Ross Macdonald - Lew Archer 01 - The Moving Target(aka Harper)(1949) by Ross MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

Goldsmith
she’s got them all right.”
                 “I
don’t know no Mrs. Goldsmith.”
                 “The lady of the house. She called up headquarters for an
inspection.”
                 “Headquarters?”
he said suspiciously. His scar-tissue-padded brows descended over his little
empty eyes like shutters.
                 “Termite-control headquarters. Killabug is termite-control headquarters for the Southern California area.”
                 “Oh!”
He was puzzling over the words. “Yeah. But we got no
Mrs. Goldsmith here.”
                 “Isn’t
this Eucalyptus Lane?”
                 “ Naw , this is Woodlawn Lane. You got the wrong address,
bud.”
                 “I’m
awfully sorry,” I said. “I thought this was Eucalyptus Lane.”
                 “ Naw , Woodlawn.” He smiled widely at my ridiculous mistake.
                 “I
better be going then. Mrs. Goldsmith will be looking
for me.”
                 “Yeah. Only wait a minute.”
                 His
left hand came out fast and took me by the collar. He cocked his right. “Don’t
come messing around in here any more . You got no
business messing around in here.”
                 His
face filled out with angry blood. His eyes were hot and wild. There was a
bright seepage of saliva at the cracked and folded corners of his mouth. A
punchy fighter was less predictable than a bulldog, and twice as dangerous.
                 “Look.”
I raised the can. “This stuff will blind you.”
                 I
squirted oil in his eyes. He let out a howl of imaginary agony. I jerked
sideways. His right went by my ear and left it burning. My shirt collar ripped
loose and dangled from his clenched hand. He spread his right hand over his
oil-doused eyes and moaned like a baby. Blindness was the one thing he feared.
                 A
door opened behind me when I was halfway down the drive, but I didn’t show my
face by looking back. I ducked around the corner of the hedge and kept running,
away from my car. I circled the block on foot.
                 When
I came back to the convertible the road was deserted. The garage doors were
closed, but the Buick was still standing in the drive. The white house among
its trees looked very peaceful and innocent in the early evening light.
                 It
was nearly dark when the lady of the house came out in a spotted ocelot coat. I
passed the entrance to the drive before the Buick backed out, and waited for it
on Sunset Boulevard. She drove with greater fury and less accuracy all the way
back to Hollywood, through Westwood, Bel-Air, Beverly Hills. I kept her in
sight.
                 Near
the corner of Hollywood and Vine, where everything ends and a great many things
begin, she turned into a private parking lot and left her car. I double-parked
in the street till I saw her enter Swift’s, a gaudy figure walking like a
slightly elated lady. Then I went home and changed my shirt.
                 The
gun in my closet tempted me, but I didn’t put it on. I compromised by taking it
out of the holster and putting it in the glove compartment of my car.

  7
                 The
back room of Swift’s was paneled in black oak that glowed dimly under the
polished brass chandeliers. It was lined on two sides with leather-cushioned
booths. The rest of the floor space was covered with tables. All of the booths
and most of the tables were crowded with highly dressed people eating or
waiting to be fed. Most of the women were tight-skinned, starved too thin for
their bones. Most of the men had the masculine Hollywood look, which was harder
to describe. An insistent self-consciousness in their loud words and wide
gestures, as if God had a million-dollar contract to keep an eye on them.