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

Ferguson
set the picture on the piano, very carefully, as if it were an icon whose exact
position might somehow affect his wife’s fate. I took a closer look at it, and
remembered seeing the same face on movie marquees and in the newspapers.
                 It
had the standard perfections of her trade, but it had an individual cast as
well. It was a face which had known trouble, and smiled back at it. The smile
was a little too bold for comfort. The knowledge in the eyes was a little too
definite. Holly May would be interesting to know, but perhaps not easy to live
with.
                 “It’s
a good picture of her,” Padilla said at my shoulder. “You ever see her?”
                 “Not
in the flesh.”
                 “Christ,
I hope she’s all right. I was afraid that something happened to her, I told you
that. But I didn’t think it could be a snatch.”
                 Ferguson
moved between us and the picture. Perhaps he was jealous of our stares. I could
understand why jealousy of Gaines had been eating him. He was at least twice
his wife’s age, and not nearly so pretty. An unlikely match, in spite of all
the money he had, or was supposed to have.
                 “I
want you men to keep this affair to yourselves,” Ferguson said. “It’s of the
utmost importance that you do. If the authorities get wind of it, it will put
her life in danger.”
                 “The
dirty crumbs,” Padilla growled. “Is that what they said on the telephone?”
                 “Yes.
He said that they are in a position to know every move the police make. If I
call in the police, they will kill my wife.”
                 I
said: “This may not be the way to save her, Colonel. You’ve had a hard day, and
you may not be thinking as straight as usual. In a situation like this, you
need all the help you can get. You should take the local police into your
confidence. The chief detective, Wills, is a friend of mine. He can advise you
about contacting the FBI—”
                 Ferguson
cut me short. “It’s absolutely out of the question. I want your solemn word
that you won’t go to the police, or anyone else!”
                 “You
should listen to the man,” Padilla said. “Like he was saying, you’ve had a lot
to drink. Maybe you could use a little advice.”
                 “I
know what I have to do. No amount of advice will change the facts. I’m bound
and determined to do my part.”
                 “Let’s
hope that they do theirs, Ferguson. I think you’re handling it wrong. But it’s
your wife.”
                 “I’ll
trust you to remember that. I don’t want either of you to endanger Holly by
going to the police. The criminals have a friend on the force, apparently—”
                 “That
I doubt.”
                 “I
know something about American police. If the RCMP was available, I’d gladly go
to them.”
                 The
man’s naïveté would have been funny under other circumstances. I made one last
attempt. “Listen to me, Ferguson. I urge you to discuss this matter with
someone. Do you have a lawyer you trust?”
                 “I
have in Calgary, Alberta. If you think I’m going to hire you to give me advice
I don’t want and won’t take—”
                 “I’m
not trying to get myself hired.”
                 “That’s
good, because I know you American lawyers. I had dealings with some of your
breed when Holly was trying to get free from that wretched studio.” He paused,
and gave me a canny look. “Of course, if a small retainer will keep you
quiet—you can have a couple of hundred.”
                 “Keep
it.”
                 He
smiled grimly, as if an angry atmosphere suited him. “We’re mutually agreed
then. Can I trust you to