The Chill

by Ross Macdonald

  “Everything’s gone to hell in a hand-car,” he said. “That pussy willow of a Bert Haggerty gets under my skin. I dunno what he thinks he’s sucking around for.” His mood changed. “You haven’t deserted me, anyway. Go ahead, make yourself a drink.”

  I manufactured a light highball and brought it back to the couch. I didn’t offer Hoffman any. In wine was truth, perhaps, but in whisky, the way Hoffman sluiced it down, was an army of imaginary rats climbing your legs.

  “You were telling me about Luke Deloney and how he grew.”

  He squinted at me. “I don’t know why you’re so interested in Deloney. He’s been dead for twenty-two years. Twenty-two years and three months. He shot himself, but I guess you know that, eh?” A hard intelligence glinted momentarily in his eyes and drew them into focus on my face.

  I spoke to the hard intelligence: “Was there anything between Helen and Deloney?”

  “No, she wasn’t interested in him. She had a crush on the elevator boy. George. I ought to know, she made me get him the job. I was sort of managing the Deloney Apartments at the time. Luke Deloney and me, we were like that.”

  He tried to cross his second finger over his forefinger. It kept slipping. He finally completed the maneuver with the help of his other hand. His fingers were thick and mottled like uncooked breakfast sausages.

  “Luke Deloney was a bit of a womanizer,” he said indulgently, “but he didn’t mess around with the daughters of his friends. He never cared for the young stuff, anyway. His wife must of been ten years older than he was. Anyway, he wouldn’t touch my daughter. He knew I’d kill him.”

  “Did you?”

  “That’s a lousy question, mister. If I didn’t happen to like you I’d knock your block off.”

  “No offense.”

  “I had nothing against Luke Deloney. He treated me fair and square. Anyway, I told you he shot himself.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Naw. Why would he commit suicide? He had everything, money and women and a hunting lodge in Wisconsin. He took me up there personally more than once. The shooting was an accident. That’s the way it went into the books and that’s the way it stays.”

  “How did it happen, Lieutenant?”

  “He was cleaning his .32 automatic. He had a permit to tote it on his person—I helped him get it myself—because he used to carry large sums of money. He took the clip out all right but he must of forgot the shell that was in the chamber. It went off and shot him in the face.”

  “Where?”

  “Through the right eye.”

  “I mean where did the accident occur?”

  “In one of the bedrooms in his apartment. He kept the roof apartment in the Deloney building for his private use. More than once I drank with him up there. Prewar Green River, boy.” He slapped my knee, and noticed the full glass in my hand. “Drink up your drink.”

  I knocked back about half of it. It wasn’t prewar Green River. “Was Deloney drinking at the time of the shooting?”

  “Yeah, I think so. He knew guns. He wouldn’t of made that mistake if he was sober.”

  “Was anybody with him in the apartment?”

  “No.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  “I can be sure. I was in charge of the investigation.”

  “Did anybody share the apartment with him?”

  “Not on a permanent basis, you might say. Luke Deloney had various women on the string. I checked them out, but none of them was within a mile of the place at the time it happened.”

  “What kind of women?”

  “All the way from floozies to one respectable married woman here in town. Their names didn’t go into the record then and they’re not going to now.”

  There was a growl in his voice. I didn’t pursue the subject. Not that I was afraid of Hoffman exactly. I had at least fifteen years on him, and a low alcohol content. But if he went for me I might have to hurt him badly.

  “What about Mrs. Deloney?” I said.

  “What about her?”

  “Where was she when all this was going on?”

  “At home, out on Glenview. They were sort of separated. She didn’t believe in divorce.”

  “People who don’t believe in divorce sometimes believe in murder.”

  Hoffman moved his shoulders belligerently. “You trying to say that I hushed up a murder?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, Lieutenant.”

  “You better not. I’m a cop, remember, first last and always.” He raised his fist and rotated it before his eyes like a hypnotic device. “I been a good cop all my life. In my prime I was the best damn cop this burg ever saw. I’ll have a drink on that.” He picked up his tumbler. “Join me?”

  I said I would. We were moving obscurely on a collision course. Alcohol might soften the collision, or sink him. I finished my drink and handed him my glass. He filled it to the brim with neat whisky. Then he filled his own. He sat down and stared into the brown liquid as if it was a well where his life had drowned.

  “Bottoms up,” he said.

  “Take it easy, Lieutenant. You don’t want to kill yourself.” It occurred to me as I said it that maybe he did.

  “What are you, another pussy willow? Bottoms up.”

  He drained his glass and shuddered. I held mine in my hand. After a while he noticed this.

  “You didn’t drink your drink. What you trying to do, pull a fast one on me? Insult my hosh—my hoshpit—?” His Ups were too numb to frame the word.

  “No insult intended. I didn’t come here for a drinking party, Lieutenant. I’m seriously interested in who killed your daughter. Assuming Deloney was murdered—”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “Assuming he was, the same person may have killed Helen. In view of everything I’ve heard, from her and other people, I think it’s likely. Don’t you?”

  I was trying to get his mind under my control: the sloppy drunken sentimental part, and the drunken violent part, and the hard intelligent part hidden at the core.

  “Deloney was an accident,” he said clearly and stubbornly.

  “Helen didn’t think so. She claimed it was murder, and that she knew a witness to the murder.”

  “She was lying, trying to make me look bad. All she ever wanted to do was make her old man look bad.”

  His voice had risen. We sat and listened to its echoes. He dropped his empty glass, which bounced on the rug, and clenched the fist which seemed to be his main instrument of expression. I got ready to block it, but he didn’t throw it at me.

  Heavily and repeatedly, he struck himself in the face, on the eyes and cheeks, on the mouth, under the jaw. The blows left dull red welts in his clay-colored flesh. His lower Up split.

  Hoffman said through the blood: “I clobbered my poor little daughter. I chased her out of the house. She never came back.”

  Large tears the color of pure distilled alchohol or grief rolled from his puffing eyes and down his damaged face. He fell sideways on the couch. He wasn’t dead. His heart was beating strongly. I straightened him out—his legs were as heavy as sandbags—and put a bolster under his head. With blind eyes staring straight up into the light, he began to snore.

  I closed the roll-top desk. The key was in it, and I turned it on the liquor and switched off the light and took the key outside with me.

  chapter 20

  BERT HAGGERTY was sitting in the Chevrolet coupé, wearing a stalled expression. I got in beside him and handed him the key.

  “What’s this?”

  “The key to the liquor. You better keep it. Hoffman’s had as much as he can take.”

  “Did he throw you out?”

  “No. He passed out, while hitting himself in the face. Hard.”

  Haggerty thrust his long sensitive nose toward me. “Why would Earl do a thing like that?”

  “He seemed to be punishing himself for hitting his daughter a long time ago.”

  “Helen told me about that. Earl treated her brutally
before she left home. It’s one thing I can’t forgive him for.”

  “He can’t forgive himself. Did Helen tell you what they quarreled about?”

  “Vaguely. It was something to do with a murder here in Bridgeton. Helen believed, or pretended to believe, that her father deliberately let the murderer go free.”

  “Why do you say she pretended to believe it?”

  “My dear dead wife,” he said, wincing at the phrase, “had quite a flair for the dramatic, especially in her younger days.”

  “Did you know her before she left Bridgeton?”

  “For a few months. I met her in Chicago at a party in Hyde Park. After she left home I helped her to get a job as a cub reporter. I was working for the City News Bureau then. But as I was saying, Helen always had this dramatic flair and when nothing happened in her life for it to feed on she’d make something happen or pretend that it had happened. Her favorite character was Mata Hari,” he said with a chuckle that was half a sob.

  “So you think she invented this murder?”

  I suppose I thought so at the time, because I certainly didn’t take it seriously. I have no opinion now. Does it matter?”

  “It could matter very much. Did Helen ever talk to you about Luke Deloney?”

  “Who?”

  “Luke Deloney, the man who was killed. He owned the apartment building they lived in, and occupied the penthouse himself.”

  Haggerty lit a cigarette before he answered. His first few words came out as visible puffs of smoke: “I don’t recall the name. If she talked about him, it couldn’t have made much of an impression on me.”

  “Her mother seems to think Helen had a crush on Deloney.”

  “Mrs. Hoffman’s a pretty good woman, and I love her like a mother, but she gets some wild ideas.”

  “How do you know that this one is so wild? Was Helen in love with you then?”

  He took a deep drag on his cigarette, like an unweaned child sucking on a dry bottle. It burned down to his yellow fingers. He tossed it into the street with a sudden angry gesture.

  “She never was in love with me. I was useful to her, for a while. Later, in some sense, I was the last chance. The faithful follower. The last chance for gas before the desert.”

  “The desert?”

  “The desert of love. The desert of unlove. But I don’t think I’ll go into the long and dreary chronicle of my marriage. It wasn’t a lucky one, for either of us. I loved her, as far as I’m able to love, but she didn’t love me. Proust says it’s always that way. I’m teaching Proust to my sophomore class this fall, if I can summon up the élan to go on teaching.”

  “Who did Helen love?”

  “It depends on which year you’re talking about. Which month of which year.” He didn’t move, but he was hurting himself, hitting himself in the face with bitter words.

  “Right at the beginning, before she left Bridgeton.”

  “I don’t know if you’d call it love, but she was deeply involved with a fellow-student at the City College. It was a Platonic affair, the kind bright young people have, or used to have. It consisted largely of reading aloud to each other from their own works and others’. According to Helen, she never went to bed with him. I’m pretty sure she was a virgin when I met her.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember. It’s a clear case of Freudian repression.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “I never met him. He’s a purely legendary figure in my life. But obviously he isn’t the elusive murderer you’re searching for. Helen would have been happy to see him go free.” He had withdrawn from the pain of memory and was using an almost flippant tone, as if he was talking about people in a play, or watching ceiling movies at the dentist’s. “Speaking of murder, as we seem to be doing, you were going to tell me about my ex-wife’s death. She’s completely ex now, isn’t she, exed out?”

  I cut in on his sad nonsense and gave him the story in some detail, including the man from Reno who ran away in the fog, and my attempts to get him identified. “Earl tells me you went to Reno last summer to see your wife. Did you run into any of her acquaintances there?”

  “Did I not. Helen played a trick on me involving a couple of them. Her purpose was to stall off any chance for an intimate talk with me. Anyway, the one evening we spent together she insisted on making it a foursome with this woman named Sally something and her alleged brother.”

  “Sally Burke?”

  “I believe that was her name. The hell of it was, Helen arranged it so that I was the Burke woman’s escort. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, but we had nothing in common, and in any case it was Helen I wanted to talk to. But she spent the entire evening dancing with the brother. I’m always suspicious of men who dance too well.”

  “Tell me more about this brother. He may be our man.”

  “Well, he struck me as a rather sleazy customer. That may be projected envy. He was younger than I am, and healthier, and better looking. Also, Helen seemed to be fascinated by his line of chatter, which I thought was pointless—all about cars and horses and gambling odds. How a highly educated woman like Helen could be interested in such a man—” He tired of the sentence, and dropped it.

  “Were they lovers?”

  “How would I know? She wasn’t confiding in me.”

  “But you know your own wife, surely.”

  He lit another cigarette and smoked half of it. “I’d say they weren’t lovers. They were simply playmates. Of course she was using him to hit at me.”

  “For what?”

  “For being her husband. For having been her husband. Helen and I parted on bad terms. I tried to put the marriage together again in Reno, but she wasn’t even remotely interested.”

  “What broke up your marriage?”

  “It had a major fracture in it from the beginning.” He looked past me at the house where Earl Hoffman was lying senseless under the past. “And it got worse. It was both our faults. I couldn’t stop nagging her and she couldn’t stop—doing what she was doing.”

  I waited and listened. The church-bells were ringing, in different parts of the city.

  “She was a tramp,” Haggerty said. “A campus tramp. I started her on it when she was a nineteen-year-old babe in the woods in Hyde Park. Then she went on without me. Toward the end she was even taking money.”

  “Who from?”

  “Men with money, naturally. My wife was a corrupt woman, Mr. Archer. I played a part in making her what she was, so I have no right to judge her.” His eyes were brilliant with the pain that came and went like truth in him.

  I felt sorry for the man. It didn’t prevent me from saying: “Where were you Friday night?”

  “At home in Maple Park in our—in my apartment, grading themes.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I have the marked papers to prove it. They were turned in to me Friday, and I marked them Friday night. I hope you’re not imagining I did something fantastic like flying to California and back?”

  “When a woman is murdered, you ask her estranged husband where he was at the time. It’s the corollary of cherchez la femme.”

  “Well, you have my answer. Check it out if you like. But you’ll save yourself time and trouble simply by believing me. I’ve been completely frank with you—inordinately frank.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But then you turn around and accuse me—”

  “A question isn’t an accusation, Mr. Haggerty.”

  “It carried that implication,” he said in an aggrieved and slightly nagging tone. “I thought the man in Reno was your suspect.”

  “He’s one of them.”

  “And I’m another?”

  “Let’s drop it, shall we?”

  “You brought it up.”

  “Now I’m dropping it. Getting back to the man in Reno, can you remember his name?”

  “I was introduced to him, of course, but I don’t recall his surname. The
women called him Jud. I’m not sure whether it was a given name or a nickname.”

  “Why did you refer to him as Mrs. Burke’s alleged brother?”

  “They didn’t strike me as brother and sister. They acted toward each other more like—oh—intimate friends who were simply going along with Helen’s gag. I intercepted a couple of knowing glances, for example.”

  “Will you describe the man in detail for me?”

  “I’ll try. My visual memory isn’t too good. I’m strictly the verbal type.”

  But under repeated questions, he built up an image of the man: age about thirty-two or -three, height just under six feet, weight about 175; muscular and active, good-looking in an undistinguished way; thinning black hair, brown eyes, no scars. He had worn a light gray silk or imitation silk suit and pointed low black shoes in the Italian style. Haggerty had gathered that the man Jud worked in some undetermined capacity for one of the gambling clubs in the Reno-Tahoe area.

  It was time I went to Reno. I looked at my watch: nearly eleven: and remembered that I would gain time on the flight west. I could still have a talk with Luke Deloney’s widow, if she was available, and get to Reno at a reasonable hour.

  I went into the house with Haggerty, called O’Hare Airport, and made a reservation on a late afternoon flight. Then I called Mrs. Deloney. She was at home, and would see me.

  Bert Haggerty offered to drive me out to her house. I told him he’d better stay with his father-in-law. Hoffman’s snores were sounding through the house like muffled lamentations, but he could wake up at any time and go on the rampage.

  chapter 21

  GLENVIEW AVENUE wound through the north side of the north side, in a region of estates so large that it almost qualified as country. Trees lined the road and sometimes met above it. The light that filtered through their turning leaves onto the great lawns was the color of sublimated money.

  I turned in between the brick gate-posts of 103 and shortly came in sight of an imposing old red brick mansion. The driveway led to a brick-columned porte-cochère on the right. I was hardly out of my car when a Negro maid in uniform opened the door.

  “Mr. Archer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Deloney is expecting you, in the downstairs sitting-room.”