The Instant Enemy by Ross MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page A

gate was ten feet high, topped with barbed wire. On either side of it, a heavy wire fence plastered with “ NO TRESPASSING” signs stretched off into the hills as far as I could see.
    The man who was waiting for me at the gate was a lean Spanish type. His tight pants and loose haircut gave a youthful impression which his dark and ageless eyes repudiated. He made no attempt to conceal the heavy revolver in the belt holster under his jacket.
    Before he opened the gate he made me show him the photostat of my license. “Okay, man. I guess it’s okay.”
    He unlocked the gate and let me drive in, relocked it as I waited behind his jeep.
    “Is Mr. Hackett here yet?”
    He shook his head, got into his jeep, and led me up the private blacktop road. Once we had rounded the first curve, the place seemed almost as remote and untouched as backcountry. Quail were calling in the brush, and smaller birds were eating the red berries off the toyon. A couple of soaring vultures balanced high on a thermal were keeping an eye on things.
    The road mounted a low pass and ran along the crest ofthe wide earth dam which held back the water of the artificial lake. There were ducks on the water, pintails and cinnamon teal, and mud hens in the grass around its shore.
    My escort drew his revolver and, without stopping his jeep, shot the nearest mud hen. I think he was showing off to me. All the ducks flew up, and all the mud hens but one ran like hell into the water, like little animated cartoons of terrified people.
    The house was on a rise at the far end of the lake. It was wide and low and handsome, and it fitted the landscape so well that it looked like a piece of it.
    Mrs. Hackett was waiting on the terrace in front of the house. She had on a brown wool suit, and her long yellow hair was done up in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She was in her early thirties, pretty and plump and very fair. She called out angrily to the man in the jeep: “Was it you who fired that gun?”
    “I shot a mud hen.”
    “I’ve asked you not to do that. It drives away the ducks.”
    “There’s too many mud hens.”
    She went pale. “Don’t talk back to me, Lupe.”
    They glared at each other. His face was like carved saddle leather. Hers was like Dresden porcelain. Apparently the porcelain won. Lupe drove away in the jeep and disappeared into one of the outbuildings.
    I introduced myself. The woman turned to me, but Lupe was still on her mind. “He’s insubordinate. I don’t know how to handle him. I’ve been in this country for over ten years and I still don’t understand Americans.” Her accent was Middle European, probably Austrian or German.
    “I’ve been here for over forty,” I said, “and I don’t understand Americans, either. Spanish-Americans are particularly hard to understand.”
    “I’m afraid you’re not much help.” She smiled, and made a small helpless gesture with her fairly wide shoulders.
    “What’s Lupe’s job?”
    “He looks after the place.”
    “Singlehanded?”
    “It isn’t as much work as you might think. We have a bonded maintenance service for the house and grounds. My husband dislikes to have servants underfoot. I miss having servants myself, we always had servants at home.”
    “Where’s home?”
    “Bayerne,” she said with heavy nostalgia. “Near München. My family has lived in the same house since the time of Napoleon.”
    “How long have you lived here?”
    “Ten years. Stephen brought me to this country ten years ago. I’m still not used to it. In Germany the servant classes treat us with respect.”
    “Lupe doesn’t act like a typical servant.”
    “No, and he isn’t typical. My mother-in-law insisted that we hire him. He knows that.” She sounded like a woman who needed someone to talk to. She must have heard herself. “I’m afraid I’m talking too much. But why are you asking me these questions?”
    “It’s a habit of mine. I’m a private detective.”
    Her eyes blurred with