The Ferguson Affair

by Ross Macdonald

  “You don’t have to tell him, he knows it.” Padilla shook his dark head. “Lay off, eh?”

  Ferguson spoke gruffly. “I’m perfectly all right. Don’t concern yourself about me.”

  “I’m more concerned about your wife. She may be killed while we stand here talking, and you’ll end up financing the killer’s getaway.”

  “I know she’s in danger. I’ve been sitting with it staring me in the face all night. You don’t have to grind it in.”

  “Then go to the police.”

  “I will not. Stop badgering me.”

  He ran his fingers through his thin hair. It stuck up and fluttered like gray feathers in the wind from the sea. He walked away to the edge of the cliff and stood there looking down. I could hear the surf pouring and lapsing, a continual sound of grief running under the morning.

  “Let him alone now,” Padilla said. “You want to drive him over the edge?”

  “I’m not doing it for fun. This is a bad situation all round.”

  “You’re not making it any better, Mr. Gunnarson.”

  “Somebody has to do something.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We don’t want to do the wrong thing, that’s for sure. The Colonel could be right. He’s had a lot of experience in his life. He didn’t get where he is by letting other people carry the ball.”

  “Nobody’s carrying it, that’s the trouble.”

  “Sometimes you just have to wait. You press too hard, and everything goes to pieces.”

  “Don’t give me the mañana treatment.”

  Padilla was hurt. He turned away from me in silence.

  “Listen to me,” I said to Ferguson’s back. “You’re not the only person involved in this. Your wife is deeply involved, more deeply than you are by a long shot. You’re taking a heavy responsibility for her.”

  “I know that,” he said without turning.

  “Then spread it around. Give other people a chance to help you.”

  “You can help me by getting off my back.” He turned, his small eyes hot and dry. “I have to work this out for myself, and for Holly. Alone.”

  “Don’t you have any friends in California?”

  “None that I trust. Those people at the Club care nothing for me. The people we know in Hollywood are worse. They have a grudge against me, and for good reason. I found that my wife’s so-called friends were living off her like leeches. I got rid of them for her.”

  “So you’re completely alone here?”

  “I choose to be. I hope I make that clear.”

  “No servants?”

  “I won’t have servants under my feet, prying into my affairs. Holly was glad to be alone with me, and look after my needs. I don’t like anyone prying, do you understand me?”

  He stalked into the house, stiff-necked and high-shouldered, mimicked by his dwarf shadow. I was beginning to understand something about him. He was a pigheaded Scots-Canadian, made arrogant and lonely by his money. But he was a man, and had a depth of feeling I hadn’t suspected. It’s hard to begin to understand a man without beginning to like him.

  Padilla lingered outside. “Could I talk to you, Mr. Gunnarson? Person to person? I’m no great brain, and I never studied law-”

  I didn’t like his guarded, apologetic tone. “We can sit in my car.”

  I climbed in behind the wheel. He got in the other side, closing the door very gently as if it might shatter under his hand. I offered him a cigarette and meant to light it for him. But before I could move, he was lighting mine, in a quick, smooth bartender’s gesture.

  “Thanks, Tony. I got a little wordy, there. It’s the occupational hazard of my profession.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed that about lawyers. I thought maybe you were pressing a little hard about him going to the cops. I got nothing against cops. They’re human like everybody else, though. I see them fumble a lot of balls, so do you. Most of the time they make a good try for it, but sometimes they just turn their back and let the ball bounce.”

  “Get down to cases, eh?”

  “I drove Secundina Donato home last night. She did some talking. Some of it made sense, some of it didn’t. But I thought I better pass the word to somebody who’d know what to do. I can’t take it to the cops.”

  “Why?”

  He hesitated, and then said rapidly: “She thinks Pike Granada is mixed up with the robbery gang. Don’t quote me, and don’t quote her.” He peered through the windshield as if searching for hovering helicopters. “She’s in bad enough trouble now, with her husband dead, and kids to feed. I don’t want to get them orphaned completely.”

  “You take her seriously, do you?”

  “I dunno.” Padilla drew in half an inch of his cigarette and blew it out in a long, sighing puff, brown-gray on the blue sky. “She may be making it up, but I didn’t think she was that smart. She’s known Granada for a long time. He used to be one of her boy-friends. Her and Gus and Granada ran with the same gang. It was a pretty wild gang, smoking weed, stealing cars, beating people up. They used to have parties out in the old ice plant-the same place where Pike shot Gus.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Not as long as you’d think. Ten years at the outside. These people aren’t old. Sexy-they used to call her Sexy-Secundina says that Gus and Granada fought for her one night. Granada was a football player, and Gus couldn’t take him with his bare hands. He took him with a knife. He put a little hole in Granada’s chest, and Granada ran away. Next thing they knew, the place was raided, and Gus was in the reformatory for stealing a car.”

  “There’s no necessary connection.”

  “I know that, but Secundina thinks there is. Once Gus was out of the way, Granada moved in on her. She claims that’s the way it’s been ever since. Granada keeps making trouble for Gus, so he can get at her.”

  “She’s not that much of an attraction, is she?”

  “You didn’t see her ten years ago, even five. She used to melt the asphalt. And I know for a fact Granada chased her for years, and had a down on Gus. According to Secundina, he never forgave Gus for making him run, and that’s why he shot Gus last night.”

  “It sounds like a one-sided story to me. She’s trying to get back at Granada.”

  “I hope that’s all there is in it. She said other things, too. Granada was always dropping in Broadman’s store. Manuel and Gus saw him there every week, oftener. They used to go in the back and talk.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah, it is. Because Broadman was fencing for the gang, that’s definite. Gus was one of the break-in boys, and naturally he knew who handled the stuff. He also told Secundina that they had police information, somebody on the force tipping them off on when and where to strike. She thinks it was Granada.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “That’s your privilege.” Padilla’s tone made it clear that he did believe it. “Then I won’t bother going into the rest of it.”

  “Is there more?”

  “Yeah. I’ll give it to you if you want. It may be a lot of crazy talk. Like I said, I hope it is. There must be some truth in it, though, because it checks out. This business about the kidnapping, for instance. Secundina got wind of it long ago. She didn’t know what the job was going to be, neither did Gus. But it was going to be big-a lot of money for everybody, enough to solve all their problems.” Padilla grinned ironically.

  “Who all are involved?”

  “She doesn’t know that. Gus was one, of course. And this character Gaines. Gus knew him from way back, met him in Preston years ago under another name.”

  “What name?”

  “Secundina doesn’t know. Gus didn’t tell her everything. Most of what she learned, she had to pick up for herself. She did find out that Gaines was the leader, anyway after Broadman broke with the gang. Broadman goofed some way, and the cops threw a scare into him. He decided to pull in his horns. He didn’t want any part of the big deal. Sexy says that’s why they killed him. He w
as ready to turn State’s evidence against them.”

  I was losing my scepticism of Padilla’s story. It tied in with some of the things I knew. A split between Gaines and Broadman would account for Broadman’s handling of Ella Barker’s diamond ring.

  “Does Secundina admit that Gus killed Broadman?”

  “No. She claims that Gus was sent to take care of Broadman. Gaines told him to gather up the loot in Broadman’s basement and knock the old boy off. But Gus couldn’t go through with it. He’d never killed a man. He hit Broadman a couple of times and beat it. She saw Gus right after, that same afternoon, and he was ashamed of himself for chickening out. You get that? He was ashamed. She didn’t make that up.”

  “But maybe he did.”

  “Gus? He’s-he was no better than a moron.”

  “Then he could have been mistaken about what happened. He may have struck Broadman a fatal blow without knowing it.”

  Padilla said: “You’re sure Broadman wasn’t choked to death?”

  “I’m not sure, no. Why do you ask?”

  “Secundina thinks he was.”

  “By Granada?”

  “No names mentioned,” Tony said. He wasn’t a timid man, but he looked frightened. “I don’t know what to do about all this, Mr. Gunnarson. I been carrying it around ever since she spilled it in my lap. It’s too big for me to handle.”

  “I’ll talk to her. Where does she live?”

  “In a court in lower town.” He gave me the address, and I wrote it down.

  Tony got out and looked up at the sky. A high jet was cutting white double tracks across it, towing along them at a distance rattling loads of sound. Ferguson’s telephone rang, like a tiny protest.

  I started for the service entrance. Padilla was there ahead of me, blocking my way.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  He answered me quietly. “It’s his baby, Mr. Gunnarson. Let him handle it.”

  “You think he’s qualified?”

  “As much as anybody is, I guess.”

  Padilla flicked his twisted ear with a fingertip and held his hand outspread beside his face. Ferguson’s voice was a murmur far inside the house; then almost a shout: “Holly! Is that you, Holly?”

  “My gosh, he’s talking to her,” Padilla said.

  He’d forgotten his intention of keeping me out. We went in together. Ferguson met us in the central hallway. His weathered face was broken with joy. “I talked to her. She’s alive and well, and she’ll be home today.”

  “Not kidnapped, after all?” I said.

  “Oh, they’re holding her, all right.” He seemed to consider this a minor detail. “But they haven’t mistreated her. She told me so herself.”

  “You’re sure it was your wife you talked to?”

  “Absolutely certain. I couldn’t be mistaken about her voice.”

  “Was it a local call?”

  “So far as I could tell.”

  “Who else did you talk to?” Padilla said.

  “A man-one of her captors. I didn’t recognize his voice. But it doesn’t matter. They’re releasing her.”

  “Without ransom?”

  He looked at me with displeasure. In the relief of hearing from his wife, he didn’t want to be reminded of obstacles to her return. Relief like that, I thought, was very close to despair.

  “I’m paying the ransom,” he said in a flat voice. “I’m glad to do it.”

  “When and where?”

  “With your permission, I’ll keep my instructions to myself. I have a schedule to meet.”

  He turned with awkward haste and walked a rather erratic course to his bedroom. It was large, with an open blue fall to the sea from one window; and so austerely furnished that it seemed empty. There were photographs of his wife on the walls and the bare surfaces of the furniture, and several of the Colonel himself. He lounged with raw-boned rakishness in battle dress, under a hat like a pancake. He stood on his hands on a pair of parallel bars. One photograph showed him standing straight and alone against a flat prairie landscape under an empty sky.

  “What are you doing in here, Gunnarson?”

  “Are you sure that phone call wasn’t phony?”

  “How could it be? I spoke directly to Holly.”

  “It wasn’t a tape you heard?”

  “No.” He considered this. “What she said was responsive to what I said.”

  “Why would she co-operate with them?”

  “Because she wants to come home, of course,” he said with a large, stark smile. “Why shouldn’t she co-operate? She knows that I don’t care about the money. She knows how much I love her.”

  “Sure she does,” Padilla said from the doorway, and beckoned me with his head.

  There were feelings in the air, like a complex electricity, which I didn’t understand. Moving jerkily, galvanically, Ferguson went to a wall mirror and started to take off his shirt. His fingers fumbled at the buttons. In a rage of impatience, he tore it off with both hands. Buttons struck the glass like tiny bullets.

  Ferguson’s reflected face was gaunt. He saw me watching him, and met my gaze in the mirror. His eyes were old and stony, his forehead steaming with sweat. “I warn you. If you do anything to interfere with her safe return, I’ll kill you, I have killed men.”

  He said it without turning, to his reflection and me.

  chapter 11

  I DROVE UNDER THE COLISEUM arches of the overpass and through an area of truckyards and lumberyards. The air smelled of fresh-cut wood and burned diesel oil. Along the high wire fences of the trucking firms, against the blank walls of the building-materials warehouses, dark men leaned in the sun. I turned up Pelly Street.

  The court where the Donato family lived was a collection of board-and-batten houses which resembled chickenhouses, built on three sides of a dusty patch of ground at the end of an alley. A single Cotoneaster tree, which can grow anywhere, held its bright red berries up to the sun. In the tree’s long straggling shade a swarm of children played gravely in the dust.

  They were pretending to be Indians. Half of them probably were, if you traced their blood lines. An old woman with a seamed Indian face overlooked them from the doorstep of one of the huts.

  She pretended not to see me. I was the wrong color and I had on a business suit and business suits cost money and where did the money come from? The sweat of the poor.

  I said: “Is Mrs. Donato here? Secundina Donato?”

  The old woman didn’t raise her eyes or answer me. She was as still as a lizard in my shadow. Behind me the children had fallen silent. Through the open doorway of the hut, I could hear a woman’s voice softly singing a lullaby in Spanish.

  “Secundina lives here, doesn’t she?”

  The old woman moved her shoulders. The shrug was almost imperceptible under her rusty black shawl. A young woman holding a baby appeared in the doorway. She had Madonna eyes and a mournful drooping mouth which was beautiful until it spoke. “What are you looking for, Mister?”

  “Secundina Donato. Do you know her?”

  “Secundina is my sister. She isn’t here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I dunno. Ask her.” She looked down at the silent old woman on the doorstep.

  “She won’t give me an answer. Doesn’t she understand English?”

  “She understands it, all right, but she ain’t talking today. One of her boys got shot last night. I guess you know that, Mister.”

  “Yes. I want to talk to Secundina about her husband.”

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “I’m a lawyer. Tony Padilla sent me here.”

  The old woman spoke in husky, rapid Spanish. I caught Padilla’s name, and Secundina’s, and that was all.

  “You a friend of Tony Padilla?” the young woman said.

  “Yes. What does she say?”

  “Secundina went to the hospital.”

  “Is she hurt?”

  “Her Gus is there in the morgue.”

 
; “What did she say about Tony Padilla?”

  “Nothing. She says Secundina should have married him.”

  “Married Tony?”

  “That’s what she says.”

  The old woman was still talking, head down, her gaze in the dust between her cracked black shoes.

  “What else does she say?”

  “Nothing. She says a woman is a fool to go to the hospital. Nobody ain’t gonna make her. The hospital is where you die, she says. Her sister is a medica.”

  I started for the hospital, but got waylaid by the thought of other things I should do. My first duty was to Ella Barker. She was starting her third day in jail, and I’d promised to try and have her bail reduced. While I didn’t have too much hope of accomplishing this, I had to make the attempt.

  My timing was good. It was just eleven by the courthouse clock, and when I entered the courtroom, the court was taking a recess. The jury box was half full of prisoners, which meant that the break would be a short one. The prisoners were handcuffed together in pairs. They sat stolid and mute under the guard of an armed bailiff. Most of them looked like the men who leaned on the walls and fences off Pelly Street.

  Judge Bennett came in from his chambers, trailing his black robe. I caught his eye, and he nodded. The judge was an impressive man in his sixties. He reminded me of my grandmother’s Calvinist God, minus the beard and plus a sense of humor. The judge’s sense of humor didn’t show in court. Whenever I made the trek across the well of the old high-ceilinged courtroom up to the bench, I had to fight off the feeling that it was judgment day and my sins had found me out.

  The judge leaned sideways to speak to me, as if to detach himself from the majesty of the law. “Good morning. How is Sally?”

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  “She must be approaching the end of her term.”

  “Any day now.”

  “Good for her. I like to see nice people having children.” His wise, experienced gaze rested on my face. “You’re showing the tension, William.”

  “It isn’t Sally I’m concerned about at the moment. It’s the young Barker woman.” I hesitated. “Mr. Sterling ought to hear what I have to say, Your Honor.”