Ross Macdonald - 1954 - Meet Me at the Morgue(aka Experience with Evil) by Ross Macdonald

Author:Ross Macdonald [Macdonald, Ross]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“Can you describe her?”

“She was a rather pretty little thing, with a turned-in page-boy bob. I noticed her eyes. She had lovely dark blue eyes, but the general effect was spoiled by her paint job. She wore too much of everything—too much lipstick and powder, even eye-shadow. Now that I think about it, I’m certain she was his wife. I remember she called him Art.” Art Lemp and Molly Fawn. The inside of my mouth went dry. “And the man, Mrs. Richards? What did he look like?”

She sensed my excitement, and answered with great care: “The best word I can find for him is amorphous. He had one of these loose, rubbery mouths—how can I describe it? The sort of mouth that can turn into anything. I pay attention to mouths, they’re so important in expressing character—”

“Age?”

“It’s hard to tell. About fifty-five or sixty.”

“Did he have a bald head?”

“No. I do recall wondering if he was wearing a hairpiece. His hair was too sleek and neat, you know? It didn’t go with the rest of him.”

I moved towards the hall. “Thank you very much, both of you. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

“I hope so,” she said.

Richards followed me to the front door. “What is this all about, Cross? Is he a receiver of stolen goods?”

“The story’s a little too long to tell you now. I’m pressed for time.”

“Whatever you say.” He stepped out onto the porch and filled his lungs with air. “Wonderful night, great view. I like to have the university down there. That cultural atmosphere, it makes me feel good. I’m a bear for culture.”

“Physical culture,” his wife said from the doorway. “Good night, Mr. Cross. Good luck.”

CHAPTER 17

I made a left turn on to Sunset and joined the westward flight of automobiles. I passed a few cars, came up behind a fast Cadillac and let it pace me on the unbanked curves. The depression that had blanketed me all day, ever since I learned the boy was stolen, was lifting at the corners. The boy was as lost as ever, but at least I was doing something about it, moving in a long, descending curve towards the heart of the evil.

A straight length of road coincided with a gap in the eastbound traffic. I passed the Cadillac, and held the accelerated speed. Approaching headlights rushed up out of the night like terrible eyes and passed with a grunt and a sigh. I slid down the final slope to the coast highway and turned right when the light changed.

Tall eroded cutbanks rose on the inland side. I drove slowly in the left-hand lane, watching the other side. A miscellaneous line of buildings, multicolored and many-shaped, clung to the rim of the road above the beach. Most of them were beach houses on twelve-or fifteen-foot lots, or one-story rental apartments. There were a few shops selling redwood souvenirs, genuine oil-paintings, handwoven textiles, ceramics: Bohemia on its last legs, driven back to the ultimate seacoast. The heavy gray ocean yawned below.

I saw what I was looking for, a storefront wearing a “Photographer” sign, and slowed to a crawl.

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