Read Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair for Free Online

           Joe
Reach nodded agreement. “You owe it to your client to instruct her to tell the
whole truth. I know what it means when a witness starts picking faces off of
movie screens. I’ve had a lot more experience—”
                 “It
hasn’t done you much good. You don’t know the truth when you hear it.”
                 “Don’t
I? Let her bring that story into court, we’ll punch it full of holes like wet
tissue.”
                 “The
hell you will!”
                 Wills
laid a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Come on, now, don’t blow your top.
Don’t be a hothead all your life. Learn something.”
                 “She’s
conning you,” Reach said. “You just haven’t got the humility to admit it.”
                 I
was blind mad by this time, loaded with hot and cold running adrenalin. I
turned on my heel and walked out. Neither of them followed me this time.
                 The
public telephone booth in the corridor stopped me like a sentry box. I stepped
inside and phoned home.
                 “I
knew it was you,” Sally said, “as soon as I heard the phone ring. Now do you
believe in ESP?”
                 “If
you’re so strong on extra-sensory perception, what am I calling about?”
                 “Don’t
tell me you’re not coming home for dinner?”
                 I
sidestepped that question. “You go to a lot of movies. Did you ever hear of an
actress named Holly May?”
                 “Naturally
I have. Everybody has.”
                 “I
haven’t.”
                 “That’s
because you’re fixated on your work. If you took me to the movies more often,
you’d know what’s going on in the world. Not that she’s in the movies any more.
She decided to get out of the rat-race before it wrecked her emotional health.
That’s a direct quote.”
                 “Have
you been reading movie magazines again?”
                 “No.
She told me herself.”
                 “You
know Holly May?”
                 “I
met her.”
                 “Why
didn’t you tell me?”
                 “I
tried to last night, but you weren’t listening. I ran into her in the clinic
Monday afternoon. She wanted to know what time it was, and I told her. Then I
asked her if she wasn’t Holly May. She admitted that she was, but she said she
didn’t want it spread around. She’s trying to stay as incognito as possible.”
                 “What’s
she doing in town?”
                 “I
gather she’s living quietly here with her husband. I only talked to her for a
couple of minutes, and then Dr. Trench took me. Dr. Trench said I was in
wonderful shape for a woman in her ninth month.”
                 “Good.
Did she mention her husband’s name?”
                 “No,
but I read it in the columns last summer when she got married. I think she
married a Canadian oilman. Let’s see, it was some Scotch name—something like
Ballantine. Anyway, she seems to have done all right for herself. She was
dripping with mink and things.”
                 “What
kind of a woman is she?”
                 “She
seemed nice and down-to-earth for a movie actress. She asked me how long I had
to go and such. She’s a stunning creature, but it doesn’t seem to have gone to
her head. Why?”
                 “Nothing special. Her name came up. I had no idea that she
was living in town.”
                 “A
lot of people live here that you never hear about.” Sally’s voice changed
gears, with a faint ominous clash. “There is, for instance, the unknown
housewife whose specialty is leg of lamb. She sits in her modest home awaiting
recognition—”
                 “Are
you fixing a leg of