Read Online The Galton Case by Ross MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B

stretched in a clownish grin:
    “Thanks, cats. I’m glad you dig me. Now dig this.”
    He read a poem about the seven blind staggers of the soul, and one about the beardless wonders on the psycho wards who were going to be the
gurus
of the new truth. At this point I switched off my hearing aid, and waited for it to be over. It took a long time. After the reading there were books to be autographed, questions to be answered, drinks to be drunk.
    It was nearly midnight when Bolling left a tableful of admirers and made for the door. I got up to follow him. A large girl with a very hungry face cut in in front of me. She attached herself to Bolling’s arm and began to talk into his ear, bending over because she was taller than he was.
    He shook his head. “Sorry, kiddie, I’m a married man. Also I’m old enough to be your father.”
    “What are years?” she said. “A woman’s wisdom is ageless.”
    “Let’s see you prove it, honey.”
    He shook her loose. Tragically clutching the front of her baggy black sweater, she said: “I’m not pretty, am I?”
    “You’re beautiful, honey. The Greek navy could use you for launching ships. Take it up with them, why don’t you?”
    He reached up and patted her on the head and went out. I caught up with him on the sidewalk as he was hailing a taxi.
    “Mr. Bolling, do you have a minute?”
    “It depends on what you want.”
    “I want to buy you a drink, ask you a few questions.”
    “I’ve had a drink. Several, in fact. It’s late. I’m beat. Write me a letter, why don’t you?”
    “I can’t write.”
    He brightened a little. “You mean to tell me you’re not an unrecognized literary genius? I thought everybody was.”
    “I’m a detective. I’m looking for a man. You may have known him at one time.”
    His taxi had turned in the street and pulled into the curb. He signaled the driver to wait:
    “What’s his name?”
    “John Brown.”
    “Oh sure, I knew him well at Harper’s Ferry. I’m older than I look.” His empty clowning continued automatically while he sized me up.
    “In 1936 you printed a poem of his in a magazine called
Chisel.”
    “I’m sorry you brought that up. What a lousy name for a magazine. No wonder it folded.”
    “The name of the poem was ‘Luna.’ ”
    “I’m afraid I don’t remember it. A lot of words have flowed under the bridge. I did know a John Brown back in the thirties. Whatever happened to John?”
    “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
    “Okay, buy me a drink. But not at the Ear, eh? I get tired of the shaves and the shave-nots.”
    Bolling dismissed his taxi. We walked about sixty feet to the next bar. A pair of old girls on the two front stools flapped their eyelashes at us as we went in. There was nobody else in the place but a comatose bartender. He roused himself long enough to pour us a couple of drinks.
    We sat down in one of the booths, and I showed Bolling my pictures of Tony Galton. “Do you recognize him?”
    “I think so. We corresponded for a while, but I only met him once or twice. Twice. He called on us when we were living in Sausalito. And then one Sunday when I was driving down the coast by Luna Bay, I returned the visit.”
    “Were they living at Luna Bay?”
    “A few miles this side of it, in an old place on the ocean. I had the very devil of a time finding it, in spite of the directions Brown had given me. I remember now, he asked me not to tell anyone else where he was living. I was the only one who knew. I don’t know why he singled me out, except that he was keen to have me visit his home, and see his son. He may have had some sort of father feeling about me, though I wasn’t much older than he was.”
    “He had a son?”
    “Yes, they had a baby. He’d just been born, and he wasn’t much bigger than my thumb. Little John was the apple of his father’s eye. They were quite a touching little family.”
    Bolling’s voice was gentle. Away from the crowd and the music he showed a