Free Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair by Ross MacDonald

           “Get
him on the line,” the voice said less impersonally. “In a
hurry, friend.”
                 I
was tempted to argue, but I sensed an urgency here which tied my tongue. I went
to the door of the bathroom. Padilla was helping Ferguson to take off his soggy
tweeds. Ferguson was shivering so hard that I could feel the vibrations through
my feet.
                 He
looked at me without recognition. “What do you want? Padilla, what does he
want?”
                 “You’re
wanted on the telephone, Colonel. Can you make it all right?”
                 Padilla
helped him across the room.
                 Ferguson
sat on the bed and lifted the receiver to his ear. He was naked to the waist,
goose-pimpled and white except for the iron-gray hair matted on his chest. He
listened with his eyes half shut and his face growing longer and slacker. I
would have supposed he was passing out again if he hadn’t said, several times,
“Yes,” and finally: “Yes, I will. You can depend on that. I’m sorry we didn’t
make contact until now.”
                 He
replaced the receiver, fumblingly, and stood up. He looked at Padilla, then at
me, from under heavy eyelids. “Make me some coffee, will you, Padilla?”
                 “Sure.”
Padilla trotted cheerfully out of the room.
                 Ferguson
turned to me. “Are you an FBI man?”
                 “Nothing like that. I’m an attorney. William Gunnarson is my
name.”
                 “You
answered the telephone?”
                 “Yes.”
                 “What
was said to you?”
                 “The
man who called said he wanted to speak to you. In a hurry .”
                 “Did
he say why?”
                 “No.”
                 “Are
you certain?”
                 “I’m
certain.”
                 His
tone was insulting, but I went on humoring him. I didn’t know how sober he was,
or how rational.
                 “And
you’re not an officer of the law?”
                 “In
a sense, I am. I’m an officer of the court, but enforcement is not my business.
What’s this all about, Colonel?”
                 “It’s
a personal matter,” he said shortly. “May I ask what you’re doing in my wife’s
room?”
                 “I
helped Padilla to bring you home from the Foothill Club. You were out.”
                 “I
see. Thank you. Now do you mind leaving?”
                 “When
Tony Padilla is ready. We used your car.”
                 “I
see. Thank you again, Mr. Gunnarson.”
                 He’d
lost interest in me. His eyes moved restlessly around the walls. He uttered one
word in a tearing voice: “Holly.” Then he said: “A fine time to get stinking
drunk.”
                 He
walked across the room to a dressing table, and leaned to examine his face in
the mirror above it. The sight of his face must have displeased him. He smashed
the mirror with one blow of his fist.
                 “Knock
it off,” I said in my sergeant voice.
                 He
turned, and answered meekly enough. “You’re right. This is no time for
childishness.”
                 Padilla
looked through the doorway. “More trouble?”
                 “No
trouble,” Ferguson said. “I merely shattered a mirror. I’ll buy my wife another
in the morning. How about that coffee, Tony?”
                 “Coming right up. You better put on something dry, Colonel.
You don’t want to catch pneumonia.”
                 Padilla
seemed to be fond of the man. I could hardly share his feeling, and yet I
stayed around. The phone call, and Ferguson’s reaction to it, puzzled me. It
had left the atmosphere heavy and