The Moving Target – Ross Macdonald
It is 1949. Oil millionaire Ralph Sampson has dropped out of sight. His wife, confined to a wheelchair, hires PI Lew Archer to find out whether hubby Ralph is making illicit love with an able-bodied floozie or if he was kidnapped. Getting kidnapped is not in the course of daily life for millionaires, but Ralph has been in midlife crisis mode for a spell. So he has taken up with gurus, astrologers, and fortunetellers, the usual Southern California new-age types that help people work through issues of ethics and mortality for hefty fees.
I’m not sure that Macdonald cared that much about constructing a plausible plot with a steady tempo, but in this novel the plot is as tight as a tourniquet and the pace is hellish. No, I think Macdonald’s primary artistic interest was to construct a gallery of lowlifes around the hero so that Archer can comment on the human condition with his keen sense of right and wrong.
Archer is not a scold, however, since he makes mistakes and kicks himself around the block like earnest people will. With high standards (without being high-minded), a cool attitude, a little arrogance, his lines hit the mark and so does his ironic - but not too - humor.
The electric clock in the kitchen said twenty after four. I found a box of frozen oysters in the freezing compartment of the refrigerator and made an oyster stew. My wife had never liked oysters. Now I could sit at my kitchen table at any hour of the day or night and eat oysters to my heart’s content, building up my virility.
He is a skillful interrogator who knows how to elicit a range of responses from his subjects in order to squeeze information out of them. He even gets an alcoholic drunk to collect information from her so the end justifies the use of not always honest means. A depression and two world wars made people in the USA astute and detached and efficient and not always nice in their ways of getting on in life.
In terms of serious writing, Macdonald's style flowery, imaginative, metaphorical, enjoyable.
“Why not?” I said. “The night is young.” I was lying. The night was old and chilly, with a slow heartbeat. The tires whined like starved cats on the fog-sprinkled black-top. The neons along the Strip glared with insomnia.
All served with tasty dialogue like a greaseburger festooned with bacon.
“You’re taking this pretty
seriously,” I said. “Why don’t you go one step further and take it to the
police?”
“Trying to talk yourself out of
a job?”
“Yes.”
The fast-paced investigation goes in all directions and a
fireworks finale goes way beyond Miss Scarlett in the library with the rope.
Macdonald was one for convolutions and surprises and that’s alright with me.