Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (31 page)

 
          
“Don’t
try to be funny. We have a serious problem.”

 
          
“You’re
okay, aren’t you?”

 
          
“Oh,
I feel pretty good. Kind of empty, though, like an elevator shaft after the
elevator went down.
Except when they bring her in.
Then I feel full.”

 
          
“Is
there something the matter with her? Where is she?”

 
          
“Don’t
get panicky now. She’s in the nursery, and she’s physically perfect. Not to
mention precociously intelligent and aware. I can tell by the way she nurses.
That makes the problem even more urgent. We have to give her a name, for her to
start forming her personality around. We can’t simply go on calling her
Her
, like something out of H.
Rider Haggard.”

 
          
“How about Sally?”

 
          
“Negative.
One Sally in a family is enough. Do you like Sharon for a name, or is Sharon
Gunnarson too cosmopolitan? Rose of Sharon Gunnarson is even more unwieldy, but
that is the way I feel about her. Rose of Sharon Gunnarson,” she said dreamily.

 
          
“Negative.
Rose
Sharon Gunnarson, maybe.”

 
          
“But
Rose by itself is such a florid name. Do you like Sarah? Susan? Martha? Anne?
Elizabeth? Sandra?”

 
          
“Strangely
enough, I like them all.
How about Nancy?”

 
          
“I
like Nancy. But let me think about it. We’ll both think about it. Now you go
back and rest, Bill, you look tired. Maybe I can visit you tomorrow. Dr. Trench
says my pelvis was formed for motherhood and I should get my strength back very
rapidly.”

 
          
I
told Sally that I adored her pelvis. She bumped it at me under the covers
feebly.

 
          
I
met Dr. Trench outside the door. He was a short man of forty with horn-rimmed
glasses and a quick, intelligent smile.
A little too
intelligent at the moment.

 
          
“Well,
well, the prodigal husband himself. The wanderer returns.”

 
          
“Go
ahead and have your bit of vaudeville. Everybody does. Then I want to talk to
you seriously.”

 
          
“Sally’s
in fine shape, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re fortunate to have a
secretary who knows what labor pains are.”

 
          
“It
isn’t Sally I’m worried about. Can you give me a few minutes in private?”

 
          
“I
have patients to look after.
Including your wife.”

 
          
“This
concerns one of your patients.”

 
          
He
consulted his watch.
“All right.
Five minutes. Where
can we talk?”

 
          
“Up in my room.”

 
          
I
was shaky and sweating again when I reached my bed. I sat on the edge of it.

 
          
Dr.
Trench remained standing. “I suppose the patient you mean is Mrs. Ferguson?”

 
          
“Yes.
Have you seen her since the—accident?”

 
          
“I
attended her, yes. Her husband requested me not to discuss her condition with
anyone.” His eyes were stern.

 
          
“Good.
Ferguson has retained me as his attorney. Anything that you tell me will be
privileged.”

 
          
“What
do you want to know about her?”

 
          
“I’m
interested in her mental condition, for one thing.”

 
          
“It’s
not too bad, considering what she’s been through. She seems to be blessed with
a good strong nervous system. I was afraid she might lose her child, but there
seems to be no danger of that now.”

 
          
“Is
she at home?”

 
          
“Yes.
She doesn’t seem to require hospitalization. I found that her injuries were
superficial.”

 
          
“Is
she in fit shape to be questioned?”

 
          
“It
depends on the questioner, and the nature of the questions. She’s resting
quietly,
at least she was two hours ago. I’d leave it for a
few days, if I were you. You can use the rest yourself.”

 
          
“It
won’t wait, Doctor. I have to get a statement from her about the events of last
night. Not to mention the night before and the night before.”

 
          
“I
don’t see how she can help you much. She was unconscious, as you know,
literally dead to the world.”

 
          
“Is
that what she told you?”

 
          
“Yes,
and I have no medical reason to doubt it. She was in a state of drugged sleep
throughout her period of—ah—detention. It’s lucky for her the kidnappers knew
how to handle drugs. They could so easily have killed her.”

 
          
“They
gave her drugs?”

 
          
“Who else?
I gather from her fragmentary memories, and from
the medical indications, that she was forcibly drugged at the actual moment of
the kidnapping. It occurred in the parking lot of the Foothill Club. She was
lured out there by a telephone call from someone purporting to be a relative.
They seized her at the door of her car and gave her an injection of
pentothal
or some other quick-acting anesthetic.”

 
          
“Do
you believe all this?”

 
          
“I
know it sounds melodramatic, but the marks of the needle are on her arm. Later,
to keep her under, they evidently gave her spaced shots of
morphia
or
demerol
. I suppose their
idea was to keep her quiet and make it impossible for her to identify them
later.”

 
          
“What
if I told you that I talked to her last night?”

 
          
“Around what time last night?”

 
          
“It
must have been about one o’clock when I got to the mountain house. Your patient
was very much alive and kicking.”

 
          
“What
did she say?”

 
          
“I’d
hate to repeat it.”

 
          
Trench
took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. Under cover of this
business, he was studying my face. “I’d say that one of you was lying, or
hallucinating. Mrs. Ferguson was still in a drug-induced coma when she came
into my hands early this morning. When she did rouse out of it, she had no memory
of the previous forty-eight hours or so. Her physical condition supported her
subjective account.”

 
          
“You
should have seen her last night. She was moving around like a cat on a hot
stove, and spitting like one. It occurred to me at the time that she had been
taking drugs. Is it possible she took an overdose and it suddenly caught up
with her?”

 
          
“Took
an overdose of
her own
accord?”

 
          
“Yes.
There are indications that she is an addict.”

 
          
The
doctor’s eyes widened. He put on his glasses as though to protect them from
seeing too much. “You must be mistaken. She’s been visiting me biweekly for two
months. I’ve noticed no—” His voice broke off. He looked up sideways at a
corner of the ceiling and stayed with his eyes fixed in that position.

 
          
“Have
you remembered something, Doctor?”

 
          
He
answered in a rather flustered way. “I’m sure it’s of no great significance. In
one of her visits to me, Mrs. Ferguson did bring up the subject of drug
addiction. It was a purely academic discussion—at least it seemed so to me—having
to do with the effect of drugs on an unbalanced mind. I told her that most
addicts probably have some degree of mental or nervous illness to begin with.
That’s what makes them addicts. She seemed very interested in the subject.”

 
          
“Personally interested?”

 
          
Trench
looked up at the ceiling again, as if he were balancing pros and cons on his
chin.

 
          
“I’d
say so, yes. I gathered, from another discussion we had, that some friend or
relative of hers is a psychopath—what the psychiatrists call a severely
maladjusted personality. She was very much concerned with the question of
inherited character defects. I assured her that such things weren’t inherited.
That isn’t entirely true, of course, but we know so little about the genes as
they affect mind and emotions, there’s no use worrying a pregnant woman about
it.”

 
          
“Is
she psychopathic herself?”

 
          
“I’ve
observed no signs of it.” But a deep cleft of concern had appeared between his
eyebrows. “I wish I knew where your questions are leading.”

 
          
“So
do
I. Consider this possibility. This friend or
relative she blames things on—couldn’t it be her way of referring to her own
alter ego?
A second personality that gets out of control and
jumps out at her when she’s disturbed?”

 
          
“If so, I’ve never seen it.
I understand—books and movies to
the contrary—that a true case of multiple personality is rare. Of course I
don’t pretend to be a psychiatrist.” After a pause, he added: “You may be
interested to know that I’ve asked Mrs. Ferguson to have a neuropsychiatric
examination. Perhaps she’ll agree to share the findings with you, if it really
is so important.”

 
          
“Why
did you suggest it?”

 
          
“Simply as a precautionary measure.
She seems to have come
through her ordeal without brain damage. But it’s dangerous to spend such a long
period under drugs, even in good hands.” He looked at his watch impatiently.

 
          
“You
mentioned her interest in heredity. Was there any thought of her not having her
child?”

 
          
“She’s
very eager to have it. So is the father, now that he knows about it. It’s true,
with an older father, the probability of mutation rises, but not to the point
of negative indication.”

 
          
“Ferguson
is the father, then?”

 
          
“I
have no reason to doubt it.” Trench gave me a queer, cold look. “In any case,
I’m sure your client wouldn’t authorize you to ask that question about my
patient.”

 
          
“Is
that intended to be a negative answer?”

 
          
“Absolutely not.
The question doesn’t deserve an answer. You
seem to be trying to rake up any dirt you can about Mrs. Ferguson.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry it looks that way to you, doctor. It’s true I have to know the worst
about her, if I’m going to do anything for her.”

 
          
“What
are you trying to do for her?”

 
          
“Give
her the legal protection she’s entitled to. She’s likely to be arrested
some time
today.”

 
          
“On what charge?”

 
          
“I
prefer not to name it. If the police or the D.A.’s men try to ask you any
questions about her, tell them you’ve already communicated your information to
me. Tell them if charges are laid, I expect to use you as a witness for the
defense. And don’t tell them a damn thing else.”