Read Online Black money by Ross MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ross MacDonald
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Private Investigators, Mystery Fiction, Hard-Boiled, California, Fiction - Mystery, Police Procedural, Mystery & Detective - General, Crime & mystery, Traditional British, Crime thriller, Private investigators - California, Archer, 1915-1983, Macdonald, Ross, Lew (Fictitious character)
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like a non-participant. He was a handsome cold-eyed man of forty, overdressed, with the little graces of a pleaser and a pleaser's lack of resonance. The nameplate on the desk said: "Reto Stoll, Manager."
He became quite cordial when I told him I was working for the Jamiesons. "Sit down, Mr. Archer."
He had a faint German accent. "What can I do for you?"
I sat facing him across his desk. "Mrs. Strome said you had some trouble with Martel."
"A little, yes. But it's in the past. Let bygones be bygones, particularly since Mr. Martel is leaving us."
"Is he leaving because of the trouble with you?"
"Partly, I suppose. I didn't ask him to leave on account of it. On the other hand I didn't urge him to stay when he finally announced his intention of leaving. I breathed a sigh of relief when he turned in his keys today and paid his bill."
Stoll spread his manicured hand on the front of his double-breasted waistcoat.
"Why?"
"The man was a volcano. He could erupt at any moment. We like a quiet friendly atmosphere in our club."
"Tell me about the trouble you had with him. It may be important. What did he do?"
"He offered to kill me. Do you want the whole story from the beginning?"
"Please."
"It happened several weeks ago. Mr. Martel ordered a drink brought up to his cabana. Absinthe. The bar-boy was busy so I took it up myself. I sometimes do that as a special courtesy. Miss Fablon was with him. They were talking in French. Since French is one of my native languages I hesitated behind the screen and listened. I wasn't consciously eavesdropping."
Stoll raised his eyes to the ceiling, virtuously. "But he appeared to think that I was spying on him. He jumped up and attacked me."
"With his fists?"
"With a sword."
His hand went down his body to his stomach. "He had a sword concealed in a bamboo cane."
"I've seen the cane. Did he actually stick you?"
"He held the point of it to my body."
Stoll fondled the precious curve of his belly through his striped pants. "Fortunately Miss Fablon got him calmed down, and he apologized. But I was never at ease with him in the club again."
"What were they talking about when you overheard them?"
"He was doing all the talking. It sounded to me like some kind of mysticism. He was saying how this philosopher believed that thinking was the basis of everything - la source de tout."
His mind moved back and forth between the two languages. "But Mr. Martel said the 'philosophe' was wrong. 'Realite' didn't come into being until two people thought together. So the basis of everything was 'l'amour'."
The corners of Stoll's mouth turned down. "It didn't make much sense to me."
"Did it to her?"
"Naturally. He was making love to her. That was the point. He was angry because I interrupted him in the middle of his pitch. When I think back over the episode, I'm convinced the man is psychopathological. Ordinary men don't get so excited over such a little thing."
He clenched his fist, not very tight. "I should have asked him to give up his guest privileges then and there."
"I'm surprised you didn't."
He colored faintly. "Well, you know, he is - or was - Mrs. Bagshaw's protege. She's one of our oldest members, and now she's moved into the cottage next to mine - I hated to upset her. I feel my essential role is that of a - buffer."
He raised his eyes to the ceiling again, as if the god of innkeepers resided just over his head. "I try to stand between our members and the unpleasantness of life."
"You're very good at it, I'm sure."
He accepted the compliment formally with a bow. "Thank you, Mr. Archer. The Tennis Club is known in the trade as one of the better run clubs. I've given it ten years of my life, and I was trained in the hotel schools of Zurich and Lausanne."
"What did you mean when you said that French was one of your native languages?"
He smiled. "I have four native languages. French and German and Italian and Romansch. I was born in the Romansch section
He became quite cordial when I told him I was working for the Jamiesons. "Sit down, Mr. Archer."
He had a faint German accent. "What can I do for you?"
I sat facing him across his desk. "Mrs. Strome said you had some trouble with Martel."
"A little, yes. But it's in the past. Let bygones be bygones, particularly since Mr. Martel is leaving us."
"Is he leaving because of the trouble with you?"
"Partly, I suppose. I didn't ask him to leave on account of it. On the other hand I didn't urge him to stay when he finally announced his intention of leaving. I breathed a sigh of relief when he turned in his keys today and paid his bill."
Stoll spread his manicured hand on the front of his double-breasted waistcoat.
"Why?"
"The man was a volcano. He could erupt at any moment. We like a quiet friendly atmosphere in our club."
"Tell me about the trouble you had with him. It may be important. What did he do?"
"He offered to kill me. Do you want the whole story from the beginning?"
"Please."
"It happened several weeks ago. Mr. Martel ordered a drink brought up to his cabana. Absinthe. The bar-boy was busy so I took it up myself. I sometimes do that as a special courtesy. Miss Fablon was with him. They were talking in French. Since French is one of my native languages I hesitated behind the screen and listened. I wasn't consciously eavesdropping."
Stoll raised his eyes to the ceiling, virtuously. "But he appeared to think that I was spying on him. He jumped up and attacked me."
"With his fists?"
"With a sword."
His hand went down his body to his stomach. "He had a sword concealed in a bamboo cane."
"I've seen the cane. Did he actually stick you?"
"He held the point of it to my body."
Stoll fondled the precious curve of his belly through his striped pants. "Fortunately Miss Fablon got him calmed down, and he apologized. But I was never at ease with him in the club again."
"What were they talking about when you overheard them?"
"He was doing all the talking. It sounded to me like some kind of mysticism. He was saying how this philosopher believed that thinking was the basis of everything - la source de tout."
His mind moved back and forth between the two languages. "But Mr. Martel said the 'philosophe' was wrong. 'Realite' didn't come into being until two people thought together. So the basis of everything was 'l'amour'."
The corners of Stoll's mouth turned down. "It didn't make much sense to me."
"Did it to her?"
"Naturally. He was making love to her. That was the point. He was angry because I interrupted him in the middle of his pitch. When I think back over the episode, I'm convinced the man is psychopathological. Ordinary men don't get so excited over such a little thing."
He clenched his fist, not very tight. "I should have asked him to give up his guest privileges then and there."
"I'm surprised you didn't."
He colored faintly. "Well, you know, he is - or was - Mrs. Bagshaw's protege. She's one of our oldest members, and now she's moved into the cottage next to mine - I hated to upset her. I feel my essential role is that of a - buffer."
He raised his eyes to the ceiling again, as if the god of innkeepers resided just over his head. "I try to stand between our members and the unpleasantness of life."
"You're very good at it, I'm sure."
He accepted the compliment formally with a bow. "Thank you, Mr. Archer. The Tennis Club is known in the trade as one of the better run clubs. I've given it ten years of my life, and I was trained in the hotel schools of Zurich and Lausanne."
"What did you mean when you said that French was one of your native languages?"
He smiled. "I have four native languages. French and German and Italian and Romansch. I was born in the Romansch section
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