Meet Me at the Morgue

chapter 3

I knew Abel Johnson slightly. He had come into the office in February to discuss the Miner case, and Alex had introduced us. Johnson was an expansive middle-aged man who was supposed to have made a moderate fortune in San Diego real estate during the war. A year or so after the war ended he retired to Pacific Point and bought a country house a few miles out of town. There he settled down with his wife and baby son.

The courthouse gossips said that he had been seriously ill and had married his nurse. I had never met Mrs. Johnson. Johnson himself was regarded as a leading citizen. He was a heavy contributor to local charities and a member of the retired executives’ club. If his son had really been kidnapped, there was going to be a great deal of strong public feeling.

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: PACIFIC POINT CITY LIMITS. POPULATION 34,197. ELEVATION 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.