The Blue Hammer

by Ross Macdonald

"I don't know. It depends on two things. Whether we recover the picture, and whether you decide to tell the whole story."

  "I told you the whole story last night."

  "I've been thinking about that, and I wonder if you did. It seems to me you left out some pertinent facts."

  "That's your opinion."

  "Isn't it yours, too?"

  He turned his head away and looked down at the great sunlit world into which he had escaped for a day or two. It seemed to be fleeing backward into the past. The mountain walls loomed ahead, and the jet whined louder as it climbed to vault over them.

  "What got you so interested in Mildred Mead?" I asked him.

  "Nothing. I wasn't interested in her. I didn't even know who she was until Mr. Lashman told me yesterday."

  "And you didn't know that Mildred moved to Santa Teresa a few months ago?"

  He turned toward me. He badly needed a shave, and it made him look both older and more furtive. But he seemed honestly confused.

  "I certainly didn't. What is she doing there?"

  "Looking for a place to live, apparently. She's a sick old woman."

  "I didn't know that. I don't know anything about her."

  "Then what was it that got you interested in the Biemeyers' painting?"

  He shook his head. "I can't tell you. Chantry's work has always fascinated me. It isn't a crime to be interested in paintings."

  "Only if you steal them, Fred."

  "But I didn't _plan_ to steal it. I simply borrowed it overnight. I meant to return it next day."

  Doris had turned in her seat. She was up on her knees, watching us over the back.

  "That's true," she said. "Fred _told_ me he borrowed the picture. He wouldn't do that if he planned to steal it, would he?"

  Unless, I thought, he planned to steal you, too. I said, "It doesn't seem to make sense. But nearly everything does when you understand it."

  She gave me a long cold appraising look. "You really believe that, that everything makes sense?"

  "I work on that principle, anyway."

  She lifted her eyes in sardonic prayer and smiled. It was the first time I had seen her smile.

  "Would you mind if I sat with Fred for a while?" she said.

  His sensitive little smile peeked out from under his heavy mustache. He flushed with pleasure.

  I said, "I don't mind, Miss Biemeyer."

  I traded seats with her, and pretended to go to sleep. Their conversation was steady and low, too low to be overheard through the sound of the engine. Eventually I did go to sleep.

  When I woke up, we were turning over the sea, back toward the Santa Teresa airport. We landed with a gentle bump and taxied toward the small Spanish Mission terminal.

  Jack Biemeyer was waiting at the gate. His wife broke past him as we climbed out. She folded Doris in her arms.

  "Oh, Mother," the girl said in embarrassment.

  "I'm so glad you're all right."

  The girl looked at me over her mother's shoulder like a prisoner peering over a wall.

  Biemeyer began to talk to Fred. Then he began to shout. He accused Fred of rape and other crimes. He said that he would have Fred put away for the rest of his life.

  Fred's eyes were watering. He was close to tears. He bit at his mustache with his lower teeth. People were coming out of the terminal to watch and listen from a distance.

  I was afraid of something more serious happening. Biemeyer might talk himself into an act of violence, or scare Fred into one.

  I took Fred by the arm and marched him through the terminal into the parking lot. Before I could get him out of there, an official car drove up. Two policemen climbed out and arrested Fred.

  The Biemeyer family came out of the terminal in time to see him leave. In what looked like a parody of Fred's arrest, Biemeyer took his daughter by the elbow and hustled her into the front seat of his Mercedes. He ordered his wife to get in. She refused with gestures. He drove away.

  Ruth Biemeyer stood by herself in the parking lot, stiff with embarrassment and blanched by anger. She didn't appear to recognize me at first.

  "Are you all right, Mrs. Biemeyer?"

  "Yes, of course. But my husband seems to have driven away without me." She produced a frantic smile. "What do you think I should do?"

  "It depends on what you want to do."

  "But I never do what I want to do," she said. "Nobody ever does what he really wants to do."

  Wondering what Ruth Biemeyer really wanted to do, I opened the right-hand door of my car for her. "I'll drive you home."

  "I don't want to go home." But she got in.

  It was a strange situation. The Biemeyers, for all their protestations and all their efforts, didn't really seem to want their daughter back. They didn't know how to treat her, or what to do about Fred. Well, neither did I, unless we could invent an alternative world for the people who didn't quite fit into this one.

  I closed the door on Ruth Biemeyer, walked around the car, and got in behind the wheel. The air was hot and stuffy in the car, which had sat all day in the parking lot. I rolled down the window on my side.

  It was a blank and desolate patch of earth, squeezed between the airport and the road and littered with empty cars. The blue sea winked and wrinkled in the distance.

  Like a blind date trying to make conversation, Mrs. Biemeyer said, "This is a strange world we live in nowadays."

  "It always was."

  "I didn't used to think so. I don't know what will happen to Doris. She can't live at home and she can't make it on her own. I don't know what she can do."

  "What did you do?"

  "I married Jack. He may not have been the greatest choice in the world but at least we got through life." She spoke as if her life were already over. "I was hoping Doris would find some eligible young man."

  "She has Fred."

  The woman said coldly, "He isn't possible."

  "At least he's a friend."

  She cocked her head as if she was surprised that anyone should befriend her daughter. "How do you know that?"

  "I've talked to him. I've seen them together."

  "He's simply been using her."

  "I don't believe that. One thing I'm pretty sure of, Fred didn't take your painting with any idea of selling it, or cashing in. No doubt he's a little hipped on it, but that's another matter. He's been trying to use it to solve the Chantry problem."

  She gave me a sharp inquiring look. "Do you believe that?"

  "Yes, I do. He may be emotionally unstable. Anybody with his family background would be likely to be. He's not a common thief, or an uncommon one, either."

  "So what happened to the picture?"

  "He left it in the museum overnight and it was stolen."

  "How do you know?"

  "He told me."

  "And you believe him?"

  "Not necessarily. I don't know what happened to the picture. I doubt that Fred does, either. I don't believe he belongs in jail, though."

  She lifted her head. "Is that where they took him?"

  "Yes. You can get him out if you want to."

  "Why should I?"

  "Because as far as I know, he's your daughter's only friend. And I think she's just as desperate as Fred is, if not more so."

  She looked around at the parking lot and the surrounding flatlands. The battlements of the university loomed on the horizon beyond the tidal slough.

  She said, "What has Doris got to be so desperate about? We've given her everything. Why, when I was her age I was in secretarial school and working part-time on the side. I even enjoyed it," she said with nostalgia and some surprise. "In fact, those were the best days of my life."

  "These aren't Doris's best days."

  She pulled away in the seat, turning in my direction. "I don't understand you. You're a peculiar detective. I thought detectives ran down thieves and put them behind bars."

  "I just did that."

  "But now you want to undo it. Why?"

  "I've al
ready told you. Fred Johnson isn't a thief, no matter what he did. He's your daughter's friend, and she needs one."

  The woman turned her face away and bowed her head. The blond hair fell away from her vulnerable neck.

  "Jack will kill me if I interfere."

  If you mean that literally, maybe Jack is the one who belongs in jail."

  She gave me a shocked look, which gradually changed into something more real and humane. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll take it up with my lawyer."

  "What's his name?"

  "Roy Lackner."

  "Is he a criminal lawyer?"

  "He's in general practice. He was a Public Defender for a while."

  "Is he your husband's lawyer as well as yours?"

  She hesitated, glancing at my face and away. "No. He isn't. I went to him to find out where I stood if I divorced Jack. And we've also discussed Doris."

  "When was this?"

  "Yesterday afternoon. I shouldn't be telling you all these things."

  "You should, though."

  "I hope so," she said. "I also hope you're discreet."

  "I try to be."

  We drove downtown to Lackner's office, and I told her what I knew about Fred as we went. I added in summation, "He can go either way."

  That went for Doris, too, but I didn't think it was necessary to say so.

  Lackner's offices were in a rehabilitated frame cottage on the upper edge of the downtown slums. He came to the front door to meet us, a blue-eyed young man with a blond beard and lank yellow hair that came down almost to his shoulders. His look was pleasant, and his grip was hard.

  I would have liked to go in and talk to him, but Ruth Biemeyer made it plain that she didn't want me. Her attitude was proprietorial and firm, and I wondered in passing if there was some attachment between the young man and the older woman.

  I gave her the name of my motel. Then I went down to the waterfront to give Paola her mother's fifty dollars.

  XXVI

  The Monte Cristo was a three-story stucco hotel that had once been a large private residence. Now it advertised "Special Bates for Weekenders." Some of the weekenders were drinking canned beer in the lobby and matching coins to see who was going to pay for it. The desk clerk was a little doll-faced man with an anxious look that intensified when he saw me. I think he was trying to decide whether I was a cop.

  I didn't tell him whether I was or not. Sometimes I didn't even tell myself. I asked him if Paola Grimes was in. He gave me a puzzled look.

  "She's a dark girl with long black hair. Good figure."

  "Oh. Yeah. Room 312." He turned and examined her key slot. "She isn't in."

  I didn't bother asking him when to expect Paola. He wouldn't be likely to know. I kept her fifty dollars in my wallet and made a mental note of her room number. Before I left the hotel, I looked into the bar. It was a kind of post-historic ruin. All the girls waiting there were blond. Outside, along the beach front, there were a number of women with long black hair but none of them was Paola.

  I drove uptown to the newspaper building and left my car at a fifteen-minute curb in front of it. Betty was at her typewriter in the newsroom. Her hands were quiet on the keys. She had faint blue circles under her eyes, no lipstick on her mouth. She looked dispirited, and she failed to brighten appreciably when she saw me.

  "What's the matter, Betty?"

  "I haven't been making good progress on the Mildred Mead thing. I can't seem to find out enough about her."

  "Why don't you interview her?"

  She screwed up her face as if I'd threatened to slap her. "That isn't funny."

  "It wasn't meant to be. Mildred Mead has a box in the Santa Teresa post office, number 121 in the main branch. If you can't get to her through that, she's probably in one of the local nursing homes."

  "Is she sick?"

  "Sick and old."

  Betty's eyes, her whole face, changed and softened. "What on earth is she doing here in Santa Teresa?"

  "Ask her. And when she tells you, you tell me."

  "But I don't know which nursing home she's in."

  "Call all of them."

  "Why don't _you?"_

  "I want to talk to Captain Mackendrick. Besides, you can do a better job on a phone check. You know the people in this town and they know you. If you locate her, don't say anything to scare her off. I wouldn't mention that you work for a newspaper."

  "What _shall_ I say?"

  "As little as possible. I'll check back with you."

  I drove across the center of town to the police station. It was a stucco oblong that lay like a dingy sarcophagus in the middle of an asphalt parking lot. I talked my way past an armed and uniformed woman guard into Mackendrick's office, which was small and bleak. It contained a wall of files, a desk and three chairs, one of which was occupied by Mackendrick. Across the single window there were bars.

  Mackendrick was studying a typed sheet that lay flat on the desk in front of him. He was slow in looking up. I wondered if this was meant to imply that he was more important than I was, but not important enough. He finally raised his impervious eyes to mine.

  "Mr. Archer? I thought you'd left town for good."

  "I went to Arizona to pick up the Biemeyer girl. Her father flew us back in one of his company's jets."

  Mackendrick was impressed, and slightly startled, as I had meant him to be. He massaged the side of his crumpled face with his hand, as if to reassure himself of its solidity.

  "Of course," he said, "you're working for the Biemeyers. Right?"

  "Right."

  "Does he have some special interest in the Grimes killing?"

  "He bought a picture from Grimes. There's some question whether it's a phony or a genuine new Chantry."

  "If Grimes had anything to do with it, it probably is a phony. Is that the picture that was stolen?"

  "It wasn't exactly stolen," I said, "at least not the first time around. Fred Johnson took it to make some tests on it at the art museum. Somebody stole it from there."

  "Is that Johnson's story?"

  "Yes, and I believe it." But even to me the story had sounded weak in my retelling.

  "I don't. Neither does Biemeyer. I've just been talking to him on the phone." Mackendrick smiled in cold pleasure. He had taken a point from me in the endless game of power that complicated his life. "If you want to go on working for Biemeyer, you better check with him about some of those little details."

  "He isn't my only source. I've talked to Fred Johnson at some length, and I don't believe he's a criminal type."

  "Nearly everybody is," Mackendrick said. "All they need is the opportunity. And Fred Johnson had that. He may even have been in cahoots with Paul Grimes. That would be quite a trick, to sell a phony Chantry, then steal it back before it could be detected."

  "I thought of that possibility. But I doubt that it happened. Fred Johnson isn't capable of planning and carrying out an action like that. And Paul Grimes is dead."

  Mackendrick leaned forward with his elbows on his desk, his left palm and his right fist forming a ball joint under his chin. "There may be others involved. There almost certainly are. We may be dealing with an art-theft ring of queers and addicts. It's a crazy world." He disengaged his hands and waved his fingers in front of his face, miming the wildness of the world. "Did you know Grimes was a queer?"

  "Yes. His wife was telling me that this morning."

  The captain's eyes widened in astonishment. "He has a wife?"

  "He had. She told me they've been separated for years. She runs an art shop in Copper City under her married name."

  Mackendrick penciled a note on a yellow pad. "Is Fred Johnson queer?"

  "I doubt it. He has a girl."

  "You just got finished telling me that Grimes had a wife."

  "It's true, Fred could be bisexual. But I've spent a fair amount of time with him now, and haven't seen any evidence of it. Even if he is, it doesn't make him a thief."

  "He stole a picture."
>
  "He took it with the knowledge and permission of the owner's daughter. Fred is a budding art expert. He wanted to test the picture for age and authenticity."

  "So he says now."

  "I believe him. I honestly don't think he belongs in jail."

  Mackendrick's palm and fist came together again like parts of a machine. "Is Fred Johnson paying you to say this?"

  "Biemeyer is paying me to recover his picture. Fred Johnson says he hasn't got it. I think it's time we looked elsewhere. In fact, that's what I've been doing, more or less accidentally."

  Mackendrick waited. I told him what I had learned about Paul Grimes's early life in Arizona, and about his relationship with Richard Chantry. I also told him about the death of Mildred Mead's illegitimate son, William, and the quick departure of Richard Chantry from Arizona in the summer of 1943.

  Mackendrick picked up his pencil and began to draw connected squares across the yellow paper, a series of squares like a random chessboard representing the precincts of the city or his mind.

  "This is new information to me," he admitted finally. "Are you sure that it's good information?"

  "I got most of it from the sheriff who handled the William Mead killing. You can check with him if you want to."

  "I'll do that. I was in the army when Chantry came here and bought that house on the ocean. But I got out and joined the force in 1945 and I was one of the few people who got to know him personally." Mackendrick spoke as if his own experience and the history of the city had become almost synonymous to him. "I patrolled the beach front there for several years, until I made sergeant. That was how I became acquainted with Mr. Chantry. He was very security-conscious. He did a lot of complaining about people loitering around his house. You know how the beach and the ocean always attract out-of-towners."

  "Was he nervous?"

  "I guess you'd say that. He was a loner, anyway. I never knew him to give a party, or even invite friends into his house. As far as I knew, he had no friends. He kept himself locked up in that house with his wife and a man called Rico, who cooked for them. And he worked. As far as I know, all he did was work. Sometimes he'd be up painting all night and I'd see the lights still burning in his house when I cruised by on the early-morning shift." Mackendrick lifted his eyes, which had been emptied of the present and now became filled and perplexed by it again. "Are you sure that Mr. Chantry was a homo? I never knew one of them who liked hard work."