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Authors: Ross MacDonald
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time to deliver the green Mercedes to Mrs. Roger Armistead. Kelsey pointed out Crescent Drive, on the first ridge overlooking the city. There was smoke above it, pre-empting most of the sky.
Kelsey turned to me, the flesh around his eyes still crinkled by the long look he had taken. “Be careful if you’re going up that way. The fire is still on the move.”
I said I would be careful. “Can I drop you anywhere?”
“No thanks. I can use the pickup to get downtown. But first I want to do some further checking on Fritz.”
“Don’t you believe him?”
“Up to a point I do. But you never get all the facts on the first go-round.”
He went back toward the house. Mrs. Snow was standing framed in the doorway like a faded vestal virgin guarding a shrine.
chapter
10
On my way up to Crescent Drive I punched on the car radio. It was tuned to a local station which was broadcasting continuous fire reports. The Rattlesnake Fire, as the announcer called it, was threatening the northeastern side of the city. Hundreds of residents were being evacuated. Smoke-jumpers were being flown in and additional firefighting equipment was on its way. But unless the Santa Ana stopped blowing, the announcer said, Rattlesnake might strike across the city all the way to the sea.
The Armistead house, like the Broadhurst house, was in debatable territory. I parked in the courtyard beside a black Continental. The fire was so close that I could sense its fibrillation when the engine died. Ashes like scant gray snow were sifting down onto the blacktop in the courtyard. I could hear water gushing somewhere at the rear.
The house was white and one-storied, set like a classical temple against a grove of cypress trees. It was so nicely proportioned that I didn’t realize how big it was until I hiked around it to the back. I passed a fifty-foot swimming pool at the bottom of which lay a blue mink coat, like theheadless pelt of a woman, anchored by what looked like jewel boxes.
A tanned woman with short gray hair was spraying the cypresses with a hose. Beyond the cypresses, in the dry brush, a dark-haired man in dungarees was digging a furrow and beating out falling embers with his spade.
The woman was talking to the fire as if it was a crazy man or a wild dog—“Get back, you crummy bastard!”—and she turned to me almost gaily when I called her name.
“Mrs. Armistead?”
I saw when she turned that her gray hair was premature. Her face was a hot brown, cooled by slanting green eyes. Her body was elegant in a white slack-suit.
“Who are you?”
“Archer. I brought your Mercedes.”
“Good. I’ll send you a check, provided the car’s in good shape.”
“It is, and I’ll send you a bill.”
“In that case you might as well help out here.” Her downward smile made a white gash in her face. She gestured toward a spade which lay on brown cypress needles under the trees. “You could help Carlos dig that ditch.”
It sounded like a poor idea. I was in city clothes. But I peeled off my jacket and picked up the spade and went through the trees to help Carlos.
He was a sawed-off middle-aged Chicano who took my arrival as a matter of course. I worked behind him, broadening and deepening his furrow. It was almost certainly hopeless, a token scratch in the dirt across the base of the chaparral-covered hill. I could hear the fire very plainly now, breathing on the far side of the hill. Behind me the wind was soughing in the cypresses.
“Where’s Mr. Armistead?” I said to Carlos.
“I guess he moved onto the boat.”
“Where would that be?”
“In the marina.”
He gestured toward the sea. After a few more spadefuls, he added: “Her name is Ariadne.” He pronounced the name slowly and carefully.
“The girl?”
“The boat,” he said. “Mrs. Armistead told me it’s a Greek name. She’s crazy about Greece.”
“She looks a little like a Greek.”
“Yeah, I guess she does,” he said with a ruminative smile.
The sound
Kelsey turned to me, the flesh around his eyes still crinkled by the long look he had taken. “Be careful if you’re going up that way. The fire is still on the move.”
I said I would be careful. “Can I drop you anywhere?”
“No thanks. I can use the pickup to get downtown. But first I want to do some further checking on Fritz.”
“Don’t you believe him?”
“Up to a point I do. But you never get all the facts on the first go-round.”
He went back toward the house. Mrs. Snow was standing framed in the doorway like a faded vestal virgin guarding a shrine.
chapter
10
On my way up to Crescent Drive I punched on the car radio. It was tuned to a local station which was broadcasting continuous fire reports. The Rattlesnake Fire, as the announcer called it, was threatening the northeastern side of the city. Hundreds of residents were being evacuated. Smoke-jumpers were being flown in and additional firefighting equipment was on its way. But unless the Santa Ana stopped blowing, the announcer said, Rattlesnake might strike across the city all the way to the sea.
The Armistead house, like the Broadhurst house, was in debatable territory. I parked in the courtyard beside a black Continental. The fire was so close that I could sense its fibrillation when the engine died. Ashes like scant gray snow were sifting down onto the blacktop in the courtyard. I could hear water gushing somewhere at the rear.
The house was white and one-storied, set like a classical temple against a grove of cypress trees. It was so nicely proportioned that I didn’t realize how big it was until I hiked around it to the back. I passed a fifty-foot swimming pool at the bottom of which lay a blue mink coat, like theheadless pelt of a woman, anchored by what looked like jewel boxes.
A tanned woman with short gray hair was spraying the cypresses with a hose. Beyond the cypresses, in the dry brush, a dark-haired man in dungarees was digging a furrow and beating out falling embers with his spade.
The woman was talking to the fire as if it was a crazy man or a wild dog—“Get back, you crummy bastard!”—and she turned to me almost gaily when I called her name.
“Mrs. Armistead?”
I saw when she turned that her gray hair was premature. Her face was a hot brown, cooled by slanting green eyes. Her body was elegant in a white slack-suit.
“Who are you?”
“Archer. I brought your Mercedes.”
“Good. I’ll send you a check, provided the car’s in good shape.”
“It is, and I’ll send you a bill.”
“In that case you might as well help out here.” Her downward smile made a white gash in her face. She gestured toward a spade which lay on brown cypress needles under the trees. “You could help Carlos dig that ditch.”
It sounded like a poor idea. I was in city clothes. But I peeled off my jacket and picked up the spade and went through the trees to help Carlos.
He was a sawed-off middle-aged Chicano who took my arrival as a matter of course. I worked behind him, broadening and deepening his furrow. It was almost certainly hopeless, a token scratch in the dirt across the base of the chaparral-covered hill. I could hear the fire very plainly now, breathing on the far side of the hill. Behind me the wind was soughing in the cypresses.
“Where’s Mr. Armistead?” I said to Carlos.
“I guess he moved onto the boat.”
“Where would that be?”
“In the marina.”
He gestured toward the sea. After a few more spadefuls, he added: “Her name is Ariadne.” He pronounced the name slowly and carefully.
“The girl?”
“The boat,” he said. “Mrs. Armistead told me it’s a Greek name. She’s crazy about Greece.”
“She looks a little like a Greek.”
“Yeah, I guess she does,” he said with a ruminative smile.
The sound
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