feel up to it?”

  “It’s better when I’m doing something,” she said.

  An old black sedan was standing in the drive beside the house. We got in, and she backed it into the street and turned downhill toward the center of town.

  Watching her face, I said, “Of course you realize I don’t believe his story.”

  “Father’s, you mean?” She didn’t seem surprised. “I don’t know what to believe, myself.”

  “When did he say he took the Chardin?”

  “Last night. Hugh was working on the mezzanine. Father slipped away and took the picture out to the car.”

  “Didn’t Hugh keep the door locked?” “Apparently not. Father said not.”

  “But what possible reason could he have for stealing his own picture?”

  “To prove a point. Father’s been arguing for a long time that it would be easy to steal a picture from the gallery. He’s been trying to get the board of trustees to install a burglar alarm. He’s really hipped on the subject. He wouldn’t lend his Chardin to the gallery until they agreed to insure it.”

  “For twenty-five thousand dollars,” I said, half to myself. Twenty-five thousand dollars was motive enough for a man to steal his own picture. And if Hugh Western witnessed the theft, there was motive for murder. “Your father’s made a pretty good story out of it. But where’s the picture now?”

  “He didn’t tell me. It’s probably in the house somewhere.”

  “I doubt it. It’s more likely somewhere in Walter Hendryx’ house.”

  She let out a little gasp. “What makes you say that? Do you know Walter Hendryx?”

  “I’ve met him. Do you?”

  “He’s a horrible man,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you think he has it.”

  “It’s purely a hunch.”

  “Where would he get it? Father wouldn’t dream of selling it to him.”

  “Hilary Todd would.”

  “Hilary? You think Hilary stole it?”

  “I’m going to ask him. Let me off at his shop, will you? I’ll see you at the gallery later.”

  —

  The Closed sign was still hanging inside the plate glass, and the front door was locked. I went around to the back of the shop by the alley. The door under the stairs was standing partly open. I went in without knocking.

  The living room was empty. The smell of alcohol rose from the stain on the wall where Sarah had smashed the glass. I crossed the passage to the door on the other side. It, too, was partly open. I pushed it wider and went in.

  Hilary Todd was sprawled face down on the bed, with an open suitcase crushed under the weight of his body. The silver handle of his ice pick stood up between his shoulder blades in the center of a wet, dark stain. The silver glinted coldly in a ray of light which came through the half-closed Venetian blinds.

  I felt for his pulse and couldn’t find it. His head was twisted sideways, and his empty dark eyes stared unblinking at the wall. A slight breeze from the open window at the foot of the bed ruffled the hair along the side of his head.

  I burrowed under the heavy body and went through the pockets. In the inside breast pocket of the coat I found what I was looking for: a plain white business envelope, unsealed, containing $15,000 in large bills.

  I was standing over the bed with the money in my hand when I heard someone in the hallway. A moment later Mary appeared at the door.

  “I saw you come in,” she said. “I thought—” Then she saw the body.

  “Someone killed Hilary.”

  “Killed Hilary?” She looked at the body on the bed and then at me. I realized that I was holding the money in plain view.

  “What are you doing with that?”

  I folded the bills and tucked them into my inside pocket. “I’m going to try an experiment. Be a good girl and call the police for me.”

  “Where did you get that money?”

  “From someone it didn’t belong to. Don’t tell the sheriff about it. Just say that I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  “They’ll want to know where you went.”

  “And if you don’t know, you won’t be able to tell them. Now do as I say.”

  She looked into my face, wondering if she could trust me. Her voice was uncertain: “If you’re sure you’re doing the right thing.”

  “Nobody ever is.”

  —

  I went out to my car and drove to Foothill Drive. The sun had dipped low over the sea, and the air was turning colder. By the time I reached the iron gates that cut off Walter Hendryx from ordinary mortals, the valley beyond them was in shadow.

  The burly man came out of the gatehouse as if I had pressed a button, and up to the side of the car. “What do you want?” He recognized me then, and pushed his face up to the window. “Beat it, chum. I got orders to keep you away from here.”

  I restrained an impulse to push the face away, and tried diplomacy. “I came here to do your boss a favor.”

  “That’s not the way he feels. Now blow.”

  “Look here.” I brought the wad of bills out of my pocket, and passed them back and forth under his nose. “There’s big money involved.”

  His eyes followed the moving bills as if they hypnotized him. “I don’t take bribes,” he said in a hoarse and passionate whisper.

  “I’m not offering you one. But you should phone down to Hendryx, before you do anything rash, and tell him there’s money in it.”

  “Money for him?” There was a wistful note in his voice. “How much?”

  “Fifteen thousand, tell him.”

  “Some bonus.” He whistled. “What kind of a house is he building for you, bud, that you should give him an extra fifteen grand?”

  I didn’t answer. His question gave me too much to think about. He went back into the gatehouse.

  Two minutes later he came out and opened the gates. “Mr. Hendryx will see you. But don’t try any funny stuff or you won’t come out on your own power.”

  The maid was waiting at the door. She took me into a big rectangular room with French windows on one side, opening onto the terrace. The rest of the walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling—the kind of books that are bought by the set and never read. In front of the fireplace, at the far end, Hendryx was sitting half submerged in an overstuffed armchair, with a blanket over his knees.

  He looked up when I entered the room and the firelight danced on his scalp and lit his face with an angry glow. “What’s this? Come here and sit down.”

  The maid left silently. I walked the length of the room and sat down in an armchair facing him. “I always bring bad news, Mr. Hendryx. Murder and such things. This time it’s Hilary Todd.”

  The turtle face didn’t change, but his head made a movement of withdrawal into the shawl collar of his robe. “I’m exceedingly sorry to hear it. But my gatekeeper mentioned the matter of money. That interests me more.”

  “Good.” I produced the bills and spread them fanwise on my knee. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Should I?”

  “For a man that’s interested in money, you’re acting very coy.”

  “I’m interested in its source.”

  “I had an idea that you were the source of this particular money. I have some other ideas. For instance, that Hilary Todd stole the Chardin and sold it to you. One thing I have no idea about is why you would buy a stolen picture and pay for it in cash.”

  His false teeth glistened coldly in the firelight. Like the man at the gate, he kept his eyes on the money. “The picture wasn’t stolen. I bought it legally from its rightful owner.”

  “I might believe you if you hadn’t denied any knowledge of it this afternoon. I think you knew it was s
tolen.”

  His voice took on a cutting edge: “It was not.” He slipped his blue-veined hand inside his robe and brought out a folded sheet of paper, which he handed me.

  It was a bill of sale for the picture, informal but legal, written in longhand on the stationery of the San Marcos Beach Club, signed by Admiral Johnston Turner, and dated that day.

  “Now may I ask you where you got hold of that money?”

  “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Hendryx. I took it from the body of Hilary Todd, when he had no further use for it.”

  “That’s a criminal act, I believe.”

  My brain was racing, trying to organize a mass of contradictory facts. “I have a notion that you’re not going to talk to anyone about it.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to be full of notions.”

  “I have another. Whether or not you’re grateful to me for bringing you this money, I think you should be.”

  “Have you any reason for saying that?” He had withdrawn his eyes from the money on my knee and was looking into my face.

  “You’re in the building business, Mr. Hendryx?”

  “Yes.” His voice was flat.

  “I don’t know exactly how you got this money. My guess is that you gouged it out of home-buyers, by demanding a cash side-payment in addition to the appraised value of the houses you’ve been selling to veterans.”

  “That’s a pretty comprehensive piece of guesswork, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t expect you to admit it. On the other hand, you probably wouldn’t want this money traced to you. The fact that you haven’t banked it is an indication of that. That’s why Todd could count on you to keep this picture deal quiet. And that’s why you should be grateful to me.”

  The turtle eyes stared into mine and admitted nothing. “If I were grateful, what form do you suggest my gratitude should take?”

  “I want the picture. I’ve sort of set my heart on it.”

  “Keep the money instead.”

  “This money is no good to me. Dirty money never is.”

  He threw the blanket off and levered himself out of the chair. “You’re somewhat more honest than I’d supposed. You’re offering, then, to buy the picture back from me with that money.”