Текст книги "The Lady in the Lake"

Автор книги: Raymond Thornton Chandler

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FIVE

San Bernardino baked and shimmered in the afternoon heat. The air was hot enough to blister my tongue. I drove through it gasping, stopped long enough to buy a pint of liquor in case I fainted before I got to the mountains, and started up the long grade to Crestline. In fifteen miles the road climbed five thousand feet, but even then it was far from cool. Thirty miles of mountain driving brought me to the tall pines and a place called Bubbling Springs. It had a clapboard store and a gas pump, but it felt like paradise. From there on it was cool all the way.

The Puma Lake dam had an armed sentry at each end and one in the middle. The first one I came to had me close all the windows of the car before crossing the dam. About a hundred yards away from the dam a rope with cork floats barred the pleasure boats from coming any closer. Beyond these details the war did not seem to have done anything much to Puma Lake.

Canoes paddled about on the blue water and rowboats with outboard motors put-putted and speedboats showing off like fresh kids made wide swathes of foam and turned on a dime and girls in them shrieked and dragged their hands in the water. Jounced around in the wake of the speedboats people who had paid two dollars for a fishing license were trying to get a dime of it back in tired-tasting fish.

The road skimmed along a high granite outcrop and dropped to meadows of coarse grass in which grew what was left of the wild irises and white and purple lupine and bugle flowers and columbine and penny-royal and desert paint brush. Tall yellow pines probed at the clear blue sky. The road dropped again to lake level and the landscape began to be full of girls in gaudy slacks and snoods and peasant handkerchiefs and rat rolls and fat-soled sandals and fat white thighs. People on bicycles wobbled cautiously over the highway and now and then an anxious-looking bird thumped past on a power-scooter.

A mile from the village the highway was joined by another lesser road which curved back into the mountains. A rough wooden sign under the highway sign said: Little Fawn Lake 1¾ miles. I took it. Scattered cabins were perched along the slopes for the first mile and then nothing. Presently another very narrow road debouched from this one and another rough wooden sign said: Little Fawn Lake. Private Road. No Trespassing.

I turned the Chrysler into this and crawled carefully around huge bare granite rocks and past a little waterfall and through a maze of black oak trees and ironwood and manzanita and silence. A bluejay squawked on a branch and a squirrel scolded at me and beat one paw angrily on the pine cone it was holding. A scarlet-topped woodpecker stopped probing in the dark long enough to look at me with one beady eye and then dodge behind the tree trunk to look at me with the other one. I came to a five-barred gate and another sign.

Beyond the gate the road wound for a couple of hundred yards through trees and then suddenly below me was a small oval lake deep in trees and rocks and wild grass, like a drop of dew caught in a curled leaf. At the near end of it was a rough concrete dam with a rope handrail across the top and an old millwheel at the side. Near that stood a small cabin of native pine with the bark on it.

Across the lake the long way by the road and the short way by the top of the dam a large redwood cabin overhung the water and farther along, each well separated from the others, were two other cabins. All three were shut up and quiet, with drawn curtains. The big one had orange-yellow venetian blinds and a twelve-paned window facing on the lake.

At the far end of the lake from the dam was what looked like a small pier and a band pavilion. A warped wooden sign on it was painted in large white letters: Camp Kilkare. I couldn’t see any sense in that in these surroundings, so I got out of the car and started down towards the nearest cabin. Somewhere behind it an axe thudded.

I pounded on the cabin door. The axe stopped. A man’s voice yelled from somewhere. I sat down on a rock and lit a cigarette. Steps came around the corner of the cabin, uneven steps. A man with a harsh face and a swarthy skin came into view carrying a double-bitted axe.

He was heavily built and not very tall and he limped as he walked, giving his right leg a little kick out with each step and swinging the foot in a shallow arc. He had a dark unshaven chin and steady blue eyes and grizzled hair that curled over his ears and needed cutting badly. He wore blue denim pants and a blue shirt open on a brown muscular neck. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He spoke in a tight tough city voice.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Bill Chess?”

“That’s me.”

I stood up and got Kingsley’s note of introduction out of my pocket and handed it to him. He squinted at the note, then clumped into the cabin and came back with glasses perched on his nose. He read the note carefully and then again. He put it in his shirt pocket, buttoned the flap of his pocket, and put his hand out.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Marlowe.”

We shook hands. He had a hand like a wood rasp.

“You want to see Kingsley’s cabin, huh? Glad to show you. He ain’t selling for Chrissake?” He eyed me steadily and jerked a thumb across the lake.

“He might,” I said. “Everything’s for sale in California.”

“Ain’t that the truth? That’s his—the redwood job. Lined with knotty pine, composition roof, stone foundations and porches, full bath and shower, venetian blinds all around, big fireplace, oil stove in the big bedroom—and brother, you need it in the spring and fall—Pilgrim combination gas and wood range, everything first class. Cost about eight thousand and that’s money for a mountain cabin. And private reservoir in the hills for water.”

“How about electric light and telephone?” I asked, just to be friendly.

“Electric light, sure. No phone. You couldn’t get one now. If you could, it would cost plenty to string the lines out here.”

He looked at me with steady blue eyes and I looked at him. In spite of his weathered appearance he looked like a drinker. He had the thickened and glossy skin, the too noticeable veins, the bright glitter in the eyes.

I said: “Anybody living there now?”

“Nope. Mrs. Kingsley was here a few weeks back. She went down the hill. Back any day, I guess. Didn’t he say?”

I looked surprised. “Why? Does she go with the cabin?”

He scowled and then put his head back and burst out laughing. The roar of his laughter was like a tractor backfiring. It blasted the woodland silence to shreds.

“Jesus, if that ain’t a kick in the pants!” he gasped. “Does she go with the—” He put out another bellow and then his mouth shut tight as a trap.

“Yeah, it’s a swell cabin,” he said, eyeing me carefully.

“The beds comfortable?” I asked.

He leaned forward and smiled. “Maybe you’d like a face full of knuckles,” he said.

I stared at him with my mouth open. “That one went by me too fast,” I said, “I never laid an eye on it!”

“How would I know if the beds are comfortable?” he snarled, bending down a little so that he could reach me with a hard right, if it worked out that way.

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t know,” I said. “I won’t press the point. I can find out for myself.”

“Yah,” he said bitterly, “think I can’t smell a dick when I meet one? I played hit and run with them in every state in the Union. Nuts to you, pal. And nuts to Kingsley. So he hires himself a dick to come up here and see am I wearing his pajamas, huh? Listen, Jack, I might have a stiff leg and all, but the women I could get—”

I put a hand out, hoping he wouldn’t pull it off and throw it in the lake.

“You’re slipping your clutch,” I told him. “I didn’t come up here to enquire into your love life. I never saw Mrs. Kingsley. I never saw Mr. Kingsley until this morning. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

He dropped his eyes and rubbed the back of his hand viciously across his mouth, as if he wanted to hurt himself. Then he held the hand in front of his eyes and squeezed it into a hard fist and opened it again and stared at the fingers. They were shaking a little.

“Sorry, Mr. Marlowe,” he said slowly. “I was out on the roof last night and I’ve got a hangover like seven Swedes. I’ve been up here alone for a month and it’s got me talking to myself. A thing happened to me.”

“Anything a drink would help?”

His eyes focused sharply on me and glinted. “You got one?” I pulled the pint of rye out of my pocket and held it so that he could see the green label over the cap.

“I don’t deserve it,” he said. “God damn it, I don’t. Wait till I get a couple of glasses or would you come into the cabin?”

“I like it out here. I’m enjoying the view.”

He swung his stiff leg and went into his cabin and came back carrying a couple of small cheese glasses. He sat down on the rock beside me smelling of dried perspiration.

I tore the metal cap off the bottle and poured him a stiff drink and a light one for myself. We touched glasses and drank. He rolled the liquor on his tongue and a bleak smile put a little sunshine into his face.

“Man that’s from the right bottle,” he said. “I wonder what made me sound off like that. I guess a guy gets the blues up here all alone. No company, no real friends, no wife.” He paused and added with a sidewise look. “Especially no wife.”

I kept my eyes on the blue water of the tiny lake. Under an overhanging rock a fish surfaced in a lance of light and a circle of widening ripples. A light breeze moved the tops of the pines with a noise like a gentle surf.

“She left me,” he said slowly. “She left me a month ago. Friday, the 12th of June. A day I’ll remember.”

I stiffened, but not too much to pour more whiskey into his empty glass. Friday the 12th of June was the day Mrs. Crystal Kingsley was supposed to have come into town for a party.

“But you don’t want to hear about that,” he said. And in his faded blue eyes was the deep yearning to talk about it, as plain as anything could possibly be.

“It’s none of my business,” I said. “But if it would make you feel any better—”

He nodded sharply. “Two guys will meet on a park bench,” he said, “and start talking about God. Did you ever notice that? Guys that wouldn’t talk about God to their best friend.”

“I know that,” I said.

He drank and looked across the lake. “She was one swell kid,” he said softly. “A little sharp in the tongue sometimes, but one swell kid. It was love at first sight with me and Muriel. I met her in a joint in Riverside, a year and three months ago. Not the kind of joint where a guy would expect to meet a girl like Muriel, but that’s how it happened. We got married. I loved her. I knew I was well off. And I was too much of a skunk to play ball with her.”

I moved a little to show him I was still there, but I didn’t say anything for fear of breaking the spell. I sat with my drink untouched in my hand. I like to drink, but not when people are using me for a diary.

He went on sadly: “But you know how it is with marriage—any marriage. After a while a guy like me, a common no-good guy like me, he wants to feel a leg. Some other leg. Maybe it’s lousy, but that’s the way it is.”

He looked at me and I said I had heard the idea expressed.

He tossed his second drink off. I passed him the bottle. A bluejay went up a pine tree hopping from branch to branch without moving his wings or even pausing to balance.

“Yeah,” Bill Chess said. “All these hillbillies are half crazy and I’m getting that way too. Here I am sitting pretty, no rent to pay, a good pension check every month, half my bonus money in war bonds, I’m married to as neat a little blonde as ever you clapped an eye on and all the time I’m nuts and I don’t know it. I go for that.” He pointed hard at the redwood cabin across the lake. It was turning the color of oxblood in the late afternoon light. “Right in the front yard,” he said, “right under the windows, and a showy little tart that means no more to me than a blade of grass. Jesus, what a sap a guy can be.”

He drank his third drink and steadied the bottle on a rock. He fished a cigarette out of his shirt, fired a match on his thumbnail and puffed rapidly. I breathed with my mouth open, as silent as a burglar behind a curtain.

“Hell,” he said at last, “you’d think if I had to jump off the dock, I’d go a little ways from home and pick me a change in types at least. But little roundheels over there ain’t even that. She’s a blonde like Muriel, same size and weight, same type, almost the same color eyes. But, brother, how different from then on in. Pretty, sure, but no prettier to anybody and not half so pretty to me. Well, I’m over there burning trash that morning and minding my own business, as much as I ever mind it. And she comes to the back door of the cabin in peekaboo pajamas so thin you can see the pink of her nipples against the cloth. And she says in her lazy, no-good voice: ‘Have a drink, Bill. Don’t work so hard on such a beautiful morning.’ And me, I like a drink too well and I go to the kitchen door and take it. And then I take another and then I take another and then I’m in the house. And the closer I get to her the more bedroom her eyes are.”

He paused and swept me with a hard level look.

“You asked me if the beds over there were comfortable and I got sore. You didn’t mean a thing. I was just too full of remembering. Yeah—the bed I was in was comfortable.”

He stopped talking and I let his words hang in the air. They fell slowly and after them was silence. He leaned to pick the bottle off the rock and stare at it. He seemed to fight with it in his mind. The whiskey won the fight, as it always does. He took a long savage drink out of the bottle and then screwed the cap on tightly, as if that meant something. He picked up a stone and flicked it into the water.

“I came back across the dam,” he said slowly, in a voice already thick with alcohol. “I’m as smooth as a new piston head. I’m getting away with something. Us boys can be so wrong about those little things, can’t we? I’m not getting away with anything at all. Not anything at all. I listen to Muriel telling me and she don’t even raise her voice. But she tells me things about myself I didn’t even imagine. Oh, yeah, I’m getting away with it lovely.”

“So she left you,” I said, when he fell silent.

“That night. I wasn’t even here. I felt too mean to stay even half sober. I hopped into my Ford and went over to the north side of the lake and holed up with a couple of no-goods like myself and got good and stinking. Not that it did me any good. Along about 4 A.M. I got back home and Muriel is gone, packed up and gone, nothing left but a note on the bureau and some cold cream on the pillow.”

He pulled a dog-eared piece of paper out of a shabby old wallet and passed it over. It was written in pencil on blue-lined paper from a note book. It read:

“I’m sorry, Bill, but I’d rather be dead than live with you any longer. Muriel.”

I handed it back. “What about over there?” I asked, pointing across the lake with a glance.

Bill Chess picked up a flat stone and tried to skip it across the water, but it refused to skip.

“Nothing over there,” he said. “She packed up and went down the same night. I didn’t see her again. I don’t want to see her again. I haven’t heard a word from Muriel in the whole month, not a single word. I don’t have any idea at all where she’s at. With some other guy, maybe. I hope he treats her better than I did.”

He stood up and took keys out of his pocket and shook them. “So if you want to go across and look at Kingsley’s cabin, there isn’t a thing to stop you. And thanks for listening to the soap opera. And thanks for the liquor. Here.” He picked the bottle up and handed me what was left of the pint.

SIX

We went down the slope to the bank of the lake and the narrow top of the dam. Bill Chess swung his stiff leg in front of me, holding on to the rope handrail set in iron stanchions. At one point water washed over the concrete in a lazy swirl.

“I’ll let some out through the wheel in the morning,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s all the darn thing is good for. Some movie outfit put it up three years ago. They made a picture up here. That little pier down at the other end is some more of their work. Most of what they built is torn down and hauled away, but Kingsley had them leave the pier and the millwheel. Kind of gives the place a touch of color.”

I followed him up a flight of heavy wooden steps to the porch of the Kingsley cabin. He unlocked the door and we went into hushed warmth. The closed-up room was almost hot. The light filtering through the slatted blinds made narrow bars across the floor. The living room was long and cheerful and had Indian rugs, padded mountain furniture with metal-strapped joints, chintz curtains, a plain hardwood floor, plenty of lamps and a little builtin bar with round stools in one corner. The room was neat and clean and had no look of having been left at short notice.

We went into the bedrooms. Two of them had twin beds and one a large double bed with a cream-colored spread having a design in plum-colored wool stitched over it. This was the master bedroom, Bill Chess said. On a dresser of varnished wood there were toilet articles and accessories in jade green enamel and stainless steel, and an assortment of cosmetic oddments. A couple of cold cream jars had the wavy gold brand of the Gillerlain Company on them. One whole side of the room consisted of closets with sliding doors. I slid one open and peeked inside. It seemed to be full of women’s clothes of the sort they wear at resorts. Bill Chess watched me sourly while I pawed them over. I slid the door shut and pulled open a deep shoe drawer underneath. It contained at least half a dozen pairs of new-looking shoes. I heaved the drawer shut and straightened up.

Bill Chess was planted squarely in front of me, with his chin pushed out and his hard hands in knots on his hips.

“So what did you want to look at the lady’s clothes for?” he asked in an angry voice.

“Reasons,” I said. “For instance Mrs. Kingsley didn’t go home when she left here. Her husband hasn’t seen her since. He doesn’t know where she is.”

He dropped his fists, and twisted them slowly at his sides. “Dick it is,” he snarled. “The first guess is always right. I had myself about talked out of it. Boy, did I open up to you. Nellie with her hair in her lap. Boy, am I a smart little egg!”

“I can respect a confidence as well as the next fellow,” I said, and walked around him into the kitchen.

There was a big green and white combination range, a sink of lacquered yellow pine, an automatic water heater in the service porch and opening off the other side of the kitchen a cheerful breakfast room with many windows and an expensive plastic breakfast set. The shelves were gay with colored dishes and glasses and a set of pewter serving dishes.

Everything was in apple-pie order. There were no dirty cups or plates on the drain board, no smeared glasses or empty liquor bottles hanging around. There were no ants and no flies. Whatever loose living Mrs. Derace Kingsley indulged in she managed without leaving the usual Greenwich Village slop behind her.

I went back to the living room and out on the front porch again and waited for Bill Chess to lock up. When he had done that and turned to me with his scowl well in place I said:

“I didn’t ask you to take your heart out and squeeze it for me, but I didn’t try to stop you either. Kingsley doesn’t have to know his wife made a pass at you, unless there’s a lot more behind all this than I can see now.”

“The hell with you,” he said, and the scowl stayed right where it was.

“All right, the hell with me. Would there be any chance your wife and Kingsley’s wife went away together?”

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“After you went to drown your troubles they could have had a fight and made up and cried down each other’s necks. Then Mrs. Kingsley might have taken your wife down the hill. She had to have something to ride in, didn’t she?”

It sounded silly, but he took it seriously enough.

“Nope. Muriel didn’t cry down anybody’s neck. They left the weeps out of Muriel. And if she did want to cry on a shoulder, she wouldn’t have picked little roundheels. And as for transportation she has a Ford of her own. She couldn’t drive mine easily on account of the way the controls are switched over for my stiff leg.”

“It was just a passing thought,” I said.

“If any more like it pass you, let them go right on,” he said.

“For a guy that takes his long wavy hair down in front of complete strangers, you’re pretty damn touchy,” I said.

He took a step towards me. “Want to make something of it?”

“Look, pal,” I said. “I’m working hard to think you are a fundamentally good egg. Help me out a little, can’t you?”

He breathed hard for a moment and then dropped his hands and spread them helplessly.

“Boy, can I brighten up anybody’s afternoon,” he sighed. “Want to walk back around the lake?”

“Sure, if your leg will stand it.”

“Stood it plenty of times before.”

We started off side by side, as friendly as puppies again. It would probably last all of fifty yards. The roadway, barely wide enough to pass a car, hung above the level of the lake and dodged between high rocks. About half way to the far end another smaller cabin was built on a rock foundation. The third was well beyond the end of the lake, on a patch of almost level ground. Both were closed up and had that long-empty look.

Bill Chess said after a minute or two: “That straight goods little roundheels lammed off?”

“So it seems.”

“You a real dick or just a shamus?”

“Just a shamus.”

“She go with some other guy?”

“I should think it likely.”

“Sure she did. It’s a cinch. Kingsley ought to be able to guess that. She had plenty of friends.”

“Up here?”

He didn’t answer me.

“Was one of them named Lavery?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said.

“There’s no secret about this one,” I said. “She sent a wire from El Paso saying she and Lavery were going to Mexico.” I dug the wire out of my pocket and held it out. He fumbled his glasses loose from his shirt and stopped to read it. He handed the paper back and put his glasses away again and stared out over the blue water.

“That’s a little confidence for you to hold against some of what you gave me,” I said.

“Lavery was up here once,” he said slowly.

“He admits he saw her a couple of months ago, probably up here. He claims he hasn’t seen her since. We don’t know whether to believe him. There’s no reason why we should and no reason why we shouldn’t.”

“She isn’t with him now, then?”

“He says not.”

“I wouldn’t think she would fuss with little details like getting married,” he said soberly. “A Florida honeymoon would be more in her line.”

“But you can’t give me any positive information? You didn’t see her go or hear anything that sounded authentic?”

“Nope,” he said. “And if I did, I doubt if I would tell. I’m dirty, but not that kind of dirty.”

“Well, thanks for trying,” I said.

“I don’t owe you any favors,” he said. “The hell with you and every other God damn snooper.”

“Here we go again,” I said.

We had come to the end of the lake now. I left him standing there and walked out on a little pier. I leaned on the wooden railing at the end of it and saw that what had looked like a band pavilion was nothing but two pieces of propped-up wall meeting at a flat angle towards the dam. About two feet deep of overhanging roof was stuck on the wall, like a coping. Bill Chess came up behind me and leaned on the railing at my side.

“Not that I don’t thank you for the liquor,” he said.

“Yeah. Any fish in the lake?”

“Some smart old bastards of trout. No fresh stock. I don’t go for fish much myself. I don’t bother with them. Sorry I got tough again.”

I grinned and leaned on the railing and stared down into the deep still water. It was green when you looked down into it. There was a swirl of movement down there and a swift greenish form moved in the water.

“There’s Granpa,” Bill Chess said. “Look at the size of that old bastard. He ought to be ashamed of himself getting so fat.”

Down below the water there was what looked like an underwater flooring. I couldn’t see the sense of that. I asked him.

“Used to be a boat landing before the dam was raised. That lifted the water level so far the old landing was six feet under.”

A flat-bottomed boat dangled on a frayed rope tied to a post of the pier. It lay in the water almost without motion, but not quite. The air was peaceful and calm and sunny and held a quiet you don’t get in cities. I could have stayed there for hours doing nothing but forgetting all about Derace Kingsley and his wife and her boy friends.

There was a hard movement at my side and Bill Chess said, “Look there!” in a voice that growled like mountain thunder.

His hard fingers dug into the flesh of my arm until I started to get mad. He was bending far out over the railing, staring down like a loon, his face as white as the weather tan would let it get. I looked down with him into the water at the edge of the submerged staging.

Languidly at the edge of this green and sunken shelf of wood something waved out from the darkness, hesitated, waved back again out of sight under the flooring.

The something had looked far too much like a human arm.

Bill Chess straightened his body rigidly. He turned without a sound and clumped back along the pier. He bent to a loose pile of stones and heaved. His panting breath reached me. He got a big one free and lifted it breast high and started back out on the pier with it. It must have weighed a hundred pounds. His neck muscles stood out like ropes under canvas under his taut brown skin. His teeth were clamped tight and his breath hissed between them.

He reached the end of the pier and steadied himself and lifted the rock high. He held it a moment poised, his eyes staring down now, measuring. His mouth made a vague distressful sound and his body lurched forward hard against the quivering rail and the heavy stone smashed down into the water.

The splash it made went over both of us. The rock fell straight and true and struck on the edge of the submerged planking, almost exactly where we had seen the thing wave in and out.

For a moment the water was a confused boiling, then the ripples widened off into the distance, coming smaller and smaller with a trace of froth at the middle, and there was a dim sound as of wood breaking under water, a sound that seemed to come to us a long time after it should have been audible. An ancient rotted plank popped suddenly through the surface, struck out a full foot of its jagged end, and fell back with a flat slap and floated off.

The depths cleared again. Something moved in them that was not a board. It rose slowly, with an infinitely careless languor, a long dark twisted something that rolled lazily in the water as it rose. It broke surface casually, lightly, without haste. I saw wool, sodden and black, a leather jerkin blacker than ink, a pair of slacks. I saw shoes and something that bulged nastily between the shoes and the cuffs of the slacks. I saw a wave of dark blond hair straighten out in the water and hold still for a brief instant as if with a calculated effect, and then swirl into a tangle again.

The thing rolled over once more and an arm flapped up barely above the skin of the water and the arm ended in a bloated hand that was the hand of a freak. Then the face came. A swollen pulpy gray white mass without features, without eyes, without mouth. A blotch of gray dough, a nightmare with human hair on it.

A heavy necklace of green stone showed on what had been a neck, half imbedded, large rough green stones with something that glittered joining them together.

Bill Chess held the handrail and his knuckles were polished bones.

“Muriel!” his voice said croakingly. “Sweet Christ, it’s Muriel!”

His voice seemed to come to me from a long way off, over a hill, through a thick silent growth of trees.