Free The Wycherly Woman by Ross MacDonald Page B

reddish hair?”
    “I saw him at a distance, I believe. In the surf. I’m forbidden the surf myself. Phoebe and he were cavorting with some other young people.” There was a trace of envious sadness in his voice.
    “But you never met him?”
    “Phoebe didn’t choose to introduce him to us. I think that was one of the sources of friction with Helen. Phoebe was seeing quite a lot of the young man while she was with us.”
    “Do you know anything about him?”
    “No. He seemed like a healthy young animal. And Phoebe was pleased and flattered by his attentions. But as I said, I never had the privilege of meeting him. Do
you
know anything about him?”
    “I talked to him this morning in Boulder Beach. He’s a student there.”
    “Are—is he still interested in Phoebe?”
    “He was, until she disappeared.”
    “Do you suspect him of having something to do with it?”
    “No.”
    His eyes were penetrating. “You do, though.”
    “I suspect everybody. It’s my occupational neurosis. But he has no motive, and an alibi.”
    “You’re thorough. What’s the boy’s name? Bobby something, isn’t it?”
    “Bobby Doncaster.” I changed the subject. “Which of these pictures is the closest likeness?”
    He shuffled them with a poker-player’s deftness, and picked out the one in the white dress. The one in tennis clothes was almost as good, he said. I asked for it, and got it.
    “Now, is there anything else I can do, for you or Phoebe?”
    “You might have some copies of her picture made. Fifty, ora hundred, just in case Wycherly decides to make a major effort.”
    “What form would a major effort take?”
    “Use of a national detective agency, mass media publicity, all-out police dragnet, with FBI co-operation if possible. Wycherly’s a wealthy man, he could swing a lot of weight.”
    Trevor clapped his hands together. “I can swing it for him if necessary. Do you recommend it, Archer?”
    “Wait till tomorrow. If I can put a finger on Catherine Wycherly, she may give me some answers. Do you know a real-estate man named Ben Merriman, by the way?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t.” His eyebrows came together in concentration. “I may have seen his sign on Camino Real. Why?”
    “He’s selling Mrs. Wycherly’s house. Maybe he can give me her new address. I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow. In the meantime, you’ll talk to the local police tonight?”
    “As soon as you leave,” he said, rising.
    It was an invitation to go. On my way out through the library, I stepped on a pearl.

chapter
8
    B EN M ERRIMAN’S NAME was written in red neon across the cornice of a narrow pink stucco building. It was in a gap-toothed section of rundown houses and vacant lots and struggling businesses. A dog hospital stood next to Merriman’s office. Diagonally across the street, a drive-in swarmed with cutdown cars and their owners.
    I locked the door of my car: I had a seventy-five-dollar revolver in a brief case on the back seat and a contact microphone in the dash compartment. Dogs barked. I could smell pesticide.
    A light outlined a closed door in a partition at the back ofMerriman’s place. The glass front door was locked. I tapped on the glass with my car keys, and the door in the partition opened. Spilled light made a faceless silhouette of the woman who came uncertainly towards me. She fumbled at the self-lock and got it open.
    “Is Mr. Merriman here?”
    “No, he isn’t,” she said in a monotone.
    “Can you tell me where to find him?”
    “I wish I knew. I’ve been waiting for him for the last hour-and-a-half.” Resentment cracked her voice. She swallowed it. “Are you a client of Mr. Merriman’s?”
    “A prospective one, maybe. I’m interested in some property he’s got listed.”
    “Oh. Fine.”
    She opened the door wide and turned on all the lights and urged me in. She was a thirtyish blonde in an imitation mink coat which had seen better days. So had she. One of those blondes who ripened early like