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

heard Ferguson say. Then his voice roared in my ear: “Get off the
line!”
                 I
got off the line, and started out through the anteroom. Mrs. Weinstein detained
me with one of her complex looks; it combined satire, pathos, and despair.
                 “Are
you going out, Mr. Gunnarson?” she said in her polite, furious monotone.
                 “Yes. Out.”
                 “But
Mrs. Stabile will be here in a few minutes. What can I say to her?”
                 “Tell
her I’ll see her later.”
                 “She’ll
go to another lawyer.”
                 “No,
she won’t. Stabile won’t let her.”

  Chapter
10
                 FERGUSON’S
HOUSE WAS IMPRESSIVE by daylight, a green and gray modern structure of stone
and wood and glass, distributed in unobtrusive low shapes which blended with
the landscape and the seascape.
                 The
door opened as my car entered the turnaround. Colonel Ferguson came out,
trailed by Padilla. Padilla looked a little soiled and sallow, but he managed a
smile. Ferguson was grimly unsmiling. The lines in his face were deep and
inflexible. Heavy beard, jet black and pure white mixed, sprouted around the
scab on his chin.
                 He
came up to my car. “What in hell do you want?”
                 “I’m
naturally worried about your wife—”
                 “It’s
my affair. I’m handling it.”
                 I
got out. “It’s my affair, too, whether I like it or not. You can’t expect me
simply to sit by.”
                 “It’s
what I have to do.”
                 “You
haven’t had any further messages?”
                 “No.
I’ll tell you this, though it’s none of your business. I’ve been in touch with
the manager of the bank. They’ll have the money ready for me.”
                 “Since
you’ve gone that far, don’t you think you should take the further step of going
to the authorities?”
                 He
bristled. “And get Holly killed?”
                 “You
can go to them on the quiet, without any fanfare.”
                 “What
good will that do , if her abductors have a pipeline to
the police?”
                 “I
don’t believe they have. They’re trying to scare you, paralyze you so you won’t
act. I know the local police, as I told you last night. They’re a decent
bunch.”
                 Padilla
looked uneasy. I shared his feeling, to some extent, but suppressed it.
Ferguson was listening to me, his long jaw calipered between thumb and fingers. I noticed that the nail of his thumb was bitten down
to the raw.
                 “I’m
taking no chances,” he said.
                 “You
may be taking the worst possible chance.”
                 “I
don’t understand you.”
                 “Your
wife may be dead now.”
                 I’d
meant to shock him, but he was appalled by the thought. His jaw gaped, showing
his lower teeth. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. “She’s dead, is
she? They found her dead?”
                 “No.
But it could happen, that they should find her dead.”
                 “Why?
I intend to pay them the money. All they want is the money. Why should they
harm her? The money means nothing to me—”
                 I
cut him short. “There’s a good chance that you’ll pay your money and still not
see her again. Do you understand that, Ferguson? Once they’ve got the money,
there’s no advantage to them in returning her to you. No advantage, and a great deal of risk.”
                 “They
wouldn’t take the money and kill her anyway.”
                 “They’re
killers, some of them at least. She’s in danger every hour