Raymond Chandler_Philip Marlowe 02
Page 23
“I forgot the first time. Then I knew that toughie in the mess jacket would never let me on. Then I bumped into a fellow who knew another way.”
His yellow eyes lighted as with a new flame. He smiled and said nothing.
“This other fellow is no crook but he’s been on the beach with his ears open. You have a loading port that has been unbarred on the inside and you have a ventilator shaft out of which the grating has been removed. There’s one man to knock over to get to the boat deck. You’d better check your crew list, Brunette.”
He moved his lips softly, one over the other. He looked down at the card again. “Nobody named Malloy is on board this boat,” he said. “But if you’re telling the truth about that loading port, I’ll buy.”
“Go and look at it.”
He still looked down. “If there’s any way I can get word to Malloy, I will. I don’t know why I bother.”
“Take a look at that loading port.”
He sat very still for a moment, then leaned forward and pushed the gun across the desk to me.
“The things I do,” he mused, as if he was alone. “I run towns, I elect mayors, I corrupt police, I peddle dope, I hide out crooks, I heist old women strangled with pearls. What a lot of time I have.” He laughed shortly. “What a lot of time.”
I reached for my gun and tucked it back under my arm.
Brunette stood up. “I promise nothing,” he said, eyeing me steadily. “But I believe you.”
“Of course not.”
“You took a long chance to hear so little.”
“Yes.”
“Well—” he made a meaningless gesture and then put his hand across the desk.
“Shake hands with a chump,” he said softly.
I shook hands with him. His hand was small and firm and a little hot.
“You wouldn’t tell me how you found out about this loading port?”
“I can’t. But the man who told me is no crook.”
“I could make you tell,” he said, and immediately shook his head. “No. I believed you once. I’ll believe you again. Sit still and have another drink.”
He pushed a buzzer. The door at the back opened and one of the nice-tough guys came in.
“Stay here. Give him a drink, if he wants it. No rough stuff.”
The torpedo sat down and smiled at me calmly. Brunette went quickly out of the office. I smoked. I finished my drink. The torpedo made me another. I finished that, and another cigarette.
Brunette came back and washed his hands over in the corner, then sat down at his desk again. He jerked his head at the torpedo. The torpedo went out silently.
The yellow eyes studied me. “You win, Marlowe. And I have one hundred and sixty-four men on my crew list. Well—” he shrugged. “You can go back by the taxi. Nobody will bother you. As to your message, I have a few contacts. I’ll use them. Good night. I probably should say thanks. For the demonstration.”
“Good night,” I said, and stood up and went out.
There was a new man on the landing stage. I rode to shore on a different taxi. I went along to the bingo parlor and leaned against the wall in the crowd.
Red came along in a few minutes and leaned beside me against the wall.
“Easy, huh?” Red said softly, against the heavy clear voices of the table men calling the numbers.
“Thanks to you. He bought. He’s worried.”
Red looked this way and that and turned his lips a little more close to my ear. “Get your man?”
“No. But I’m hoping Brunette will find a way to get him a message.”
Red turned his head and looked at the tables again. He yawned and straightened away from the wall. The beaknosed man was in again. Red stepped over to him and said: “Hiya, Olson,” and almost knocked the man off his feet pushing past him.
Olson looked after him sourly and straightened his hat. Then he spat viciously on the floor.
As soon as he had gone, I left the place and went along to the parking lot back towards the tracks where I had left my car.
I drove back to Hollywood and put the car away and went up to the apartment.
I took my shoes off and walked around in my socks feeling the floor with my toes. They would still get numb again once in a while.
Then I sat down on the side of the pulled-down bed and tried to figure time. It couldn’t be done. It might take hours or days to find Malloy. He might never be found until the police got him. If they ever did—alive.
THIRTY-NINE
It was about ten o’clock when I called the Grayle number in Bay City. I thought it would probably be too late to catch her, but it wasn’t. I fought my way through a maid and the butler and finally heard her voice on the line. She sounded breezy and well-primed for the evening.
“I promised to call you,” I said. “It’s a little late, but I’ve had a lot to do.”
“Another stand-up?” Her voice got cool.
“Perhaps not. Does your chauffeur work this late?”
“He works as late as I tell him to.”
“How about dropping by to pick me up? I’ll be getting squeezed into my commencement suit.”
“Nice of you,” she drawled. “Should I really bother?” Amthor had certainly done a wonderful job with her centers of speech—if anything had ever been wrong with them.
“I’d show you my etching.”
“Just one etching?”
“It’s just a single apartment.”
“I heard they had such things,” she drawled again, then changed her tone. “Don’t act so hard to get. You have a lovely build, mister. And don’t ever let anyone tell you different. Give me the address again.”
I gave it to her and the apartment number. “The lobby door is locked,” I said. “But I’ll go down and slip the catch.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “I won’t have to bring my jimmy.”
She hung up, leaving me with a curious feeling of having talked to somebody that didn’t exist.
I went down to the lobby and slipped the catch and then took a shower and put my pajamas on and lay down on the bed. I could have slept for a week. I dragged myself up off the bed again and set the catch on the door, which I had forgotten to do, and walked through a deep hard snowdrift out to the kitchenette and laid out glasses and a bottle of liqueur Scotch I had been saving for a really high-class seduction.
I lay down on the bed again. “Pray,” I said out loud. “There’s nothing left but prayer.”
I closed my eyes. The four walls of the room seemed to hold the throb of a boat, the still air seemed to drip with fog and rustle with sea wind. I smelled the rank sour smell of a disused hold. I smelled engine oil and saw a wop in a purple shirt reading under a naked light bulb with his grandfather’s spectacles. I climbed and climbed up a ventilator shaft. I climbed the Himalayas and stepped out on top and guys with machine guns were all around me. I talked with a small and somehow very human yellow-eyed man who was a racketeer and probably worse. I thought of the giant with the red hair and the violet eyes, who was probably the nicest man I had ever met.
I stopped thinking. Lights moved behind my closed lids. I was lost in space. I was a gilt-edged sap come back from a vain adventure. I was a hundred dollar package of dynamite that went off with a noise like a pawnbroker looking at a dollar watch. I was a pink-headed bug crawling up the side of the City Hall.
I was asleep.
I woke slowly, unwillingly, and my eyes stared at reflected light on the ceiling from the lamp. Something moved gently in the room.
The movement was furtive and quiet and heavy. I listened to it. Then I turned my head slowly and looked at Moose Malloy. There were shadows and he moved in the shadows, as noiselessly as I had seen him once before. A gun in his hand had a dark oily business-like sheen. His hat was pushed back on his black curly hair and his nose sniffed, like the nose of a hunting dog.
He saw me open my eyes. He came softly over to the side of the bed and stood looking down at me.
I rolled a little on the bed and he felt swiftly under the pillows. His face was still wide and pale and his deepset eyes were still somehow gentle. He was wearing an overcoat tonight. It fitted him where it touched. It was burst out in one shoulder seam, probably just getting it on. It would be the largest size they had, but not large enough for Moose Malloy.
“I hoped you’d drop by,” I said. “No copper knows anything about this. I just wanted to see you.”
“Go on,” he said.
He moved sideways to a table and put the gun down and dragged his overcoat off and sat down in my best easy chair. It creaked, but it held. He leaned back slowly and arranged the gun so that it was close to his right hand. He dug a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shook one loose and put it into his mouth without touching it with his fingers. A match flared on a thumbnail. The sharp smell of the smoke drifted across the room.
“You ain’t sick or anything?” he said.
“Just resting. I had a hard day.”
“Door was open. Expecting someone?”
“A dame.”
He stared at me thoughtfully.
“Maybe she won’t come,” I said. “If she does, I’ll stall her.”
“What dame?”
“Oh, just a dame. If she comes, I’ll get rid of her. I’d rather talk to you.”
His very faint smile hardly moved his mouth. He puffed his cigarette awkwardly, as if it was too small for his fingers to hold with comfort.
“What made you think I was on the Monty?” he asked.
“A Bay City cop. It’s a long story and too full of guessing.”
“Bay City cops after me?”
“Would that bother you?”
He smiled the faint smile again. He shook his head slightly.
“You killed a woman,” I said. “Jessie Florian. That was a mistake.”
He thought. Then he nodded. “I’d drop that one,” he said quietly.
“But that queered it,” I said. “I’m not afraid of you. You’re no killer. You didn’t mean to kill her. The other one—over on Central—you could have squeezed out of. But not out of beating a woman’s head on a bedpost until her brains were on her face.”
“You take some awful chances, brother,” he said softly.
“The way I’ve been handled,” I said, “I don’t know the difference any more. You didn’t mean to kill her—did you?”
His eyes were restless. His head was cocked in a listening attitude.
“It’s about time you learned your own strength,” I said.
“It’s too late,” he said.
“You wanted her to tell you something,” I said. “You took hold of her neck and shook her. She was already dead when you were banging her head against the bedpost.”
He stared at me.
“I know what you wanted her to tell you,” I said.
“Go ahead.”
“There was a cop with me when she was found. I had to break clean.”
“How clean?”
“Fairly clean,” I said. “But not about tonight.”
He stared at me. “Okey, how did you know I was on the Monty?” He had asked me that before. He seemed to have forgotten.
“I didn’t. But the easiest way to get away would be by water. With the set-up they have in Bay City you could get out to one of the gambling boats. From there you could get clean away. With the right help.”
“Laird Brunette is a nice guy,” he said emptily. “So I’ve heard. I never even spoke to him.”
“He got the message to you.”
“Hell, there’s a dozen grapevines that might help him to do that, pal. When do we do what you said on the card? I had a hunch you were leveling. I wouldn’t take the chance to come here otherwise. Where do we go?”
He killed his cigarette and watched me. His shadow loomed against the wall, the shadow of a giant. He was so big he seemed unreal.
“What made you think I bumped Jessie Florian?” he asked suddenly.
“The spacing of the finger marks on her neck. The fact that you had something to get out of her, and that you are strong enough to kill people without meaning to.”
“The johns tied me to it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did I want out of her?”
“You thought she might know where Velma was.”
He nodded silently and went on staring at me.
“But she didn’t,” I said. “Velma was too smart for her.”
There was a light knocking at the door.
Malloy leaned forward a little and smiled and picked up his gun. Somebody tried the doorknob. Malloy stood up slowly and leaned forward in a crouch and listened. Then he looked back at me from looking at the door.
I sat up on the bed and put my feet on the floor and stood up. Malloy watched me silently, without a motion. I went over to the door.
“Who is it?” I asked with my lips to the panel.
It was her voice all right. “Open up, silly. It’s the Duchess of Windsor.”
“Just a second.”
I looked back at Malloy. He was frowning. I went over close to him and said in a very low voice: “There’s no other way out. Go in the dressing room behind the bed and wait. I’ll get rid of her.”
He listened and thought. His expression was unreadable. He was a man who had now very little to lose. He was a man who would never know fear. It was not built into even that giant frame. He nodded at last and picked up his hat and coat and moved silently around the bed and into the dressing room. The door closed, but did not shut tight.
I looked around for signs of him. Nothing but a cigarette butt that anybody might have smoked. I went to the room door and opened it. Malloy had set the catch again when he came in.
She stood there half smiling, in the highnecked white fox evening cloak she had told me about. Emerald pendants hung from her ears and almost buried themselves in the soft white fur. Her fingers were curled and soft on the small evening bag she carried.
The smile died off her face when she saw me. She looked me up and down. Her eyes were cold now.
“So it’s like that,” she said grimly. “Pajamas and dressing gown. To show me his lovely little etching. What a fool I am.”
I stood aside and held the door. “It’s not like that at all. I was getting dressed and a cop dropped in on me. He just left.”
“Randall?”
I nodded. A lie with a nod is still a lie, but it’s an easy lie. She hesitated a moment, then moved past me with a swirl of scented fur.
I shut the door. She walked slowly across the room, stared blankly at the wall, then turned quickly.
“Let’s understand each other,” she said. “I’m not this much of a pushover. I don’t go for hall bedroom romance. There was a time in my life when I had too much of it. I like things done with an air.”
“Will you have a drink before you go?” I was still leaning against the door, across the room from her.
“Am I going?”
“You gave me the impression you didn’t like it here.”
“I wanted to make a point. I have to be a little vulgar to make it. I’m not one of these promiscuous bitches. I can be had—but not just by reaching. Yes, I’ll take a drink.” I went out into the kitchenette and mixed a couple of drinks with hands that were not too steady. I carried them in and handed her one.
There was no sound from the dressing room, not even a sound of breathing.
She took the glass and tasted it and looked across it at the far wall. “I don’t like men to receive me in their pajamas,” she said. “It’s a funny thing. I liked you. I liked you a lot. But I could get over it. I have often got over such things.”
I nodded and drank.
“Most men are just lousy animals,” she said. “In fact it’s a pretty lousy world, if you ask me.”
“Money must help.”
“You think it’s going to when you haven’t always had money. As a matter of fact it just makes new problems.” She smiled curiously. “And you forget how hard the old problems were.”
She got out a gold cigarette case from her bag and I went over and held a match for her. She blew a vague plume of smoke and watched it with half-shut eyes.
“Sit close to me,” she said suddenly.
“Let’s talk a little first.”
“About what? Oh—my jade?”
“About murder.”
Nothing changed in her face. She blew another plume of smoke, this time more carefully, more slowly. “It’s a nasty subject. Do we have to?”
I shrugged.
“Lin Marriott was no saint,” she said. “But I still don’t want to talk about it.”
She stared at me coolly for a long moment and then dipped her hand into her open bag for a handkerchief.
“Personally I don’t think he was a finger man for a jewel mob, either,” I said. “The police pretend that they think that, but they do a lot of pretending. I don’t even think he was a blackmailer, in any real sense. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” The voice was very, very cold now.
“Well, not really,” I agreed and drank the rest of my drink. “It was awfully nice of you to come here, Mrs. Grayle. But we seem to have hit the wrong mood. I don’t even, for example, think Marriott was killed by a gang. I don’t think he was going to that canyon to buy a jade necklace. I don’t even think a jade necklace was ever stolen. I think he went to that canyon to be murdered, although he thought he went there to help commit a murder. But Marriott was a very bad murderer.”
She leaned forward a little and her smile became just a little glassy. Suddenly, without any real change in her, she ceased to be beautiful. She looked merely like a woman who would have been dangerous a hundred years ago, and twenty years ago daring, but who today was just Grade B Hollywood.
She said nothing, but her right hand was tapping the clasp of her bag.
“A very bad murderer,” I said. “Like Shakespeare’s Second Murderer in that scene in King Richard III. The fellow that had certain dregs of conscience, but still wanted the money, and in the end didn’t do the job at all because he couldn’t make up his mind. Such murderers are very dangerous. They have to be removed—sometimes with blackjacks.”