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

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

18

Mrs. Kromberg was in the kitchen with the cook, a flustered white-haired woman with motherly hips. They both jumped when I opened the door of the pantry.

“I was using the phone,” I said.

Mrs. Kromberg managed a crumpled smile. “I didn’t hear you in there.”

“How many phones are there in the house?”

“Four or five. Five. Two upstairs, three down.”

I gave up the idea of checking the phones. Too many people had access to them. “Where is everybody?”

“Mr. Graves called the staff together in the front room. He wanted to know if anybody saw the car that left the note.”

“Did anybody?”

“No. I heard a car a while back, but I didn’t think anything about it. They’re always coming down here and turning around in the drive. They don’t know it’s dead end.” She moved closer to me and whispered confidentially: “What was in the note, Mr. Archer?”

“They want money,” I said as I went out.

Three other servants passed me in the hallway, too young Mexicans in gardeners’ clothes, walking in single file with their heads down, and Felix bringing up the rear. I raised a hand to him, but he didn’t respond. His eyes were opaque and glittering like lumps of coal.

Graves was squatting in front of the fireplace in the living-room turning a charred log with a pair of tongs.

“What’s the matter with the servants?” I asked him.

He stood up with a grunt and glanced at the door. “They seem to know they’re under suspicion.”

“I wish they didn’t.”

“I didn’t say anything to give them the idea. They got it by osmosis. I simply asked them if they’d seen the car. What I really wanted, of course, was a look at their faces before they could close them up.”

“You think it’s an inside job, Bert?”

“Obviously it’s not entirely one. But whoever put together that letter is too well posted. How did he know, for example, that the money would be ready for a nine-o’clock deadline?” He glanced at his watch. “Seventy minutes from now.”

“Sheer blind faith, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“We won’t argue. You’re probably right that it’s partly an inside job. Did anyone see the car?”

“Mrs. Kromberg heard it. The others played dumb, or are.”

“And nobody gave himself away?”

“No. These Mexicans and Filipinos are hard to read.” He was careful to add: “Not that I’ve any reason to suspect the gardeners, or Felix either.”

“What about Sampson himself?”

He looked at me ironically. “Don’t try to be brilliant, Lew. You never were too strong on intuition.”

“It’s merely a suggestion. If Sampson pays an eighty-percent income tax, he could make himself a quick eighty grand by staging this.”

“I admit it could be done -.”

“It has been.”

“But in Sampson’s case it’s fantastic.”

“Don’t tell me he’s honest.”

He picked up the tongs and struck the burning log. The sparks flew up like a swarm of bright wasps. “Not by everybody’s standards. But he hasn’t got the kind of brain for that sort of a setup. It’s too risky. Besides, he doesn’t need the money. His oil properties are valued around five million, but they’re worth more like twenty-five in terms of income.

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