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

by Ross Macdonald

  “The gas chamber.” Her nostrils dilated, and she paled, as if she had caught a whiff of the fatal stuff. “Do you seriously think there’s any danger of that?”

  “They’ve built a powerful case against him. Motive. Opportunity. Weapon.”

  “What motive?”

  “His wife was wealthy, wasn’t she? I understand Cave isn’t. They were alone in the house; the housekeeping couple were away for the weekend. The shotgun belonged to Cave, and according to the chemical test his driving gloves were used to fire it.”

  “You have been following the trial.”

  “As well as I could from Los Angeles. Of course you get distortions in the newspapers. It makes a better story if he looks guilty.”

  “He isn’t guilty,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “Do you know that, or merely hope it?”

  She pressed one hand across her mouth. The fingernails were bitten down to the quick. “We won’t go into that.”

  “Do you know who murdered Ruth Cave?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Am I supposed to try and find out who did?”

  “Wouldn’t that be very difficult, since it happened so long ago? Anyway, it doesn’t really matter to me. I barely knew the woman.” Her thoughts veered back to Cave. “Won’t a great deal depend on the impression he makes on the witness stand?”

  “It usually does in a murder trial.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of them, haven’t you?”

  “Too many. I take it I’m going to see another.”

  “Yes.” She spoke sharply and definitely, leaning forward. “I don’t dare go myself. I want you to observe the jurors, see how Glen—how Mr. Cave’s testimony affects them. And tell me if you think he’s going to get off.”

  “What if I can’t tell?”

  “You’ll have to give me a yes or no.” Her breast nudged my arm. She was too intent on what she was saying to notice. “I’ve made up my mind to go by your decision.”

  “Go where?” I said.

  “To hell if necessary—if his life is really in danger.”

  “I’ll do my best. Where shall I get in touch with you?”

  “I’ll get in touch with you. I’ve made a reservation for you at the Rubio Inn. Right now I’ll drop you at the courthouse. Oh, yes—the money.” She opened her leather handbag, and I caught the gleam of a blue revolver at the bottom of the bag. “How much?”

  “A hundred dollars will do.”

  A few bills changed hands, and we went to the car. She indicated the right rear door. I went around to the left so that I could read the white slip on the steering column. But the leatherette holder was empty.

  The little girl stood up in the front seat and leaned over the back of it to look at me. “Hello. Are you my daddy?” Her eyes were as blue and candid as the sky.

  Before I could answer, her mother said: “Now, Janie, you know he isn’t your daddy. This is Mr. Archer.”

  “Where is my daddy?”

  “In Pasadena, darling. You know that. Sit down, Janie, and be still.”

  The little girl slid down out of my sight. The engine roared in anger.

  It was ten minutes past eleven by the clock on the courthouse tower. Superior Court was on the second floor. I slid into one of the vacant seats in the back row of the spectators’ section. Several old ladies turned to glare at me, as though I had interrupted a church service.

  The trial was more like an ancient tribal ceremony in a grotto. Red draperies were drawn over the lofty windows. The air was dim with human exhalations. Black iron fixtures suspended from the ceiling shed a wan light on the judge’s gray head, and on the man on the witness stand.

  I recognized Glenway Cave from his newspaper pictures. He was a big handsome man in his early thirties who had once been bigger and handsomer. Four months in jail waiting for trial had pared him down to the bone. His eyes were pressed deep into hollow sockets. His double-breasted gabardine suit hung loosely on his shoulders. He looked like a suitable victim for the ceremony.

  A broad-backed man with a straw-colored crewcut was bent over the stenograph, talking in an inaudible voice to the court reporter. Harvey, chief attorney for the defense. I had met Rod Harvey several times in the course of my work, which was one reason why I had followed the trial so closely.

  The judge chopped the air with his hatchet face: “Proceed with your examination, Mr. Harvey.”

  Harvey raised his clipped blond head and addressed the witness: “Mr. Cave, we were attempting to establish the reason behind your—ah—misunderstanding with your wife. Did you and Mrs. Cave have words on the evening of May nineteenth?”

  “We did. I’ve already told you that.” Cave’s voice was shallow, with high-pitched overtones.

  “What was the nature of the conversation?”

  “It was more of an argument than a conversation.”

  “But a purely verbal argument?” Harvey sounded as if his own witness had taken him by surprise.

  A sharp-faced man spoke up from the prosecution end of the attorneys’ table. “Objection. The question is leading—not to say misleading.”

  “Sustained. The question will be stricken.”

  Harvey shrugged his heavy tweed shoulders. “Tell us just what was said then, Mr. Cave. Beginning at the beginning.”

  Cave moved uncomfortably, passing the palm of one hand over his eyes. “I can’t recall it verbatim. It was quite an emotional scene—”

  Harvey cut him off. “Tell us in your own words what you and Mrs. Cave were talking about.”

  “The future,” Cave said. “Our future. Ruth was planning to leave me for another man.”

  An insect-buzzing rose from the spectators. I looked along the row where I was sitting. A couple of seats to my right, a young woman with artificial violets at her waist was leaning forward, her bright dark eyes intent on Cave’s face. She seemed out of place among the frowsy old furies who surrounded her. Her head was striking, small and boyishly chic, its fine bony structure emphasized by a short haircut. She turned, and her brown eyes met mine. They were tragic and opaque.

  The D.A.’s voice rose above the buzzing. “I object to this testimony. The witness is deliberately blackening the dead woman’s reputation, without corroborative evidence of any kind, in a cowardly attempt to save his own neck.”

  He glanced sideways at the jury. Their faces were stony. Cave’s was as white as marble. Harvey’s was mottled red. He said, “This is an essential part of the case for the defense. A great deal has been made of Mr. Cave’s sudden departure from home on the day of his wife’s death. I am establishing the reason for it.”

  “We know the reason,” the D.A. said in a carrying undertone.

  Harvey looked up mutely at the judge, whose frown fitted the lines in his face like an old glove.

  “Objection overruled. The prosecution will refrain from making unworthy comments. In any case, the jury will disregard them.”

  But the D.A. looked pleased with himself. He had made his point, and the jury would remember. Their twenty-four eyes, half of them female, and predominantly old, were fixed on Cave in uniform disapproval.

  Harvey spoke in a voice thickened by emotion. “Did your wife say who the man was that she planned to leave you for?”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “No. The whole thing was a bolt from the blue to me. I don’t believe Ruth intended to tell me what she had on her mind. It just slipped out, after we started fighting.” He caught himself up short. “Verbally fighting, I mean.”

  “What started this verbal argument?”

  “Nothing important. Money trouble. I wanted to buy a Ferrari, and Ruth couldn’t see any sense in it.”

  “A Ferrari motor car?”

  “A racing car, yes. I asked her for the money. She said that she was tired of giving me money. I said that I was equally tired of taking it from her. Then it came out that she was going to leave me for somebody els
e.” One side of Cave’s mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “Somebody who would love her for herself.”

  “When did she plan to leave you?”

  “As soon as she could get ready to go to Nevada. I told her to go ahead, that she was free to go whenever and wherever she wanted to go, with anybody that suited her.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “I packed a few clothes and drove away in my car.”

  “What time did you leave the house?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “Was it dark when you went?”

  “It was getting dark, but I didn’t have to use my headlights right away. It couldn’t have been later than eight o’clock.”

  “And Mrs. Cave was alive and well when you left?”

  “Certainly she was.”

  “Was your parting friendly?”

  “Friendly enough. She said goodbye and offered me some money. Which I didn’t take, incidentally. I didn’t take much of anything, except for bare essentials. I even left most of my clothes behind.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because she bought them for me. They belonged to her. I thought perhaps her new man might have a use for them.”

  “I see.”

  Harvey’s voice was hoarse and unsteady. He turned away from Cave, and I could see that his face was flushed, either with anger or impatience. He said without looking at the prisoner, “Did the things you left behind include a gun?”

  “Yes. A twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun. I used it for shooting rabbits, mostly, in the hills behind the house.”

  “Was it loaded?”

  “I believe so. I usually kept it loaded.”

  “Where did you leave your shotgun?”

  “In the garage. I kept it there. Ruth didn’t like to have a gun in the house. She had a phobia—”

  Harvey cut in quickly. “Did you also leave a pair of driving gloves, the gloves on the table here marked by the prosecution as Exhibit J?”

  “I did. They were in the garage, too.”

  “And the garage door—was it open or closed?”

  “I left it open, I think. In any case, we never kept it locked.”

  “Mr. Cave,” Harvey said in a deep voice, “did you kill your wife with the shotgun before you drove away?”

  “I did not.” In contrast with Harvey’s, Cave’s voice was high and thin and unconvincing.

  “After you left around eight o’clock, did you return to the house again that night?”

  “I did not. I haven’t been back since, as a matter of fact, I was arrested in Los Angeles the following day.”

  “Where did you spend the night—that is, after eight o’clock?”

  “With a friend.”

  The courtroom began to buzz again.

  “What friend?” Harvey barked. He suddenly sounded like a prosecutor cross-examining a hostile witness.

  Cave moved his mouth to speak, and hesitated. He licked his dry lips. “I prefer not to say.”

  “Why do you prefer not to say?”

  “Because it was a woman. I don’t want to involve her in this mess.”

  Harvey swung away from the witness abruptly and looked up at the judge. The judge admonished the jury not to discuss the case with anyone, and adjourned the trial until two o’clock.

  I watched the jurors file out. Not one of them looked at Glenway Cave. They had seen enough of him.

  Harvey was the last man to leave the well of the courtroom. I waited for him at the little swinging gate which divided it from the spectators’ section. He finished packing his briefcase and came towards me, carrying the case as if it was weighted.

  “Mr. Harvey, can you give me a minute?”

  He started to brush me off with a weary gesture, then recognized my face. “Lew Archer? What brings you here?”

  “It’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “This case?”

  I nodded. “Are you going to get him off?”

  “Naturally I am. He’s innocent.” But his voice echoed hollowly in the empty room and he regarded me doubtfully. “You wouldn’t be snooping around for the prosecution?”

  “Not this time. The person who hired me believes that Cave is innocent. Just as you do.”

  “A woman?”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, aren’t you?”

  “When the sex isn’t indicated, it’s usually a woman. Who is she, Archer?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Come on now.” His square pink hand rested on my arm. “You don’t accept anonymous clients any more than I do.”

  “This one is an exception. All I know about her is that she’s anxious to see Cave get off.”

  “So are we all.” His bland smile tightened. “Look, we can’t talk here. Walk over to the office with me. I’ll have a couple of sandwiches sent up.”

  He shifted his hand to my elbow and propelled me towards the door. The dark-eyed woman with the artificial violets at her waist was waiting in the corridor. Her opaque gaze passed over me and rested possessively on Harvey.

  “Surprise.” Her voice was low and throaty to match her boyish look. “You’re taking me to lunch.”

  “I’m pretty busy, Rhea. And I thought you were going to stay home today.”

  “I tried to. Honestly. But my mind kept wandering off to the courthouse, so I finally up and followed it.” She moved towards him with a queer awkwardness, as if she was embarrassingly conscious of her body, and his. “Aren’t you glad to see me, darling?”

  “Of course I’m glad to see you,” he said, his tone denying the words.

  “Then take me to lunch.” Her white-gloved hand stroked his lapel. “I made a reservation at the club. It will do you good to get out in the air.”

  “I told you I’m busy, Rhea. Mr. Archer and I have something to discuss.”

  “Bring Mr. Archer along. I won’t get in the way. I promise.” She turned to me with a flashing white smile. “Since my husband seems to have forgotten his manners, I’m Rhea Harvey.”

  She offered me her hand, and Harvey told her who I was. Shrugging his shoulders resignedly, he led the way outside to his bronze convertible. We turned towards the sea, which glimmered at the foot of the town like a fallen piece of sky.

  “How do you think it’s going, Rod?” she said.

  “I suppose it could have been worse. He could have got up in front of the judge and jury and confessed.”

  “Did it strike you as that bad?”

  “I’m afraid it was pretty bad.” Harvey leaned forward over the wheel in order to look around his wife at me. “Were you in on the debacle, Archer?”

  “Part of it. He’s either very honest or very stupid.”

  Harvey snorted. “Glen’s not stupid. The trouble is, he simply doesn’t care. He pays no attention to my advice. I had to stand there and ask the questions, and I didn’t know what crazy answers he was going to come up with. He seems to take a masochistic pleasure in wrecking his own chances.”

  “It could be his conscience working on him,” I said.

  His steely blue glance raked my face and returned to the road. “It could be, but it isn’t. And I’m not speaking simply as his attorney. I’ve known Glen Cave for a long time. We were roommates in college. Hell, I introduced him to his wife.”

  “That doesn’t make him incapable of murder.”

  “Sure, any man is capable of murder. That’s not my point. My point is that Glen is a sharp customer. If he had decided to kill Ruth for her money, he wouldn’t do it that way. He wouldn’t use his own gun. In fact, I doubt very much that he’d use a gun at all. Glen isn’t that obvious.”

  “Unless it was a passional crime. Jealousy can make a man lose his sophistication.”

  “Not Glen. He wasn’t in love with Ruth—never has been. He’s got about as much sexual passion as a flea.” His voice was edged with contempt. “Anyway, this tale of his about another man is probably malarkey.”

  “Are
you sure, Rod?”

  He turned on his wife almost savagely. “No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything. Glen isn’t confiding in me, and I don’t see how I can defend him if he goes on this way. I wish to God he hadn’t forced me into this. He knows as well as I do that trial work isn’t my forte. I advised him to get an attorney experienced in this sort of thing, and he wouldn’t listen. He said if I wouldn’t take on his case that he’d defend himself. And he flunked out of law school in his second year. What could I do?”

  He stamped the accelerator, cutting in and out of the noon traffic on the ocean boulevard. Palm trees fled by like thin old wild-haired madmen racing along the edge of the quicksilver sea.

  The beach club stood at the end of the boulevard, a white U-shaped building whose glass doors opened “For Members and Guests Only.” Its inner court contained a swimming pool and an alfresco dining space dotted with umbrella tables. Breeze-swept and sluiced with sunlight, it was the antithesis of the dim courtroom where Cave’s fate would be decided. But the shadow of the courtroom fell across our luncheon and leached the color and flavor from the food.

  Harvey pushed away his salmon salad, which he had barely disturbed, and gulped a second Martini. He called the waiter to order a third. His wife inhibited him with a barely perceptible shake of her head. The waiter slid away.

  “This woman,” I said, “the woman he spent the night with. Who is she?”

  “Glen told me hardly anything more than he told the court.” Harvey paused, half gagged by a lawyer’s instinctive reluctance to give away information, then forced himself to go on. “It seems he went straight from home to her house on the night of the shooting. He spent the night with her, from about eight-thirty until the following morning. Or so he claims.”

  “Haven’t you checked his story?”

  “How? He refused to say anything that might enable me to find her or identify her. It’s just another example of the obstacles he’s put in my way, trying to defend him.”

  “Is this woman so important to his defense?”

  “Crucial. Ruth was shot sometime around midnight. The p.m. established that through the stomach contents. And at the time, if he’s telling the truth, Glen was with a witness. Yet he won’t let me try to locate her, or have her subpoenaed. It took me hours of hammering at him to get him to testify about her at all, and I’m not sure that wasn’t a mistake. That miserable jury—” His voice trailed off. He was back in court fighting his uphill battle against the prejudices of a small elderly city.