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

door was bolted and too strong for our shoulders. We went around to the
back. In the yard I stumbled over a smooth, round object that turned out to be
a beer bottle.
                 “Steady
there, old man,” Taggert said in a Rover Boy way. He seemed to be enjoying
himself.
                 He
flung himself with youthful abandon against the kitchen door. When we pushed
together it splintered at the lock and gave. We went through the kitchen into
the dark hall.
                 “You’re
not carrying a gun?” I said.
                 “No.”
                 “But
you know how to use one.”
                 “Naturally. I prefer a machine gun,” he bragged.
                 I
handed him my automatic. “Make do with this.” I went to the front door, pulled
back the bolt, and opened it a crack. “If anybody comes let me know. Don’t show
yourself.”
                 He
took up his position with great solemnity, like a new sentry at Buckingham
Palace. I went the rounds of the living-room, the dining-room, the kitchen, the
bathroom, turning lights on and off. Those rooms were as I had seen them last.
The bedroom was slightly different.
                 The
difference was that the second drawer had nothing but stockings in it. And a used envelope, torn and empty, which was crumpled in a corner
behind the stockings. The envelope was addressed to Mrs. Estabrook at
the address I was visiting. Someone had scrawled some words and figures in
pencil on the back: Avge . gross $2000. Avge . expense (Max) $500. Avge . net $1500.
                 May
- 1500 x 31 - 46,500 less 6,500 ( emerg .) - 40,000
40,000/2 = 20,000.
                 It
looked like a crude prospectus for a remarkably profitable business. One thing
I knew for sure: the Wild Piano wasn’t making that kind of money.
                 I
turned the envelope over again. It was dated April 30, a week before, and
postmarked Santa Maria. While that was sinking in, I heard a heavy motor
growling in the road. I snapped off the light and moved into the hall.
                 A
wave of light washed over the front of the house, poured in at the crack of the
door where Taggert was standing. “Archer!” he whispered hoarsely.
                 Then
he did a bold and foolish thing. He stepped out onto the porch, in the full
white glare, and fired the gun in his hand.
                 “Hold
it,” I said, too late. The bullet rapped metal and whined away in ricochet.
There was no answering shot.
                 I
elbowed past him and plunged down the front steps. A truck with a closed van
was backing out of the drive in a hurry. I sprinted across the lawn and caught
the truck in the road before it could pick up speed. The window was open on the
right side of the cab. I hooked my arm through it and braced one foot on the
fender. A thin white cadaver’s face turned toward me over the wheel, its small
frightened eyes gleaming. The truck stopped as if it had struck a stone wall. I
lost my grip and fell in the road.
                 The
truck backed away, changed gears with a grinding clash, and came toward me
while I was still on my knees. The bright lights hypnotized me for a second.
The roaring wheels bore down on me. I saw their intention and flung myself
sideways, rolled to the curb. The truck passed ponderously over the place in
the road where I had been, and went on up the street, the roar of its motor
mounting in pitch and volume. Its license plate, if it had one, wasn’t lighted.
The back doors were windowless.
                 When
I reached my car Taggert had started the engine. I pushed him out of the
driver’s seat and followed the truck. It was out of sight when we reached
Sunset. There was no way of knowing whether it had turned toward the mountains
or toward the sea.
                 I
turned to Taggert,