The Galton Case

by Ross Macdonald

  “Oh, damn it!”

  “Temper,” Gordon Sable said.

  She pivoted like a dancer. I saw that she wasn’t a girl, but a woman with a girl’s body. A slow blush spread over her face. She covered her discomfiture with an exaggerated pout which made the most of her girlishness:

  “I’m off my form. Sheila never beats me.”

  “I do so!” cried the girl on the other side of the net. “I beat you three times in the last week. Today is the fourth time.”

  “The set isn’t over yet.”

  “No, but I’m going to beat you.” Sheila’s voice had an intensity which didn’t seem to go with her appearance. She was very young, no more than eighteen. She had a peaches-and-cream complexion and soft doe eyes.

  The woman scooped up the bird and tossed it over the net. They went on playing, all out, as if a great deal depended on the game.

  A Negro maid in a white cap let us into a reception room. Wrought-iron chandeliers hung like giant black bunches of withered grapes from the high ceiling. Ancient black furniture stood in museum arrangements around the walls under old dark pictures. The windows were narrow and deep in the thick walls, like the windows of a medieval castle.

  “Is Dr. Howell with her?” Sable asked the maid.

  “Yes, sir, but he ought to be leaving any time now. He’s been here for quite a while.”

  “She didn’t have an attack?”

  “No, sir. It’s just the doctor’s regular visit.”

  “Would you tell him I’d like to see him before he leaves?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She whisked away. Sable said in a neutral tone, without looking at me: “I won’t apologize for my wife. You know how women are.”

  “Uh-huh.” I didn’t really want his confidences.

  If I had, he wouldn’t have given them to me. “There are certain South American tribes that segregate women one week out of the month. Shut them up in a hut by themselves and let them rip. There’s quite a lot to be said for the system.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Are you married, Archer?”

  “I have been.”

  “Then you know what it’s like. They want you with them all the time. I’ve given up yachting. I’ve given up golf. I’ve practically given up living. And still she isn’t satisfied. What do you do with a woman like that?”

  I’d given up offering advice. Even when people asked for it, they resented getting it. “You’re the lawyer.”

  I strolled around the room and looked at the pictures on the walls. They were mostly ancestor-worship art: portraits of Spanish dons, ladies in hoop skirts with bare monolithic bosoms, a Civil War officer in blue, and several gentlemen in nineteenth-century suits with sour nineteenth-century pusses between their whiskers. The one I liked best depicted a group of top-hatted tycoons watching a bulldog-faced tycoon hammer a gold spike into a railroad tie. There was a buffalo in the background, looking sullen.

  The maid returned with a man in Harris tweeds. Sable introduced him as Dr. Howell. He was a big man in his fifties, who carried himself with unconscious authority.

  “Mr. Archer is a private investigator,” Sable said. “Did Mrs. Galton mention what she has in mind?”

  “Indeed she did.” The doctor ran his fingers through his gray crewcut. The lines in his forehead deepened. “I thought that whole business of Tony was finished and forgotten years ago. Who persuaded her to drag it back into the light?”

  “Nobody did, so far as I know. It was her own idea. How is she, Doctor?”

  “As well as can be expected. Maria is in her seventies. She has a heart. She has asthma. It’s an unpredictable combination.”

  “But there’s no immediate danger?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. I can’t say what will happen if she’s subjected to shock or distress. Asthma is one of those things.”

  “Psychosomatic, you mean?”

  “Somatopsychic, whatever you want to call it. In any case it’s a disease that’s affected by the emotions. Which is why I hate to see Maria getting all stirred up again about that wretched son of hers. What does she hope to gain?”

  “Emotional satisfaction, I suppose. She feels she treated him badly, and wants to make up for it.”

  “But isn’t he dead? I thought he was found to be legally dead.”

  “He could have been. We had an official search made some years ago. He’d already been missing for fourteen years, which is twice the time required by the law to establish presumption of death. Mrs. Galton wouldn’t let me make the petition, however. I think she’s always dreamed of Anthony coming back to claim his inheritance and all that. In the last few weeks it’s become an obsession with her.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” the doctor said. “I still think somebody put a bee in her bonnet, and I can’t help wondering why.”

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Cassie Hildreth, perhaps. She has a lot of influence on Maria. And speaking of dreams, she had a few of her own when she was a kid. She used to follow Tony around as if he was the light of the world. Which he was far from being, as you know.” Howell’s smile was one-sided and saturnine.

  “This is news to me. I’ll talk to Miss Hildreth.”

  “It’s pure speculation on my part, don’t misunderstand me. I do think this business should be played down as much as possible.”

  “I’ve been trying to play it down. On the other hand I can’t downright refuse to lift a finger.”

  “No, but it would be all to the good if you could just keep it going along, without any definite results, until she gets interested in something different.” The doctor included me in his shrewd glance. “You understand me?”

  “I understand you all right,” I said. “Go through the motions but don’t do any real investigating. Isn’t that pretty expensive therapy?”

  “She can afford it, if that’s what worries you. Maria has more coming in every month than she spends every year.” He regarded me in silence for a moment, stroking his prow of a nose. “I don’t mean you shouldn’t do your job. I wouldn’t ask any man to lie down on a job he’s paid to do. But if you find out anything that might upset Mrs. Galton—”

  Sable put in quickly: “I’ve already taken that up with Archer. He’ll report to me. I think you know you can rely on my discretion.”

  “I think I know I can.”

  Sable’s face changed subtly. His eyelids flickered as though he had been threatened with a blow, and remained heavy over his watchful eyes. For a man of his age and financial weight, he was very easily hurt.

  I said to the doctor: “Did you know Anthony Galton?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “What kind of person was he?”

  Howell glanced toward the maid, who was still waiting in the doorway. She caught his look and withdrew out of sight. Howell lowered his voice:

  “Tony was a sport. I mean that in the biological sense, as well as the sociological. He didn’t inherit the Galton characteristics. He had utter contempt for business of any kind. Tony used to say he wanted to be a writer, but I never saw any evidence of talent. What he was really good at was boozing and fornicating. I gather he ran with a very rough crowd in San Francisco. I’ve always believed myself that one of them killed him for the money in his pockets and threw him in the Bay.”

  “Was there any indication of that sort of thing?”

  “Not to my certain knowledge. But San Francisco in the thirties was a dangerous place for a boy to play around in. He must have dredged pretty deep to turn up the girl he married.”

  “You knew her, did you?” Sable said.

  “I examined her. His mother sent her to me, and I examined her.”

  “Was she here in town?” I said.

  “Briefly. Tony brought her home the week he married her. I don’t believe he had any notion the family would accept her. It was more a case of flinging her in their faces. If that was his idea, it succeeded very well.”

  “What wa
s the matter with the girl?”

  “The obvious thing, and it was obvious—she was seven months’ pregnant.”

  “And you say they’d just been married?”

  “That’s correct. She hooked him. I talked with her a little, and I’d wager he picked her up, hot off the streets. She was a pretty enough little thing, in spite of her big belly, but she’d had a hard life. There were scars on her thighs and buttocks. She wouldn’t explain them to me, but it was evident that she’d been beaten, more than once.” The cruel memory raised faint traces of scarlet on the doctor’s cheekbones.

  The doe-eyed girl from the badminton court appeared in the doorway behind him. Her body was like ripening fruit, only partly concealed by her sleeveless jersey and rolled shorts. She glowed with healthy beauty, but her mouth was impatient:

  “Daddy? How much longer?”

  The color on his cheekbones heightened when he saw her. “Roll down your pants, Sheila.”

  “They’re not pants.”

  “Whatever they are, roll them down.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’m telling you to.”

  “You could at least tell me in private. How much longer do I have to wait?”

  “I thought you were going to read to your Aunt Maria.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “You promised.”

  “You were the one who promised for me. I played badminton with Cassie, and that’s my good turn for the day.”

  She moved away, deliberately exaggerating the swing of her hips. Howell glared at the chronometer on his wrist, as if it was the source of all his troubles. “I must be getting along. I have other calls to make.”

  “Can you give me the wife’s description?” I said. “Or her name?”

  “I don’t recall her name. As for appearance, she was a little blue-eyed brunette, rather thin in spite of her condition. Mrs. Galton—no, on second thought I wouldn’t ask her about the girl unless she brings the matter up herself.”

  The doctor turned to go, but Sable detained him: “Is it all right for Mr. Archer to question her? I mean, it won’t affect her heart or bring on an asthmatic attack?”

  “I can’t guarantee it. If Maria insists on having an attack, there’s nothing I can do to prevent it. Seriously, though, if Tony’s on her mind she might as well talk about him. It’s better than sitting and brooding. Good-by, Mr. Archer, nice to meet you. Good day, Sable.”

  chapter 3

  THE maid took Sable and me to a sitting-room on the second floor where Mrs. Galton was waiting. The room smelled of medicine, and had a hushed hospital atmosphere. The heavy drapes were partly drawn over the windows. Mrs. Galton was resting in semi-twilight on a chaise longue, with a robe over her knees.

  She was fully dressed, with something white and frilly at her withered throat; and she held her gray head ramrod straight. Her voice was reedy, but surprisingly resonant. It seemed to carry all the remaining force of her personality:

  “You’ve kept me waiting, Gordon. It’s nearly time for my lunch. I expected you before Dr. Howell came.”

  “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Galton. I was delayed at home.”

  “Don’t apologize. I detest apologies, they’re really just further demands on one’s patience.” She cocked a bright eye at him. “Has that wife of yours been giving you trouble again?”

  “Oh, no, nothing of that sort.”

  “Good. You know my thoughts on the subject of divorce. On the other hand, you should have taken my advice and not married her. A man who waits until he’s nearly fifty to get married should give up the idea entirely. Mr. Galton was in his late forties when we were married. As a direct consequence, I’ve had to endure nearly twenty years of widowhood.”

  “It’s been hard, I know,” Sable said with unction.

  The maid had started out of the room. Mrs. Galton called her back: “Wait a minute. I want you to tell Miss Hildreth to bring me my lunch herself. She can bring up a sandwich and eat it with me if she likes. You tell Miss Hildreth that.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Galton.”

  The old lady waved us into chairs, one on each side of her, and turned her eye on me. It was bright and alert but somehow inhuman, like a bird’s eye. It looked at me as if I belonged to an entirely different species:

  “Is this the man who is going to find my prodigal son for me?”

  “Yes, this is Mr. Archer.”

  “I’m going to give it a try,” I said, remembering the doctor’s advice. “I can’t promise any definite results. Your son has been missing for a very long time.”

  “I’m better aware of that than you, young man. I last set eyes on Anthony on the eleventh day of October 1936. We parted in bitter anger and hatred. I’ve lived ever since with that anger and hatred corroding my heart. But I can’t die with it inside of me. I want to see Anthony again, and talk to him. I want to forgive him. I want him to forgive me.”

  Deep feeling sounded in her voice. I had no doubt that the feeling was partly sincere. Still, there was something unreal about it. I suspected that she’d been playing tricks with her emotions for a long time, until none of them was quite valid.

  “Forgive you?” I said.

  “For treating him as I did. He was a young fool, and he made some disastrous mistakes, but none of them really justified Mr. Galton’s action, and mine, in casting him off. It was a shameful action, and if it’s not too late I intend to rectify it. If he still has his little wife, I’m willing to accept her. I authorize you to tell him that. I want to see my grandchild before I die.”

  I looked at Sable. He shook his head slightly, deprecatingly. His client was just a little out of context, but she had quick insight, at least into other people:

  “I know what you’re both thinking. You’re thinking that Anthony is dead. If he were dead, I’d know it here.” Her hand strayed over the flat silk surface of her breast. “He’s my only son. He must be alive, and he must be somewhere. Nothing is lost in the universe.”

  Except human beings, I thought. “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Galton. There are one or two things you can do to help me. Give me a list of his friends at the time of his disappearance.”

  “I never knew his friends.”

  “He must have had friends in college. Wasn’t he attending Stanford?”

  “He’d left there the previous spring. He didn’t even wait to graduate. Anyway, none of his schoolmates knew what happened to him. His father canvassed them thoroughly at the time.”

  “Where was your son living after he left college?”

  “In a flat in the slums of San Francisco. With that woman.”

  “Do you have the address?”

  “I believe I may have it somewhere. I’ll have Miss Hildreth look for it.”

  “That will be a start, anyway. When he left here with his wife, did they plan to go back to San Francisco?”

  “I haven’t any idea. I didn’t see them before they left.”

  “I understood they came to visit you.”

  “Yes, but they didn’t even stay the night.”

  “What might help most,” I said carefully, “would be if you could tell me the exact circumstances of their visit, and their departure. Anything your son said about his plans, anything the girl said, anything you remember about her. Do you remember her name?”

  “He called her Teddy. I have no idea if that was her name or not. We had very little conversation. I can’t recall what was said. The atmosphere was unpleasant, and it left a bad taste in my mouth. She left a bad taste in my mouth. It was so evident that she was a cheap little gold-digger.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have eyes. I have ears.” Anger had begun to whine in the undertones of her voice. “She was dressed and painted like a woman of the streets, and when she opened her mouth—well, she spoke the language of the streets. She made coarse jokes about the child in her womb, and how”—her voice faded almost out—“it got there. She had no respect for herself as a woman, no m
oral standards. That girl destroyed my son.”

  She’d forgotten all about her hope of reconciliation. The angry wheezing in the passages of her head sounded like a ghost in a ruined house. Sable was looking at her anxiously, but he held his tongue.

  “Destroyed him?” I said.

  “Morally, she destroyed him. She possessed him like an evil spirit. My son would never have taken the money if it hadn’t been for the spell she cast on him. I know that with utter certitude.”

  Sable leaned forward in his chair. “What money are you referring to?”

  The money Anthony stole from his father. Haven’t I told you about it, Gordon? No, I don’t believe I have. I’ve told no one, I’ve always been so ashamed.” She lifted her hands and dropped them in her robed lap. “But now I can forgive him for that, too.”

  “How much money was involved?” I said.

  “I don’t know exactly how much, to the penny. Several thousand dollars, anyway. Ever since the day the banks closed, Mr. Galton had had a habit of keeping a certain amount of cash for current expenses.”

  “Where did he keep it?”

  “In his private safe, in the study. The combination was on a piece of paper pasted to the inside of his desk drawer. Anthony must have found it there, and used it to open the safe. He took everything in it, all the money, and even some of my jewels which I kept there.”

  “Are you sure he took it?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. It disappeared at the same time he did. It’s why he hid himself away, and never came back to us.”

  Sable’s glum look deepened. Probably he was thinking the same thing I was: that several thousand dollars in cash, in the slums of San Francisco, in the depths of the depression, were a very likely passport to oblivion.

  But we couldn’t say it out loud. With her money, and her asthma, and her heart, Mrs. Galton was living at several removes from reality. Apparently that was how it had to be.

  “Do you have a picture of your son, taken not too long before his disappearance?”

  “I believe I have. I’ll ask Cassie to have a look. She should be coming soon.”

  “In the meantime, can you give me any other information? Particularly about where your son might have gone, who or where he might have visited.”