The Archer Files: The Complete Short Stories of Lew Archer, Private Investigator

by Ross Macdonald

  “All right. Where is it?”

  “The Oceano Hotel, in Santa Monica.”

  “This is Santa Monica.”

  “Really?” He added a moment later: “I’m not surprised. Something guided me to Santa Monica. Maude and I have had a sort of telepathic communication, going back virtually to infancy. Especially when she’s in trouble.”

  “I wonder if she is in trouble.”

  “With that brute?” He laughed harshly. “Did you observe his conduct to me?”

  “It seemed fairly normal under the circumstances.”

  “Normal for this Godforsaken place, perhaps. But I’m not going to put up with it. And incidentally, if you intend to do nothing further, I expect a rebate of at least fifty per cent.”

  I wanted to ask him who had stolen his rattle when he was a baby. Instead I said: “You’ll get paid in services. I’ll spend tomorrow on Lister. If he’s a wrong number, I’ll find out. If he isn’t—”

  “It’s clear that he is. You heard his landlord’s remarks.”

  “The guy was drunk. And I wouldn’t go around calling people names without some proof. You almost got your head knocked off.”

  “I don’t care what happens to me. It’s Maude I’m anxious about. I have only one sister.”

  “You have only one head.”

  He sulked the rest of the way. I let him out at the white curb without a word. In the neon kaleidoscope of the ocean front, against the pink backdrop of the hotel, he looked like a displaced shadow from a dark dream. Not my dream, I congratulated myself.

  Prematurely.

  —

  In the morning I called a friend in the District Attorney’s office. Lister had a record: two drunken driving convictions, a battery complaint reduced to disorderly conduct, nothing worse. He had been a smalltime producer before television. His last recorded place of employment was the University.

  I made another telephone call, and paid a visit to the University. The spring semester had ended, and summer school had not yet begun, so the campus was bare of students. But most of the faculty were on the job. The acting head of the Speech Department, a man named Schilling, was in his office.

  Schilling wasn’t a typical professor. Under the flesh which covered his face with a middle-aging mask, he had the profile of a juvenile lead. He was dressed like an actor in a very sharp gabardine suit and an open-throated sports shirt. The wavy brown hair which undulated back from his widow’s peak was very carefully arranged. I wondered if it was dyed. I said:

  “It’s nice of you to give me your time, doctor.”

  “Not at all. Sit down, Mr. Archer.” He sat at his desk by the window, where the light could make the most of his features. “When I spoke to you on the telephone, you expressed an interest in one of the members—one of the ex-members of our faculty family.” He enunciated his words with great distinctness, listening to the rich tones of his voice. They seemed to please him.

  “Leonard Lister.” I sat down in a straight chair at the end of the paper-strewn desk.

  “Exactly what kind of information do you wish? And what use would you put it to? We have our little professional secrets, too, you know, even in this sheltered world of ours.”

  “I want to know if he’s honest. That’s the main thing. He seems to have married into a fairly wealthy family. They don’t know much about him.” Which was putting it mildly.

  “And they’ve employed you to investigate him?”

  “That’s the idea. Certain members of the family think he may be crooked.”

  “Oh no, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Why did you fire him?”

  “We didn’t fire him, exactly. Leonard didn’t have tenure, he was only a Special Lecturer in the Department. And we simply failed to renew his contract at the end of the fall semester.”

  “You had a reason, though, and it wasn’t incompetence?” “Certainly not incompetence. Leonard knows the theatre. He’s been in it for twenty years, in New York and on the Continent as well as here. And he was quite a figure in the movies at one time. He made a mint while it lasted, and he had a country house and a yacht and even an actress wife, I believe. Then he lost it. This was years ago. I don’t know all that happened to him in the interim, but he was glad to accept my offer of a teaching job.”

  “What did he teach?”

  “We used him mostly for Extension work, directing plays for various groups and lecturing on the drama. He was well liked by his students.”

  “Then what was the matter with him?”

  He hesitated. “I suppose I should say the matter was ethical. He’s quite a fellow in his way—I’ve always liked him personally—but he simply didn’t subscribe to the code of the teaching profession. Leonard spent some time in France, you know, in the old expatriate days, and a good deal of the Left Bank rubbed off on him. He drank too much, he liked women too much, he couldn’t face up to the realities of his position. He’s an enormous man—I don’t know whether you know him—”

  “I know him.”

  “—but he’s not really very grown-up. Out of touch, you might say, almost manic at times.”

  “Could you be more specific, doctor?”

  He looked away from me, out the window, and ran his hand carefully over his hair. “I hate to blacken another man’s reputation. And after all, the name of the University is involved. It’s a very delicate matter.”

  “I realize that. I’ll keep it confidential. All this is simply for my own information.”

  “Well.” He turned back to me. All he’d needed was a little coaxing. “Leonard had a habit of messing with his women students, with one of them in particular. Rumors got around, as they always do, and I cautioned Leonard. I gave him fair warning. He failed to profit by it, so I kept a close eye on him. This Department is precarious enough without a major scandal on top of everything else. Fortunately, I caught him personally, and kept it quiet.”

  Schilling was lighting up with a theatrical glow. Apparently he was reenacting his big moment. “Along towards the end of the fall semester, on an afternoon in December, I saw them go into his office together—it’s just down the hall from mine. You should have seen the look on her face, the cowlike adoration. Well, I secured a master key from the maintenance department and after a suitable interval, I went in. There they were, in flagrante, if you understand me.”

  “Was she a young girl?”

  “No. It could have been worse. As a matter of fact, she was a married woman. Quite a few of our students are young married women with—ah—theatrical ambitions. But even as it was, the situation was too bad to be allowed to continue. I put an end to it, and Leonard left us. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “What happened to the woman?”

  “She dropped out of her course. She showed no promise, anyway, and I for one was happy to see her go. You should have heard the names she called me that afternoon, when after all I was only doing my duty. I told Leonard he was playing with dynamite. Why, the woman was a hellcat.” With the forefinger of his left hand, he traced his profile from hairline to chin, and smiled to himself. “I’m afraid that’s all the information I have.”

  “One more thing. You said he was honest.”

  “Except in that little matter of women, yes.”

  “Honest in money matters?”

  “So far as I know. Leonard never cared for money. He cares so little for it, in fact, that he’s financially irresponsible. Well, now that he’s married into wealth, I suppose he’ll be settling down. I hope for his sake he can. And I very much hope I haven’t said anything that will damage his standing with the family.”

  “Not if he’s dropped the other woman. What was her name, by the way?”

  “Dolphine. Stella Dolphine. Quite an unusual name.” He spelled it for me.

  I looked it up in Schilling’s telephone directory. There was only one Dolphine listed: a Jack Dolphine who lived at the same address as Leonard Lister.

  —

  In
full daylight, the stucco house in Santa Monica had an abandoned look. The blinds were drawn on all the windows, upstairs and down. The dying lawn, the unkempt flowerbeds strangling in crab grass, seemed to reflect the lives of people bound and paralyzed by their unhappiness. I noticed, though, that the lawn had recently been hosed, and a few drying puddles lay on the uneven concrete of the driveway.

  I climbed the outside stairs to Lister’s apartment. Nobody answered my knock. I turned the knob. The door was locked. I went down and lifted the overhead door of the garage. It was empty.

  I pressed the bellpush beside the front door and waited. Shuffling footsteps dragged through the house. The gray-haired man in the Hawaiian shirt opened the door and peered out into the sun. He had had a bad night. His eyes were blurred by alcohol and grief, his mouth was raw and defenseless. The slack flesh of his face hung like melting Plasticine on the bones. So did his body. He was a soft-boiled egg without a shell.

  He didn’t seem to recognize me.

  “Mr. Dolphine?”

  “Yeah.” He recognized my voice. “Say, what’s the pitch? You were here last night; you said you were a cop.”

  “It was your idea. I’m a private cop. Name’s Archer.”

  “Whattaya know, I was a private cop myself—plant guard at Douglas. But I retired when my investments started to pay off. I own six houses and an apartment court. Maybe you wouldn’t think it to look at me.”

  “Good for you. What happened to the tenants in your apartment?”

  “Lister, you mean? You tell me. He moved out.”

  “For keeps?”

  “Damn right for keeps.” He floundered across the doorstep, preceded by his breath, and laid one hand on my shoulder, confidentially. It also helped to hold him up. “I was all set to give him his walking papers, only he saved me the trouble. Packed up his stuff, what there was of it, and left.”

  “And the woman went with him? His wife?”

  “Yeah, she went along.”

  “In his car?”

  “That’s correct.”

  He gave me a description of the car, a blue Buick sedan, prewar, on its second or third hundred thousand. Dolphine didn’t know the license number. The Listers had left no forwarding address.

  “Could I speak to Mrs. Dolphine?”

  “What you want with her?” His hand grew heavier on my shoulder. His eyes were narrow and empty between puffed lids.

  “She might know where Lister went.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes.” I shrugged, dislodging his hand. “I hear she’s a friend of his.”

  “You do, eh?”

  He fell against me, his upturned face transfigured by sudden rage, and reached for my throat. He was strong but his reactions were clumsy. I knocked his hands up and away. He staggered back against the doorpost, his arms outstretched in the attitude of crucifixion.

  “That was a silly thing to do, Dolphine.”

  “I’m sorry.” He was shuddering, as if he had given himself a terrible scare. “I’m not a well man. This excitement—” His hands came together, clutching at the hula girls on his chest. An asthmatic wheeze twanged like a loose guitar string in the back passages of his head. His face was blotched white.

  “What excitement?”

  “Stella’s left me. She took me for all she could, then dropped me like a hotcake. I’ll give you a piece of advice. Don’t ever marry a younger woman—”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last night. She took off with Lister.”

  “Both of the women went with him?”

  “Yessir. Stella and the other one. Both of them.” A drunken whimsy pulled his face lopsided. “I guess the big red bull thinks he can look after two. He’s welcome. I’ve had enough.”

  “Did you see them leave?”

  “Not me. I was in bed.”

  “How do you know your wife took off with Lister?”

  “She told me she was gonna.” He lifted the heavy burden of his shoulders, and dropped it. “What could I do?”

  “You must have some idea where they went.”

  “Nah, I don’t know and I don’t want to. Let them go. She was no good to me anyway.” The asthma wheezed behind his words, like an unspoken grief. “So I say let her go, it’s a good riddance for me.”

  He sat down on the step and covered his face with his hands. His hair was wild and torn, like a handful of gray feathers. I left him.

  I drove to the Oceano Hotel and called Harlan on the intramural telephone. He answered immediately, his voice high and nagging.

  “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been trying to get you.”

  “Checking on Lister,” I said. “He’s decamped with your sister—”

  “I know. He telephoned me. My worst forebodings were justified. It’s money he wants, and he’s coming here to try and collect.”

  “When?”

  “At twelve noon. I’m to meet him in the lobby.”

  I looked at the electric clock on the wall of the desk clerk’s alcove: twenty minutes past eleven.

  “I’m in the lobby now. Shall I come up?”

  “I’ll come down.” He hesitated. “I have a visitor.”

  I sat on a red plastic settee near the elevator door. The metal arrow above it turned from one to three and back to one. The door slid open. Harlan’s mother emerged, tinkling and casting vague glances around the lobby. She wore a greenish black cape over her sackcloth dress, which made her look like an old bird of ill omen.

  She saw me and came forward, taking long skinny-legged strides in her flat sandals.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Harlan.”

  “My name is not Harlan,” she said severely. But she neglected to tell me what it was. “Are you following me, young man? I warn you—”

  “You don’t have to. I came to see your son. I guess you did, too.”

  “Yes, my son.” A black mood clawed her face downward. From its furrows her eyes glittered like wet black stones. “You look like a decent man. I know something of spiritual auras. It’s my study, my life work. And I’ll tell you, Mr. Whatsis, since you’re involved with Reginald, my son has an evil aura. He was a cold-hearted boy and he’s grown into a cold-hearted man. He won’t even help his own sister in her extremity.”

  “Extremity?”

  “Yes, she’s in very serious trouble. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. But I know my daughter—”

  “When did you see her?”

  “I haven’t seen her. She telephoned me last night, and she was desperate for money. Of course she knows I have none, I’ve been living off her bounty for ten years. She wanted me to intercede with Reginald. As I have done.” Her mouth closed like a pouch with a drawstring.

  “He won’t open the family coffers?”

  She shook her head, dislodging tears from the corners of her eyes. The arrow over the elevator door had turned to three and back again to one. Harlan stepped out. His mother gave him a sidelong glance and started away. She flapped across the lobby and out into the street, a bird of ill omen who had seen a more ominous bird.

  Harlan came up to me with a tentative smile and an outstretched hand. His handshake was dead.

  “I didn’t mean to be unpleasant last night. We Harlans are rather emotional.”

  “Forget it, I’m not proud.”

  He glanced at the sunlit door through which his mother had vanished. “Has she been filling you with fantasies? I ought to warn you, she’s not entirely sane.”

  “Uh-huh. She told me that Maude needs money.”

  “Lister does, at any rate.”

  “How much money?”

  “Five thousand dollars. He says he’s bringing Maude’s check for that amount. I’m to expedite payment by telephoning our bank in Chicago. It amounts to his asking me to cash the check.”

  “Did you talk to your sister at all?”

  “No. It’s one of the things that alarm me. Just one of them. He had a long involved explanation, to the effect that she
’s not well enough to leave the house, and there’s no telephone where they’re staying.”

  “He didn’t say where that was?”

  “Absolutely not. He was most evasive. I tell you he means her no good, if she’s still alive—”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. The most important thing is to find out where she is. So handle him carefully. Accept what he says.”

  “You don’t mean I should cash the check?” He spoke with great feeling, five thousand dollars’ worth of it.

  “It’s your sister’s money, isn’t it? Maybe she does need it. She told your mother she did.”

  “So Mother claims. But the old fool would lie for her. I suspect they’re in cahoots.”

  “That I doubt.”

  Harlan paid no attention. “How could Maude need the money? She took a thousand dollars with her last week.”

  “Maybe they stopped off at Vegas.”

  “Nonsense. Maude detests the very idea of gambling. She’s quite a frugal person, like myself. She couldn’t spend a thousand dollars in a week, unless the man is bleeding her.”

  “Sure she could, on her honeymoon. This whole thing may not be as bad as you think. I’ve made some inquiries, and Lister has a fair reputation.” I decided that was stretching it, and added: “At least he isn’t totally bad.”

  “Neither was Landru,” Harlan said darkly.

  “We’ll see.” It was ten to twelve by the electric clock. “Don’t accuse him of anything. But tell him he’ll have to come back for the cash. I’ll wait outside and tail him when he comes out. You sit tight. I’ll get in touch with you when I find out where they’re holed up.”

  He nodded several times.

  “And for God’s sake, take it easy with him, Harlan. I don’t believe that he’s a commercial killer. But he could turn out to be a passional one.”

  Lister had the virtue of punctuality, at least. At one minute to twelve, an old Buick sedan appeared from the direction of downtown Santa Monica. It pulled up at the curb a hundred feet short of the hotel entrance. Lister got out and locked his car. His beret and dark glasses gave him the look of a decadent Viking.

  I was parked across the wide boulevard, facing in the wrong direction. As soon as Lister had entered the hotel, I U-turned and found a parking space a few cars behind the Buick. I got out for a closer look at it.