Free Ross Macdonald - Lew Archer 01 - The Moving Target(aka Harper)(1949) by Ross MacDonald

           “How much money?”
                 “A hundred thousand dollars.”
                 “Say
that again.”
                 “He
wants her to cash a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bonds.”
                 “Does
she have that much?”
                 “She
hasn’t, but she can get it. Bert Graves has Ralph’s power of attorney.”
                 “What’s
she supposed to do with the money?”
                 “He
said we’ll hear from him again or he’ll send a messenger for it.”
                 “You’re
sure the letter’s from him?”
                 “Elaine
says it’s in his writing.”
                 “Does
he say where he is?”
                 “No, but the letter’s postmarked Santa Maria. He must have
been there today.”
                 “Not
necessarily. What does Mrs. Sampson want me to do?”
                 “She
didn’t say. I suppose she wants your advice.”
                 “All
right, this is it. Tell her to have the money ready, but not to hand it over to
anybody without proof that your father’s alive.”
                 “You
think he’s dead?” Her hand plucked at the neckline of her dress.
                 “I
can’t afford to guess.” I turned to Taggert. “Can you fly Miranda up tonight?”
                 “I
just phoned Santa Teresa. The airport’s fogged in. First thing in the morning,
though.”
                 “Then
tell her over the phone. I have a possible lead and I’m following it up. Graves
had better contact the police, quietly. The local police and
the Los Angeles police. And the F. B. I.”
                 “The F. B. I.?” Miranda whispered.
                 “Yes,”
I said. “Kidnapping is a federal offense.”

  9
                 When
I went back to the bar, a young Mexican in a tuxedo was leaning against the
piano with a guitar. His small tenor, plaintive and remote, was singing a
Spanish bullfighting song. His fingers marched thunderously in the strings.
Mrs. Estabrook was watching him and barely noticed me when I sat down.
                 She
clapped loudly when the song was finished, and beckoned him to our booth. “ Babalu . Pretty
please.” She handed him a dollar.
                 He
bowed and smiled, and returned to his singing.
                 “It’s
Ralph’s favorite song,” she said. “Domingo sings it so well. He’s got real
Spanish blood in his veins.”
                 “About this friend of yours, Ralph.”
                 “What
about him?”
                 “He
wouldn’t object to your being here with me?”
                 “Don’t
be silly. I want you to meet him some time. I know you’ll like him.”
                 “What
does he do?”
                 “He’s
more or less retired. He’s got money.”
                 “Why
don’t you marry him?”
                 She
laughed harshly. “Didn’t I tell you I had a husband? But you don’t have to
worry about him. It’s purely a business proposition.”
                 “I
didn’t know you were in business.”
                 “Did
I say I was in business?” She laughed again, much too alertly, and changed the
subject: “It’s funny you suggesting I should marry Ralph. We’re both married to
other people. Anyway, our friendship is on a different level. You know, more
spiritual.”
                 She
was sobering up on me. I raised my glass. “To friendship. On a different level.”
                 While
she was still drinking, I held up two fingers to the waitress. The second drink
fixed her. Her face went to pieces as if by its own weight. Her eyes went dull
and unblinking. Her mouth hung open