Sleeping Beauty by Ross MacDonald Read Free Book Online

mailbox.
    I went up the asphalt driveway. The house and its outbuildings sat on the hilltop under an unobstructed sky. I could see stars overhead, and below them the night fields of the city looking as if they had been fenced with light and seeded with more stars.
    There was no visible light in the large one-storied house. I knocked and waited, and after a while knocked again. The hushed sound of feet approached the other side of the door. In the overhang above me and all around the house, lights went on. The door was opened about five inches on a chain.
    Dark eyes looked out at me from a dark face. “What is it you want?”
    “I’d like to see Captain Somerville.”
    “There’s nobody home.” The black man’s voice was flat and toneless.
    “You are.”
    “That’s true. But I don’t know you.”
    And he didn’t particularly want to. I started to give him a fairly detailed account of who I was and how I had happened to come there. He interrupted me and asked to see my license. I showed it to him through the five-inch opening.
    Even then he didn’t let me in. He unhooked the chain and stepped outside, closing the door behind him, then testing it to see if it was locked. He had keys in his hand, and he dropped them into his pocket. His other pocket sagged with the weight of what looked like a gun.
    He was a big man about my age. His face was unreadable. He had on a faded blue shirt and pants which resembled a uniform. His left arm appeared to be crippled, and I noticed that the hand remained half closed. His voice was low and impersonal.
    “Captain Somerville’s niece hasn’t been here tonight. I’ve been here all night, and I can guarantee it. I understand she’s staying with her grandmother in Pacific Point.”
    “She left there earlier today. Would she be likely to come here?”
    “She used to come here often enough when she was younger. But not so much any more.”
    “What about Captain Somerville?”
    “This is where he lives, man. He’s lived here nearly thirty years.”
    “I mean where is he now?”
    “I’m not supposed to say. We’ve had some bad calls in the last couple of days.”
    “About the oil spill?”
    “That was the idea. The Captain’s the executive vice-president of the company. Naturally he gets the blame, even if he’s clean as the driven snow.”
    “I noticed bullet holes in the mailbox.”
    “That’s right. Some people just aren’t happy unless they’re shooting up other people’s property.”
    “Was that another protest against the oil spill?”
    “They didn’t stop to say. They came here on motorcycles. I think they were just trigger-happy, looking for something to shoot at.” He peered down at the road, then turned and gave me a long appraising look. “But you didn’t come out here to talk to me about the motorbike boys.”
    “They interest me. When were they here?”
    “Last night. They roared up the hill and fired a few rounds and roared away again. Captain Somerville wasn’t here at the time. Fact is, I was in the house watching him on TV when it happened. The Captain and young Mr. Lennox—Laurel’s father—were on the ten o’clock news explaining the oil spill to the people.”
    “How did they explain it?”
    “They said it was an act of God, mainly.” There may have been some irony in his voice but I could detect no trace of it in his face. “They said that every now and then nature lets them down and all they can do is clean up after her.”
    “Isn’t that a little rough on nature?”
    “I wouldn’t know about that.” He took a deep breath of the sweet-smelling night air. “I look after the Captain’s place for him and that’s about all I know.”
    He looked and talked like a man who knew a good deal more.
    “Have you worked here long, Mr.—?”
    “Smith. My name is Smith. I’ve worked for him over twenty-five years, ever since me and the Captain retired from the Navy, and before that. I was his special steward when he had his last