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

“I’d
like to look at the bungalow,” I told her in the lobby. “But first I want to
talk to the switchboard operator.”
                 “I’ll
get the key and wait for you.”
                 The
operator was a frozen virgin who dreamed about men at night and hated them in
the daytime. “Yes?”
                 “Yesterday
afternoon you had a call for a limousine from the Burbank airport.”
                 “We
do not answer questions of that nature.”
                 “That
wasn’t a question. It was a statement.”
                 “I’m
very busy,” she said. Her tone clicked like pennies; her eyes were small and
hard and shiny like dimes.
                 I
put a dollar bill on the desk by her elbow. She looked at it as if it was unclean . “I’ll have to call the manager.”
                 “All right. I work for Mr. Sampson.”
                 “Mr.
Ralph Sampson?” She lilted, she trilled.
                 “That’s
correct.”
                 “But
he was the one that made the call!”
                 “I
know. What happened to it?”
                 “He
canceled it almost immediately, before I had an opportunity to tell the driver.
Did he have a change of plan?”
                 “Apparently. You’re sure it was him both times?”
                 “Oh
yes,” she said. “I know Mr. Sampson well. He’s been coming here for years.”
                 She
picked up the unclean dollar lest it contaminate her desk, and tucked it into a
cheap plastic handbag. Then she turned to the switchboard, which had three red
lights on it.
                 Miranda
stood up when I came back to the lobby. It was hushed and rich, deep-carpeted,
deep-chaired, with mauve-coated bellboys at attention. She moved like a live
young nymph in a museum. “Ralph hasn’t been here for nearly a month. I asked
the assistant manager.”
                 “Did
he give you the key?”
                 “Of course. Alan’s gone to open the bungalow.”
                 I
followed her down a corridor that ended in a wrought-iron door. The grounds
back of the main building were laid out in little avenues, with bungalows on
either side, set among terraced lawns and flower beds. They covered a city
block, enclosed by high stone walls like a prison. But the prisoners of those
walls could lead a very full life. There were tennis courts, a swimming pool, a
restaurant, a bar, a night club. All they needed was a full wallet or a blank
checkbook.
                 Sampson’s
bungalow was larger than most of the others and had more terrace. The door at
the side was standing open. We passed through a hall cluttered with
uncomfortable-looking Spanish chairs into a big room with a high oak-beamed
ceiling.
                 On
the chesterfield in front of the dead fireplace Taggert was hunched over a
telephone directory. “I thought I’d call a buddy of mine.” He looked up at
Miranda with a half smile. “Since I have to hang around
anyway.”
                 “I
thought you were going to stay with me.” Her voice was high and uncertain.
                 “Did
you?”
                 I
looked around the room, which was mass-produced and impersonal like most hotel
rooms. “Where does your father keep his private stuff?”
                 “In
his room, I suppose. He doesn’t keep much here. A few changes
of clothes.”
                 She
showed me the door of the bedroom across the hall and switched on the light.
                 “What
on earth has he done to it?” she said.
                 The
room was twelve-sided and windowless. The indirect lights were red. The walls
were covered with thick red stuff that hung in folds from the ceiling to the
floor. A heavy armchair