The Barbarous Coast

by Ross Macdonald

  His choice of words annoyed me, and I let the annoyance show. He gave me an appealing look, which fell with a thud between us:

  “Can I trust you, really trust you?”

  “So long as it’s legal.”

  “Oh, heavens, it’s legal. I am in a bit of a jam, though, through no fault of my own. It’s not what I’ve done, but what people might think I’ve done. You see, there’s a woman involved.”

  “George Wall’s wife?”

  His face came apart at the seams. He tried to put it together again around the fixed point of the pipe, which he jammed into his mouth. But he couldn’t control the grimace tugging like hooks at the end of his lips.

  “You know her? Does everybody know?”

  “Everybody soon will if George Wall keeps hanging around. I ran into him on my way in—”

  “Good God, he is on the grounds, then.”

  Bassett crossed the room in awkward flight. He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a medium-caliber automatic.

  “Put that thing away,” I said. “If you’re worried about your reputation, gunfire can really blow it to hell. Wall was outside the gate, trying to get in. He didn’t make it. He did give me a message for you: he won’t leave until you see him. Over.”

  “Damn it, man, why didn’t you say so? Here we’ve been wasting time.”

  “You have.”

  “All right. We won’t quarrel. We’ve got to get him away from here before any members come.”

  He glanced at the chronometer strapped to his right wrist, and accidentally pointed the automatic at me.

  “Put the gun down, Bassett. You’re too upset to be handling a gun.”

  He laid it on the embossed blotter in front of him and gave me a shamefaced smile. “Sorry. I am a bit nervy. I’m not accustomed to these alarums and excursions.”

  “What’s all the excitement about?”

  “Young Wall seems to have some melodramatic notion that I stole his wife from him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Don’t be absurd. The girl is young enough to be my daughter.” His eyes were wet with embarrassment. “My relations with her have always been perfectly proper.”

  “You do know her, then?”

  “Of course. I’ve known her for years—much longer than George Wall has. She’s been using the pool for diving practice ever since she was in her teens. She’s not far out of her teens now, as a matter of fact. She can’t be more than twenty-one or two.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Hester Campbell, the diver. You may have heard of her. She came close to winning the national championship a couple of years ago. Then she dropped out of sight. Her family moved away from here and she gave up amateur competition. I had no idea that she was married, until she turned up here again.”

  “When was this?”

  “Five or six months ago. Six months ago, in June. She seemed to have had quite a bad time of it. She’d toured with an aquacade for a while, lost her job and been stranded in Toronto. Met this young Canadian sportswriter and married him in desperation. Apparently the marriage didn’t work out. She left him after less than a year together, and came back here. She was on her uppers, and rather beaten, spiritually. Naturally I did what I could for her. I persuaded the board to let her use the pool for diving instruction, on a commission basis. She did rather well at that while the summer season lasted. And when she lost her pupils, I’m frank to say I helped her out financially for a bit.” He spread his hands limply. “If that’s a crime, then I’m a criminal.”

  “If that’s all there is to it, I don’t see what you’re afraid of.”

  “You don’t understand—you don’t understand the position I’m in, the enmities and intrigues I have to contend with here. There’s a faction among the membership who would like to see me discharged. If George Wall made it appear that I was using my place to procure young women—”

  “How could he do that?”

  “I mean if he brought court action, as he threatened to. An unprincipled lawyer could make some kind of case against me. The girl told me that she planned a divorce, and I suppose I wasn’t thoroughly discreet. I was seen in her company more than once. As a matter of fact, I cooked several dinners for her.” His color rose slightly. “Cooking is one of my hobby-horses. I realize now it wasn’t wise to invite her into my home.”

  “He can’t do anything with that. This isn’t the Victorian age.”

  “It is in certain circles. You just don’t grasp how precarious my position is. I’m afraid the accusation would be enough.”

  “Aren’t you exaggerating?”

  “I hope I am. I don’t feel it.”

  “My advice to you is, level with Wall. Tell him the facts.”

  “I tried to, on the telephone last night. He refused to listen. The man’s insane with jealousy. You’d think I had his wife hidden somewhere.”

  “You haven’t, though?”

  “Of course not. I haven’t seen her since the early part of September. She left here suddenly without a good-by or a thank-you. She didn’t even leave a forwarding address.”

  “Run off with a man?”

  “It’s more than likely,” he said.

  “Tell Wall that. In person.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly. The man’s a raving maniac, he’d assault me.”

  Bassett ran tense fingers through his hair. It was soaked at the temples, and little rivulets ran down in front of his ears. He took the folded handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped his face with it. I began to feel a little sorry for him. Physical cowardice hurts like nothing else.

  “I can handle him,” I said. “Call the gate. If he’s still up there, I’ll go and bring him down.”

  “Here?”

  “Unless you can think of a better place.”

  After a nervous moment, he said: “I suppose I have to see him. I can’t leave him rampaging around in public. There are several members due for their morning dip at any moment.”

  His voice took on a religious coloring whenever he mentioned the members. They might have belonged to a higher race, supermen or avenging angels. And Bassett himself had a slipping toehold on the edge of the earthly paradise. Reluctantly, he picked up the intramural phone:

  “Tony? Mr. Bassett. Is that young maniac still rampaging around? … Are you certain? Absolutely certain? … Well, fine. Let me know if he shows up again.” He replaced the receiver.

  “Gone?”

  “It seems so.” He inhaled deeply through his open mouth. “Torres says he took off on foot some time ago. I’d appreciate it, though, if you stayed around for a bit, just in case.”

  “All right. This trip is costing you twenty-five dollars, anyway.”

  He took the hint and paid me in cash from a drawer. Then he got an electric razor and a mirror out of another drawer. I sat and watched him shave his face and neck. He clipped the hairs in his nostrils with a tiny pair of scissors, and plucked a few hairs out of his eyebrows. It was the sort of occasion that made me hate the job of guarding bodies.

  I looked over the books on the desk. There were a Dun and Bradstreet, a Southern California Blue Book, a motion-picture almanac for the previous year, and a thick volume bound in worn green cloth and entitled, surprisingly, The Bassett Family. I opened this to the title page, which stated that the book was an account of the genealogy and achievements of the descendants of William Bassett, who landed in Massachusetts in 1634; down to the outbreak of the World War in 1914. By Clarence Bassett.

  “I don’t suppose you’d be interested,” Bassett said, “but it’s quite an interesting story to a member of the family. My father wrote that book: he occupied his declining years with it. We really did have a native aristocracy in New England, you know—governors, professors, divines, men of affairs.”

  “I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to bore you,” he said in a lighter tone, almost self-mocking. “Curiously enough, I’m the last
of my branch of the family who bears the name of Bassett. It’s the one sole reason I have for regretting my not having married. But then I’ve never been the philoprogenitive type.”

  Leaning forward toward the mirror, he began to squeeze a blackhead out of one of the twin grooves that ran from the base of his nose. I got up and roamed along the walls, examining the photographs. I was stopped by one of three divers, a man and two girls, taking off in unison from the high tower. Their bodies hung clear of the tower against a light summer sky, arched in identical swan dives, caught at the height of their parabolas before gravity took hold and snatched them back to earth.

  “That’s Hester on the left,” Bassett said behind me.

  Her body was like an arrow. Her bright hair was combed back by the wind from the oval blur of her face. The girl on the right was a dark brunette, equally striking in her full-breasted way. The man in the middle was dark, too, with curly black hair and muscles that looked hammered out of bronze.

  “It’s one of my favorite photographs,” Bassett said. “It was taken a couple of years ago, when Hester was in training for the nationals.”

  “Taken here?”

  “Yes. We let her use our tower for practicing, as I said.”

  “Who are her friends in the picture?”

  “The boy used to be our lifeguard. The girl was a young friend of Hester’s. She worked in the snack bar here, but Hester was grooming her for competitive diving.”

  “Is she still around?”

  “I’m afraid not.” His face lengthened. “Gabrielle was killed.”

  “In a diving accident?”

  “Hardly. She was shot.”

  “Murdered?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Who did it to her?”

  “The crime was never solved. I doubt that it ever will be now. It happened nearly two years ago, in March of last year.”

  “What did you say her name was?”

  “Gabrielle. Gabrielle Torres.”

  “Any relation to Tony?”

  “She was his daughter.”

  chapter 3

  THERE was a heavy knock on the door. Bassett shied like a frightened horse.

  “Who is it?”

  The knock was repeated. I went to the door. Bassett neighed at me:

  “Don’t open it.”

  I turned the key in the lock and opened the door a few inches against my foot and shoulder. George Wall was outside. His face was greenish-gray in the reflected light. The torn white meat of his leg showed through a rip in his trousers. He breathed hard into my face:

  “Is he in here?”

  “How did you get in?”

  “I came over the fence. Is Bassett in here?”

  I looked at Bassett. He was crouched behind the desk, with only his white eyes showing, and his black gun. “Don’t let him come in. Don’t let him touch me.”

  “He’s not going to touch you. Put that down.”

  “I will not. I’ll defend myself if I have to.”

  I turned my back on his trigger-happy terror. “You heard him, Wall. He has a gun.”

  “I don’t care what he has. I’ve got to talk to him. Is Hester here?”

  “You’re on the wrong track. He hasn’t seen her for months.”

  “Naturally he says that.”

  “I’m saying it, too. She worked here during the summer, and left some time in September.”

  His puzzled blue look deepened. His tongue moved like a slow red snail across his upper lip. “Why wouldn’t he see me before, if she’s not with him?”

  “You mentioned horsewhipping, remember? It wasn’t exactly the approach diplomatic.”

  “I don’t have time for diplomacy. I have to fly home tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  His shoulder leaned into the opening. I felt his weight on the door. Bassett’s voice rose an octave:

  “Keep him away from me!”

  Bassett was close behind me. I turned with my back against the door and wrenched the gun out of his hand and put it in my pocket. He was too angry and scared to say a word. I turned back to Wall, who was still pressing in but not with all his force. He looked confused. I spread one hand on his chest and pushed him upright and held him. His weight was stubborn and inert, like a stone statue’s.

  A short, broad-shouldered man came down the steps from the vestibule. He walked toward us fussily, almost goose-stepping, glancing out over the pool and at the sea beyond it as if they were his personal possessions. The wind ruffled his crest of silver hair. Self-importance and fat swelled under his beautifully tailored blue flannel jacket. He was paying no attention to the woman trailing along a few paces behind him.

  “Good Lord,” Bassett said in my ear, “it’s Mr. and Mrs. Graff. We can’t have a disturbance in front of Mr. Graff. Let Wall come in. Quickly, man!”

  I let him in. Bassett was at the door, bowing and smiling, when the silver-haired man came up. He paused and chopped the air with his nose. His face was brown and burnished-looking.

  “Bassett? You’ve got the extra help lined up for tonight? Orchestra? Food?”

  “Yes, Mr. Graff.”

  “About drinks. We’ll use the regular bar bourbon, not my private stock. They’re all barbarians, anyway—none of them knows the difference.”

  “Yes, Mr. Graff. Enjoy your swim.”

  “I always enjoy my swim.”

  The woman came up behind him, moving a little dazedly, as though the sunlight distressed her. Her black hair was pulled back severely from a broad, flat brow, to which her Greek nose was joined without indentation. Her face was pale and dead, except for the dark searchlights of her eyes, which seemed to contain all her energy and feeling. She was dressed in black jersey, without ornament, like a widow.

  Bassett bade her good-morning. She answered with sudden animation that it was a lovely day for December. Her husband strode away toward the cabañas. She followed like a detached shadow. Bassett sighed with relief.

  “Is he the Graff in Helio-Graff?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  He edged past Wall to his desk, rested a haunch on one corner, and fumbled with his pipe and tobacco pouch. His hands were shaking. Wall hadn’t moved from the door. His face was red in patches, and I didn’t like the glacial stare of his eyes. I kept my bulk between the two men, watching them in turn like a tennis referee.

  Wall said throatily: “You can’t lie out of it, you must know where she is. You paid for her dancing lessons.”

  “Dancing lessons? I?” Bassett’s surprise sounded real.

  “At the Anton School of Ballet. I spoke to Anton yesterday afternoon. He told me she took some dancing lessons from him, and paid for them with your check.”

  “So that’s what she did with the money I lent her.”

  Wall’s lip curled to one side. “You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you? Why would you lend her money?”

  “I like her.”

  “I bet you do. Where is she now?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. She left here in September. I haven’t set eyes on Miss Campbell since.”

  “The name is Mrs. Wall, Mrs. George Wall. She’s my wife.”

  “I’m beginning to suspect that, old boy. But she used her maiden name when she was with us. She was planning to divorce you, I understood.”

  “Who talked her into that?”

  Bassett gave him a long-suffering look. “If you want the truth, I tried to talk her out of it. I advised her to go back to Canada, to you. But she had other plans.”

  “What other plans?”

  “She wanted a career,” Bassett said with a trace of irony. “She was brought up in the Southland here, you know, and she had the movie fever in her blood. And of course her diving gave her a taste for the limelight. I honestly did my best to talk her out of it. But I’m afraid I made no impression on her. She was determined to find an outlet for her talent—I suppose that explains the dancing lessons.”

  “Does she have talen
t?” I said.

  Wall answered: “She thinks she has.”

  “Come now,” Bassett said with a weary smile. “Let’s give the lady her due. She’s a lovely child, and she could develop—”

  “So you paid for her dancing lessons.”

  “I lent her money. I don’t know how she spent it. She took off from here very suddenly, as I was telling Archer. One day she was living quietly in Malibu, working at her diving, making good contacts here. And the next day she’d dropped out of sight.”

  “What sort of contacts?” I said.

  “A good many of our members are in the industry.”

  “Could she have gone off with one of them?”

  Bassett frowned at the idea. “Certainly not to my knowledge. You understand, I made no attempt to trace her. If she chose to leave, I had no right to interfere.”

  “I have a right.” Wall’s voice was low and choked. “I think you’re lying about it. You know where she is, and you’re trying to put me off.”

  His lower lip and jaw stuck out, changing the shape of his face into something unformed and ugly. His shoulders leaned outward from the door. I watched his fists clench, white around the knuckles.

  “Act your age,” I said.

  “I’ve got to find out where she is, what happened to her.”

  “Wait a minute, George.” Bassett pointed his pipe like a token gun, a wisp of smoke at the stem.

  “Don’t call me George. My friends call me George.”

  “I’m not your enemy, old boy.”

  “And don’t call me old boy.”

  “Young boy, then, if you wish. I was going to say, I’m sorry this ever came up between us. Truly sorry. I’ve done you no harm, believe me, and I wish you well.”

  “Why don’t you help me, then? Tell me the truth: is Hester alive?”

  Bassett looked at him in dismay.

  I said: “What makes you think she isn’t?”

  “Because she was afraid. She was afraid of being killed.”

  “When was this?”

  “The night before last. Christmas night. She phoned long-distance to the flat in Toronto. She was terribly upset, crying into the telephone.”

  “What about?”