Ross Macdonald - Lew Archer 01 - The Moving Target(aka Harper)(1949) Read Online Free PDF Page A

shirt. A yellow cap hung almost vertically from the back of his
gray head. Seasons of sun and personal abuse had given him an angry red face
and an air of great calm.
                 He
remembered Sampson when I showed him the photograph.
                 “Yeah,
he was here yesterday. I noticed him because he was a little under the weather.
Not blotto, or I would of called a guard. Just a couple of
drinks too many.”
                 “Sure,”
I said. “Was anybody with him?”
                 “Not
that I saw.”
                 A
woman wearing two foxes that looked as if they had died from the heat broke out
of the line at the curb. “I have to get downtown right away.”
                 “Sorry, madam. You got to wait your turn.”
                 “I
tell you this is urgent.”
                 “You
got to wait your turn,” he said monotonously. “We got a cab shortage, see?”
                 He
turned to me again. “Anything else, bud? This guy in trouble
or something?”
                 “I
wouldn’t know. How did he leave?”
                 “By car - a black limousine. I noticed it because it didn’t
carry no sign. Maybe from one of the
hotels.”
                 “Was
there anybody in it?”
                 “Just the driver.”
                 “You
know him?”
                 “ Naw . I know some of the hotel
drivers, but they’re always changing. This was a little guy, I think, kind of
pale.”
                 “You
don’t remember the make or the license number?”
                 “I
keep my eyes open, bud, but I ain’t a genius.”
                 “Thanks.”
I gave him a dollar. “Neither am I.”
                 I
went upstairs to the cocktail bar, where Miranda and Taggert were sitting like
strangers thrown together by accident.
                 “I
called the Valerio ,” Taggert said, “The limousine
should be here any minute.”
                 The
limousine, when it came, was driven by a pale little man in a shiny blue-serge
suit like an umpire’s and a cloth cap. The taxi starter said he wasn’t the man
who had picked up Sampson the day before.
                 I
got into the front seat with him. He turned with nervous quickness, gray-faced,
concave- chested , convex -eyed. “Yes, sir?” The question trailed off gently and
obsequiously.
                 “We’re
going to the Valerio . Were you on duty yesterday
afternoon?”
                 “Yes, sir.” He shifted gears.
                 “Was
anybody else?”
                 “No, sir. There’s another fellow on the night shift, but he
doesn’t come on till six.”
                 “Did
you have any calls to the Burbank airport yesterday afternoon?”
                 “No, sir.” A worried expression was creeping into his eyes
and seemed to suit them. “I don’t believe I did.”
                 “But
you’re not certain.”
                 “Yes, sir. I’m certain. I didn’t come out this way.”
                 “You
know Ralph Sampson?”
                 “At the Valerio ? Yes, sir. Indeed
I do, sir.”
                 “Have
you seen him lately?”
                 “No, sir. Not for several weeks.”
                 “I
see. Tell me, who takes the calls for you?”
                 “The switchboard operator. I do hope there’s nothing wrong,
sir. Is Mr. Sampson a friend of yours?”
                 “No,”
I said. “I’m one of his employees.”
                 All
the rest of the way he drove in tight-mouthed silence, regretting the wasted
sirs. When I got out I gave him a dollar tip to confuse him. Miranda paid the
fare.