The Galton Case

by Ross Macdonald

  “Murder raps cross state lines, or haven’t you heard.”

  “Yeah, and I also heard at the same time that you can’t extradite without a case. Without some kind of evidence, I can’t even get to Schwartz to question him. And you want to know why I have no evidence?”

  “Let me guess. Me again.”

  “It isn’t funny, Archer. I was depending on you for some discretion. Why did you have to go and spill your guts to Roy Lemberg? Scare my witnesses clear out of the damn country?”

  “I got overeager, and made a mistake. I wasn’t the only one.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You told me Lemberg’s car had been stolen.”

  “That’s what switched license plates usually mean.” Trask sat and thought about this for a minute, pushing out his lower lip. “Okay. We made mistakes. I made a medium-sized dilly and you made a peacheroo. So you took a beating for it. We won’t sit around and cry. Where do we go from here?”

  “It’s your case, Sheriff. I’m just your patient helper.”

  He leaned toward me, heavy-shouldered and earnest. “You really mean to help? Or have you got an angle?”

  “I mean to help, that’s my angle.”

  “We’ll see. Are you still working for Sable—for Mrs. Galton, that is?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Who’s bankrolling you. Dr. Howell?”

  “News travels fast.”

  “Heck, I knew it before you did. Howell came around asking me to check your record with L.A. You seem to have some good friends down south. If you ever conned any old ladies, you never got caught.”

  “Young ones are more my meat.”

  Trask brushed aside the badinage with an impatient gesture. “I assume you’re being hired to go into the boy’s background. Howell wanted me to. Naturally I told him I couldn’t move without some indication that law’s been broken. You got any such indication?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Neither have I. I talked to the boy, and he’s as smooth as silk. He doesn’t even make any definite claims. He merely says that people tell him he’s his father’s son, so it’s probably so.”

  “Do you think he’s been coached, Sheriff?”

  “I don’t know. He may be quarterbacking his own plays. When he came in to see me, it had nothing to do on the face of it with establishing his identity. He wanted information about his father’s murder, if this John Brown was his father.”

  “Hasn’t that been proved?”

  “As close as it ever will be. There’s still room for doubt, in my opinion. But what I started to say, he came in here to tell me what to do. He wanted more action on that old killing. I told him it was up to the San Mateo people, so what did he do? He made a trip up there to build a fire under the San Mateo sheriff.”

  “It’s barely possible he’s serious.”

  “Either that, or he’s a psychologist. That kind of behavior doesn’t go with consciousness of guilt.”

  “The Syndicate hires good lawyers.”

  Trask pondered this, his eyes withdrawing under the ledges of his brows. “You think it’s a Syndicate job, eh? A big conspiracy?”

  “With a big payoff, in the millions. Howell tells me Mrs. Galton’s rewriting her will, leaving everything to the boy. I think her house should be watched.”

  “You honestly believe they’d try to knock her off?”

  “They kill people for peanuts. What wouldn’t they do to get hold of the Galton property?”

  “Don’t let your imagination run away. It won’t happen, not in Santa Teresa County.”

  “It started to happen two weeks ago, when Culligan got it. That has all the marks of a gang killing, and in your territory.”

  “Don’t rub it in. That case isn’t finished yet.”

  “It’s the same case,” I said. “The Brown killing and the Culligan killing and the Galton impersonation, if it is one, all hang together.”

  “That’s easy to say. How do we prove it?”

  “Through the boy. I’m taking off for Michigan tonight. Howell thinks his accent originated in central Canada. That ties in with the Lembergs. Apparently they crossed the border into Canada from Detroit, and were headed for an address Culligan gave them. If you could trace Culligan that far back—”

  “We’re working on it.” Trask smiled, rather forbiddingly. “Your Reno lead was a good one, Archer. I talked long distance last night to a friend in Reno, captain of detectives. He called me back just before lunch. Culligan was working for Schwartz about a year ago.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Steerer for his casino. Another interesting thing: Culligan was arrested in Detroit five-six years ago. The FBI has a rap sheet on him.”

  “What was this particular rap?”

  “An old larceny charge. It seems he left the country to evade it, got nabbed as soon as he showed his face on American soil, spent the next couple of years in Southern Michigan pen.”

  “What was the date of his arrest in Detroit?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. It was about five-and-a-half years ago. I could look it up, if it matters.”

  “It matters.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “John Galton turned up in Ann Arbor five-and-a-half years ago. Ann Arbor is practically a suburb of Detroit. I’m asking myself if he crossed the Canadian border with Culligan.”

  Trask whistled softly, and flicked on the switch of his squawk-box:

  “Conger, bring me the Culligan records. Yeah, I’m in my office.”

  I remembered Conger’s hard brown face. He didn’t remember me at first, then did a double take:

  “Long time no see.”

  I quipped lamely: “How’s the handcuff business?”

  “Clicking.”

  Trask rustled the papers Conger had brought, and frowned impatiently. When he looked up his eyes were crackling bright:

  “A little over five-and-a-half years. Culligan got picked up in Detroit January 7. Does that fit with your date?”

  “I haven’t pinned it down yet, but I will.”

  I rose to go. Trask’s parting handshake was warm. “If you run into anything, call me collect, anytime day or night. And keep the hard nose out of the chopper.”

  “That’s my aspiration.”

  “By the way, your car’s in the county garage. I can release it to you if you want.”

  “Save it for me. And take care of the old lady, eh?”

  The Sheriff was giving Conger orders to that effect before I reached the door.

  chapter 22

  I CASHED Howell’s check at his bank just before it closed for business at three. The teller directed me to a travel agency where I made a plane reservation from Los Angeles to Detroit. The connecting plane didn’t leave Santa Teresa for nearly three hours.

  I walked the few blocks to Sable’s office. The private elevator let me out into the oak-paneled anteroom.

  Mrs. Haines looked up from her work, and raised her hand to smooth her dyed red hair. She said in maternal dismay:

  “Why, Mr. Archer, you were badly injured. Mr. Sable told me you’d been hurt, but I had no idea—”

  “Stop it. You’re making me feel sorry for myself.”

  “What’s the matter with feeling sorry for yourself? I do it all the time. It bucks me up no end.”

  “You’re a woman.”

  She dipped her bright head as if I’d paid her a compliment. “What’s the difference?”

  “You don’t want me to spell it out.”

  She tittered, not unpleasantly, and tried to blush, but her experienced face resisted the attempt. “Some other time, perhaps. What can I do for you now?”

  “Is Mr. Sable in?”

  “I’m sorry, he isn’t back from lunch.”

  “It’s three-thirty.”

  “I know. I don’t expect he’ll be in again today. He’ll be sorry he missed you. The poor man’s schedule has been all broken up, ever since that
trouble at his house.”

  “The murder, you mean?”

  “That, and other things. His wife isn’t well.”

  “So I understand. Gordon told me she had a breakdown.”

  “Oh, did he tell you that? He doesn’t do much talking about it to anyone. He’s awfully sensitive on the subject.” She made a confidential gesture, raising her red-tipped hand vertically beside her mouth. “Just between you and me, this isn’t the first time he’s had trouble with her.”

  “When was the other time?”

  “Times, in the plural. She came here one night in March when we were doing income tax, and accused me of trying to steal her husband. I could have told her a thing or two, but of course I couldn’t say a word in front of Mr. Sable. I tell you, he’s a living saint, what he’s taken from that woman, and he goes right on looking after her.”

  “What did she do to him?”

  Color dabbed her cheekbones. She was slightly drunk with malice. “Plenty. Last summer she took off and went rampaging around the country spending his good money like water. Spending it on other men, too, can you imagine? He finally tracked her down in Reno, where she was living with another man.”

  “Reno?”

  “Reno,” she repeated flatly. “She probably intended to divorce him or something, but she gave up on the idea. She’d have been doing him a favor, if you ask me. But the poor man talked her into coming back with him. He seems to be infatuated with her.” Her voice was disconsolate. After a moment’s thought, she said: “I oughtn’t to be telling you all this. Ought I?”

  “I knew she had a history of trouble. Gordon told me himself that he had to put her in a nursing home.”

  “That’s right, he’s probably there with her now. He generally goes over to eat lunch with her, and most of the time he stays the rest of the day. Wasted devotion, I call it. If you ask me, that’s one marriage doomed to failure. I did a horoscope on it, and you never saw such antagonism in the stars.” Not only in the stars.

  ‘Where is the nursing home she’s in, Mrs. Haines?”

  “It’s Dr. Trenchard’s, on Light Street. But I wouldn’t go there, if that’s what you’re thinking of. Mr. Sable doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s visiting Mrs. Sable.”

  “I’ll take my chances. And I won’t mention that I’ve been here. Okay?”

  “I guess so,” she said dubiously. “It’s over on the west side, 235 Light Street.”

  I took a cab across town. The driver looked me over curiously as I got out. Perhaps he was trying to figure out if I was patient or just a visitor.

  “You want me to wait?”

  “I think so. If I don’t come out, you know what that will mean.”

  I left him having a delayed reaction. The “home” was a long stucco building set far back from the street on its own acre. Nothing indicated its specialness, except for the high wire fence which surrounded the patio at the side.

  A man and a woman were sitting in a blue canvas swing behind the fence. Their backs were to me, but I recognized Sable’s white head. The woman’s blond head rested on his shoulder.

  I resisted the impulse to call out to them. I climbed the long veranda, which was out of sight of the patio, and pressed the bellpush beside the front door. The door was unlocked and opened by a nurse in white, without a cap. She was unexpectedly young and pretty.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Sable.”

  “And who shall I say is calling?”

  “Lew Archer.”

  She left me in a living-room or lounge whose furniture was covered with bright chintz. Two old ladies in shawls were watching a baseball game on television. A young man with a beard squatted on his heels in a corner, watching the opposite corner of the ceiling. His lips were moving.

  One of the half-curtained windows looked out across the sun-filled patio. I saw the young nurse cross to the blue swing, and Sable’s face come up as if from sleep. He disengaged himself from his wife. Her body relaxed into an awkward position. Blue-shadowed by the canvas shade of the swing, her face had the open-eyed blankness of a doll’s.

  Sable dragged his shadow across the imitation flagstone. He looked small, oddly diminished, under the sky’s blue height. The impression persisted when he entered the lounge. Age had fallen on him. He needed a haircut, and his tie was pulled to one side. The look he gave me was red-eyed; his voice was cranky.

  “What brings you here, anyway?”

  “I wanted to see you. I don’t have much time in town.”

  “Well. You see me.” He lifted his arms from his sides, and dropped them.

  The old ladies, who had greeted him with smiles and nods, reacted like frightened children to his bitterness. One of them hitched her shawl high around her neck and slunk out of the room. The other stretched her hand out toward Sable as if she wanted to comfort him. She remained frozen in that position while she went on watching the ball game. The bearded man watched the corner of the ceiling.

  “How is Mrs. Sable?”

  “Not well.” He frowned, and drew me out into the corridor. “As a matter of fact, she’s threatened with melancholia. Dr. Trenchard tells me she’s had a similar illness before—before I married her. The shock she suffered two weeks ago stirred up the old trouble. Good Lord, was that only two weeks ago?”

  I risked asking: “What sort of background does she have?”

  “Alice was a model in Chicago, and she’s been married before. She lost a child, and her first husband treated her badly. I’ve tried to make it up to her. With damn poor success.”

  His voice sank toward despair.

  “I take it she’s having therapy.”

  “Of course. Dr. Trenchard is one of the best psychiatrists on the coast. If she gets any worse, he’s going to try shock treatment.” He leaned on the wall, looking down at nothing in particular. His red eyes seemed to be burning.

  “You should go home and get some sleep.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping much lately. It’s easy to say, sleep. But you can’t will yourself to sleep. Besides, Alice needs me with her. She’s much calmer when I’m around.” He shook himself, and straightened. “But you didn’t come here to discuss my woes with me.”

  “That’s true, I didn’t. I came to thank you for the check, and to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “You earned the money. I’ll answer the questions if I can.”

  “Dr. Howell has hired me to investigate John Galton’s background. Since you brought me into the case, I’d like to have your go-ahead.”

  “Of course. You have it, as far as I’m concerned. I can’t speak for Mrs. Galton.”

  “I understand that. Howell tells me she’s sold on the boy. Howell himself is convinced that he’s a phoney.”

  “We’ve discussed it. There seems to be some sort of romance between John and Howell’s daughter.”

  “Does Howell have any other special motive?”

  “For doing what?”

  “Investigating John, trying to prevent Mrs. Galton from changing her will.”

  Sable looked at me with some of his old sharpness. “That’s a good question. Under the present will, Howell stands to benefit in several ways. He himself is executor, and due to inherit a substantial sum, I really mustn’t say how much. His daughter, Sheila, is in for another substantial sum, very substantial. And after various other bequests have been met, the bulk of the estate goes to various charities, one of which is the Heart Association. Henry Galton died of cardiovascular trouble. Howell is an officer of the Heart Association. All of which makes him a highly interested party.”

  “And highly interesting. Has the will been changed yet?”

  “I can’t say. I told Mrs. Galton I couldn’t conscientiously draw up a new will for her, under the circumstances. She said she’d get someone else. Whether she has or not, I can’t say.”

  “Then you’re not sold on the boy, either.”

  “I was. I no longer know what to think. Fra
nkly, I haven’t been giving the matter much thought.” He moved impatiently, and made a misstep to one side, his shoulder thudding against the wall. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll get back to my wife.”

  The young nurse let me out.

  I looked back through the wire fence. Mrs. Sable remained in the same position on the swing. Her husband joined her in the blue shadow. He raised her inert head and insinuated his shoulder behind it. They sat like a very old couple waiting for the afternoon shadows to lengthen and merge into night.

  chapter 23

  THE cab-driver stopped at the curb opposite the gates of the Galton estate. He hung one arm over the back of the seat and gave me a quizzical look:

  “No offense, Mister, but you want the front entrance or the service entrance?”

  “The front entrance.”

  Okay. I just didn’t want to make a mistake.”

  He let me off under the porte-cochere. I paid him, and told him not to wait. The Negro maid let me into the reception hall, and left me to cool my heels among the ancestors.

  I moved over to one of the tall, narrow windows. It looked out across the front lawn, where the late afternoon sunlight lay serenely. I got some sense of the guarded peace that walled estates like this had once provided. In the modern world the walls were more like prison walls, or the wire fence around a nursing-home garden. When it came right down to it, I preferred the service entrance. The people in the kitchen usually had more fun.

  Quick footsteps descended the stairs, and Cassie Hildreth came into the room. She had on a skirt and a sweater which emphasized her figure. She looked more feminine in other, subtler, ways. Something had happened to change her style.

  She gave me her hand. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Archer. Sit down. Mrs. Galton will be down in a minute.”

  “Under her own power?”

  “Yes, isn’t it remarkable? She’s becoming much more active than she was. John takes her out for a drive nearly every day.”

  “That’s nice of him.”

  “He actually seems to enjoy it. They hit it off from the start.”

  “He’s the one I really came to see. Is he around?”