{"product_id":"meet-me-at-the-morgue-isbn-9780307740779","title":"Meet Me at the Morgue","description":"Somebody in Pacific Point is guilty of a kidnapping, but what probation officer Howard Cross wants to find most is innocence: in an ex-war hero who has taken a tough manslaughter rap, in a wealthy woman with a heart full of secrets, and in a blue-eyed beauty who has lost her way.  The trouble is that the abduction has already turned to murder, and the more Cross pries into the case the further he slips into a pool of violence and evil.  Somewhere in the California desert the whole scheme may come down on the wrong man.  Somewhere Cross is going to find the last piece of a bloody puzzle—a mystery of blackmail, passion, and hidden identities that might be better left unsolved.“My favorite . . . [Macdonald] is first among those novelists who raised the genre from its roots in pulp fiction to serious literature.” —P.D. James, from \u003ci\u003eTalking About Detective Fiction\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[The] American private eye, immortalized by Hammett, refined by Chandler, brought to its zenith by Macdonald.” —\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Macdonald should not be limited in audience to connoisseurs of mystery fiction.  He is one of a handful of writers in the genre whose worth and quality surpass the limitations of the form.” —\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Most mystery writers merely write about crime.  Ross Macdonald writes about sin.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Without in the least abating my admiration for Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, I should like to venture the heretical suggestion that Ross Macdonald is a better novelist than either of them.” —Anthony Boucher\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[Macdonald] carried form and style about as far as they would go, writing classic family tragedies in the guise of private detective mysteries.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[Ross Macdonald] gives to the detective story that accent of class that the late Raymond Chandler did.” —\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003eRoss Macdonald’s real name was Kenneth Millar.  Born near San Francisco in 1915 and raised in Ontario, Millar returned to the U.S. as a young man and published his first novel in 1944. He served as the president of the Mystery Writers of America and was awarded their Grand Master Award as well as the Mystery Writers of Great Britain's Gold Dagger Award.  He died in 1983.CHAPTER 1   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI met the boy on the morning of the kidnapping. It was a Bright and blowing day. The wind was fresh from the sea, and the piled white cubes of the city sparkled under a swept blue sky. I had to force myself to go to work.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA bronze-painted sports car with a long foreign nose was  standing at the curb in front of the County Annex building.  I parked in my regular space, a few yards behind it. So far  as I knew, there was only one bronze Jaguar in town. It  belonged to Abel Johnson. I wasn't surprised when Fred  Miner, Johnson’s driver, emerged from my second-floor office  and started down the outside steps to the street.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFred reached the sidewalk and turned in my direction, a  stocky man in his middle thirties who walked with a peculiar  stiff-backed roll. The faded Navy suntans he always wore  had darker patches on the sleeve, where his Chief's stripes  and hash-mark had been removed. His only concession to  his civilian occupation was a black, peaked chauffeur's cap,  which shadowed his eyes. He passed my car without seeing  me, his face closed in thought.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a yelp and a Hurry of movement from the  sports car. A small boy with a head of bright red hair scrambled  over the door and launched himself like a missile at  Fred's legs. The man’s face opened in a laugh of pure delight.  Taking the boy under the arms, he swung him upside  down in the air and set him back on his feet:    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Knock it off now, swabbie. This is no time for games.  Come to attention.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Okay, Fred,\" the boy chirped. “Aye, aye, sir, I mean.\" He brought his feet together and arched his back.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Now wipe that smile off your face or I'll break you  down to apprentice seaman and take away your privileges  for fifteen years.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Aye, aye, sir.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy giggled. Fred tried to repress a snort of mirth,  and couldn't. They stood on the sidewalk laughing into  each other's faces. Passers-by smiled at them.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stepped out of my car. When Fred saw me his face  changed. “Moming, Mr. Cross,\" he said without enthusiasm.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello, Fred. Looking for me?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I came in to see Mr. Linebarge.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He's on his vacation.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, the little lady told me. I was up to your office already.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I thought you didn't have to report until next week.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'lt wasn't that. I didn't come in to report. It was just a  couple of questions I wanted to take up with Mr. Linebarge.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“About your probation?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked sheepish, and shifted his weight from one leg  to the other and back again. Being on probation embarrassed  Fred. “More or less. It wasn't anything important.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Can I help?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe backed away a step. \"No, I wouldn't want to bother  you, Mr. Cross. I'll be seeing Mr. Linebarge next Saturday,  anyway. He'll be back next Saturday, won't he?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He will if he doesn't drown. He's gone on a fishing-trip.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy reached up and tugged at Fred's belt. “ls something the matter? Can't we go on our trip?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sure we can, Jamie.\" He brushed the cropped red head  with his hand. \"Remember now, no talking in the ranks.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Is this the Johnson boy?\" I said.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yessir, this is Jamie Johnson. Jamie, meet Mr. Cross.\"  He added with a trace of irony: \"Mr. Cross is a very good  friend of mine.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy gave me a sticky hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cross. Any friend of Fred's is a friend of mine.\"  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFred's face lit up, but he said in a quarterdeck voice: “You hustle back aboard now, before you talk yourself to death.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy scampered back to the Jaguar and dove head  first over the low door. The last I saw of him was a thin denim behind and a pair of kicking moccasins.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He's a bright youngster,\" I said. \"How old is he?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Watch it, he'll hear you.\" Fred crossed his lips with an  oil-grained forefinger, and lowered his voice. “He shouldn't  hear himself praised too much, it might give him a swell  head. It's going to be tough enough on him with all the  dough in the family. Jamie's four.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He's doing all right for four. Who taught him his manners?\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He'll get by. I make him toe the mark.\" Fred started to  move away. “Well, so long, Mr. Cross. Nice seeing you.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hold it a minute. What's up?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There's nothing up,\" he answered woodenly.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The boy said you were going on a trip. You're not leaving  the county?\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, I'm not going anywhere.\" He was a long time answering.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was almost sure he was lying. \"You know the rules.  You're not allowed to go out of the county without definite  permission from our office.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I know it.\" He colored uncomfortably. \"I'm just taking  Jamie for a ride. Is that illegal?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're not supposed to drive except in line of work.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I got my orders. That makes it work, doesn't it?\" He   glanced nervously towards the sports car. “I ought to be on   my way now, Mr. Cross.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Your way to where?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis face had closed up completely again, into a mask of  blank hostility. “I’m not supposed to tell anybody that.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Are you in some kind of trouble?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No sir, I'm not. I haven't been in any trouble since February and I don't intend to get into any trouble.\" He said it  with conviction.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'll take your word for it, Fred. You're all right as long  as you don't leave the county, obey the traffic laws, and stay  on the wagon. You know what happens if you break those  conditions.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the courthouse tower across the street, a bell began  to sound the three-quarter hour. We both looked up at the  tower clock. It was a quarter to nine.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I know what happens,\" he said. “I've got to shove off now, Mr. Cross.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What's the hurry?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe didn't answer. The vibration of the bell still hung in  the air above us like an echoing warning. He squinted up at  the great iron-faced clock and shifted his feet impatiently.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That's a fast car,\" I said. “What will it do?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A hundred and twenty, maybe. I never opened her up.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Remember to hold it down to fifty-five.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'll remember. Can I go now?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI watched him climb into the driver's seat of the Jaguar.  It was a tight fit. Fred was thick in the chest and wide across  the shoulders, and his back was stiff from being broken in  the war. As he was maneuvering himself in under the low  convertible top, I noticed the gun-shaped bulge in his hip  pocket.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wasn't sure it was a gun. I didn't know whether he had  the legal right to carry one. Before I decided to stop him the bronze car leaped away from the curb and disappeared  around the corner of the courthouse. The fading sound of  its motor was like an ill wind.    \u003cbr\u003eAnn Devon looked up from her typewriter when I entered  the outer office. She was one of my two assistant probation-officers, a mouse blonde with a recent degree in psychology  and large untapped reserves of girlish fervor. Turned in her chair against the light from the window, she made a very pleasant silhouette.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Good morning, Howie. There's something on your mind.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Please don't be intuitive so early in the day. I find it wearing.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You might as well tell me,\" she said. “You always get  those nasty vertical wrinkles between the eyebrows.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What wasn't?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Burning witches.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Come on now, Howie. Tell good gray Doctor Devon.\"  She was twenty-four.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sat on the corner of her desk. On the far corner she had  set a bowl of multicolored sweet peas that contrasted prettily with the calcimined walls and scuffed office furniture.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What was Fred Miner after, or wouldn't he tell you,  either?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He wanted to see Alex. I told him Alex was away, and  he seemed rather worried and disappointed.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Did he say why?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He mumbled something obscure about wanting to go  through channels, and do the right thing for every body.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I think there's something up his sleeve,\" I said. \"1 met him on the sidewalk just now, and he acted pretty evasive.  I couldn't get him to open up.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You won't be mad if I tell you something, Howie? I think he's afraid of you.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of me?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Quite a few people are. When you put on that grim  righteous look. I was scared myself for the first six months  or so.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don't see why.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You have a terrible lot of power over these people.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don't misuse it if I can help it.\" The conversation was  beginning to irritate me.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I know you don't. I wonder if Fred Miner knows it,  though. With his Navy experience, he must be aware of  what official power can do to him if he makes the slightest  slip. After all, he doesn't know you the way he does Alex. I  told him you'd be in soon, but he wouldn't wait. Probably  he came in to ask Alex's advice about some private problem.\"  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He didn't say anything about going away?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not a word. I'm sure you don't have to be concerned  about him. Alex told me he's adjusting wonderfully.\" Ann's  blue eyes darkened with feeling. \"Personally I think he's a  sturdy character. If I killed a man with my car, I swear I'd  never be able to drive again.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You call it driving, what you do?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm serious. You mustn't make fun of me.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You mustn't waste all your fine emotion on a hit-run  driver and a married man to boot.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe colored slightly. \"Don't be ridiculous. My feelings  about our clients are quite impersonal. Anyway, he isn't a  hit-run driver, morally speaking. Alex says he didn't know  he'd run over anyone, so it wasn't his fault.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“When they've been drinking, it's always their fault. You  can pin that in your hat. It's an axiom.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer eyes widened. \"Had he been drinking? Alex didn't  tell me that.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Alex doesn't talk about his cases any more than he has  to. It's a good rule to follow.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said with a flash of impudence: \"You're very morallecturey  this morning.\" But her curiosity overcame her pique. \"How do you know Fred Miner was drinking that  night?\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I read the police report. They gave him an intoximeter  test when they arrested him. He was heavily loaded, over  two hundred milligrams.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Poor man. I didn't realize he was that way. Perhaps we  should run a Rorschach on him. Alcoholics always have  deep-seated emotional problems—\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He isn't alcoholic. He simply got drunk, as a lot of  people do, and killed a man. Don't waste your sympathy on him, because he's been lucky. His wife stayed with him. His boss stood by him. If it wasn't for that, and his war record,  Miner would be in jail.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well, I'm glad he isn't.\" She added irrationally: \"Even  if you're not.\"    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe lowered her head and fired a machine-gun burst on  the typewriter. Our conversations often ended like that. I  liked to think that it was the ancient conflict between heart  and head, with me representing head.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe courthouse clock had already struck nine, and I felt  its delayed, guilty echo. Closing the door of the inner office  rather sharply, I took off 'my jacket for work and spent the  next two hours on the Dictaphone. I was doing a report on  a prosperous matron who had been arrested for stealing  several dresses from local shops. The dresses were invariably  size nine. The lady was size eighteen, and had no children.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBetween the paragraphs, my mind kept turning to Fred  Miner. Though I wouldn't admit it to Ann, I felt a certain  satisfaction in his case. Three months ago, in early February,  it hadn't looked too promising.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAccording to the sheriff's office and the city police, Fred  had got himself violently drunk on a Saturday night, had  taken one of his employer's cars without permission, had  run a man down in the road near Johnson's country house,  and then driven on into town without stopping. The city  police caught him steering in long sweeping arcs along the  ocean boulevard, and booked him for drunken driving.  The sheriff's men didn't find the body in the road until  later that night, and then they were unable to identify the  victim.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut one of the fog lamps was smashed on the Lincoln  that Fred had been driving. Fragments of yellow glass  from the fog lamp were scattered at the scene of the accident.  One long shard of glass was found imbedded in the  dead man's eye cavity.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe courthouse crowd predicted that Fred would be  found guilty on a felony charge and sentenced to two to five years in state prison. Then Abel Johnson came back from  his winter house in the desert. He found bail for Fred and  put his personal lawyer on the case. The lawyer, a man  named Seifel, pleaded him guilty to a reduced charge of involuntary  manslaughter and applied for probation.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI assigned Alex Linebarge to do the report on Miner.  Alex spent nearly a month going over his record with a  fine-tooth comb. He came up with the conclusion that Fred  Miner was a solid citizen who had made one grave mistake  but wasn't very likely to make another. Fred was sentenced  to one year in the county jail, suspended; he was fined three  hundred dollars and put on five years' probation.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the whole he had been lucky, as I said. His life had  been salvaged, and my department had a stake in it. He'd  fallen, been caught before he hit the bottom, and hoisted  back to the moral tightrope that everyone has to walk every  day.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut a man on probation walks his own high wire without  a net. If he falls twice, he falls hard, into prison.","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300932735205,"sku":"NP9780307740779","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307740779.jpg?v=1767732513","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/meet-me-at-the-morgue-isbn-9780307740779","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}