The Galton Case

by Ross Macdonald

  “But I couldn’t be mistaken about John. He’s the nicest boy I ever met in my life.”

  I said: “I like him, too.”

  “I’m so glad.” Her hand touched my arm, like a bird alighting and then taking off again: “John likes you, or I wouldn’t be taking you into our confidence.”

  “You wouldn’t be planning on getting married?”

  “Not just yet,” she said, as if this was a very conservative approach. “John has a lot of things he wants to do first, and of course I couldn’t go against Father’s wishes.”

  “What things does John want to do?”

  She answered vaguely: “He wants to make something of himself. He’s very ambitious. And of course the one big thing in his life is finding out who killed his father. It’s all he thinks about.”

  “Has he done anything about it?”

  “Not yet, but I know he has plans. He doesn’t tell me all he has on his mind. I probably wouldn’t understand, anyway. He’s much more intelligent than I am.”

  “I’m glad you realize that. It’s a good thing to bear in mind.”

  “What do you mean?” she said in a small voice. But she knew what I meant: “It isn’t true, what Father says, that John is an impostor. It can’t be true!”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I know it here.” Her hand touched her breast, ever so lightly. “He couldn’t be lying to me. And Cassie says he’s the image of his dad. So does Aunt Maria.”

  “Does John ever talk about his past to you?”

  She regarded me with deepening distrust. “Now you sound just like Father again. You mustn’t ask me questions about John. It wouldn’t be fair to John.”

  “Give yourself some thought, too,” I said. “I know it doesn’t seem likely, but if he is an impostor, you could be letting yourself in for a lot of pain and trouble.”

  “I don’t even care if he is!” she cried, and burst into tears.

  A young man in airline coveralls came out of the terminal and glared at me. I was making a pretty girl cry, and there ought to be a law. I assumed a very legal expression. He went back inside again.

  My plane took off with a roar. The roar diminished to a cicada humming in the northern sky. Sheila’s tears passed like a summer shower. She started the engine and drove me into town, very efficiently, like a chauffeur who happened to be a deaf-mute.

  John was a very fast worker.

  chapter 20

  BEFORE she deposited me in the main lounge of the clubhouse, Sheila apologized for her emotional outburst, as she called it, and said something inarticulate about not telling Daddy. I said that no apology was necessary, and that I wouldn’t.

  The windows of the lounge overlooked the golf course. The players were a shifting confetti of color on the greens and fairways. I watched them until Howell came in at five minutes after one.

  He shook my hand vigorously. “Good to see you, Archer. I hope you don’t mind eating right away. I have to meet a committee shortly after two.”

  He led me into a huge dining-room. Most of the tables were roped off and empty. We took one by a window which looked out across a walled swimming-pool enclosure where young people were romping and splashing. The waiter deferred to Howell as if he was a member of the stewardship committee.

  Since I knew nothing about the man, I asked him the first question that occurred to me: “What kind of a committee are you meeting?”

  “Aren’t all committees alike? They spend hours making up their collective mind to do something which any one of their members could accomplish in half the time. I’m thinking of setting up a committee to work for the abolition of committees.” His smile was a rapid flash. “As a matter of fact, it’s a Heart Association committee. We’re laying plans for a fund campaign, and I happen to be chairman. Will you have something to drink? I’m going to have a Gibson.”

  “That will do for me.”

  He ordered two Gibsons from the hovering waiter. “As a medical man, I feel it’s my duty to perpetuate the little saving vices. It’s probably safer to overdrink than it is to overeat. What will you have to eat?”

  I consulted the menu.

  “If you like sea food,” he said executively, “the lobster Newberg is easy to chew. Gordon Sable told me about your little accident. How’s the jaw?”

  “Mending, thanks.”

  “What precisely was the trouble about, if you don’t object to the question?”

  “It’s a long story, which boils down to something like this: Anthony Galton was killed for his money by a criminal named Nelson who had just escaped from prison. Your original guess was very close to the truth. But there’s more to the case. I believe Tony Galton’s murder and Pete Culligan’s murder are related.”

  Howell leaned forward across the table, his short gray hair bristling. “How related?”

  “That’s the problem I was trying to solve when I got my jaw broken. Let me ask you a question, Doctor. What’s your impression of John Galton?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question. Since you got to it first, I’ll take first turn in answering. The boy seems open and aboveboard. He’s certainly intelligent, and I suppose prepossessing if you like obvious charm. His grand—Mrs. Galton seems to be charmed with him.”

  “She doesn’t question his identity?”

  “Not in the slightest, she hasn’t from the beginning. For Maria, the boy is practically the reincarnation of her son Tony. Her companion, Miss Hildreth, feels very much the same way. I have to admit myself that the resemblance is striking. But such things can be arranged, when a great deal of money is involved. I suppose there’s no man alive who doesn’t have a double somewhere in the world.”

  “You’re suggesting that he was searched out and hired?”

  “Hasn’t the possibility occurred to you?”

  “Yes, it has. I think it should be explored.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that. I’ll be frank with you. It occurred to me when the boy turned up here, that you might be a part of the conspiracy. But Gordon Sable vouches for you absolutely, and I’ve had other inquiries made.” His gray eyes probed mine. “In addition to which, you have the marks of honesty on your face.”

  “It’s the hard way to prove you’re honest.”

  Howell smiled slightly, looking out over the pool. His daughter, Sheila, had appeared at the poolside in a bathing-suit. She was beautifully made, but the fact seemed to give her no pleasure. She sat by herself, with a pale closed look, undergoing the growing pains of womanhood. Howell’s glance rested on her briefly, and a curious woodenness possessed his face.

  The waiter brought our drinks, and we ordered lunch. When the waiter was out of hearing, Howell said:

  “It’s the boy’s story that bothers me. I understand you were the first to hear it. What do you think about it?”

  “Sable and I gave him quite a going-over. He took it well, and his story stood up. I made notes on it the same night. I’ve gone over the notes since I talked to you this morning, and couldn’t find any self-contradictions.”

  “The story may have been carefully prepared. Remember that the stakes are very high. You may be interested to know that Maria is planning to change her will in his favor.”

  “Already?”

  “Already. She may already have done. Gordon wouldn’t agree to it, so she called in another attorney to draw up a will. Maria’s half out of her mind—she’s pent up her generous feelings for so long, that she’s intoxicated with them.”

  “Is she incompetent?”

  “By no means,” he said hastily. “I don’t mean to overstate the case. And I concede her perfect right to do what she wants to do with her own money. On the other hand, we can’t let her be defrauded by a—confidence man.”

  “How much money is involved?”

  He raised his eyes over my head as if he could see a mountain of gold in the distance. “I couldn’t estimate. Something like the national debt of a medium-sized European country. I
know Henry left her oil property that brings in a weekly income in the thousands. And she has hundreds of thousands in securities.”

  “Where does it all go if it doesn’t go to the boy?”

  Howell smiled mirthlessly. “I’m not supposed to know that. It happens that I do, but I’m certainly not supposed to tell.”

  “You’ve been frank with me,” I said. “I’ll be frank with you. I’m wondering if you have an interest in the estate.”

  He scratched at his jaw, violently, but gave no other sign of discomposure. “I have, yes, in several senses. Mrs. Galton named me executor in her original will. I assure you personal considerations are not influencing my judgment. I think I know my own motives well enough to say that.”

  It’s a lucky man who does, I thought. I said: “Apart from the amount of money involved, what exactly is bothering you?”

  “The young man’s story. As he tells it, it doesn’t really start till age sixteen. There’s no way to go beyond that to his origins, whatever they may be. I tried, and came up against a stone wall.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you. The way John tells it, he was in an orphanage until he ran away at the age of sixteen. The Crystal Springs Home, in Ohio.”

  “I’ve been in touch with a man I know in Cleveland—chap I went to medical school with. The Crystal Springs Home burned to the ground three years ago.”

  “That doesn’t make John a liar. He says he left there five and a half years ago.”

  “It doesn’t make him a liar, no. But if he is, it leaves us with no way to prove that he is. The records of the Home were completely destroyed in the fire. The staff was scattered.”

  “The Superintendent should be traceable. What was his name—Merriweather?”

  “Merriweather died in the fire of a heart attack. All of this suggests the possibility—I’d say probability—that John provided himself with a story ex post facto. Or was provided with one. He or his backers looked around for a foolproof background to equip him with—one that was uncheckable. Crystal Springs was it—a large institution which no longer existed, which had no surviving records. Who knows if John Brown ever spent a day there?”

  “You’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this.”

  “I have, and I haven’t told you all of it. There’s the question of his speech, for instance. He represents himself as an American, born and raised in the United States.”

  “You’re not suggesting he’s a foreigner?”

  “I am, though. National differences in speech have always interested me, and it happens I’ve spent some time in central Canada. Have you ever listened to a Canadian pronounce the word ‘about’?”

  “If I did, I never noticed. ‘About’?”

  “You say aba-oot, more or less. A Canadian pronounces the word more like ‘aboat.’ And that’s the way John Brown pronounces it.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Of course I’m certain.”

  “About the theory, I mean?”

  “It isn’t a theory. It’s a fact. I’ve taken it up with specialists in the subject.”

  “In the last two weeks?”

  “In the last two days,” he said. “I hadn’t meant to bring this up, but my daughter, Sheila is—ah—interested in the boy. If he’s a criminal, as I suspect—” Howell broke off, almost choking on the words.

  Both our glances wandered to the poolside. Sheila was still alone, sitting on the edge and paddling her feet in the water. She turned to look toward the entrance twice while I watched her. Her neck and body were stiff with expectancy.

  The waiter brought our food, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. Our end of the dining-room was slowly filling up with people in sports clothes. Slice and sand-trap seemed to be the passwords. Dr. Howell glanced around independently from time to time, as if to let the golfers know that he resented their intrusion on his privacy.

  “What do you intend to do, Doctor?”

  “I propose to employ you myself. I understand that Gordon has terminated your services.”

  “So far as I know. Have you taken it up with him?”

  “Naturally I have. He’s just as keen as I am that there should be further investigation. Unfortunately Maria won’t hear of it, and as her attorney he can’t very well proceed on his own. I can.”

  “Have you discussed it with Mrs. Galton?”

  “I’ve tried to.” Howell grimaced. “She won’t listen to a word against the blessed youth. It’s frustrating, to say the least, but I can understand why she has to believe in him. The fact of her son Anthony’s death came as a great shock to her. She had to hold on to something, and there was Anthony’s putative son, ready and willing. Perhaps it was planned that way. At any rate, she’s clinging to the boy as if her life depended on it.”

  “What will the consequences be if we prove he’s crooked?”

  “Naturally well put him in prison where he belongs.”

  “I mean the consequences to Mrs. Galton’s health. You told me yourself that any great shock might kill her.”

  “That’s true, I did.”

  “Aren’t you concerned about that?”

  His face slowly, reddened, in blotches. “Of course I’m concerned. But there are ethical priorities in life. We can’t sit still for a criminal conspiracy, merely because the victim has diseases. The longer we permit it to go on, the worse it will be in the long run for Maria.”

  “You’re probably right. Anyway, her health is your responsibility. I’m willing to undertake the investigation. When do I begin?”

  “Now.”

  “I’ll probably have to go to Michigan, for a start. That will cost money.”

  “I understand that. How much?”

  “Five hundred.”

  Howell didn’t blink. He produced a checkbook and a fountain pen. While he was making out the check, he said:

  “It might be a good idea if you talked to the boy first.

  That is, if you can do it without arousing suspicion.”

  “I think I can do that. I got an invitation from him this morning.”

  “An invitation?”

  “A written invitation to visit the Galton house.”

  “He’s making very free with Mrs. Galton’s property. Do you happen to have the document with you?”

  I handed him the letter. He studied it with growing signs of excitement. “I was right, by God!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The dirty little hypocrite is a Canadian. Look here.” He put the letter on the table between us, and speared at it with his forefinger. “He spells the word ‘labor’ l, a, b, o, u, r. It’s the British spelling, still current in Canada. He isn’t even American. He’s an impostor.”

  “It’s going to take more than this to prove it.”

  “I realize that. Get busy, man.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll finish my lunch first.”

  Howell didn’t hear me. He was looking out of the window again, half out of his seat.

  A dark-headed youth in a tan sport shirt was talking to Sheila Howell at the poolside. He turned his head slightly. I recognized John Galton. He patted the shoulder of her terrycloth robe familiarly. Sheila smiled up full into his face.

  Howell’s light chair fell over backwards. He was out of the room before I could stop him. From the front door of the clubhouse, I saw him striding across the lawn toward the entrance of the swimming-pool enclosure.

  John and Sheila came out hand-in-hand. They were so intent on each other that they didn’t see Howell until he was on top of them. He thrust himself between them, shaking the boy by the arm. His voice was an ugly tearing rent in the quietness:

  “Get out of here, do you hear me? You’re not a member of this club.”

  John pulled away and faced him, white and rigid. “Sheila invited me.”

  “I dis-invite you.” The back of Howell’s neck was carbuncle red.

  Sheila touched his arm. “Please, Daddy, don’t make a scene. There’s nothi
ng to be gained.”

  John was encouraged to say: “My grandmother won’t like this, Doctor.”

  “She will when she knows the facts.” But the threat had taken the wind out of Howell’s sails. He wasn’t as loud as he had been.

  “Please,” Sheila repeated. “John’s done no harm to anyone.

  “Don’t you understand, Sheila, I’m trying to protect you?”

  “From what?”

  “From corruption.”

  “That’s silly, Dad. To hear you talk, you’d think John was a criminal.”

  The boy’s head tilted suddenly, as if the word had struck a nerve in his neck. “Don’t argue with him, Sheila. I oughtn’t to’ve come here.”

  He turned on his heel and walked head down toward the parking-lot. Sheila went in the other direction. Molded in terrycloth, her body had a massiveness and mystery that hadn’t struck me before. Her father stood and watched her until she entered the enclosure. She seemed to be moving heavily and fatally out of his control.

  I went back to the dining-room and let Howell find me there. He came in pale and slack-faced, as if he’d had a serious loss of blood. His daughter was in the pool now, swimming its length back and forth with slow and powerful strokes. Her feet churned a steady white wake behind her.

  She was still swimming when we left. Howell drove me to the courthouse. He scowled up at the barred windows of the county jail:

  “Put him behind bars, that’s all I ask.”

  chapter 21

  SHERIFF TRASK was in his office. Its walls were hung with testimonials from civic organizations and service clubs; recruiting certificates from Army, Navy, and Air Force; and a number of pictures of the Sheriff himself taken with the Governor and other notables. Trask’s actual face was less genial than the face in the photographs.

  “Trouble?” I said.

  “Sit down. You’re the trouble. You stir up a storm, and then you drop out of the picture. The trouble with you private investigators is irresponsibility.”

  “That’s a rough word, Sheriff.” I fingered the broken bones in my face, thoughtfully and tenderly.

  “Yeah, I know you got yourself hurt, and I’m sorry. But what can I do about it? Otto Schwartz is outside my jurisdiction.”