The Zebra-Striped Hearse by Ross MacDonald Page B

would be.”
    “You’re concerned about Burke Damis, and so am I.”
    “Concerned?” Her voice went tinny on the word. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “I don’t either, Miss Castle. You would have to tell me.”
    “I’ll tell you nothing.”
    “Are you in love with Burke Damis?”
    “I certainly am not!” she said passionately, telling me a great deal. “That’s the most absurd statement—question, that anyone ever asked me.”
    “I’m full of absurd questions. Will you let me come in and ask you some of them?”
    “Why should I?”
    “Because you’re a serious woman, and serious things are happening. I didn’t fly down from Los Angeles for fun.”
    “What
is
happening then?”
    “Among other things,” I said, “Burke has eloped with a young woman who doesn’t know which end is up.”
    She was silent for a long moment. “I know Harriet Blackwell, and I quite agree with your description of her. She’s an emotionally ignorant girl who threw—well, she practically threw herself at his head. There’s nothing I can do about it, or want to.”
    “Even if she’s in danger?”
    “Danger from Burke? That’s impossible.”
    “It’s more than possible, in my opinion, and I’ve been giving it a good deal of thought.”
    She moved closer to me. I caught the glint of her eyes, and her odor, light and clean, devoid of perfume. “Did you really come all the way from the States to ask me about Burke?”
    “Yes.”
    “Has he—done something to Harriet Blackwell?”
    “I don’t know. They’ve dropped out of sight.”
    “What makes you suspect he’s done something?”
    “I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me. We both seem to have the same idea.”
    “No. You’re putting words into my mouth.”
    “I wouldn’t have to, if you’d talk to me.”
    “Perhaps I had better,” she said to me and her conscience. “Come in, Mr. Archer.” She even knew my name.
    I followed her into the room behind her shop. A woodenhand loom stood in one corner, with a piece of colored fabric growing intricately on it. The walls and furniture were covered with similar materials in brilliant designs.
    Anne Castle was quite brilliant in her own way. She wore a multicolored Mexican skirt, an embroidered blouse, in her ears gold hoops that were big enough to swing on. Black hair cut short emphasized her petiteness and the individuality of her looks. Her eyes were brown and intelligent, and warmer than her voice had let me hope.
    She said when we were seated on the divan: “You were going to tell me what Burke has done.”
    “I’d rather have your account of him first, for psychological reasons.”
    “You mean,” she said carefully, “that I may not want to talk after you’ve done your talking?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Is it so terrible?”
    “It may be quite terrible. I don’t know.”
    “As terrible as murder?” She sounded like a child who names the thing he fears, the dead man walking in the attic, the skeleton just behind the closet door, in order to be assured that it doesn’t exist.
    “Possibly. I’m interested in your reasons for suggesting it.”
    “Well,” she hedged, “you said Harriet Blackwell was in danger.”
    “Is that all?”
    “Yes. Of course.” The skeleton had frightened her away from the verge of candor. She covered her retreat with protestations: “I’m sure you must be mistaken. They seem fond of each other. And you couldn’t describe Burke as a violent man.”
    “How well did you know him, Miss Castle?”
    She hesitated. “You asked me, before, if I was in love with him.”
    “I apologize for my bluntness.”
    “I don’t care. Is it so obvious? Or has Chauncey Reynolds been telling tales out of school?”
    “He said that you were seeing a lot of Burke, before Harriet Blackwell entered the picture.”
    “Yes. I’ve been trying ever since to work him out of my system. With not very striking success.” She glanced at the loom in the corner. “At least I’ve