The Far Side of the Dollar by Ross MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page A

statistic out of. The boy—his name is Tom Hillman—was interested in our daughter. He used to be a much nicer boy than he is now. As a matter of fact, he used to spend most of his free time over here. We treated him as if he were our own son. But the relationship went sour. Very sour.” She sounded both angry and regretful.
    “What soured it?”
    She made a violent sideways gesture. “I prefer not to discussit. It’s something an insurance company doesn’t have to know. Or anybody else.”
    “Perhaps I could talk to the boy. He lives next door, doesn’t he?”
    “His parents do, the Hillmans. I believe they’ve sent him away somewhere. We no longer speak to the Hillmans,” she said stiffly. “They’re decent enough people, I suppose, but they’ve made awful fools of themselves over that boy.”
    “Where did they send him?”
    “To some kind of reform school, probably. He needed it. He was running out of control.”
    “In what way?”
    “Every way. He smashed up my car, which probably means he was drinking. I know he was spending time in the bars on lower Main Street.”
    “The night before he wrecked your car?”
    “All summer. He even tried to teach his bad habits to Stella. That’s what soured the relationship, if you want to know.”
    I made a note. “Could you be a little more specific, Mrs. Carlson? We’re interested in the whole social background of these accidents.”
    “Well, he actually dragged Stella with him to one of those awful dives. Can you imagine, taking an innocent sixteen-year-old girl to a wino joint on lower Main? That was the end of Tom Hillman, as far as we were concerned.”
    “What about Stella?”
    “She’s a sensible girl.” She glanced up toward the head of the stairs. “Her father and I made her see that it wasn’t a profitable relationship.”
    “So she wasn’t involved in the borrowing of your car?”
    “Certainly not.”
    A small clear voice said from the head of the stairs: “That isn’t true, Mother, and you know it. I told you—”
    “Be quiet, Stella. Go back to bed. If you’re ill enough to stay home from camp, you’re ill enough to stay in bed.”
    As she was talking, Mrs. Carlson surged halfway up the stairs. She had very good calves, a trifle muscular. Her daughter came down toward her, a slender girl with lovely eyes that seemed totake up most of her face below the forehead. Her brown hair was pulled back tight. She had on slacks and a high-necked blue wool sweater which revealed the bud-sharp outlines of her breasts.
    “I’m feeling better, thank you,” she said with adolescent iciness. “At least I was, until I heard you lying about Tommy.”
    “How dare you? Go to your room.”
    “I will if you’ll stop telling lies about Tommy.”
    “You shut up.”
    Mrs. Carlson ran up the three or four steps that separated them, grabbed Stella by the shoulders, turned her forcibly, and marched her up out of sight. Stella kept repeating the word “Liar,” until a door slammed on her thin clear voice.
    Five minutes later Mrs. Carlson came down wearing fresh makeup, a green hat with a feather in it, a plaid coat, and gloves. She walked straight to the door and opened it wide.
    “I’m afraid I have to rush now. My hairdresser gets very angry with me when I’m late. We were getting pretty far afield from what you wanted, anyway.”
    “On the contrary. I was very interested in your daughter’s remarks.”
    She smiled with fierce politeness. “Pay no attention to Stella. She’s feverish and hysterical. The poor child’s been upset ever since the accident.”
    “Because she was involved in it?”
    “Don’t be silly.” She rattled the doorknob. “I really have to go now.”
    I stepped outside. She followed, and slammed the door hard behind me. She’d probably had a lot of practice slamming doors. “Where’s your car?” she called after me.
    “I parachuted in.”
    She stood and watched me until I reached the foot of the driveway. Then she