Anthony Boucher - Ed McBain’s Mystery Book, No. 1, 1960

It had rained in the canyon during the night. The world had the colored freshness of a butterfly just emerged from the chrysalis stage and trembling in the sun. Actual butterflies danced in flight across free spaces of air or played a game of tag without any rules among the tree branches. At this height there were giant pines among the eucalyptus trees.

I parked my car where I usually parked it, in the shadow of the stone building just inside the gates of the old estate. Just inside the posts, that is the gates had long since fallen from their rusted hinges. The owner of the country house had died in Europe, and the place had stood empty since the war. It was one reason I came here on the occasional Sunday when I wanted to get away from the Hollywood rat race. Nobody lived within two miles.

Until now, anyway. The window of the gatehouse overlooking the drive had been broken the last time that Id noticed it. Now it was patched up with a piece of cardboard. Through a hole punched in the middle of the cardboard, bright emptiness watched me human eyes bright emptiness.

Hello, I said.

A grudging voice answered: Hello.

The gatehouse door creaked open, and a white-haired man came out. A smile sat strangely on his ravaged face. He walked mechanically, shuffling in the leaves, as if his body was not at home in the world. He wore faded denims through which his clumsy muscles bulged like animals in a sack. His feet were bare.

I saw when he came up to me that he was a huge old man, a head taller than I was and a foot wider. His smile was not a greeting or any kind of a smile that I could respond to. It was the stretched, blind grimace of a man who lived in a world of his own, a world that didnt include me.

Get out of here. I dont want trouble. I dont want nobody messing around.

No trouble, I said. I came up to do a little target shooting. I probably have as much right here as you have.

His eyes widened. They were as blue and empty as holes in his head through which I could see the sky.

Nobody has the rights here that I have. I lifted up mine eyes unto the hills and the voice spoke and I found sanctuary. Nobodys going to force me out of my sanctuary.

I could feel the short hairs bristling on the back of my neck. Though my instincts didnt say so, he was probably a harmless nut. I tried to keep my instincts out of my voice.

I wont bother you. You dont bother me. That should be fair enough.

You bother me just being here. I cant stand people. I cant stand cars. And this is twice in two days you come up harrying me and harassing me.

I havent been here for a month.

Youre an Ananias liar. His voice whined like a rising wind. He clenched his knobbed fists and shuddered on the verge of violence.

Calm down, old man, I said. Theres room in the world for both of us.

He looked around at the high green world as if my words had snapped him out of a dream.

Youre right, he said in a different voice. I have been blessed, and I must remember to be joyful. Joyful. Creation belongs to all of us poor creatures. His smiling teeth were as long and yellow as an old horses. His roving glance fell on my car. And it wasnt you who come up here last night. It was a different automobile. I remember.

He turned away, muttering something about washing his socks, and dragged his homy feet back into the gatehouse. I got my targets, pistol, and ammunition out of the trunk, and locked the car up tight. The old man watched me through his peephole, but he didnt come out again.

Below the road, in the wild canyon, there was an open meadow backed by a sheer bank which was topped by the crumbling wall of the estate. It was my shooting gallery. I slid down the wet grass of the bank and tacked a target to an oak tree, using the butt of my heavy-framed twenty-two as a hammer.

While I was loading it, something caught my eye something that glinted red, like a ruby among the leaves. I stooped to pick it up and found that it was attached. It was a red-enameled fingernail at the tip of a white hand. The hand was cold and stiff.

I let out a sound that must have been loud in the stillness. A jay bird erupted from a manzanita, sailed up to a high limb of the oak, and yelled down curses at me. A dozen chickadees flew out of the oak and settled in another at the far end of the meadow.

Panting like a dog, I scraped away the dirt and wet leaves that had been loosely piled over the body. It was the body of a girl wearing a midnight-blue sweater and skirt. She was a blonde, about seventeen. The blood that congested her face made her look old and dark. The white rope with which she had been garrotted was sunk almost out of sight in the flesh of her neck. The rope was tied at the nape in what is called a grannys knot, the kind of knot that any child can tie.

I left her where she lay and climbed back up to the road on trembling knees. The grass showed traces of the track her body had made where someone had dragged it down the bank. I looked for tire marks on the shoulder and in the rutted, impacted gravel of the road. If there had been any, the rain had washed them out.

I trudged up the road to the gatehouse and knocked on the door. It creaked inward under my hand. Inside there was nothing alive but the spiders that had webbed the low black beams. A dustless rectangle in front of the stone fireplace showed where a bedroll had lain. Several blackened tin cans had evidently been used as cooking utensils. Gray embers lay on the cavernous hearth. Suspended above it from a spike in the mantel was a pair of white-cotton work socks. The socks were wet. Their owner had left in a hurry.

It wasnt my job to hunt him. I drove down the canyon to the highway and along it for a few miles to the outskirts of the nearest town. There a drab green box of a building with a flag in front of it housed the Highway Patrol. Across the highway was a lumberyard, deserted on Sunday.

2.

Too bad about Ginnie, the dispatcher said when she had radioed the local sheriff. She was a thirtyish brunette with fine black eyes and dirty fingernails. She had on a plain white blouse, which was full of her. Do you know Ginnie?

My young sister knows her. They go they went to high school together. Its an awful thing when it happens to a young person like that. I knew she was missing I got the report when I came on at eight but I kept hoping that she was just off cm a lost weekend, like. Now theres nothing to hope for, is there? Her eyes were liquid with feeling. Poor Ginnie. And poor Mr. Green.

Her father?

Thats right. He was in here with her high-school counselor not more than an hour ago. I hope he doesnt come back right away. I dont want to be the one that has to tell him.

How long has the girl been missing?

Just since last night. We got the report here about 3 a.m., I think. Apparently she wandered away from a party at Cavern Beach. Down the pike a ways. She pointed south toward the mouth of the canyon. What kind of party was it? Some of the kids from the Union High School they took some wienies down and had a fire. The party was part of graduation week. I happen to know about it because my young sister Alice went. I didnt want her to go, even if it was supervised. That can be a dangerous beach at night. All sorts of bums and scroungers hang out in the caves. Why, one night when I was a kid I saw a naked man down there in the moonlight. He didnt have a woman with him, either.

She caught the drift of her words, did a slow blush, and checked her loquacity. I leaned on the plywood counter between us.