Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair by Ross MacDonald

understood. There was a threat in the words, underlined by soft menace in the
voice. I thought it was the same man who had called Ferguson, but I couldn’t be
sure. The voice was blurred, as though the man at the other end of the line was
talking through a mask. “You want to go on living, don’t you, Gunnarson?”
                 “Who
is this?”
                 “Just a well-wisher.” He snickered. “If you do want to go on
living, you better drop the case you’re on, and I mean any part of it.”
                 “Go
to hell.”
                 “You
better give that some thought. You have a wife, I hear, and I hear she’s
pregnant. You wouldn’t want her to take a bad fall or anything. So forget about
Holly May and her little friends. You got that, Mr. Gunnarson?”
                 I
didn’t answer. The anger in my head was like scalding ice. I slammed the
receiver down. The fraction of a second later I regretted the action, and
picked it up again. There was nothing to be heard but the dial tone, the voice
of idiot space. I laid the receiver down for the second time, more gently.
                 But
the bedroom light was on, and Sally was standing at the bedroom door.
                 “What
on earth was that, Bill?”
                 I
tried to recall the exact words I had spoken. I’d said too much to pretend that
it was a wrong number.
                 “Some drunk. He seems to have a grudge against someone.”
                 “Against you?”
                 “No.
Not against me. Against everybody.”
                 “You
told him to go to hell.”
                 “You
would have, too, if you’d heard him.”
                 “He
upset you, didn’t he, William?”
                 “I
don’t like my sleep to be interrupted by maniacs.”
                 “What
did he say?”
                 “Nothing repeatable. Gibberish.”
                 She
accepted my explanation, at least for the present. We went back to bed, and she
dropped off again like a lamb. I lay awake for a long time beside her quiet breathing.
                 We
had been married for nearly three years; tonight for the first time I was fully
aware of her preciousness to me. But I was more determined than ever to stick
with the case and do my duty in it. The problem was to know where my duty lay.
                 Blue
dawn was at the window before I went to sleep. The Perrys ’
radio woke me at seven o’clock. It nearly always did. They were a couple of
schoolteachers who lived on schedule for the purpose of improving themselves. Their
morning schedule began with setting-up exercises.
                 I
flopped around on my side of the bed for a while, trying to shut out the
announcer’s voice blaring through the wallboard. Finally I got up with that
stiff gray insomniac feeling on my face. Sally went on sleeping like one of the
seven sleepers.
                 Since
she was sleeping for two, I dressed quietly and went downtown for breakfast. I
bought a morning paper on the way. The front page carried a picture of Donato,
a huddled figure with a shock of black Indian hair sticking out from under the
sheet that covered him.
                 While
I was waiting for my bacon and eggs, I read the accompanying news story.
Granada was praised for his courage and marksmanship, and given credit for
solving the series of burglaries. The story implied that the gang had other
members besides Donato, but none of them was named, not even Gaines. I assumed
that Wills was holding back, and had persuaded the local paper to go along.
                 The
waitress brought my breakfast. The eggs stared up from the plate like wide
yellow eyes. The toast had a gunpowder flavor. I caught myself sitting tensely
in the booth like a condemned