The Blue Hammer

by Ross Macdonald

  Rico was looking into the empty eyes of the skull. They seemed to be draining all the life from his own eyes.

  "All you did." Mackendrick echoed him softy and sardonically. "All you did was bury a murdered man and later dig him up and try to dispose of his bones in the sea. Why would you do that if you didn't kill him?"

  "Because she told me to."

  "Who told you to?"

  "Mrs. Chantry."

  "She told you to bury her husband's body?"

  Mackendrick had risen and stood over Rico, who moved his head from side to side, trying to evade the weight of Mackendrick's shadow.

  "It isn't her husband's body."

  "Who is it, then?"

  "It was just a guy that came to the door one day about twenty-five years ago. He wanted to see Mr. Chantry. I told him that Mr. Chantry was working in his studio and anyway he didn't see people without an appointment. But the guy said Mr. Chantry would see _him_ if I gave him his name."

  "What _was_ his name?" Mackendrick said.

  "I'm sorry. I don't remember."

  "What did he look like?"

  "He just looked ordinary. Kind of pale and flabby, not in good shape. The most outstanding thing about him, he didn't talk too good. I mean, he talked like he had a stroke or something. He sounded like an old bum, only he wasn't that old."

  "How old was he?"

  "Early thirties, maybe. Older than I was, anyway."

  "How was he dressed?"

  "Not too good. He had on a kind of brown suit that didn't fit too well. I remember thinking at the time, it looked like he got it at the Starvation Army."

  "Did you take him in to see Mr. Chantry?"

  "She did. They were in the studio talking for quite a while, all three of them."

  "What were they talking about?" I said.

  "I didn't listen in. They closed the door, and that's a solid oak door about three inches thick. After a while, she brought him out and sent him on his way."

  Mackendrick made a contemptuous dry spitting sound. "You just got through telling us that you buried him. Are you withdrawing that statement?"

  "No, sir. That was later in the week, when he came back with the woman and the little boy."

  "What woman? What little boy?"

  "She was a woman around thirty, I'd say. Pretty good figure, otherwise nothing much to look at-kind of a blah brunette. Her little boy was around seven or eight. He was very quiet. He didn't ask questions the way kids usually do. In fact, I didn't hear him say a word the whole time he was there. And no wonder. He must have been right there when it happened."

  "What did happen?"

  Rico answered slowly, "I don't know for sure. I didn't _see_ it happen. But after it was all over, there was this body in the greenhouse scrunched up in a big old sack. She said he had a stroke and fell and hit his head and died on her. She said she didn't want any trouble, so I should bury him. She said if I would be nice to her and bury him, then she would be nice to me."

  "So you've been in her bed for the last twenty-five years," Mackendrick said with distaste. "And this poor bastard has been in the ground feeding her orchids. Isn't that right?"

  Rico lowered his head and looked at the scarred floor between his feet. "I guess it is. But I didn't kill him."

  "You covered up for whoever did. Who did?"

  "I don't know. I didn't see it happen."

  "In the course of twenty-five years in her bed, did you ever think of asking her who killed him?"

  "No, sir. It wasn't my business."

  "It is now. You're all in this together, I guess you know that-you and Mr. Chantry and Mrs. Chantry and the brunette with the little boy." Mackendrick picked up the skull again and held it, like a memento mori, close to Rico's face. "Are you sure this isn't Mr. Chantry?"

  "No, sir. I mean yes, sir, I'm sure it isn't."

  "What makes you sure? You buried him in a sack."

  "She said it was the other man-the man in the brown suit."

  "But all you have is her word for it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mrs. Chantry's word for it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Mackendrick gave the skull a long sad look, which he transferred to me. "Do you have any questions you want to ask him?"

  "Thanks, I do, Captain." I turned back to Rico. "Assuming this skull isn't Richard Chantry's, what do you think happened to Richard Chantry?"

  "I always thought he just walked away."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know why."

  "Did you ever see him again, or hear from him?"

  "No, sir. He left this letter behind-you've probably seen it in the art museum."

  "I've seen it. When did he write it?"

  "I don't know."

  "Between the time he killed this man and the time he walked away?"

  "I don't know when he wrote it. I never saw him or talked to him after that day."

  "Did Mrs. Chantry tell you where he went?"

  "No, sir. I don't believe she knew."

  "Did he take anything with him?"

  "Not that I know of. _She_ looked after his things after he left."

  "Was Mrs. Chantry unhappy about his leaving?"

  "I don't know. She didn't talk to me about it."

  "Not even in bed?"

  Rico flushed. "No, sir."

  "What about the dark-haired woman and the little boy? Did you ever see them again?"

  "No, sir. I didn't go out looking for them, either. They were none of my business."

  "What is your business, Rico?"

  "Looking after the house and the people. I do the best I can."

  "There's only one person left in the house, isn't that right?"

  "I guess so. Mrs. Chantry."

  I turned to Mackendrick. "Do you think she'll answer questions?"

  "I'm not ready to ask them," Mackendrick said in a strained voice. "I have to check with the higher-ups on this."

  I wanted to go on checking with the lower-downs, but I needed Mackendrick's cooperation. I waited until Rico had been taken out and placed in a holding cell. When Mackendrick and I were alone in his office with the skull and bones, I told him briefly what had happened, or what I thought had happened, to Betty Siddon.

  Mackendrick fidgeted at his desk. His face flushed and became obtuse, as if his circuits were getting overloaded.

  Finally he broke in: "I can't do anything about the Siddon woman tonight. I wouldn't even if I had the men. Women are always taking off on their own little business. She's a goodlooking piece; she's probably sacked out in her boyfriend's apartment."

  I came close to taking a swing at Mackendrick. I sat and contained my rage, which boiled cold in my head like liquid gas. I told myself to watch it. If I let myself go out of control, as I had been threatening to do all evening, I could find myself locked out of the case, or possibly locked into a holding cell, like Rico.

  I concentrated on the skull on the desk, reminding myself that men were supposed to calm down as they got older. When I had myself in hand, I said, "I sort of am her boyfriend."

  "I thought so. I still don't have the men to go around knocking on doors. You don't have to worry about her, take my word for it. She's a smart girl and this is her town. If she doesn't turn up overnight, we'll reassess the situation in the morning."

  He was beginning to talk like a chief of police. I caught myself hoping that he would never make it. But I seemed to have been elected to help him on his way.

  "May I make a couple of suggestions, Captain? And a couple of requests?"

  He cast an impatient glance at the electric clock on the wall: it registered close to midnight. "You've earned the right to that."

  "We should try to pinpoint the date of this man's death. It should coincide with the date of Chantry's disappearance. That date should be checked for other disappearances, here and in the whole Southern California area, particularly the hospitals and asylums. This man sounds like a possible mental patient." I reached out and touched the
poor broken skull.

  "We do all that as a matter of routine," Mackendrick said.

  "Sure. But this isn't a routine situation. I think you should start burning up the wires."

  "Because you're worried about your girl?"

  "I'm worried about her and several other people. This isn't just past history that we're dealing with. There are crimes in the present, too, including the crime of murder. And I have a feeling that they're all connected."

  "How?"

  "Probably through the disappearance of Chantry. That seems to be the central event in the series." I briefly rehearsed the others, beginning with the apparent murder of William Mead in Arizona thirty-two years before, and concluding with the deaths of the art dealers Paul Grimes and Jacob Whitmore.

  "What makes you so certain that they're connected?"

  "Because the people are connected. Grimes was Chantry's teacher and very good friend. Grimes bought the picture of Mildred Mead from Whitmore. William Mead was Chantry's half brother, and incidentally the son of Mildred Mead. Mildred seems to be one of the two central women in the case. The other one is Mrs. Chantry, of course. If we could get hold of those women and get them talking-"

  "Mrs. Chantry is out," Mackendrick said, "at least for the present. I can't bring her in for questioning on Rico's say-so." He looked at me as if he were about to say more, but fell silent.

  "What about Mildred Mead?"

  Mackendrick reddened in anger or embarrassment. "Who is this Mildred Mead? I never heard of her before."

  I showed him my photograph of her picture and told him the story that went with it. "She probably knows more about the background of this case than anybody else. With the possible exception of Mrs. Chantry."

  "Where can we find Mildred Mead? Does she live here in town?"

  "She did until recently. She probably still does, in one of the nursing homes. She's the woman that Betty Siddon was looking for."

  Mackendrick sat and looked at me. His face passed moonlike through a number of phases, from anger and disgust to acceptance touched with heavy humor.

  "Okay," he said, "you win. We'll make the rounds of the nursing homes and see if we can find those two women."

  "May I come?"

  "No. I'm going to supervise this search myself."

  XXXII

  I told myself that it was time I talked to Fred again. It was Mrs. Chantry I really wanted to talk to. But Mackendrick had placed her off-limits and I didn't want to cross him just as he was beginning to cooperate.

  I drove across town and parked on Olive Street. The shadows under the trees were as thick and dark as old blood. The tall gray gabled house looked cheerful by comparison, with lights on all three stories. There was an interplay of voices behind the front door.

  My knocking silenced the voices. Mrs. Johnson came to the door in her white uniform. Her eyes were bright with emotions I couldn't read. Her face was gray and slack. She looked like a woman who had been pushed to her limit and might break down under further pressure.

  "What is it?" she said.

  "I thought I'd come by and see how Fred is doing. I just found out that he'd been released."

  "Thanks to Mr. Lackner." Her voice had risen, as if I weren't the only one she was talking to. "Do you know Mr. Lackner? He's in the front room with Fred."

  The long-haired young lawyer gave me a grip that seemed to have become more powerful in the course of the day. He smiled and called me by name and said that it was nice to see me again. I smiled and congratulated him on his quick work.

  Even Fred was smiling for a change, but rather dubiously, as if he had no established right to feel good. The room itself had a tentative air, like a stage set for a play that had closed down soon after opening, a long time ago. The old chesterfield and matching chairs sagged almost to the floor. The curtains at the windows were slightly tattered. There were threadbare places in the carpet where the wooden floor almost showed through.

  Like a ghost who haunted the ruined house, Mr. Johnson appeared at the doorway. His face-including his eyes-was red and moist. His breath was like an inconstant wind that had lost its way in a winery. He looked at me without recognition but with dislike, as if I had done him a bad turn in his unremembered past.

  "Do I know you?"

  "Of course you do," Mrs. Johnson said. "Certainly you know him. This is Mr. Archer."

  "I thought so. You're the man who put my boy in jail."

  Fred jumped up white and shaking. "That isn't so, Dad. Please don't say things like that."

  "I'll say them when they're true. Are you calling me a liar?"

  Lackner stepped between the father and son. "This is no time for family quarrels," he said. "We're all happy here-all together and all happy, isn't that right?"

  "I'm not happy," Johnson said. "I'm miserable, and you want to know why? Because this sneaking bastard here"-he pointed a wavering forefinger at me-"is lousing up the atmosphere in my front room. And I want it clearly understood that if he stays one minute longer I'll bloody well kill him." He lurched toward me. "Do you understand that, you bastard? You bastard that brought my son home and put him in jail."

  "I brought him home," I said. "I didn't put him in jail. That was somebody else's idea."

  "But you masterminded it. I know that. You know that."

  I turned to Mrs. Johnson. "I think I better leave."

  "No. Please." She pressed her doughy face with her fingers. "He isn't himself tonight. He's been drinking heavily all day. He's terribly sensitive; he can't stand all these pressures. Can you, dear?"

  "Stop sniveling," he said. "You've been sneaking and sniveling all your life, and that's all right when there's no one around but us chickens. Just don't let down your guard when this man is in the house. He means us no good, you know that. And if he doesn't get out of here while I count to ten, I'll throw him out bodily."

  I almost laughed in his face. He was a stout unsteady man whose speech was fed by synthetic energy. Perhaps there had been a time, many years ago, when he was capable of carrying out his threats. But he was fat and flaccid, prematurely aged by alcohol. His face and frame were so draped with adipose tissue that I couldn't imagine what he had looked like as a young man.

  Johnson began to count. Lackner and I looked at each other and left the room together. Johnson came stumbling after us, still counting, and slammed the front door behind us.

  "Gosh," Lackner said. "What makes a man act that way?"

  "Too much to drink. He's a far-gone alcoholic."

  "I can see that for myself. But why does he drink like that?"

  "Pain," I said. "The pain of being himself. He's been cooped up in that run-down house for God knows how many years. Probably since Fred was a boy. Trying to drink himself to death and not succeeding."

  "I still don't understand it."

  "Neither do I, really. Every drunk has his own reason. But all of them tend to end up the same, with a soft brain and a diseased liver."

  As if we were both looking for someone to blame, Lackner and I glanced up at the sky. Above the dark olive trees that marched in single file along this side of the street, the sky was clouded and the stars were hidden.

  "The fact is," Lackner said, "I don't know what to make of the boy, either."

  "Do you mean Fred?"

  "Yes. I realize I shouldn't call him a boy. He must be almost as old as I am."

  "I believe he's thirty-two."

  "Really? Then he's a year older than I am. He seems terribly immature for his age."

  "His mental growth has been stunted, too, living in this house."

  "What's so much the matter with this house? Actually, if it were fixed up, it could be quite elegant. It probably was at one time."

  "The people in it are the matter," I said. "There are certain families whose members should all live in different towns-different states, if possible-and write each other letters once a year. You might suggest that to Fred, provided you can keep him out of jail."

  "I thin
k I can do that. Mrs. Biemeyer isn't feeling vindictive. In fact, she's a pretty nice woman when you talk to her outside of the family circle."

  "It's another one of those families that should write letters once a year," I said. "And forget to mail them. It's really no accident that Fred and Doris got together. Neither of their homes is broken, exactly, but they're both badly bent. So are Fred and Doris."

  Lackner wagged his coiffed and bearded head. In the dim clouded moonlight, I felt for a moment that some ancient story was being repeated, that we had all been here before. I couldn't remember exactly what the story was or how it ended. But I felt that the ending somehow depended on me.

  I said to Lackner, "Did Fred ever explain to you why he took that picture in the first place?"

  "Not in any satisfactory way, no. Has he talked to you about it?"

  "He wanted to demonstrate his expertise," I said. "Prove to the Biemeyers that he was good for something. Those were his conscious reasons, anyway."

  "What were his unconscious reasons?"

  "I don't really know. It would take a panel of psychiatrists to answer that, and they won't tell. But, like a lot of other people in this town, Fred seems to have a fixation on Richard Chantry."

  "Do you think the painting was really Chantry's work?"

  "Fred thinks so, and he's the expert."

  "He doesn't claim to be," Lackner said. "He's just a student."

  "Fred's entitled to an opinion, though. And I think it's his opinion that Chantry painted the picture recently, maybe sometime this year."

  "How could he know?"

  "By the condition of the paint. He says."

  "Do you believe that, Mr. Archer?"

  "I didn't until tonight. I was pretty well taking it for granted that Richard Chantry was long dead."

  "But now you don't."

  "Now I don't. I think Chantry is alive and kicking."

  "Where?"

  "Possibly here in town," I said. "I don't go in much for hunches. But I've got a funny feeling tonight, as if Chantry was breathing on the back of my neck and looking over my shoulder."

  I was on the verge of telling Lackner about the human remains that Mrs. Chantry and Rico had dug up in her greenhouse. It wasn't public knowledge yet, and it would have been a violation of my basic rule. Never tell anyone more than he needs to know, because he'll tell somebody else.