Meet Me at the Morgue (3 page)

Mrs. Miner acted as if she knew that. She hung back at the foot of the Annex stairs, watching the Saturday noon crowd with a kind of terror. Ann Devon had to coax her across the sidewalk and into my car. She walked stumbling, with her head bowed, like someone carrying a heavy burden. Once in the car, she shrank into a corner of the back seat and covered her eyes with her hand as if the sunlight hurt them. As we drove out of town, I heard her crying quietly to herself.

Pacific Point lay on the coastal slope at the ocean’s edge. Driving up the terraced ridge of foothills behind the town, I could see the curved spit of land which had given the city its name, half enclosing the oval blue lagoon. The harbor and the sea beyond it were flecked with sails.

The road gained the crest of the ridge and curved along
it briefly. Far ahead and to my left, Catalina floated like a shadowy dreadnaught on the northwest horizon. Below and to my right, a dark green inland sea of orange groves flowed calm between the foothills and the mountains. It was a bright May day, but the colors of the country failed to lift me. They only emphasized the strangeness of our errand.

A black-top road branched off to the right. A black and white wooden sign at the fork announced: P
ACIFIC
P
OINT
C
ITY
L
IMITS
. P
OPULATION
34,197. E
LEVATION
21. There was a yellow Bus Stop sign beside it.

The woman in the back seat said in a muffled voice: “You turn off here.”

I turned. Ann, who was riding beside me, touched my arm significantly. “This is where it happened,” she whispered. “They found the body here, just below the crossroads.”

Even in full daylight, it was a lonely place. Though I knew there were houses within earshot, they were the hidden houses of the rich. The road was masked on both sides by high laurel hedges and overarched by eucalyptus trees whose fallen leaves crackled under the wheels. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Miner’s face in the rear-view mirror. There was remembered horror on it. She might have just seen the dead man in the road.

A couple of miles further on, she said: “You better slow down, Mr. Cross. It’s a sharp turn into the drive.”

I did as she suggested, and turned between stone gateposts onto fresh gravel. A weathering stone gatehouse stood behind a planting of Monterey cypress. Its small geometric garden was vivid with flowers.

Ann turned to speak to Mrs. Miner: “Do you want to get out here? Isn’t this where you live?”

“I guess not after today. We’ll be out in the street.”

“You’d better come along with us,” I said. “You know Mrs. Johnson and I don’t.”

“All right.”

“Are you employed by the Johnsons?” Ann asked her.

“Not regular. She don’t—she doesn’t like regular servants around the house, she’s very independent. I help her with her cleaning, though. And when she throws a party I always pitch in.”

The main house stood a few hundred feet below the gatehouse, near the edge of a ravine. It was a flat-roofed structure of redwood and stone, built around three sides of a patio. I parked on the turnaround at the rear. There were two cars in the garages, and places for two others. One was the heavy black Lincoln sedan that had killed a man.

A red-haired woman in a green dress opened the back door and stepped out onto the small delivery-porch. She carried a light shotgun under her arm. When I was halfway out of the car, she leveled it at me. I got back in and let the door close itself.

Her voice rang out: “Who are you? What do you want?”

An echo from the hillside repeated the questions idiotically.

“I’m the County Probation Officer.”

She called again over the steady gun: “What do you want?”

“To help you if I can.”

“I don’t need any help.”

The woman in the back seat leaned forward to the window: “Mrs. Johnson! It’s me. Mr. Cross drove me out.”

The red-haired woman showed no enthusiasm. “Where do you think you’ve been?” But she lowered the gun.

Mrs. Miner poked me timidly between the shoulder blades. “Is it all right if I get out?”

“We all will.” I was feeling a trifle let down. Johnson’s
wife had none of the earmarks of a damsel in distress. She handled a gun as if she knew how to use it.

On closer inspection, however, she showed her strain. Approaching her rather gingerly, I saw that her skin was bloodless, almost paper-white. Her eyes were opaque and too steady, like green stones. A tremor ran through her body spasmodically.

I looked to see that the safety was on the shotgun. It was.

“Why the armament, Mrs. Johnson?”

“I didn’t know who it was. I thought if
they
came—”

“The kidnappers?”

“Yes. I intended to kill them.” She added quietly: “I only have the one child.”

With her fiery hair and fair bold brow, her rather heavy lower lip pushed out, she looked capable of killing. She was like a young lioness robbed of her cub. She stood with her legs braced apart, holding the gun at waist level in front of her like a bar. Her body hadn’t yet learned from her mind, or had forgotten, that we were friends.

“It’s really true, then,” Ann said.

“I told you,” said Mrs. Miner.

The red-haired woman turned on her: “You weren’t to call the police! Haven’t you got it through your skull that Jamie’s life is in danger?”

“I’m not the police,” I said. “Mrs. Miner has been trying to trace her husband’s movements. He came to our office this morning.”

“Was Jamie with him?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, he introduced me to Jamie. I’m no mind-reader, but he didn’t act like a man planning a kidnapping.”

Mrs. Miner gave me a grateful look.

“I’m not one to jump to conclusions,” Mrs. Johnson said.

“My husband did, I’m afraid—he’s excitable. For myself, I
won’t believe that Fred Miner did such a thing to us. Not until I see the actual proof of it.”

“Did you authorize him to take Jamie for a ride?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“He told me this morning that you had.”

“No, I wasn’t even up when they left. I took a pill last night. I don’t usually sleep so late. Jamie didn’t even have breakfast.” The homely detail overcame her suddenly. Her eyes filled with tears.

Mrs. Miner laid a worn hand on her arm. “I gave him a banana and an orange. That was about eight o’clock, a little after. Fred drove him up from the garage in the Jaguar. He told me he was going into town, that he had a matter to discuss with Mr. Linebarge. I naturally thought you gave him permission.”

“I didn’t. Neither did my husband.” There was a frantic overtone in her voice.

Ann said briskly: “May we come in, Mrs. Johnson? I’d like to make you some coffee.”

“You’re very kind. Please come in.” After its spasm of aggression, her body slumped wearily against the doorpost. I took the shotgun out of her hands before she dropped it, and set it in the corner behind the door.

“I’ll make the coffee,” Mrs. Miner said to Ann. “I know where everything is. She could probably use a bite to eat, too.”

In the presence of the other woman’s distress, Mrs. Miner had recovered her composure. She managed to give me a faint rueful smile as I passed her in the kitchen. Ann stayed in the kitchen with her.

CHAPTER
4
:
      
I followed Mrs. Johnson through
the house into the central living-room. It was very large, perhaps twenty feet high and forty feet long. One entire wall was occupied by a semi-hexagonal window that overhung the ravine and revealed the valley beyond it.

She went to the window and stood with her back to me, looking out. Against the expanse of space, her figure seemed tiny and forlorn. It was a big country, and a four-year-old boy was a very small object to look for.

She said to herself, or to the distant, gray mountains: “It’s a judgment on me. Everything has been easy and soft for me, since I married Abel. You pay for a little happiness in this life. I’d almost forgotten that. You pay for one thing with another.”

I came up behind her, my footfalls soft on the rug. “I don’t blame you for feeling fatalistic, Mrs. Johnson. I don’t think you’re right, though.”

“What I said is true. I married money, I thought I was one of the lucky ones. I was. They single out the lucky ones for terrible blows like this. They’d have left us alone if we were poor. I wish I was poor again. I’d give everything I have.” Her eyes ranged the lofty room, the paneled walls, the costly furniture. “Money is a curse, do you know it?”

“Not necessarily. Poor people have their bad times, too. I spend most of my working-time with poor people in trouble.”

Her glance lighted on my face and stayed. The green eyes had cleared, and seemed to be seeing me for the first time. “Who did you say you were?”

“Howard Cross. I’m County Probation Officer.”

“Abel’s mentioned you, I think. Aren’t you with the police?”

“I work with them, but under a different code. I’m a sort of middleman between the law and the lawbreaker.”

“I don’t think I understand you.”

“I’ll put it another way. The criminal is at war with society. Society fights back through cops and prisons. I try to act as a neutral arbitrator. The only way to end the war is to make some kind of peace between the two sides.”

“I’m not a service-club luncheon,” she flared out. “Is that how you feel about this case? Neutral?”

“Hardly. There’s no probation on a kidnapping conviction. It carries the death penalty, and I think it should. On the other hand, I feel as you do, it’s dangerous to jump to conclusions. My office helped to keep Fred Miner out of jail, and I may be prejudiced. But I don’t think he’s the type. It takes a cruel mind to plan and execute a kidnapping.”

“That’s what’s driving me crazy. I can’t imagine what happened. Why would he take Jamie away like that, without even telling me?”

“I can’t guess his reason, though I’m pretty sure he had a reason, or something that appeared to be a reason. Fred’s not very bright, you know.”

“He’s not a genius. But he is goodhearted, and responsible. At least I’ve always believed that he was, in spite of his—accident.” She ended on a vague and questioning note. “What is your opinion, Mr. Cross?”

“I have none.” The possibilities that occurred to me, another accident, or foul play, would only add to her worry. “Whatever happened, we’re wasting time. I think you should call the police.”

“I’ll show you why we haven’t.”

Moving quickly and rather blindly, she crossed the room
to a table in the corner and brought me a folded sheet of typewriter paper.

“The ransom note?”

She nodded. I unfolded the letter, which had been printed in block capitals with a pencil:

“Miner didn’t figure this out,” I said.

“I know he didn’t.” She flung herself into a low square-cut chair. “The question is, who did. It reads to me like a letter from hell.”

“A professional criminal or more likely a gang of them. It’s very carefully cased and set up. The lettering was done with a ruler, to minimize handwriting characteristics. The whole thing shows experience.”

“You mean they’ve done this before, and got away with it?”

“I doubt that. Kidnapping’s a pretty rare crime since the federal law was passed. Successful kidnappings are practically unheard of. I mean that you’re dealing with hardened criminals. And I strongly urge you to call the police.”

“I daren’t. I promised Abel.”

“Let me, then. The F.B.I. has the organization and equipment to find your son. Nobody else has. Jamie has a better chance of coming home safe with them than he has any other way. Why do you think they’re so insistent about not bringing in the law?”

She shook her head rapidly. For a moment her face was a white blur under whirling red hair. “I don’t know. I can’t make any decision. You mustn’t ask me to. If Abel comes home and finds officers in the house, it might kill him.”

“Is he that vulnerable?”

“He’s quite ill. The doctor expressly warned him about emotional shocks. You see, Abel had a coronary thrombosis in 1946. I didn’t even want him to go to town this morning. But he was bound to do it himself.”

I looked at my watch: it was half past twelve. “He’ll be in San Diego by now, if he got that train.”

“No, Larry was going to follow the train in his car. It stops at Sapphire Beach, about ten miles down the line.”

“Larry?”

“Larry Seifel, my husband’s lawyer. We got in touch with him right away.”

“He defended Miner on the hit-run charge, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” She shifted uneasily. “I wonder what’s keeping them. Abel said he’d be back by noon.”

I held the ransom letter up by one corner. “Mrs. Miner told me this came in the morning mail. What time was that?”

“About half past nine. We were just sitting down to breakfast. I’d been calling Jamie, and got no answer. Jamie always wakes up so early. I’m afraid I fell into the habit of letting Fred look after him in the mornings.” Guilt pulled at the corners of her mouth and made her grimace. “They seemed to get along so well.”

I brought her back to the point: “They didn’t give your
husband much time. From nine thirty to eleven is only an hour and a half. Where’s the envelope, by the way?”

“The one that came in? I’ll get it.”

She rose and fetched a plain white envelope from the table. It was addressed in the same square penciled letters to Mr. Abel Johnson, Valley Vista Ranch, Ridgecrest Road, Pacific Point. The postmark was: Pacific Point, 6.51
P.M.
, May 9—the previous day.