didn’t know I had money until we’d been seeing each other for several days.” Ferguson spoke of his money as if it was a communicable disease.
“Are you certain of that?”
“Quite certain.” He nodded emphatically, as though he had to reassure himself. “She didn’t know who I really was until it developed that she was going to Banff. I invited her to stay at my lodge there-properly chaperoned, of course. We got together a little party, and rode up in a private railway car that a friend of mine makes available to me.
“It was a wonderful trip. I felt terrifically excited, just to be with her. I don’t mean in a sexual way.” Ferguson’s eyes became faintly anxious whenever he approached the subject of sex. “I’ve had sex with various women, but the feeling I had for Holly was very much more than that. She was like a golden image sitting there by the train window. I didn’t like to stare directly at her, so I looked at her reflection in the window. I watched her reflected face with the mountains moving through it and behind it. I felt as though I was moving with her into the heart of life, a golden time. Do you understand me?”
“Not too well.”
“I don’t pretend to understand it myself. I only know I’d lived for twenty-five years without that feeling. I’d been going through the motions for twenty-five years, piling up money and acquiring property. Suddenly Holly was the reason for it, the meaning of it all.
Shock and whisky were working in him like truth serum. There was no trace of irony in his voice; only the tragic irony of the circumstances. He had founded his brief marriage on a dream and was trying to convince himself that the dream was real.
“And share your money, too?” I said.
“Holly didn’t marry me for money,” he insisted doggedly. “Remember that she was a successful actress, with a future. It’s true her studio had her tied up in a low-salaried contract, but she could have done much better if she’d stayed in Hollywood. Her agent told me she was bound to become a great star. But the fact is, she wasn’t interested in money, or in stardom. She wanted to improve herself, become a cultivated woman. That was the project we had in mind when we came here. We planned to learn together, read good books, study music and other worthwhile things.”
He looked around the shabby restaurant as if he had somehow fallen into a trap. I remembered the hooded harp and the white concert grand.
“Was your wife studying music seriously?”
He nodded. “She has a voice, you know. I engaged a voice teacher for her, also a speech teacher. She wasn’t happy about the way she spoke, her use of English. I’m no great grammarian myself, but I was always having to correct her.”
“All these lessons she was taking-were they her idea or yours?”
“They were her idea, originally. I’m still in my prime, and at first I wasn’t too fond of the notion that we should take a year or two out to develop our minds and all that. I went along with it because I loved her, because I felt grateful to her.”
“Grateful for what?”
“For marrying me.” He seemed surprised by my lack of understanding. Puzzled surprise was threatening to become his permanent expression. “I’m not a handsome man, and I’m not young. I suppose I can hardly blame her for running out on me.”
“It’s possible she hasn’t. Gaines may have been pointing a gun at her today.”
“No. I saw him get out of the car. She sat behind the wheel and waited for him.”
“Then he may have some other hold on her. How long has she known him?”
“Just since we’ve come here.”
“You’re sure?”
He shook his head. “I can’t be sure, no. She might have known him before, and pulled the wool over my eyes.”
“Do you know much about her background? Where she came from, what sort of girlhood she had?”
“She had a difficult girlhood, I don’t know where or how. Holly preferred not to talk about herself. She said when she married me, she intended to start a fresh page in her life, with no crying over spilt milk.”
“Have you met her parents?”
“No. I’m not even aware that they exist. It may be that she’s ashamed of them. She’s never told me her real name. She married me under her stage name.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“Her agent did, Michael Speare. I met him last fall, when I was breaking her studio contract. His agency has her under a long-term contract which I couldn’t break.”
“Would you object if I talked to Speare?”
“You mustn’t tell him what’s happened.” Ferguson’s voice was almost plaintive. The past had opened like a wound, bleeding away his force. “Whether or not she deserves it, we have to protect Holly. If I could just get her out of this frightful mess she’s landed herself in-”
“I don’t see much hope of that. There is one thing you could do which we haven’t discussed. I know of some good private detectives in Los Angeles.”
“No! I’m not going in for that sort of thing.”
Ferguson struck the table with his fist. His glass jumped and rattled against my plate. Fresh blood began to run from his nose. I stood up and got him out of there.
“I’m taking you to a doctor,” I said in the car. “You must know some local doctor. If not, you can get one in the emergency ward of the hospital.”
“It isn’t necessary,” he said. “I’m perfectly all right.”
“We won’t argue, Colonel. Haven’t you ever been to a local doctor?”
“I don’t go to doctors. The blasted doctors killed my mother.” His voice was strained and high. Perhaps he heard himself, because he added in a calmer tone: “Holly visited the Buenavista Clinic once or twice.”
“It’s a good place. Who was her doctor?”
“Chap by the name of Trench.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite certain, yes.” He gave me a questioning look. “Is this Trench a quack of some sort?”
“Hardly. He’s my wife’s doctor. He’s the best obstetrician in town.”
“Is your wife going to-” Then he caught the rest of the implications, and didn’t finish the sentence.
“Yes,” I said, “she is. Is yours?”
“I don’t know. We never spoke of the matter.”
There seemed to be a number of things they hadn’t spoken of.
chapter 17
I WALKED AND TALKED Ferguson into the clinic and made an emergency appointment for him with their bone man, Dr. Root. It was one of those highly specialized medical partnerships where practically every organ of the human body was represented by a separate doctor. I left Ferguson in the waiting room and told him I’d be back in half an hour. He sat on the edge of a leather chair, bolt upright, like one of the stone figures you see on old tombs.
Mrs. Weinstein glanced at the clock when I walked into my office.
“It’s nearly two, Mr. Gunnarson. I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”
“Thanks for reminding me. Would you call my wife and tell her I won’t be home for lunch?”
“I presume she knows by this time.”
“Call her anyway, will you? Then I want you to place a call for me, to a man in Beverly Hills named Michael Speare.” I recited the address which Ferguson had given me. “You can probably get the number from Information.
