Read Online The Zebra-Striped Hearse by Ross MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ross MacDonald
Ads: Link
him.”
“I don’t know him. You do.”
Her mascara had started to dissolve. She dashed murky tears from her eyes. “I don’t
want
to see him dead. I never saw anybody dead before.”
“Dead people won’t hurt you. It’s the live ones that hurt you.”
I touched her goosefleshed arm. She jerked it away from me.
“You’ll feel better if you have a drink,” I said. “Do you have anything to drink in the house?”
“I don’t drink.”
I opened a cupboard and found a glass and filled it at the tap. Some of it spilled down her chin. She scrubbed at it angrily with a dish towel.
“I don’t want to go. It’ll only make me sick.”
But after a while she agreed to get ready while I phoned the coastal airlines. There was room for us on a ten-thirty flight to Los Angeles. By midnight we were approaching Citrus Junction in the car I had left at International Airport.
The road was walled on each side by thick orange groves. Itemerged into a desolate area rimmed with houses, where highway construction had been under way. Earth movers hulked in the darkness like sleeping saurians.
The road became the main street of the town. It was a back-country town, in spite of its proximity to Los Angeles. Everything was closed for the night, except for a couple of bars. A few men in working clothes wandered along the empty pavements, staggering under the twin burdens of alcohol and loneliness.
“I don’t like it here,” Vicky said. “It looks like hicksville.”
“You won’t have to stay long.”
“How long? I’m stony until payday.”
“The police will probably make arrangements for you. Let’s wait and see how it falls.”
The metal cupola of the courthouse swelled like a tarnished bubble under the stars. The building’s dark interior smelled mustily of human lives, like the inside of an old trunk. I found the duty deputy in an office on the first floor. He told me that Sergeant Leonard was at the mortuary, just around the corner.
It was a three-storied white colonial building with a sign on the lawn in front of it: “Norton’s Funeral Parlors.” Vicky hung back when we got out of the car. I took her arm and walked her down a hall through the odor of carnations to a lighted doorway at the end of the hall and through it into the odor of formaldehyde.
She dragged on my arm. “I can’t go through with it.”
“You have to. It may not be Ralph.”
“Then what am I doing here?”
“It may be Ralph.”
She looked wildly around the room. It was bare except for a grey coffin standing on trestles against the wall.
“Is he in that?”
“No. Get yourself under control, Vicky. It will only take a minute and then it will be over.”
“But what am I going to do afterward?”
It was a question I couldn’t attempt to answer. A further door opened, and a deputy with sergeant’s stripes on his arm came through toward us. He was a middle-aged man with a belly overlapping his gunbelt, and slow friendly eyes that went with his voice on the telephone.
“I’m Leonard.”
“Archer. This is Mrs. Simpson.”
He bowed with exaggerated courtliness. “I’m pleased to know you, ma’am. It was good of you to make the journey.”
“I had to, I guess. Where is he?”
“The doctor’s working on him.”
“You mean he’s still
alive?”
“He’s long dead, ma’am. I’m sorry. Dr. White is working on his internal organs, trying to find out what killed him.”
She started to sit down on the floor. I caught her under the arms. Leonard and I helped her into an adjoining room where a night light burned and the smell of carnations was strong. She half lay on an upholstered settee, with her spike heels tucked under her.
“If you don’t mind waiting a little, ma’am, Doc White will get him ready for your inspection.” Leonard’s voice had taken on unctuous intonations from the surroundings. He hovered over her. “Maybe I could get you a drink. What would you like to drink?”
“Embalming
“I don’t know him. You do.”
Her mascara had started to dissolve. She dashed murky tears from her eyes. “I don’t
want
to see him dead. I never saw anybody dead before.”
“Dead people won’t hurt you. It’s the live ones that hurt you.”
I touched her goosefleshed arm. She jerked it away from me.
“You’ll feel better if you have a drink,” I said. “Do you have anything to drink in the house?”
“I don’t drink.”
I opened a cupboard and found a glass and filled it at the tap. Some of it spilled down her chin. She scrubbed at it angrily with a dish towel.
“I don’t want to go. It’ll only make me sick.”
But after a while she agreed to get ready while I phoned the coastal airlines. There was room for us on a ten-thirty flight to Los Angeles. By midnight we were approaching Citrus Junction in the car I had left at International Airport.
The road was walled on each side by thick orange groves. Itemerged into a desolate area rimmed with houses, where highway construction had been under way. Earth movers hulked in the darkness like sleeping saurians.
The road became the main street of the town. It was a back-country town, in spite of its proximity to Los Angeles. Everything was closed for the night, except for a couple of bars. A few men in working clothes wandered along the empty pavements, staggering under the twin burdens of alcohol and loneliness.
“I don’t like it here,” Vicky said. “It looks like hicksville.”
“You won’t have to stay long.”
“How long? I’m stony until payday.”
“The police will probably make arrangements for you. Let’s wait and see how it falls.”
The metal cupola of the courthouse swelled like a tarnished bubble under the stars. The building’s dark interior smelled mustily of human lives, like the inside of an old trunk. I found the duty deputy in an office on the first floor. He told me that Sergeant Leonard was at the mortuary, just around the corner.
It was a three-storied white colonial building with a sign on the lawn in front of it: “Norton’s Funeral Parlors.” Vicky hung back when we got out of the car. I took her arm and walked her down a hall through the odor of carnations to a lighted doorway at the end of the hall and through it into the odor of formaldehyde.
She dragged on my arm. “I can’t go through with it.”
“You have to. It may not be Ralph.”
“Then what am I doing here?”
“It may be Ralph.”
She looked wildly around the room. It was bare except for a grey coffin standing on trestles against the wall.
“Is he in that?”
“No. Get yourself under control, Vicky. It will only take a minute and then it will be over.”
“But what am I going to do afterward?”
It was a question I couldn’t attempt to answer. A further door opened, and a deputy with sergeant’s stripes on his arm came through toward us. He was a middle-aged man with a belly overlapping his gunbelt, and slow friendly eyes that went with his voice on the telephone.
“I’m Leonard.”
“Archer. This is Mrs. Simpson.”
He bowed with exaggerated courtliness. “I’m pleased to know you, ma’am. It was good of you to make the journey.”
“I had to, I guess. Where is he?”
“The doctor’s working on him.”
“You mean he’s still
alive?”
“He’s long dead, ma’am. I’m sorry. Dr. White is working on his internal organs, trying to find out what killed him.”
She started to sit down on the floor. I caught her under the arms. Leonard and I helped her into an adjoining room where a night light burned and the smell of carnations was strong. She half lay on an upholstered settee, with her spike heels tucked under her.
“If you don’t mind waiting a little, ma’am, Doc White will get him ready for your inspection.” Leonard’s voice had taken on unctuous intonations from the surroundings. He hovered over her. “Maybe I could get you a drink. What would you like to drink?”
“Embalming
Similar Books
