Ross Macdonald - Lew Archer 01 - The Moving Target(aka Harper)(1949) (15 page)

 
          
At
a height that made me conscious of my breathing we came to a high-backed road
of new gravel, barred by a closed wooden gate. A metal mailbox on the gatepost
bore the name “Claude” in stenciled white letters. I opened the gate, and
Miranda drove the car through.

 
          
“It’s
another mile,” she said. “Do you trust me?”

 
          
“No,
but I want to look at the scenery. I’ve never been here before.”

 
          
Apart
from the road the country looked as if no one had ever been there. A valley
dotted with boulders and mountain evergreen opened below us as we spiraled
upward. Far down among the trees I caught the slight brown shudder of a deer’s
movement and disappearance. Another deer went after it in a rocking-horse leap.
The air was so clear and still I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the
rustle of their hoofs. But there was no sound above the whine of the motor.
Nothing to hear, and nothing to look at but light-saturated air and
the bare stone face of the mountain opposite.

 
          
The
car crawled over the rim of a saucer-shaped depression in the top of the
mountain. Below us, in the center of the mesa, the Temple in the Clouds stood,
hidden from everyone but hawks and airmen. It was a square one-storied
structure of white-painted stone and adobe, built around a central court. There
were a few outbuildings inside the wire fence that formed a kind of stockade
around it. From one of them a thin black smoke was trickling up the sky.

 
          
Then
something moved on the flat roof of the main building, something that had been
so still my eyes had taken it for granted. An old man was squatting there with
his legs folded under him. He rose with majestic slowness, a huge leather-brown
figure. With the uncut tangles of his gray hair and beard standing out from his
head, he looked like the rayed sun in an old map. He stooped deliberately to
pick up a piece of cloth, which he wound around his naked middle. He raised one
arm as if to tell us to be patient, and descended into the inner court.

 
          
Its
ironbound door creaked open. He emerged and waddled to the gate, which he
unlocked. I saw his eyes for the first time. They were milky blue, bland and
conscienceless, like an animal’s. In spite of his great sun-blacked shoulders
and the heavy beard that fanned across his chest, he had a womanish air. His
rich self-conscious voice was a subtle blend of baritone and contralto.

 
          
“Greetings, greetings, my friends.
Any traveler who comes to
my out-of-the-way doorstep is welcome to share my fare. Hospitality stands high
among the virtues, close to the supreme virtue of health itself.”

 
          
“Thanks.
Do we drive in?”

 
          
“Please
leave the automobile outside the fence, my friend. Even the outer circle should
not be sullied by the trappings of a mechanical civilization.”

 
          
“I
thought you knew him,” I said to Miranda, as we got out of the car.

 
          
“I
don’t think he can see very well.”

 
          
When
we came nearer, his blue-white eyes peered at her face. He leaned toward her,
and his straggling gray hair swung forward, brushing his shoulders.

 
          
“Hello,
Claude,” she said crisply.

 
          
“Why,
Miss Sampson! I was not looking for a visit from youth and beauty today. Such
youth!
Such beauty!”

 
          
He
breathed through his lips, which were very heavy and red. I looked at his feet
to check his age. Shod in rope-soled sandals with thongs between the toes, they
were gnarled and swollen: sixty-year-old feet.

 
          
“Thank
you,” she said unpleasantly. “I came to see Ralph, if he’s here.”

 
          
“But
he isn’t,” Miss Sampson. I am alone here. I have sent my disciples away for the
present.” He smiled vaguely without uncovering his teeth. “I am an old eagle
communing with the mountains and the sun.”

 
          
“An old vulture!”
Miranda said audibly. “Has Ralph been here
recently?”

 
          
“Not
for several months. He has promised me, but he has not yet come. Your father
has spiritual potentialities, but he is still caged and confined by the
material life. It is hard to draw him up into the azure world. It is painful for
him to open his nature to the sun.” He said it with a chanting rhythm, an
almost liturgical beat.

 
          
“Do
you mind if I look around?” I said. ‘To make sure he isn’t here.”

 
          
“I
tell you I am alone.” He turned to Miranda. “Who is this young man?”

 
          
“Mr.
Archer. He’s helping me look for Ralph.”

 
          
“I
see. I’m afraid you must take my word that he is not here, Mr. Archer. I cannot
permit you to enter the inner circle, since you have not submitted to the rite
of purification.”

 
          
“I
think I’ll have a look around anyway.”

 
          
“But
that is not possible.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. It was soft and thick
and brown, like a fried fish. “You must not enter the temple. It would anger
Mithras.”

 
          
His
breath was sour-sweet and foul in my nostrils. I picked his hand off my
shoulder. “Have you been purified?”

 
          
He
raised his innocent eyes to the sun. “You must not jest of these matters. I was
a lost and sinful man, blind-hearted and sinful, till I entered the azure
world. The sword of the sun slew the black bull of the flesh, and I was
purified.”

 
          
“And
I’m the wild bull of the pampas,” I said to myself.

 
          
Miranda
stepped between us. “All this is nonsense. We’re going in to look. I wouldn’t
take your word for anything, Claude.”

 
          
He
bowed his shaggy head and smiled a close-mouthed smile of sour benevolence that
made my stomach queasy.
“As you will, Miss Sampson.
The sacrilege will rest upon your heads. I hope and trust that the wrath of
Mithras will not be heavy.”

 
          
She
brushed past him disdainfully. I followed her through the arched doorway into
the inner court. The red sun over the mountains to the west remained impassive.
Without a look or another word Claude mounted the stone staircase inside the
door and disappeared onto the roof.

 
          
The
stone-paved court was empty. Its walls were lined with closed wooden doors. I
pressed the latch of the nearest. It opened into an oak-raftered room that
contained a built-in bed covered with dirty blankets, a scarred iron trunk,
unlabeled, a cheap cardboard wardrobe, and the sour-sweet smell of Claude.

 
          
“The
odor of sanctity,” Miranda said, at my shoulder.

 
          
“Did
your father actually stay here with Claude?”

 
          
“I’m
afraid so.” She wrinkled her nose. “He takes this sun-worshipping nonsense
seriously. It’s all tied up with astrology in his mind.”

 
          
“And
he actually gave this place to Claude?”

 
          
“I
don’t know if he deeded it to him. He handed it over for Claude to use as a
temple. I suppose he’ll take it back sometime, if he can. And if he ever gets
over this religious lunacy of his.”

 
          
“It’s
a queer sort of hunting-lodge,” I said.

 
          
“It’s
not really a hunting-lodge. He built it as a kind of hideout.”

 
          
“A hideout from what?”

 
          
“War.
This dates from Ralph’s last phase, the pre-religious one. He was convinced
that another war was just around the corner. This was to be his sanctuary if we
were invaded. But he got over the fear last year, just before they started work
on the bomb shelter. The plans for the shelter were all ready, too. He took
refuge in astrology instead.”

 
          
“I
didn’t use the word ‘lunacy,’” I said. “You did. Were you serious?”

 
          
“Not
really.” She smiled a little bleakly. “Ralph doesn’t seem so crazy if you
understand him. He felt guilty, I think, because he made money out of the last
war. And then there was Bob’s death. Guilt can cause all sorts of irrational
fears.”

 
          
“You
read another book,” I said. “This time it was a psychology textbook.”

 
          
Her
reaction was surprising. “You make me sick, Archer. Don’t you get bored with
yourself playing the dumb detective?”

 
          
“Sure
I get bored. I need something naked and bright.
A moving
target in the road.”

 
          
“You!”
She bit her lip, flushed, and turned away.

 
          
We
went from room to room, opening and closing the doors. Most of the rooms had
beds in them and very little else. In the big living-room at the end there were
five or six straw pallets on the floor. It was narrow-windowed and thick-walled
like a fortress, and the air smelled like the tank of a county jail.

 
          
“The
disciples live well, whoever they are. Did you see any when you were here before?”

 
          
“No.
But I didn’t come inside.”

 
          
“Some
people are suckers for a pitch like Claude’s. They’ll hand over everything they
own and get nothing in return but a starvation diet and the prospect of a
nervous breakdown. But I’ve never heard of a sun-worshippers’ monastery before.
I wonder where the suckers are today.”

 
          
We
finished our circuit of the court without seeing anyone. I looked up at the
roof. Claude was sitting with his face to the sun, his naked back to us. The
flesh hung down in heavy folds from his flanks and hips. His head was moving
jerkily back and forth, as if he was arguing with someone, but no sound came
from him. Like a bearded woman who knew two sexual worlds, the great eunuch
back and head outlined by the sun were strange and ridiculous and dreadful.

 
          
Miranda
touched my arm.
“Speaking of lunacy -.”

 
          
“He’s
putting on an act,” I said, and half believed it. “At least he was telling the
truth about your father.
Unless he’s in one of the other
buildings.”

 
          
We
crossed the gravel yard to the adobe with the smoking chimney. I looked in
through the open door. A girl with a shawl over her head was sitting on her
heels in front of a glowing fireplace stirring a bubbling pot. It was a
five-gallon pot, and it was full of what looked like beans.

 
          
“It
looks as if the disciples are coming for supper.” Without moving her shoulders
the girl turned her head to look at us. The whites of her eyes shone like
porcelain in the clay-colored Indian face.

 
          
“Have
you seen an old man?” I asked her in Spanish. She shrugged one calico shoulder
in the general direction of the temple.

 
          
“Not
that old man. One who is
beardless.
Beardless,
fat, and rich.
His name is Senor Sampson.”

 
          
She
shrugged both shoulders and turned back to her steaming pot. Claude’s sandals
crunched in the gravel behind us.

 
          
“I
am not wholly alone, as you can see. There is my handmaiden, but she is little
better than an animal. If you have done with us, perhaps you will permit me to
return to my meditation. Sunset is approaching, and I must pay my respects to
the departing god.”