The Archer Files

by Ross Macdonald

  “Yes. But you still haven’t proved it fired the shot that killed Jerry Heller. Where’s the slug?”

  “Still in his head. Don’t worry, I intend to run ballistics tests. Not that it ain’t wrapped up already. This revolver was left at the scene of the crime with one shell empty that had just been fired.”

  “How do you know it had just been fired?”

  “I smelled it. Smell it yourself.”

  I leaned down and caught the acrid odor of recently expended smokeless powder. Mildred, who had been standing in the background with Zinnia, moved up behind me. Looking down into the black metal box, she let out an exclamation of surprise and dismay.

  “What’s the trouble, Milly?” Ostervelt said.

  She didn’t answer for what seemed a long time. She looked at him and then at me, her mouth drooping dismally.

  “What is it?” he repeated. “If you know something, speak up.”

  “I’ve seen that gun before. I think I have, anyway.”

  “Does it belong to Carl?”

  “No. It’s Dr. Grantland’s. My employer in Beverly Hills. It looks exactly the same as the one in his desk.”

  “How did it get here, then?”

  “I haven’t any idea,” she answered faintly.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You told me Carl rifled his cash drawer this morning. Did the doctor keep his revolver in the same drawer?”

  “I think he did. I’ve seen it there. I couldn’t swear that it’s the same revolver.”

  Zinnia pushed forward between us, her sharp elbow jabbing my side. “Maybe you better talk to Bobby Grantland.”

  “Do you know him?” “I ought to. He’s spent enough weekends here. He and Jerry went to school together.”

  I turned to Mildred. “Didn’t you say Grantland was Carl’s psychiatrist?”

  “He was for a while after the war. That’s why he gave me a job, I guess.”

  Zinnia snorted. “Like hell it is. Jerry got you that job with Bobby Grantland. Now that Jerry’s dead, it’s time you showed a little gratitude for all he’s done for you.”

  “Gratitude for what?” Mildred turned on her in a thin white fury. “For giving me a chance to go to work for fifty dollars a week?”

  “He sent you money as long as you needed it, didn’t he?”

  “He sent me a little money, for a while. You put a stop to that.”

  “You’re right. I did. There’s no reason why he had to support every female bum that married into the family.”

  “He supported you,” Mildred said. “Speaking of female bums. You’ve got it all to yourself now. Aren’t you satisfied?”

  They were on the verge of hair-pulling. Zinnia reached for her. I put a hand on her arm, and she drew back. The sheriff’s little eyes squinted stupidly at us, as if the quick turn of events had befuddled his brain. Mildred backed away and stood against a raised planter, plucking idly at the tiny shell-like blossoms on a young cymbidium spray.

  “Let me get this straight,” Ostervelt said. “You said something just now, Zinnia, that Jerry made the doc give Milly a job. How could Jerry do that?”

  “Bobby Grantland owed him money, that’s how. Jerry lent him the capital to set up in practice after the war.”

  “Does he still owe him the money?”

  “I guess so, most of it. I think he’s been paying it back a little at a time.”

  “Was Jerry pressing him for it?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Ask him.”

  I said: “Was Grantland here five years ago? The day that old Mr. Heller was strangled?”

  Mildred answered: “Yes, he was. He came up to observe Carl. But this is ridiculous. He couldn’t have had anything to do with any of this.”

  “Did he testify at Carl’s sanity hearing?”

  “Of course he did.”

  “What did he say about Carl?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. I couldn’t face it.”

  “I was,” Zinnia said. “I don’t remember the two-dollar words, but they added up to the fact that my esteemed brother-in-law was as nutty as a fruitcake. Was and is.”

  “Maybe. I’d like to talk to the good doctor, about that and other things.”

  “Me, too.” Sheriff Ostervelt snapped his black case shut and tucked it under his hamlike arm. He went to Mildred, walking like a bear on its hind legs, and laid a large red paw on her shoulder. “Coming along with me, little girl?”

  She shrank at his touch. “I’ll ride with Mr. Archer. He brought me here.”

  “Now don’t be like that.” His hand slid round her shoulders in a gesture that was more than paternal. “I’d enjoy your company, Mildred. Besides, I need you to show me the way. I’m just an old hick from the sticks. I don’t know those Los Angeles streets the way he does. Of course I got to admit I’m not as young and pretty as he is.”

  His belly nudged her. She leaned away from him against the plants. “I’ll go with you if you don’t touch me,” she said in a tiny voice. “Promise that you won’t touch me.”

  “Sure. Of course.” He took a backward step and said with jovial lechery: “You got me wrong, Mildred. You never understood me. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on your little head. And nobody else is going to, either, not while you got old Ostie to protect you.”

  They left the greenhouse together. Mildred dragged her feet. The sheriff turned at the door and cocked his chins at me. “You coming, Archer?”

  “In a minute. I’ll follow your car.”

  When they were out of earshot, Zinnia said: “A pretty couple, eh? I’d like to see the old goat marry her. She’s just what he deserves.”

  “I thought he was married, to your father-in-law’s sister.”

  “He was. She died before the old man did. Ostie never got over it.”

  “I can see that. He’s the typical grief-stricken widower.”

  “Oh sure. I mean he never got over her dying before the old man. It cut him off from any part of the estate. Personally, I think he did all right for himself, getting Jerry to wipe out all he owed him.”

  “How much?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Ten thousand dollars or more.” “For services rendered?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you back on that kick again? You make me tired.”

  “The sheriff helped to send Carl up, didn’t he? That could have been worth a lot of money to Jerry.”

  “Nuts,” she said. “You’re completely off the beam. Maybe Ostie did want Carl out of the way, but if he did, it had nothing to do with Jerry. Ostie’s been after Milly to divorce Carl and marry him for a long time.”

  “He hasn’t been very successful in his wooing.” “No.” She laughed raucously, like a parrot. “Well, climb on your horse, big boy. Don’t let me keep you.”

  “Why don’t you come along?”

  “So I can listen to you some more, telling me how Jerry framed his brother? No, thanks.” She turned and looked at the body. “This little guy wasn’t much use to me, but he had his points. I’ll stay here with him.”

  “Are you all right by yourself?”

  “I won’t be by myself. There’s a deputy inside”—she jerked a thumb towards the passageway that led into the house—“and more on the way. What’s the matter, can’t you make up your mind? A minute ago Carl was framed, to hear you tell it. Now he’s a lurking menace again. Come on now, which is it.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re right. I haven’t made up my mind.”

  I left her keeping her unlikely vigil. Looking back from outside, I saw her hefting the light target pistol in her hand. She waved it at me derisively.

  The sheriff drove inconsistently, slowing gradually on the long dull straightaways and speeding up on the curves. I was tempted to pass him more than once, but I wanted to keep an eye on him and the girl. She sat on the extreme righthand side of the front seat, as if to avoid any possible contact with him.

  I followed his undercover plates over the Pass, down Sunset and across to
Santa Monica Boulevard. He parked eventually on a side street near the center of Beverly Hills. I parked behind his radio car and got out.

  Ostervelt and Mildred went up a flagstone walk which led to a low pink building standing well back from the street. It was flat-roofed and new-looking, walled with glass bricks in front and masked with well-clipped shrubbery. A small bronze plate on the doorpost announced discreetly: J. Robert Grantland, M.D.

  I followed them into a bright waiting room furnished in net and black iron. A receptionist’s desk was set at an angle in one corner. There were several abstract paintings on the walls. I touched one and felt the brushmarks. Originals. Everything about the place said money, but meant front.

  Mildred opened a heavy white door. We went through into a smaller room furnished with white oak office furniture. I pointed at the wide low telephone desk against one wall:

  “Is this the desk he took the money from?”

  She had assumed a professional mask as soon as she entered the office. “Yes. Please keep your voice down. I think the doctor has a patient with him.”

  I listened, and heard a drone of voices behind an inner door. One of them was a woman’s. It said:

  “Is that why I fall in love with Terry’s friends?”

  A lower voice, as rich and thick as molasses, answered her. I couldn’t hear what it said.

  “Break it up, will you, Milly?” the sheriff said. “We can’t wait here all day.”

  She looked at him primly, her finger to her lips. “Dr. Grantland hates to be interrupted. And promise me you won’t say anything nasty to him. He couldn’t help it if Carl took his gun.”

  The sheriff grunted. “We’ll see.” He put his evidence case on top of the desk and pulled out the top drawer.

  Looking over his shoulder, I saw that it was empty, except for a little silver in a coin compartment at one end, and, shoved far back in the drawer, a carton of .32 shells.

  “Is this where the gun was kept?”

  “I think so. I’ve seen it there.”

  “What was Grantland doing with a gun?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked him. Some of his patients get pretty—excited sometimes. I suppose he kept it for protection.”

  There were footsteps in the inner room. The door clicked sharply, and opened. A heavy man in English tweeds came out. The artificial light gleamed on his head, which was prematurely bald, and flashed on his spectacles.

  “What is this, Mrs. Heller? Who are these men?”

  She cringed and stammered. Ostervelt answered for her:

  “Remember me, Doctor? Jack Ostervelt, sheriff of Buena County. We met at the Heller place a couple of times.”

  “Sure enough, we did. How are you, Sheriff?”

  He closed the door behind him, but not before I caught a glimpse of a dark-haired woman with a raddled face, putting on a hat.

  “I’m well enough myself. Your friend Jerry Heller is pretty poorly, though. In fact he’s dead.”

  “Jerry dead?” The doctor’s jaw dropped so far I could see the gold in his molars.

  “He was killed with this gun a couple of hours ago.” The sheriff opened his black box. “Take a good look, but don’t touch it. Recognize it?”

  “Why, it looks like my revolver.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Ostervelt said flatly.

  “Surely you don’t imagine that I shot Jerry?” The doctor glanced anxiously at the door behind him, and lowered his voice with an effort. “My revolver was taken from my desk this morning. I reported it stolen to the police.”

  “Who stole it?”

  He looked at Mildred. Her gaze met his, and dropped. Her face was miserable.

  “Carl Heller did,” he said. “He also took about fifty dollars in cash, which I kept in the same drawer.”

  I said: “Do you know for a fact that he took your gun?”

  His fat chest pouted out, and he looked at me with hostility. “You can take my word for it. Just who are you, by the way?”

  “The name is Archer,” I said. “Have you been here all day, Doctor?”

  “Certainly I have.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Of course I can. Mrs. Monaco has been here with me for the past two hours, if you insist on proof.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Ostervelt said. “You’re absolutely certain that Carl Heller took your gun?”

  Grantland’s face flushed. “This is ridiculous. Of course I am. I saw him run out of here with the gun in his hand. I did my best to stop him, but he was too fast for me.” He turned to Mildred. “You saw him, didn’t you?”

  “I guess so,” she said hopelessly. “Yes, I saw him.”

  Her body began to slump. Thinking that she was going to faint, I started for her. Ostervelt got to her first, circling her slender body with his arm. She leaned against him, with her eyelids fluttering.

  Dr. Grantland brought her a glass of water. “You’d better go home, Mrs. Heller. You’ve been under quite a strain. You need a rest.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was like a tired little girl’s.

  “I’ll take her,” Ostervelt said. “Be glad to. With that crazy husband of hers still on the loose, she needs somebody to look out for her.”

  Grantland looked him up and down, sardonically. “No doubt.”

  “Sorry to bother you, Doctor. I guess when it comes to trial, we’ll be needing you as a witness.”

  Ostervelt closed the evidence case and picked it up in one huge hand. He and Mildred went out, his thick possessive arm still supporting her. Grantland said to me:

  “Is there something else?”

  “Just a little matter of your professional opinion. It’s been suggested to me that Carl Heller wasn’t really dangerous.”

  “I thought so myself at one time. Obviously he is, though. He’s killed two people, and the proof of the pudding is always in the eating.”

  “I don’t quite follow.”

  “No, I suppose not. You wouldn’t.” He looked at me with intellectual distaste. “I’ll spell it out for you. Five or six years ago I formed the opinion, based on observation and interviews, that Carl Heller wasn’t likely to become dangerous. He was ill, of course, no question about that—definitely a victim of paranoid schizophrenia. But shock therapy seemed to do him a lot of good. He was released from the state hospital, not as cured, you understand, but as an arrested case, who needed supportive treatment. Schizophrenia isn’t really curable, you know. We psychiatrists hate to admit failure, but that’s the simple truth. Still, I concurred in the institution’s fairly hopeful prognosis, and I was glad to see him let out on indefinite leave of absence.”

  “This was before his father was killed?”

  “Of course. His father’s death naturally altered my opinion. When theory collides with fact, you change the theory.”

  “I understand you were in the house that day?”

  “I was. I drove up to see Carl, and the family asked me to stay for Thanksgiving dinner. Jerry and I are old friends.”

  “So Zinnia said—”

  “Oh. You’ve been talking to Zinnia. What else did she say?”

  “She mentioned that you owed money to Jerry Heller.”

  “Zinnia would. But she’s a little behind the times. I paid Jerry off in full last year.” His eyes glinted ironically behind the spectacles. “So if you’re looking for a motive for murder, you’ll have to look elsewhere. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “Just a minute, doctor. Why did you give Mildred Heller a job?”

  “Why not? I needed a receptionist, and she’s a pleasant little creature. I suppose I felt sorry for her. Besides, Jerry asked me to. I had a number of reasons.”

  “What were his reasons?”

  “For finding her a job? No doubt he felt he should do something for her. Zinnia made him cut off her allowance, and she had to live somehow.”

  “On fifty dollars a week.”

  He said with some complacency: “
I’ve been paying her sixty since the first of the year.”

  “Don’t you feel she got a pretty lousy deal from Jerry?”

  “I’ve always thought so, yes, though I didn’t blame Jerry entirely. Zinnia ran him since his father died.”

  “How did she get along with the old man before he died?”

  “Not too well, I’m afraid. None of them did. He was a German patriarch, a hard-fisted domineering old curmudgeon. A typical arthritic.”

  “You know the family better than I do, Doctor. Could Zinnia have killed him?”

  “Do you mean is it morally possible? Or physically possible?”

  “Both.”

  “I thought Jerry was your suspect.”

  “He still is. They both are.”

  “Well, as far as physical possibility is concerned, either one of them could have strangled him. He was helpless with his arthritis, and alone. His room was accessible to all of them, and the family was scattered that evening. Jerry was in his greenhouse, I believe, but there’s a passage from it directly into the house. I don’t really know where Zinnia was. She said later that she was taking a walk.”

  “And Ostervelt?”

  “The sheriff left early, I think, before it happened. He got drunk at dinner and made some kind of a pass at Mildred. She slapped his face and stomped off to her room. That’s how Carl happened to be left alone.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I played a couple of hands of canasta with Carl. He lost, and quit. He was in an unpleasant mood, probably the aftermath of the trouble between Ostervelt and his wife. Anyway, he wandered off and I picked up a book. The next I saw or heard of him, he and Jerry were fighting in the old man’s room. The old man was dead, and Jerry said he’d caught him in flagrante.”

  “But it could have been the other way around?”

  “Not in view of what’s happened since,” he said.

  “I don’t know. Jerry profited from his father’s death. Nobody else did. Zinnia profits from Jerry’s, and nobody else does.”

  “You’re suggesting that he killed his father, and then she turned around and killed him?”

  “I’m saying it could have happened that way. Carl’s escape may have been the opportunity she was waiting for.”

  “That’s an ingenious story you’ve made up. But it doesn’t fit the facts. Not if I know Zinnia, and I think I do. She’s a hard-nosed bitch, but she wouldn’t kill. And not if Jerry was shot with my revolver. There doesn’t seem to be any question that Carl killed them both.”