The Galton Case (2 page)

“Is there more to it?”

“I believe so. Well, cheers,” he said cheerlessly. He gulped his drink standing. “Before I take you to see her, I’d like some assurance that you can give us your full time for as long as necessary.”

“I have no commitments. How much of an effort does she want?”

“The best you can give, naturally.”

“You might do better with one of the big organizations.”

“I think not. I know you, and I trust you to handle this affair with some degree of urbanity. I can’t have Mrs. Galton’s last days darkened by scandal. My overriding concern in this affair is the protection of the family name.”

Sable’s voice throbbed with emotion, but I doubted that it was related to any deep feeling he had for the Galton family. He kept looking past me or through me, anxiously, as if his real concerns lay somewhere else.

I got some hint of what they were when we were on our way out. A pretty blond woman about half his age emerged from behind a banana tree in the court. She was wearing jeans and an open-necked white shirt. She moved with a kind of clumsy stealth, like somebody stepping out of ambush.

“Hello, Gordon,” she said in a brittle voice. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I live here, don’t I?”

“That was supposed to be the theory.”

Sable spoke carefully to her, as if he was editing his sentences in his head: “Alice, this is no time to go into all of it again. Why do you think I stayed home this morning?”

“A lot of good it did me. Where do you think you’re going now?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“You have no right to cross-examine me, you know.”

“Oh yes I have a right.”

She stood squarely in front of him in a deliberately ugly posture, one hip out, her breasts thrust forward under the white shirt, at the same time sharp and tender. She didn’t seem to be drunk, but there was a hot moist glitter in her eyes. Her eyes were large and violet, and should have been beautiful. With dark circles under them, and heavy eye-shadow on the upper lids, they were like two spreading bruises.

“Where are you taking my husband?” she said to me.

“Mr. Sable is doing the taking. It’s a business matter.”

“What sort of business, eh? Whose business?”

“Certainly not yours, dear.” Sable put his arm around her. “Come to your room now. Mr. Archer is a private detective working on a case for me—nothing to do with you.”

“I bet not.” She jerked away from him, and swung back to me. “What do you want from me? There’s nothing to find out. I sit in this morgue of a house, with nobody to talk to, nothing to do. I wish I was back in Chicago. People in Chicago
like
me.”

“People here like you, too.” Sable was watching her patiently, waiting for her bout of emotion to wear itself out.

“People here hate me. I can’t even order drinks in my own house.”

“Not in the morning, and this is why.”

“You don’t love me at all.” Her anger was dissolving into self-pity. A shift of internal pressure forced tears from her eyes. “You don’t care a thing about me.”

“I care very much. Which is why I hate to see you fling yourself around the landscape. Come on, dear, let’s go in.”

He touched her waist, and this time she didn’t resist. With one arm holding her, he escorted her around the pool to a
door which opened on the court. When he closed the door behind them, she was leaning heavily on him.

I found my own way out.

S
ABLE
kept me waiting for half an hour. From where I sat in my car, I could see Santa Teresa laid out like a contour map, distinct in the noon light. It was an old and settled city, as such things go in California. Its buildings seemed to belong to its hills, to lean with some security on the past. In contrast with them, Sable’s house was a living-machine, so new it hardly existed.

When he came out, he was wearing a brown suit with a wicked little red pin stripe in it, and carrying a cordovan dispatch case. His manner had changed to match his change in costume. He was businesslike, brisk, and remote.

Following his instructions and his black Imperial, I drove into the city and across it to an older residential section. Massive traditional houses stood far back from the street, behind high masonry walls or topiary hedges.

Arroyo Park was an economic battleground where managers and professional people matched wits and incomes. The people on Mrs. Galton’s street didn’t know there had been a war. Their grandfathers or great-grandfathers had won it for them; death and taxes were all they had to cope with.

Sable made a signal for a left turn. I followed him between stone gateposts in which the name Galton was cut. The majestic iron gates gave a portcullis effect. A serf who
was cutting the lawn with a power-mower paused to tug at his forelock as we went by. The lawn was the color of the ink they use to print the serial numbers on banknotes, and it stretched in unbroken smoothness for a couple of hundred yards. The white façade of a pre-Mizener Spanish mansion glared in the green distance.

The driveway curved around to the side of the house, and through a porte-cochere. I parked behind a Chevrolet coupé displaying a doctor’s caduceus. Further back, in the shade of a great oak, two girls in shorts were playing badminton. The bird flew back and forth between them in flashing repartee. When the dark-headed girl with her back to us missed, she said:

“Oh, damn it!”

“Temper,” Gordon Sable said.

She pivoted like a dancer. I saw that she wasn’t a girl, but a woman with a girl’s body. A slow blush spread over her face. She covered her discomfiture with an exaggerated pout which made the most of her girlishness:

“I’m off my form. Sheila
never
beats me.”

“I do so!” cried the girl on the other side of the net. “I beat you three times in the last week. Today is the fourth time.”

“The set isn’t over yet.”

“No, but I’m going to beat you.” Sheila’s voice had an intensity which didn’t seem to go with her appearance. She was very young, no more than eighteen. She had a peaches-and-cream complexion and soft doe eyes.

The woman scooped up the bird and tossed it over the net. They went on playing, all out, as if a great deal depended on the game.

A Negro maid in a white cap let us into a reception room. Wrought-iron chandeliers hung like giant black bunches of withered grapes from the high ceiling. Ancient black furniture
stood in museum arrangements around the walls under old dark pictures. The windows were narrow and deep in the thick walls, like the windows of a medieval castle.

“Is Dr. Howell with her?” Sable asked the maid.

“Yes, sir, but he ought to be leaving any time now. He’s been here for quite a while.”

“She didn’t have an attack?”

“No, sir. It’s just the doctor’s regular visit.”

“Would you tell him I’d like to see him before he leaves?”

“Yes, sir.”

She whisked away. Sable said in a neutral tone, without looking at me: “I won’t apologize for my wife. You know how women are.”

“Uh-huh.” I didn’t really want his confidences.

If I had, he wouldn’t have given them to me. “There are certain South American tribes that segregate women one week out of the month. Shut them up in a hut by themselves and let them rip. There’s quite a lot to be said for the system.”

“I can see that.”

“Are you married, Archer?”

“I have been.”

“Then you know what it’s like. They want you with them all the time. I’ve given up yachting. I’ve given up golf. I’ve practically given up living. And still she isn’t satisfied. What do you do with a woman like that?”

I’d given up offering advice. Even when people asked for it, they resented getting it. “You’re the lawyer.”

I strolled around the room and looked at the pictures on the walls. They were mostly ancestor-worship art: portraits of Spanish dons, ladies in hoop skirts with bare monolithic bosoms, a Civil War officer in blue, and several gentlemen in nineteenth-century suits with sour nineteenth-century pusses between their whiskers. The one I liked best depicted a
group of top-hatted tycoons watching a bulldog-faced tycoon hammer a gold spike into a railroad tie. There was a buffalo in the background, looking sullen.

The maid returned with a man in Harris tweeds. Sable introduced him as Dr. Howell. He was a big man in his fifties, who carried himself with unconscious authority.

“Mr. Archer is a private investigator,” Sable said. “Did Mrs. Galton mention what she has in mind?”

“Indeed she did.” The doctor ran his fingers through his gray crewcut. The lines in his forehead deepened. “I thought that whole business of Tony was finished and forgotten years ago. Who persuaded her to drag it back into the light?”

“Nobody did, so far as I know. It was her own idea. How is she, Doctor?”

“As well as can be expected. Maria is in her seventies. She has a heart. She has asthma. It’s an unpredictable combination.”

“But there’s no immediate danger?”

“I wouldn’t think so. I can’t say what will happen if she’s subjected to shock or distress. Asthma is one of those things.”

“Psychosomatic, you mean?”

“Somatopsychic, whatever you want to call it. In any case it’s a disease that’s affected by the emotions. Which is why I hate to see Maria getting all stirred up again about that wretched son of hers. What does she hope to gain?”

“Emotional satisfaction, I suppose. She feels she treated him badly, and wants to make up for it.”

“But isn’t he dead? I thought he was found to be legally dead.”

“He could have been. We had an official search made some years ago. He’d already been missing for fourteen years, which is twice the time required by the law to establish presumption of death. Mrs. Galton wouldn’t let me make the petition, however. I think she’s always dreamed
of Anthony coming back to claim his inheritance and all that. In the last few weeks it’s become an obsession with her.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” the doctor said. “I still think somebody put a bee in her bonnet, and I can’t help wondering why.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“Cassie Hildreth, perhaps. She has a lot of influence on Maria. And speaking of dreams, she had a few of her own when she was a kid. She used to follow Tony around as if he was the light of the world. Which he was far from being, as you know.” Howell’s smile was one-sided and saturnine.

“This is news to me. I’ll talk to Miss Hildreth.”

“It’s pure speculation on my part, don’t misunderstand me. I do think this business should be played down as much as possible.”

“I’ve been trying to play it down. On the other hand I can’t downright refuse to lift a finger.”

“No, but it would be all to the good if you could just keep it going along, without any definite results, until she gets interested in something different.” The doctor included me in his shrewd glance. “You understand me?”

“I understand you all right,” I said. “Go through the motions but don’t do any real investigating. Isn’t that pretty expensive therapy?”

“She can afford it, if that’s what worries you. Maria has more coming in every month than she spends every year.” He regarded me in silence for a moment, stroking his prow of a nose. “I don’t mean you shouldn’t do your job. I wouldn’t ask any man to lie down on a job he’s paid to do. But if you find out anything that might upset Mrs. Galton—”

Sable put in quickly: “I’ve already taken that up with Archer. He’ll report to me. I think you know you can rely on my discretion.”

“I think I know I can.”

Sable’s face changed subtly. His eyelids flickered as though he had been threatened with a blow, and remained heavy over his watchful eyes. For a man of his age and financial weight, he was very easily hurt.

I said to the doctor: “Did you know Anthony Galton?”

“Somewhat.”

“What kind of person was he?”

Howell glanced toward the maid, who was still waiting in the doorway. She caught his look and withdrew out of sight. Howell lowered his voice:

“Tony was a sport. I mean that in the biological sense, as well as the sociological. He didn’t inherit the Galton characteristics. He had utter contempt for business of any kind. Tony used to say he wanted to be a writer, but I never saw any evidence of talent. What he was really good at was boozing and fornicating. I gather he ran with a very rough crowd in San Francisco. I’ve always believed myself that one of them killed him for the money in his pockets and threw him in the Bay.”

“Was there any indication of that sort of thing?”

“Not to my certain knowledge. But San Francisco in the thirties was a dangerous place for a boy to play around in. He must have dredged pretty deep to turn up the girl he married.”

“You knew her, did you?” Sable said.

“I examined her. His mother sent her to me, and I examined her.”

“Was she here in town?” I said.

“Briefly. Tony brought her home the week he married her. I don’t believe he had any notion the family would accept her. It was more a case of flinging her in their faces. If that was his idea, it succeeded very well.”

“What was the matter with the girl?”

“The obvious thing, and it was obvious—she was seven months’ pregnant.”

“And you say they’d just been married?”

“That’s correct. She hooked him. I talked with her a little, and I’d wager he picked her up, hot off the streets. She was a pretty enough little thing, in spite of her big belly, but she’d had a hard life. There were scars on her thighs and buttocks. She wouldn’t explain them to me, but it was evident that she’d been beaten, more than once.” The cruel memory raised faint traces of scarlet on the doctor’s cheekbones.

The doe-eyed girl from the badminton court appeared in the doorway behind him. Her body was like ripening fruit, only partly concealed by her sleeveless jersey and rolled shorts. She glowed with healthy beauty, but her mouth was impatient:

“Daddy? How much longer?”

The color on his cheekbones heightened when he saw her. “Roll down your pants, Sheila.”

“They’re not pants.”

“Whatever they are, roll them down.”