The Ferguson Affair

by Ross Macdonald

  “And Mrs. Ferguson? He left her to burn, too?”

  “Evidently he did. I came to in time to get her out. Is she all right?”

  Wills answered carefully. We were fencing, and both of us knew it. “It’s hard to tell. Her husband is having her privately looked after. He says he doesn’t trust the hospital, with all the shenanigans going on. I’m wondering if he doesn’t know more than I do about the shenanigans going on.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Just for a second, when he picked up his wife in the emergency ward. He wasn’t communicating, and I can’t force him to. He hasn’t done anything criminal, that I know about. The wife is another matter, now. I can’t figure what she was doing up in a mountain hideout with a wanted man. Was she there voluntarily?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some opinion on the subject. You saw her there with Gaines, didn’t you?”

  “I saw her.”

  “Was she tied up, or confined, or under duress?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you help knowing?” Wills said sharply.

  “There are various forms of duress, including the psychological.”

  “Was she conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he threaten her?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, he hit her with a gun.”

  “Same gun he shot you with?”

  “Same gun,” I said, but I was beginning to sweat. I hardly knew why I was framing my answers so as to protect the woman. I was in no condition to work out a conflict of conscience. The worst of these conflicts is the tendency they have to crop up when a man isn’t equal to handling them.

  Wills sensed my indecision. “This psychological duress you mentioned, it’s an interesting idea. What does it boil down to, the fact that he had something on her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He said as if at random: “Poor kid, they had to walk her for nearly two hours. She was loaded to the gills with morphine, did you know that?”

  “I suspected she was drugged, yes.”

  “Is she an addict? Is that what Gaines had on her?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I doubt that. You’ve had opportunities to talk to them, her and her husband both. I understand you’ve been seeing quite a bit of him in the last day or two.”

  “I saw him once or twice. He’s pretty good man, in case you’re in doubt about that.”

  “Would you vouch for the wife, too?”

  “I hardly know her.” The sweat was soaking through my hospital gown. Unless I concentrated on my vision, I tended to see Wills in duplicate. One of him was too many at the moment. “Why don’t you go away and let me enjoy my misery in peace?”

  “I’m sorry, Bill, honestly. But these are questions that need answering. Ronald Spice’s unsupported statement isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. He confessed crimes that never even occurred. And some that did, of course.”

  “I’d like to see that statement.”

  “I’ll show it to you, soon as we get copies. I also wanted to show you a statement we got from a better witness than Spice-manager of the local Bank of America. It says that Ferguson drew a lot of cash out of his savings account yesterday. So much cash they had to borrow from their Los Angeles branches. Do you know what Ferguson did with all that cash?”

  “I know what he told me.”

  “What did he do with it?”

  “Ask him.”

  “I’m asking you, Bill. You’re a rash young fellow, but you’re basically sensible, and you’re building a position in this town. You wouldn’t lie there and try to sit on a major crime at this late date.”

  “There have been several major crimes. Which one are you referring to?”

  “Kidnapping. Spice says Gaines ran out with his and his partner’s share of two hundred thousand dollars. Two hundred thousand dollars which Ferguson paid to Gaines as ransom for Mrs. Ferguson. He says she was snatched from the Foothill Club while he and his partner stood by, monitoring our calls on their short wave so we wouldn’t get in the way. Which incidentally they’ve been doing all through this wave of burglaries. It was a neat little system they had, passing along information on hospital patients and then keeping track of our movements while Gaines and Gus Donato burglarized their houses.

  “According to Spice, they did the same thing yesterday noon when Ferguson made the money-drop. They were supposed to get a cut of it, twenty-five grand apiece for services rendered. But Gaines ran out on them with the whole bundle. You can understand why Ronald Spice is spouting like a whale. Of course he’s trying to cheat the fireless cooker, too. Not that we’d make a deal with scum like that.”

  Wills was hoarse with anger. “Scum of the earth, masquerading as public servants, using their position to knock off injured people. You know what they are. They almost did it to you.”

  “Has Spice confessed the Broadman killing?”

  “In effect he has. He didn’t know he was confessing. He thought he could blame it on his dead partner. Whitey Slater did the actual murder, apparently, while Spice was driving the ambulance to the hospital. But Spice shared the knowledge and intention, which makes him equally guilty, as you know. Gaines is equally guilty, too. Broadman was killed on his orders.”

  “Why?”

  “Broadman was an ex-leader of the ring, with emphasis on the ex. He was at the point of turning them all in. I think he knew they were on their way to capital crime, and he wanted to cut himself clear of them. The purchase of that diamond from Ella Barker was a small thing, but when he reported it to us, it served notice on Gaines. Gaines turned Donato loose on Broadman. Donato fumbled the job. Slater and Spice were standing by, and they stepped in and finished it. Next day they did the same to Donato’s wife, for the same reason.”

  “Was Secundina a member of the ring?”

  “I doubt it. But she knew who was, and she was about to talk to us. Granada thought she was, anyway. And apparently Gaines and his ghouls thought so. When she panicked and took those sleeping pills, it gave them a chance at her. They didn’t want her waking up.”

  “Nice people.”

  “Yeah. All nice people. What I don’t understand, Bill, you’ve got a chance to help us wind up the case, put the rest of them behind bars. But you won’t take it. What does this Ferguson woman mean to you?”

  It was a hard question. The cliché phrases like “beauty in distress” didn’t answer it. Neither did the answer I gave him. “Ferguson is my client. He retained me yesterday.”

  “Mrs. Ferguson isn’t.”

  “Ferguson retained me for the specific purpose of procuring information about his wife. The information is privileged.”

  “Her husband doesn’t trust her either, eh?”

  “That’s your conclusion.”

  “It sure is. What did you find out about her? I’m not asking you to talk for the record, just for checking purposes. Spice’s story got pretty fantastic at certain points, and I can’t afford to make any false moves.”

  “You’ll be making one if you try to force me to give you privileged information. You can’t force Ferguson to talk about her, either.”

  Wills sat with his chin in his hand, and pondered the situation. I tried to do some consecutive thinking about the rule of privilege, but my line of thought was invaded by images: my wife in childbirth, Secundina dead, a rose-tipped body fallen in fire, in weeds; and a woman firing across her knees at me. Whatever else was covered by the rule, that shooting wasn’t, and I knew it. I was holding back on my own responsibility, for reasons that wouldn’t stand up under examination.

  Wills looked up from his deep thought. I suspected that it had been partly assumed, to give me time to consider.

  “I know,” he said in a soothing voice, “you want to be fair to your client, and you want to be fair to the law. I’ll tell you a funny thing, it may help you to decide. Ronald Spice came up with quite a snapper
when we pressed him. He claims that the kidnapping at the Foothill Club was a phony, something cooked up between Gaines and the woman to extort money from her husband. He claims that she co-operated with them all the way, that she even drove the car for Gaines when he picked up Ferguson’s box of money. That she deliberately showed herself to her husband at that time so that he wouldn’t know what action to take. Does that fit in with your information about her? Or was Spice just trying to get off the hook as accessory to a snatch?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I don’t believe you, Bill. I talked to a waiter in a bar and grill where you and Ferguson had a pow-wow yesterday. He heard some mighty queer snatches of conversation. Privilege or no privilege, bullet wound or no bullet wound, you’re on shaky ground if you’re trying to cover up a kidnapping.”

  “I thought your theory was that no kidnapping occurred.”

  “I don’t have a theory. I don’t know what occurred. I believe you do. I’m asking you to tell me.”

  “When I find out, I’ll be glad to.”

  “It can’t wait. Don’t you see, if this Hollywood floozie is in cahoots with Gaines, she probably knows where he is, or where he’s headed. Don’t you want him caught?”

  “As much as you do. Get that straight, at least.” From the jumble of images in my head, I dredged up a fragment of a scene in merry hell. “I remember something that was said last night. Gaines and the woman are headed for South America. Gaines’s mother was supposed to buy tickets for them.”

  “Gaines’s mother?”

  “She lives in Mountain Grove. Why don’t you question her?”

  Wills stood up abruptly, crossed the room to press the elevator button, and came back to me. “This is the first I heard of a mother. Who and where is she?”

  “Her name is Adelaide Haines. She lives on Canal Street in Mountain Grove.”

  “How did you get a line on her?”

  “Through Ella Barker. Incidentally, it should be plain by this time that Ella Barker’s involvement was innocent.”

  “You’re probably right. Spice’s statement pretty well clears her.”

  “Don’t you think she ought to be released?”

  “She went home this morning. I got the D.A.’s office to agree to reduced bail and a friend of hers, a Mrs. Cline, put up a property bond.”

  The elevator took him away. I let the images in my head whirl out centrifugally. The pentothal sleep came back like soft and sudden night.

  chapter 27

  WHEN I WOKE UP AGAIN, the elevator was taking me down to a room on the fourth floor. Dr. Root, the bone surgeon, came along and watched the orderlies transfer me from the rolling cot to the bed. He said when the door closed behind them: “I ordered you a private room because you need rest and quiet. Is that all right with you?”

  “If you say so, Doctor. I don’t expect to stay long.”

  “You’ll be in for a few days, at least. I understand there’s nobody at home to look after you.”

  “But I have things to attend to.”

  “What you have to attend to,” he said firmly, “is letting that shoulder knit. By the way, I have something for you. Thought you might like to keep it as a memento.” He produced a small plastic pillbox and rattled it at me. “It’s the slug I removed. It will make an interesting conversation piece. Pieces, rather. It’s in several pieces.”

  He showed me the distorted fragments of lead. I thanked him, because it seemed the thing to do.

  He shook his gray head. “Don’t thank me. You should be thanking your lucky stars. It was providential for you that your collarbone deflected it upward. You could have come in here with a bullet in the lung. Who shot you, by the way?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Your wife?” Perhaps his narrow smile was intended to be jocular. “I’d hardly blame her, for taking the chances you took. I hope you’ve learned to leave these matters to the authorities. What were you trying to do?”

  “Get myself shot. I succeeded. Next question.”

  My unpleasantness failed to deter him. “There may be more to that than meets the eye. I’ve seen young men do some wild things while their wives were having babies. It isn’t only the women who suffer from parturient pangs.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Think about it. How are the wife and baby doing, by the way?”

  “Fine, they tell me. Is it all right with you if I go down and see them? I’m feeling pretty good myself.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps, if your temperature stays down. I want you to remain in bed today. Can I trust you to do that?”

  I grunted something noncommittal at him.

  I asked the nurse’s aide who brought me breakfast to see if she could dig up pencil and paper. While I was waiting for her to come back, I composed a note to Sally in my head. Perhaps composed is not the word:

  Dearest. I apologize, to you and Her, for getting shot. I did not plan this. It happened. You should have married a policeman if all you wanted was security. But you had to go and marry the slowest draw in the American Bar Association.

  They are holding me incommunicado in Room 454. But I will foil them. I will put on the faded burnoose which was a gift from an old Bedouin riding companion, darken my skin with a little walnut juice, and pass through their lines like a phantom. Be on the lookout for me. I will be the one with the inscrutable smile. Burn this.

  When my writing materials arrived, I wrote it down quite differently. The pentothal had worn off, and I wasn’t feeling so funny. I put the plastic pillbox in a drawer of the bedside table where I couldn’t see it.

  I noticed for the first time that there was a telephone sitting on a lower shelf of the table. I picked it up and tried to call Sally. The switchboard operator told me acerbly that maternity had no telephones. I called Ferguson’s house instead.

  He answered himself, in a hushed and wary voice. “Who is calling, please?”

  “Gunnarson.”

  His voice rose in pitch. “But I thought you were in the hospital.”

  “I am. Come and see me. Room 454.”

  “I’ve been planning to, naturally. I’ll try to drop by tomorrow. Or is tomorrow too soon for you?”

  “It isn’t soon enough. I want you out here this morning.”

  “I’d like to come, but I simply can’t make it today. Please don’t think I’m unappreciative of all you’ve done for us. I’m profoundly grateful, really, and so is Holly.”

  “I want something more than gratitude. The police have been bearing down on me. You and I need an exchange of views, to put it mildly. If you’re not here by noon, I’ll assume that our professional relationship is dissolved and act accordingly.”

  Somebody was knocking softly at my door. It seemed like a good time to hang up. The door opened inward, and Ella Barker peeped around the edge of it:

  “May I come in, Mr. Gunnarson?”

  “Please do.”

  The girl approached me tentatively. Her eyes were very large and dark, with semicircular imprints under them. She had on hospital shoes and a clean white uniform, but no cap. Her black hair was brushed gleaming, and she was wearing fresh lipstick.

  “I wanted to thank you, Mr. Gunnarson. I came over here as soon as I heard. To think that you got yourself shot on my account.”

  “It wasn’t on your account. Put the thought away and forget about it. Anyway, it’s not a serious wound.”

  “You’re just being nice.” She leaned above me, her eyes brimming with inarticulate feeling. “You’ve been awful nice to me. Would you like a back rub? I give a very good back rub.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Did you have a nice breakfast? I can get you some fruit juice if you’re thirsty.”

  “You’re very kind. But I seem to have everything I need.”

  She moved around the room, setting it straight in small, unobtrusive ways. I don’t know exactly what she did, but the place began to seem more comfortable. She picked up an
empty glass vase that stood on the bureau, straightened the runner under it, and set it down again in the exact center.

  “I’m going to get you some flowers,” she announced. “You need some flowers to brighten up the place. What kind of flowers do you like?”

  “Any kind. But please don’t send me flowers. You can’t afford them.”

  “Yes I can. I’m starting back on duty tomorrow morning at seven.” She turned with a slight dancer’s lilt, and smiled at me across the foot of the bed. “The hospital is taking me back.”

  “No reason why they shouldn’t.”

  “But I was so afraid they’d fire me. After all, I was in jail. I ran around with some terrible people.”

  “Next time you’ll be more careful.”

  “Yes. I guess I’m lucky to have a next time.” The marks of iron were showing on her face. It would take time for them to dissolve away. “Did Larry Gaines shoot you?”

  “I can’t discuss that with you, Ella.”

  “He did, though, didn’t he? And he got away.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” I said. “He won’t be coming back to hurt you.”

  “I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t want him to get away.”

  “Forget about him, too.”

  “I’m trying. It is like a sickness, just like you said. Well. I don’t want to wear out my welcome. If there’s anything I can do for you, day or night-” She completed the sentence by adjusting my sheets.

  It wouldn’t be long, I thought, before she’d be making some man a good wife. It was the first satisfaction that I derived from the case. She came around to the side of the bed and leaned over me again. Before I could guess her intention, she kissed me lightly on the corner of the mouth and made for the door.

  It was not the kind of kiss that goes to your head, but I was feeling very susceptible. I got out of bed and found a striped cotton bathrobe hanging behind my clothes in the closet. I more or less got into it, and reconnoitered the corridor.

  The elevator doors were beside the nurses’ station. I went in the other direction, down the fire stairs. On the third floor I found an orderly with gray hair and a paternal expression, to whom I explained my problem, omitting salient details. He escorted me to the door of Sally’s room.