The Underground Man

by Ross Macdonald

  “I really have to get in to see my patient,” Jerome said.

  “Perhaps we can have a talk about him some time when you’re free. Whether or not Fritz is innocent, as you say, he has been connected with the main suspect in Stanley’s death.” I told him about Al Sweetner, and Kelsey’s new lead. “And we know Fritz had access to the tools that were used to dig Stanley’s grave. On top of that, he told me that he buried him.”

  The doctor shook his gray head slowly from side to side. “If the sky fell, Fritz would find a way to blame himself. As a matter of fact, there’s a pretty good possibility that Stanley dug his own grave.”

  “The deputy coroner and I were speculating about that possibility.”

  “This isn’t entirely speculation on my part,” Jerome said. “When I examined Stanley’s body just now, I noticed blisters on his hands.”

  “What kind of blisters?”

  “Ordinary water blisters, on the insides of both hands.” He touched the palm of his left hand with the wide spatulate fingers of his right. “The kind of blisters a man gets from digging he isn’t used to. I admit it’s hard to understand why a man would dig his own grave.”

  “He may have been forced to do it.” I said. “Al Sweetner, the man in the wig, was a hard case when he was alive. It’s possible he stood over Stanley with a gun. Or Stanley may have had some other compelling reason.”

  “What reason?”

  “I don’t know. He may have intended to bury somebody else. He had a young girl with him, as well as his son.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I’m on my way to find out.”

  chapter 23

  Dunes Bay was at the end of a winding county road off Highway 1. Above the wind-carved hills of sand which rose northward along the shore, clouds were streaming inland like torn pennants. It looked as if a storm was on the way.

  The kiosk at the entrance to the state park was closed and empty. I drove on through to the parking lot which overlooked the ocean. About three hundred feet out, where the waves were breaking, the white sloop lay on her side. Further out a flock of pelicans circled and dived for fish.

  Three people were watching Ariadne from the beach. They weren’t the three that I was looking for. One was a man in a state park uniform. Near him but not with him, a couple of boys with long sun-faded hair leaned on their surfboards.

  I got my binoculars out of the trunk of my car and focused them on the sloop. She was dismasted, and her rigging hung overside like a torn net. Her hull appeared to be sprung and heavy with water. She rose up sluggishly when the long surge lifted her, then fell back clumsily on her side. My breathing labored as if in empathy.

  I went down to the beach on a wooden walkway half drifted over with sand. The state park man turned to meet me, and I asked him if the young people had been rescued.

  “Yessir. They got ashore.”

  “All three of them?”

  “Yessir. These boys here were a great help.”

  Following his gesture, I looked at the two surfers. They returned my look with a kind of wary pride, as if they distrusted any possible adult approval.

  “They’re okay,” the older one said. They nodded their heads in solemn unison.

  “Where are they now?”

  He shrugged his limber shoulders. “Somebody came and picked them up in a station wagon.”

  “What kind of a station wagon?”

  He pointed toward the park official. “Ask him.”

  I turned to the man, who looked like somebody’s son-in-law. He answered me uncomfortably: “It was a blue Chevy wagon, recent model. I didn’t get the license number. I had no reason to. I didn’t know at the time that they were fugitives.”

  “The little boy isn’t a fugitive. He may be a kidnaping victim.”

  “He didn’t act like one.”

  “How did he act?”

  “Scared. But not scared of them particularly. He went along with them without any trouble.”

  “Where did they take him?”

  “To the station wagon.”

  “I know that. Who was driving it?”

  “A big woman in a wide-brimmed hat.”

  “How did she know they were here?”

  “I let the blond girl use my phone. I had no way of knowing that they—”

  “Can you trace the call?”

  “I don’t see how, unless it was long-distance. I’ll give it a try, though.”

  He plodded toward the walkway, shielding his face against the blowing sand. I followed him up the entrance kiosk and waited while he used the phone inside it. He came out shaking his head, with his hands spread loosely.

  “They don’t seem to have any record of the call.”

  “Have you talked to the police?”

  “They came and went. The sheriff’s captain came out from Petroleum City. But that was after the three of them took off in the Chevy wagon.”

  I went back down to the blundering edge of the sea and took another long look at Ariadne. She flopped in the surge like a bird made helpless by oil. When I turned away, I saw that the older of the two boy surfers had come up quietly behind me.

  “I hate to see it happen to a boat. It gives me bad vibes.”

  “What did happen?”

  “The motor conked out, he said. Before he could get the sails set, the wind blew her in and grounded her. The mast went overboard when she hit. My brother and me saw it happen. We went out on our boards and brought them in.”

  “Was anybody hurt?”

  “He was. He hurt his arm when the rigging went.”

  “What about the little boy?”

  “He’s okay. He got cold, so my brother gave him his blanket. The poor little guy was shivering like he couldn’t stop—I mean it.” The boy was shaking with the cold himself, but maintaining a stoical expression, like a primitive youth enduring an initiation rite.

  “Where did they go from here?”

  He gave me another wary look. “Are you a nark, or what?”

  “I’m a private detective. I’m trying to get the boy back.”

  “The big one with the whiskers?”

  “The little one.”

  “When you said it was a kidnaping, were you telling it like it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t they brother and sister? They said they were.”

  “What else did they say?”

  “The one with the whiskers said that you—that they were after him for shooting speed. Is that right?”

  “No, it isn’t. I want the boy back. His father was murdered yesterday.”

  “By the head with the whiskers?”

  “It could be. I don’t know.”

  The boy went and talked to his brother, and started back toward me. I met him halfway:

  “What’s the secret?”

  “I was just checking with my brother. The girl told him he could pick up his blanket in Petroleum City. She said she’d leave it for him at the office of the Yucca Tree Inn.”

  I went there, passing through pastures full of oil pumps and fields of derricks. Further off on the horizon stood the gantries of Vandenberg Air Force Base. Petroleum City was a country town which had grown up suddenly. It had spilled beyond its limits into miles of quick housing developments congealing in a glacier of sameness.

  The Yucca Tree Inn had grown since its postcard picture was taken fifteen years ago. It was built around three sides of a short block at the southern edge of the city, with a convention center on the fourth side. The movable lettering on the marquee in front offered “Steak, Lobster and Continuous Entertainment.” When I parked in front of the office, I could hear western music like the last wail of a dying frontier.

  The woman behind the desk was dressed like a synthetic cowgirl in a brightly striped blouse and a western hat with an imitation rawhide band. She had a big friendly body which looked as if it didn’t quite know what to do with itself, even after years of practice.

  “Did somebody
leave a blanket with you?” I said. “A wet blanket?”

  She gave me an unsmiling look. “You aren’t the one that lent Susie the blanket.”

  “I didn’t say I was. Is Susie here?”

  “No. They took off again.” She paused with her lips parted, as if she’d been overtaken by sudden doubt. “I’m not supposed to be talking about it, though.”

  “Who said so?”

  “Mr. Crandall.”

  “Lester Crandall?”

  “Yessir. He owns this place.”

  “Where is he? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “What about?”

  “His daughter. I’m a detective—a private one. I was at his house in Pacific Palisades last night, and he and I are cooperating.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “You said he gave you orders not to talk.”

  “On the phone. I talked to him on the phone.”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple of hours ago. As soon as Susie called me from Dunes Bay. Mr. Crandall told me to keep her here until he arrived. That’s easier said than done, though. The minute my back was turned, the three of them piled into the station wagon and took off again.”

  “Which way?”

  “San Francisco.” She moved her thumb like a hitchhiker in that direction.

  I got the license number of the station wagon from her. “Did you tell the police?”

  “Why should I? It’s her father’s car. Anyway, Mr. Crandall told me to keep the police out of it.”

  “When do you expect Mr. Crandall?”

  “Any time now.” She looked as if she wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. “If you have any pull with him, do me a favor, will you? Tell him I did my best, but she got away from me.”

  “All right. What’s your name? Mine is Lew Archer.”

  “Joy Rawlins.” She said with the air of repeating an old joke: “I’m thinking seriously of changing it to Sorrow.”

  “Don’t do that. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Sorry, I can’t leave the desk. But thanks for the offer.” She gave me a smile which gradually faded. “What goes on with Susie, anyway? She used to be a nice quiet young girl, almost too quiet.”

  “She isn’t any more. She’s on the run.”

  “Then why did she phone here?”

  “Maybe because she needed transportation. What did she say to you when she called from the beach?”

  “She said she was out for a sail, and her boat was wrecked, and she and her friends were soaking wet. She asked me not to call her father but of course I had to—he left specific orders. I brought them back here and they changed into dry clothes and had a bite—”

  “Where did they get the dry clothes?”

  “From the owner’s suite. I opened it up for them. I thought they were staying—in fact the boy with the beard asked me about getting a doctor for his arm. He had what looked like a broken arm—hanging loose, you know? But then he changed his mind and said he’d wait until he saw his mother. I asked him where his mother was, but I didn’t get an answer out of him.”

  “What about the little boy?”

  “I have a boy of my own, and I fixed him up with some clothes.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “I don’t think he said a word.” She considered the question. “No, he didn’t speak within my hearing.”

  “Did he cry?”

  She shook her head. “No. He wasn’t crying.”

  “Did he eat?”

  “I got him to eat some soup and part of a hamburger. But most of the time he just sat like a little image.” She was silent and then said as if at random: “Did you see the pelicans at Dunes Bay? They can’t have any more young ones, did you know that? Their bodies are poisoned with DDT, and it makes their eggs all break.”

  I told her that I knew about the pelicans. “What about Susan? Did she do any talking?”

  “Very little. I don’t know what to make of that girl. She’s changed.”

  “In what way?”

  “Susie and I used to be pretty good friends before they moved down south. At least I thought so.”

  “How long ago did they move?”

  “It’s been a couple of years now. Les—Mr. Crandall opened a new motel in Oceano, and Los Angeles was more central for him. At least that was the reason he gave.”

  “Were there other reasons?”

  The woman gave me a quizzical look, both friendly and suspicious. “You’re pumping me, aren’t you? And I’m talking too much. But I hate to see Susie kick over the traces like this. She used to be a real good girl—I mean it. Headstrong like her father, but good at heart.”

  She went into deep thought for a minute. Her face, forgetful of me, dreamed downward as if she had a child at her breast. I prompted her:

  “What changed her?”

  “She seems kind of desperate to me. I don’t know why.” She grimaced. “I do know why, really. They moved to L.A. to give her more advantages—social advantages and stuff like that. It was her mother’s idea, really—she’s always been hipped on L.A. It didn’t work out for Susie, or for them, either. So of course they’re blaming her for not being happy, and she has no one to turn to. She’s a very lonely girl, and that’s murder.”

  I winced at the word, but I found something hopeful to say. “She turned to you.”

  “But then she turned around and went away again.”

  “You care about Susan.”

  “Yes I do. I never had a daughter.”

  chapter 24

  I hadn’t eaten for seven or eight hours. I went into the restaurant-bar from which the music emanated and hung my hat on the brass-studded tip of a mounted longhorn.

  While my steak was being grilled, I shut myself up in a phone booth and put in another call to Willie Mackey.

  Willie answered the phone himself. “Mackey Services.”

  “This is Archer. Have you put your finger on Ellen?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve traced the dog.”

  “The dog?”

  “The Great Dane,” Willie said impatiently. “He was lost all right. I’ve been in touch with the owner, who lives outside Mill Valley. He advertised for his dog last week, and somebody found it in Sausalito. That’s a long way from the Peninsula, Lew.”

  “My informant was an acid freak, I think.”

  “I was wondering,” Willie said. “Anyway, I have a man over in Sausalito now. You know Harold.”

  “Can you contact him?”

  “I should be able to. He has one of the radio cars.”

  “Tell him to watch for a blue Chevy station wagon with three young people in it.” I gave him their names and descriptions, and the license number of the car.

  “What is Harold supposed to do if he sees them?”

  “Stay with them. Get the little boy, if he can do it without endangering him.”

  “I better get over to Marin County myself,” Willie said. “You didn’t tell me this was a snatch.”

  “It isn’t an ordinary one.”

  “Then what are these people up to?”

  I had no ready answer. After a moment I said:

  “The little boy’s father was murdered yesterday. He was probably a witness to the killing.”

  “The other two did it?”

  “I don’t know.” I felt a growing ambivalence about Susan and Jerry—I wanted to end their wild flight, not only for the child’s sake but for their own. “We have to go on that assumption, though.”

  I went back into the restaurant. My steak was ready, and I washed it down with draft beer. Behind the semi-elliptical bar four cowboys who had never been near a cow sang western songs which sounded as if they had originated in the far east.

  I ordered a second beer and looked around the place. It was a noisy mixture of the real west and the imitation west. The mixture included cowboys both dude and actual, off-duty servicemen with their wives and girls, tourists, oil-workers wearing high-heeled boots like the cowboys,
a few men in business suits with wide ties and narrow sun-crinkled eyes.

  Some of the eyes seemed to brighten like electronic sensors when Lester Crandall came in from the lobby. Electronic money sensors. He paused in the doorway, looking around the room. I raised my hand. He came over and shook it.

  “You’re Archer, aren’t you? How did you get here so fast?”

  I told him, watching his face as I talked. His reactions seemed dull and sluggish, as if he hadn’t slept the night before. Still he seemed more at home in his motor inn than in his big house in the Palisades.

  The waitresses had sprung to attention when he entered, and one of them came to the table:

  “Can I get you anything, Mr. Crandall?”

  “Bourbon. You know my brand. And hold Mr. Archer’s check.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” I said. “But thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” He bent forward, regarding me through puffed eyelids. “If you’ve told me and I’ve forgotten, please excuse me. I’m a little slow today. It still isn’t clear to me what your interest is.”

  “I’m working for Mrs. Stanley Broadhurst. I’m trying to get her boy back before he’s hurt—and before she goes off the deep end.”

  “I’m pretty close to the deep end myself.” He took hold of my wrist with his work-scarred hand in a sudden gesture of intimacy. Just as suddenly, he let go. “But let me set your mind at rest about one thing. My Susan isn’t the kind of girl who would hurt a little boy.”

  “Perhaps not intentionally. But she’s exposing him to danger. It’s a wonder he wasn’t drowned today.”

  “That’s what Mrs. Rawlins said. I wish she’d had the intestinal fortitude to keep them here. She said she would.”

  “It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t. Didn’t you tell her not to call in the police?”

  Crandall gave me a look of unguarded cold anger. “I know the police in this part of the world. I was born and brought up here. They shoot first and ask questions afterwards. I’m not turning them loose on my young daughter.”

  I couldn’t help agreeing with him. “We won’t argue. Anyway, they’re well on their way to the Bay area by now.”

  “Where in the Bay area?”

  “Probably Sausalito.”

  He clenched his fists and shook them as if he had dice in both hands. “Why aren’t you after them?”