Ross Macdonald - Lew Archer 01 - The Moving Target(aka Harper)(1949) (22 page)

 
          
The
sun was over the mountains when I reached Santa Teresa. It put an edge on
everything, each leaf and stone and blade of grass. From the canyon road the
Sampson house looked like a toy villa built of sugar cubes. Closer up I could
feel its massive silence, which dominated the place when I stopped the car. I
had to unwire the ignition to cut the motor.

 
          
Felix
came to the service entrance when I knocked. “Mr. Archer?”

 
          
“Is
there any doubt about it?”

 
          
“You
were in an accident, Mr. Archer?”

 
          
“Apparently.
Is my bag still in the storeroom?” I had fresh
clothes in it, and a duplicate set of car keys.

 
          
“Yes, sir.
There are contusions on your face, Mr. Archer.
Should I call a doctor?”

 
          
“Don’t
bother. I could do with a shower, though, if there’s one handy.”

 
          
“Yes, sir.
I have a shower over the garage.”

 
          
He
led me to his quarters and brought my bag. I showered and shaved in the dinky
bathroom, and changed my sea-sodden clothes. It was all I could do not to stretch
out on the unmade bed in his neat little cell of a room and let the case go
hang.

 
          
When
I returned to the kitchen he was setting a tray with a silver breakfast set.
“Do you want something to eat, sir?”

 
          
“Bacon and eggs, if possible.”

 
          
He
bobbed his round head. “
So
soon as I have finished
with this, sir.”

 
          
“Who’s
the tray for?”

 
          
“Miss
Sampson, sir.”

 
          
“So early?”

 
          
“She
will breakfast in her room.”

 
          
“Is
she all right?”

 
          
“I
do not know, sir. She had a very little sleep. It was past midnight when she
came home.”

 
          
“From where?”

 
          
“I
do not know, sir. She left at the same time as you and Mr. Graves.”

 
          
“Driving
herself
?”

 
          
“Yes, sir.”

 
          
“What
car?”

 
          
“The Packard convertible.”

 
          
“Let’s
see, that’s the cream one, isn’t it?”

 
          
“No, sir.
It is red.
Bright scarlet.
She drove over two hundred miles in the time she was gone.”

 
          
“You
keep a pretty close watch on the family, don’t you, Felix?”

 
          
He
smiled blandly. “It is one of my duties to check the cars for gas and oil, sir,
since we have no regular chauffeur.”

 
          
“But
you don’t like Miss Sampson very well?”

 
          
“I
am devoted to her, sir.” His opaque black eyes were their own mask.

 
          
“Do
they give you a rough time, Felix?”

 
          
“No, sir.
But my family is well known on Samar. I have come
to the United States to attend the California Polytechnic College when I am
able to do this. I resent Mr. Graves’s assumption that I am suspect because of
the color of my skin. The gardeners also resent it for themselves.”

 
          
“You’re
talking about last night?”

 
          
“Yes, sir.”

 
          
“I
don’t think he meant it that way.”

 
          
Felix
smiled blandly.

 
          
“Is
Mr. Graves here now?”

 
          
“No, sir.
He is at the sheriff’s office, I think.
If you will excuse me, sir?”
He hoisted the tray to his
shoulder.

 
          
“You
know the number? And do you have to say ‘sir’ every second word?”

 
          
“No,
sir,” he said with mild irony. “23665.” I dialed the number from the butler’s
pantry and asked for Graves. A sleepy deputy called him.
“Graves
speaking.”
His voice was hoarse and tired. “This is Archer.”

 
          
“Where
in God’s name have you been?”

 
          
“I’ll
tell you later. Any trace of Sampson?”

 
          
“Not
yet, but we’ve made some progress. I’m working with a major case squad from the
F. B.
I
. We wired the classification of the dead man’s
prints to Washington, and we got an answer about an hour ago. He’s in the F. B.
I, files with a long record.
Name’s Eddie Lassiter.”

 
          
“I’ll
be over as soon as I eat. I’m at the Sampson place.”

 
          
“Perhaps
you’d better not.” He lowered his voice. “The sheriff’s peeved at you for
running out last night. I’ll come there.” He hung up, and I opened the door to
the kitchen.

 
          
Bacon
was making cheerful noises in a pan. Felix transferred it to a warming-dish,
inserted bread in the toaster beside the stove, broke the eggs in the hot
grease,
poured
me a cup of coffee from a steaming
Silex
maker.

 
          
I
sat down at the kitchen table and gulped the scalding coffee. “Are all the
phones in the house on the same line?”

 
          
“No, sir.
The phones in the front of the house are on a
different line from the servants’ phones. Do you wish your eggs turned over,
Mr. Archer?”

 
          
“I’ll
take them the way they are. Which ones are connected with the phone in the
pantry?”

 
          
“The one in the linen closet and the one in the guest cottage above
the house.
Mr.
Taggert’s
cottage.”

 
          
Between
mouthfuls I asked him: “Is Mr. Taggert there now?”

 
          
“I
do not know, sir. I think I heard him drive in during the night.”

 
          
“Go
and make sure, will you?”

 
          
“Yes, sir.”
He left the kitchen by the back door.

 
          
A
car drove up a minute later, and Graves came in. He had lost some of his
momentum, but he still moved quickly. His eyes were red-rimmed.

 
          
“You
look like hell, Lew.”

 
          
“I
just came from there. Did you bring the dope on Lassiter?”

 
          
“Yeah.”

 
          
He
took a teletype flimsy out of his inside pocket and handed it to me. My eye
skipped down the closely printed sheet.

 
          
Brought before Children’s Court, New York, March 29, 1923, father’s
complaint, truancy.
Committed to New York Catholic
Protectory
, April 4, 1923.
Released August 5, 1925….
Brooklyn Special Sessions Court, January 9, 1928, charged with bicycle theft.
Received suspended sentence and placed on probation. Discharged from probation
November 12, 1929…. Arrested May 17, 1932, and charged with possession of a
stolen money order. Case dismissed for lack of evidence on recommendation U. S.
Attorney…. Arrested for car theft October 5, 1936, sentenced to 3 years in Sing
Sing
…. Arrested with
sister
Betty Lassiter by agents of the U. S. Narcotics Bureau, April 23, 1943.
Convicted of selling one ounce of cocaine, May 2, 1943, sentenced to year and a
day in Leavenworth….
Arrested August 3, 1944, for
participating in holdup of General Electric payroll truck.
Pleaded
guilty, sentenced to 5 to 10 years in Sing
Sing
.
Released on parole September 18, 1947.
Broke parole and
disappeared, December 1947.

 
          
Those
were the high points in Eddie’s record, the dots in the dotted line that marked
his course from a delinquent childhood to a violent death. Now it was just as
if he had never been born.

 
          
Felix
said at my shoulder: “Mr. Taggert is in his cottage, sir.”

 
          
“Is
he up?”

 
          
“Yes,
he is dressing.”

 
          
“How about some breakfast?”
Graves said.

 
          
“Yes, sir.”

 
          
Graves
turned to me. “Is there anything useful in it?”

 
          
“Just
one
thing,
and it isn’t nailed down. Lassiter had a
sister named Betty who was arrested with him on a narcotics charge. There’s a
woman named Betty in Los Angeles with narcotics in her record, a pianist in
Troy’s
clipjoint
. She calls herself Betty Fraley.”

 
          
“Betty
Fraley!” Felix said from the stove.

 
          
“This
doesn’t concern you,” Graves told him unpleasantly.

 
          
“Wait
a minute,” I said. “What about Betty Fraley, Felix? Do you know her?”

 
          
“I
do not know her, no, but I have seen her records, in Mr.
Taggert’s
cottage. I have noticed the name when I dusted there.”

 
          
“Are
you telling the truth?” Graves said.

 
          
“Why
should I
lie
, sir?”

 
          
“
Well
see what Taggert has to say about that.” Graves got to
his feet.

 
          
“Wait
a minute, Bert.” I put my hand on his arm, which was hard with tension.
“Bulldozing won’t get us anywhere. Even if Taggert has the woman’s records, it
doesn’t have to mean anything. We’re not even certain she’s Lassiter’s sister.
And maybe he’s a collector.”

 
          
“He
has quite a large collection,” Felix said.

 
          
Graves
was stubborn. “I think we should take a look at ft.”

 
          
“Not
now. Taggert may be as guilty as hell, but we won’t get Sampson back by being
blunt about it. Wait until Taggert isn’t there. Then I’ll look over his
records.”

 
          
Graves
let me pull him back into his seat. He stroked his closed eyelids with his
fingertips. “This case is the wildest mess I’ve ever seen or heard of,” he
said.

 
          
“It
is.” Graves only knew the half of it. “Is the general alarm out for Sampson?”

 
          
He
opened his eyes. “Since ten o’clock last night. We’ve alerted the highway
patrol and the F. B. I., and every police department and county sheriff between
here and San Diego.”

 
          
“You’d
better get on the phone,” I said, “and put out another state-wide alarm.
This time for Betty Fraley.
Take in the whole Southwest.”