Meet Me at the Morgue

by Ross Macdonald

  On the whole he had been lucky, as I said. His life had been salvaged, and my department had a stake in it. He’d fallen, been caught before he hit the bottom, and hoisted back to the moral tightrope that everyone has to walk every day.

  But a man on probation walks his own high wire without a net. If he falls twice, he falls hard, into prison.

  CHAPTER 2: A burst of voices from the outer office broke into my thoughts. I switched off the Dictaphone. One of the voices was Ann’s. She seemed to be trying to quiet another voice, which rose and fell in surges of emotion. One of her juvenile clients, I thought, having a tantrum or a crying spell.

  When I thought that it had lasted long enough, I opened the pebbled glass door. A woman who was far from juvenile was slumped in the interview chair beside Ann’s desk. Under a cheap, print house-dress, her body was long and angular. Ann was bent over her with one hand on her gaunt shoulder.

  I recognized her when she lifted her face in the light. She seemed to have aged ten years in the three months since I had seen her. There were strands of gray like steel shavings caught in her straight brown hair. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her mouth was distraught.

  “What’s the trouble, Mrs. Miner?”

  “Terrible trouble.” With difficulty, she controlled the trembling of her lips. “It came down on me out of a blue sky.”

  I looked at Ann.

  “I don’t quite know what she means,” she said. “It’s something about a kidnapping. Mrs. Miner is afraid her husband is involved in some way.”

  “No!” the woman cried. “It isn’t true. Fred couldn’t do a thing like that. He couldn’t, I ought to know. We’ve been married for ten years, and Fred is the kindest man. He loves that boy.”

  I crossed the room and stood over her. “Has the Johnson boy been kidnapped?”

  She raised her wet black lashes. “Yes, and they’re accusing Fred. They claim he stole the boy and ran away with him. But it’s a lie.” Her voice broke in a storm of grief.

  “Mrs. Miner says there’s a plot against him.” Ann leaned towards me and added in a whisper: “Do you think she’s having delusions of persecution?”

  “Nonsense,” I said, more loudly than I intended.

  Mrs. Miner jerked herself upright, dislodging Ann’s hand from her shoulder. “Don’t you believe me? It’s the truth I’m telling you. Jamie’s been stolen away, and Fred’s been framed to take the blame for it.” Under the thin flesh, her high cheekbones stood out as if grief had washed them bare.

  “Take it easy,” I said. “I can’t believe you or disbelieve you until I’ve heard what happened. Bring her a drink of water, will you, Miss Devon?”

  “Of course.” Ann filled a paper cup at the earthenware cooler and brought it to Mrs. Miner. “There you are, dear.”

  With a shaking hand, she raised the cup to her pale unpainted lips. Some of the water spilled down the front of her dress. She gulped the rest of it and crushed the cup in her fist. Her knuckles were red and cracked from housework.

  “Now tell Mr. Cross what you told me,” Ann prompted her.

  “I’ll try.” She made an effort to be calm. Above the square-cut collar of her dress, the cords in her neck bulged taut like thin ropes. “You saw my husband this morning? He said he was coming here to talk to Mr. Linebarge.”

  “He was here. Mr. Linebarge wasn’t, but I talked to him.”

  “Did he look to you like he was planning a crime? Did he? Is that the way he looked?”

  I felt a repetition of the qualms I had had that morning, talking to Fred. “Perhaps I’d better ask the questions, Mrs. Miner. You say your husband’s been accused of kidnapping Jamie Johnson. Who accused him?”

  “Mr. Johnson.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “No grounds at all. It’s a plot.” The stiff movement of her jaws gave her speech an oddly ventriloquial effect.

  “You’ve said that. Can’t you tell me anything more definite? I take it they’re both gone.”

  “Both of them, vanished like smoke.” One of her hands flipped up in an involuntary gesture. She returned it, clenched, to her lap. “It doesn’t mean my Fred is guilty. It means the opposite. It means foul play.”

  “Nobody knows where they are?”

  “Somebody knows. I don’t, but somebody knows. Whoever it is behind all this, they know.” Her mouth was tight and hissing. Her eyes glared like brown glass.

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “A conspiracy,” she said, “that’s what it is.”

  Ann and I looked at each other. I was half inclined to agree with her that Mrs. Miner had been unbalanced by the shock of events.

  “He’s got a big black mark against him,” she was saying, “and they know that. It’s a criminal conspiracy to put the blame on him, for stealing the child.”

  “Has Jamie really been kidnapped?”

  “I’m telling the truth,” she said fiercely. “What do you think?”

  “I think you may be exaggerating a little.” I looked at my wrist-watch. “It’s twenty to twelve now. I saw the boy with Fred less than three hours ago. There was no trouble then.”

  She leaned towards me, her thin face avid for any kind of hope. “I knew it. Fred loved the boy like his own son. I knew there couldn’t be trouble between them, only Mr. Johnson won’t take my word for it. He’s blaming Fred. They’re all down on him now, even Mr. Johnson. He said he made a terrible mistake when he saved Fred from going to prison.”

  Ann said in surprise: “Does Mr. Johnson think his son has been kidnapped?”

  “He knows it.”

  “How can he know it?” I said. “The boy’s only been gone since nine o’clock. Fred told me he had orders to take him for a drive.”

  “I don’t know about that.” The authority of special information had restored some of her self-control. “All I know is, I saw the ransom letter with my own eyes. It came in the mail this morning. I took it up to the main house myself. I was there when Mr. Johnson opened it.”

  Ann and I looked at each other in silence. The first stroke of the three-quarter-hour fell from the courthouse tower like a bomb of sound, a giant exclamation-mark at the end of the woman’s statement. Between the first stroke and the third the situation changed palpably. Even the familiar room altered in appearance.

  I echoed stupidly: “A ransom letter?”

  “Yes. It came in the mail this morning.”

  “Did it mention Fred?”

  “Of course it didn’t. He’s got nothing to do with this, can’t you believe me? It gave instructions like for paying the money. It wasn’t even signed.”

  “How much, Mrs. Miner?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  Ann whistled. Fifty thousand dollars would pay her salary for nearly twenty years, and mine for nearly ten.

  “He called the police, I hope.”

  “No. He didn’t. He was afraid to. The letter said if he did they’d kill the boy.”

  “Where’s Johnson now?”

  “He came into town to raise the money. I haven’t seen him since he left the house. He was in an awful rush. The letter only gave him till eleven o’clock.”

  “You mean the money’s been paid already?”

  “I guess so. He was going to pay it all right. He dotes on that boy.” She added defensively: “No more than Fred, though.”

  “I know that. Tell me this. Have you any idea where Fred is?”

  “I only wish I had. He didn’t tell me, except about Mr. Linebarge. He said he was coming here, and that’s all.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Not him. He kept things to himself.”

  “Do you know if he took the boy without permission?”

  “That’s what Mrs. Johnson says. Fred never did it before. Fred always tried to do the right thing.”

  Ann said: “Is Mrs. Johnson out there alone?”

  “As far as I know she is. She’s taking it calm enough, or I wouldn’t have left her. When they
started making these accusations, I had to come in and see—”

  I interrupted her: “We’d better go out there. Do you have a car, Mrs. Miner?”

  “We had. Fred had to sell it to pay his fine. I rode in on the bus.”

  “I’ll drive you out.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the Federal Bureau?” Ann said.

  “Not without talking to Johnson first. It’s his boy.”

  CHAPTER 3: I knew Abel Johnson slightly. He had come into the office in February to discuss the Miner case, and Alex had introduced us. Johnson was an expansive middle-aged man who was supposed to have made a moderate fortune in San Diego real estate during the war. A year or so after the war ended he retired to Pacific Point and bought a country house a few miles out of town. There he settled down with his wife and baby son.

  The courthouse gossips said that he had been seriously ill and had married his nurse. I had never met Mrs. Johnson. Johnson himself was regarded as a leading citizen. He was a heavy contributor to local charities and a member of the retired executives’ club. If his son had really been kidnapped, there was going to be a great deal of strong public feeling.

  Mrs. Miner acted as if she knew that. She hung back at the foot of the Annex stairs, watching the Saturday noon crowd with a kind of terror. Ann Devon had to coax her across the sidewalk and into my car. She walked stumbling, with her head bowed, like someone carrying a heavy burden. Once in the car, she shrank into a corner of the back seat and covered her eyes with her hand as if the sunlight hurt them. As we drove out of town, I heard her crying quietly to herself.

  Pacific Point lay on the coastal slope at the ocean’s edge. Driving up the terraced ridge of foothills behind the town, I could see the curved spit of land which had given the city its name, half enclosing the oval blue lagoon. The harbor and the sea beyond it were flecked with sails.

  The road gained the crest of the ridge and curved along it briefly. Far ahead and to my left, Catalina floated like a shadowy dreadnaught on the northwest horizon. Below and to my right, a dark green inland sea of orange groves flowed calm between the foothills and the mountains. It was a bright May day, but the colors of the country failed to lift me. They only emphasized the strangeness of our errand.

  A black-top road branched off to the right. A black and white wooden sign at the fork announced: PACIFIC POINT CITY LIMITS. POPULATION 34,197. ELEVATION 21. There was a yellow Bus Stop sign beside it.

  The woman in the back seat said in a muffled voice: “You turn off here.”

  I turned. Ann, who was riding beside me, touched my arm significantly. “This is where it happened,” she whispered. “They found the body here, just below the crossroads.”

  Even in full daylight, it was a lonely place. Though I knew there were houses within earshot, they were the hidden houses of the rich. The road was masked on both sides by high laurel hedges and overarched by eucalyptus trees whose fallen leaves crackled under the wheels. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Miner’s face in the rear-view mirror. There was remembered horror on it. She might have just seen the dead man in the road.

  A couple of miles further on, she said: “You better slow down, Mr. Cross. It’s a sharp turn into the drive.”

  I did as she suggested, and turned between stone gateposts onto fresh gravel. A weathering stone gatehouse stood behind a planting of Monterey cypress. Its small geometric garden was vivid with flowers.

  Ann turned to speak to Mrs. Miner: “Do you want to get out here? Isn’t this where you live?”

  “I guess not after today. We’ll be out in the street.”

  “You’d better come along with us,” I said. “You know Mrs. Johnson and I don’t.”

  “All right.”

  “Are you employed by the Johnsons?” Ann asked her.

  “Not regular. She don’t—she doesn’t like regular servants around the house, she’s very independent. I help her with her cleaning, though. And when she throws a party I always pitch in.”

  The main house stood a few hundred feet below the gatehouse, near the edge of a ravine. It was a flat-roofed structure of redwood and stone, built around three sides of a patio. I parked on the turnaround at the rear. There were two cars in the garages, and places for two others. One was the heavy black Lincoln sedan that had killed a man.

  A red-haired woman in a green dress opened the back door and stepped out onto the small delivery-porch. She carried a light shotgun under her arm. When I was halfway out of the car, she leveled it at me. I got back in and let the door close itself.

  Her voice rang out: “Who are you? What do you want?”

  An echo from the hillside repeated the questions idiotically.

  “I’m the County Probation Officer.”

  She called again over the steady gun: “What do you want?”

  “To help you if I can.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  The woman in the back seat leaned forward to the window: “Mrs. Johnson! It’s me. Mr. Cross drove me out.”

  The red-haired woman showed no enthusiasm. “Where do you think you’ve been?” But she lowered the gun.

  Mrs. Miner poked me timidly between the shoulder blades. “Is it all right if I get out?”

  “We all will.” I was feeling a trifle let down. Johnson’s wife had none of the earmarks of a damsel in distress. She handled a gun as if she knew how to use it.

  On closer inspection, however, she showed her strain. Approaching her rather gingerly, I saw that her skin was bloodless, almost paper-white. Her eyes were opaque and too steady, like green stones. A tremor ran through her body spasmodically.

  I looked to see that the safety was on the shotgun. It was.

  “Why the armament, Mrs. Johnson?”

  “I didn’t know who it was. I thought if they came—”

  “The kidnappers?”

  “Yes. I intended to kill them.” She added quietly: “I only have the one child.”

  With her fiery hair and fair bold brow, her rather heavy lower lip pushed out, she looked capable of killing. She was like a young lioness robbed of her cub. She stood with her legs braced apart, holding the gun at waist level in front of her like a bar. Her body hadn’t yet learned from her mind, or had forgotten, that we were friends.

  “It’s really true, then,” Ann said.

  “I told you,” said Mrs. Miner.

  The red-haired woman turned on her: “You weren’t to call the police! Haven’t you got it through your skull that Jamie’s life is in danger?”

  “I’m not the police,” I said. “Mrs. Miner has been trying to trace her husband’s movements. He came to our office this morning.”

  “Was Jamie with him?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, he introduced me to Jamie. I’m no mind-reader, but he didn’t act like a man planning a kidnapping.”

  Mrs. Miner gave me a grateful look.

  “I’m not one to jump to conclusions,” Mrs. Johnson said.

  “My husband did, I’m afraid—he’s excitable. For myself, I won’t believe that Fred Miner did such a thing to us. Not until I see the actual proof of it.”

  “Did you authorize him to take Jamie for a ride?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “He told me this morning that you had.”

  “No, I wasn’t even up when they left. I took a pill last night. I don’t usually sleep so late. Jamie didn’t even have breakfast.” The homely detail overcame her suddenly. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Mrs. Miner laid a worn hand on her arm. “I gave him a banana and an orange. That was about eight o’clock, a little after. Fred drove him up from the garage in the Jaguar. He told me he was going into town, that he had a matter to discuss with Mr. Linebarge. I naturally thought you gave him permission.”

  “I didn’t. Neither did my husband.” There was a frantic overtone in her voice.

  Ann said briskly: “May we come in, Mrs. Johnson? I’d like to make you some coffee.”

  “You’re very kind. Please come in.�
� After its spasm of aggression, her body slumped wearily against the doorpost. I took the shotgun out of her hands before she dropped it, and set it in the corner behind the door.

  “I’ll make the coffee,” Mrs. Miner said to Ann. “I know where everything is. She could probably use a bite to eat, too.”

  In the presence of the other woman’s distress, Mrs. Miner had recovered her composure. She managed to give me a faint rueful smile as I passed her in the kitchen. Ann stayed in the kitchen with her.

  CHAPTER 4: I followed Mrs. Johnson through the house into the central living-room. It was very large, perhaps twenty feet high and forty feet long. One entire wall was occupied by a semi-hexagonal window that overhung the ravine and revealed the valley beyond it.

  She went to the window and stood with her back to me, looking out. Against the expanse of space, her figure seemed tiny and forlorn. It was a big country, and a four-year-old boy was a very small object to look for.

  She said to herself, or to the distant, gray mountains: “It’s a judgment on me. Everything has been easy and soft for me, since I married Abel. You pay for a little happiness in this life. I’d almost forgotten that. You pay for one thing with another.”

  I came up behind her, my footfalls soft on the rug. “I don’t blame you for feeling fatalistic, Mrs. Johnson. I don’t think you’re right, though.”

  “What I said is true. I married money, I thought I was one of the lucky ones. I was. They single out the lucky ones for terrible blows like this. They’d have left us alone if we were poor. I wish I was poor again. I’d give everything I have.” Her eyes ranged the lofty room, the paneled walls, the costly furniture. “Money is a curse, do you know it?”

  “Not necessarily. Poor people have their bad times, too. I spend most of my working-time with poor people in trouble.”

  Her glance lighted on my face and stayed. The green eyes had cleared, and seemed to be seeing me for the first time. “Who did you say you were?”