The Barbarous Coast by Ross MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page A

happened. But you could have triggered a murder.”
    “Nonsense.” He turned and came toward me, stepping with feline softness on the carpet. “The husband is a nothing, a hysterical boy. There is no danger in him.”
    “I wonder. He’s big and strong, and crazy about his wife.”
    “Is he rich?”
    “Hardly.”
    “Then tell him to forget her. I have seen many like her, in love with themselves. They think they aspire to an art, acting or dancing or music. But all they really aspire to is money and clothes. A man comes along who can give them these things, and there is the end of aspiration.” Hishands went through the motions of liberating a bird and throwing it a good-by kiss.
    “Did one come along for Hester?”
    “Possibly. She seemed remarkably prosperous at my Christmas party. She had a new mink stole. I complimented her on it, and she informed me that she was under personal contract to a movie producer.”
    “Which one?”
    “She did not say, and it does not matter. She was lying. It was a little fantasy for my benefit.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I know women.”
    I was ready to believe him. The wall behind his desk was papered with inscribed photographs of young women.
    “Besides,” he said, “no producer in his right mind would give that girl a contract. There is something lacking in her—essential talent, feeling. She became cynical so young, and she makes no attempt to hide it.”
    “How did she act the other night?”
    “I did not observe her for very long. I had over a hundred guests.”
    “She made a telephone call from here. Did you know?”
    “Not until yesterday. The husband told me she was frightened of something. Perhaps she drank too much. There was nothing at my party to frighten anyone—a lot of nice young people amusing themselves.”
    “Who was she with?”
    “A boy, a good-looking boy.” He snapped his fingers. “She introduced him to me, but I forget his name.”
    “Lance Torres?”
    His eyelids crinkled. “Possibly. He was quite dark, Spanish-looking. A very well-built boy—one of those new young types with the
apache
air. Perhaps Miss Seeley can identify him for you. I saw them talking together.” He pushed his right cuff back and looked at his wristwatch.“Miss Seeley is out for coffee, but she should be back very soon.”
    “While we’re waiting, you could give me Hester’s address. Her real address.”
    “Why should I make things easy for you?” Anton said with his edged smile. “I don’t like the fellow you are working for. He is too aggressive. Also, I am old and he is young. Also, my father was a streetcar conductor in Montreal. Why should I help an Anglo from Toronto?”
    “So you won’t let him find his wife?”
    “Oh, you can have the address. I simply wished to express my emotions on the subject. She lives at the Windsor Hotel in Santa Monica.”
    “You know it by heart, eh?”
    “I happen to remember. I had a request for her address from another detective last week.”
    “Police detective?”
    “Private. He claimed to be a lawyer with money for her, a bequest, but his story was very clumsy and I am not stupid.” He glanced at his wristwatch again. “If you’ll excuse me, now, I have to dress for a class. You can wait here for Miss Seeley if you wish.”
    Before I could ask him any more questions, he went out through an inner door and closed it behind him. I sat down at his desk and looked up the Windsor Hotel in the telephone directory. The desk clerk told me that Miss Hester Campbell didn’t stay there any more. She’d moved out two weeks ago, leaving no forwarding address.
    I was masticating this fact when Miss Seeley came in. I remembered her from the period when Anton divorced his third wife, with my assistance. She was a little older, a little thinner. Her tailored pinstriped suit emphasized the boniness of her figure. But she still wore hopeful white ruffles at her wrists and throat.
    “Why, Mr. Archer.” The implications of my