I sneered at him politely.
“Why would I have a hard time finding her? She’s not buried in the back yard, I hope.”
He stood up with a flash of anger in his pale eyes. Standing there leaning over the desk a little he whipped his right hand up in a neat enough gesture and brought out a small automatic, about .25 caliber with a walnut grip. It looked like the brother of the one I had seen in the drawer of Merle’s desk. The muzzle looked vicious enough pointing at me. I didn’t move.
“If anybody tries to push Linda around, he’ll have to push me around first,” he said tightly.
“That oughtn’t to be too hard. Better get more gun—unless you’re just thinking of bees.”
He put the little gun back in his inside pocket. He gave me a straight hard look and picked his gloves up and started for the door.
“It’s a waste of time talking to you,” he said. “All you do is crack wise.”
I said: “Wait a minute,” and got up and went around the desk. “It might be a good idea for you not to mention this interview to your mother, if only for the little girl’s sake.”
He nodded. “For the amount of information I got, it doesn’t seem worth mentioning.”
“That straight goods about your owing Morny twelve grand?”
He looked down, then up, then down again. He said: “Anybody who could get into Alex Morny for twelve grand would have to be a lot smarter than I am.”
I was quite close to him. I said: “As a matter of fact I don’t even think you are worried about your wife. I think you know where she is. She didn’t run away from you at all. She just ran away from your mother.”
He lifted his eyes and drew one glove on. He didn’t say anything.
“Perhaps she’ll get a job,” I said. “And make enough money to support you.”
He looked down at the floor again, turned his body to the right a little and the gloved fist made a tight unrelaxed arc through the air upwards. I moved my jaw out of the way and caught his wrist and pushed it slowly back against his chest, leaning on it. He slid a foot back on the floor and began to breathe hard. It was a slender wrist. My fingers went around it and met.
We stood there looking into each other’s eyes. He was breathing like a drunk, his mouth open and his lips pulled back. Small round spots of bright red flamed on his cheeks. He tried to jerk his wrist away, but I put so much weight on him that he had to take another short step back to brace himself. Our faces were now only inches apart.
“How come your old man didn’t leave you some money?” I sneered. “Or did you blow it all?”
He spoke between his teeth, still trying to jerk loose. “If it’s any of your rotten business and you mean Jasper Murdock, he wasn’t my father. He didn’t like me and he didn’t leave me a cent. My father was a man named Horace Bright who lost his money in the crash and jumped out of his office window.”
“You milk easy,” I said, “but you give pretty thin milk. I’m sorry for what I said about your wife supporting you. I just wanted to get your goat.”
I dropped his wrist and stepped back. He still breathed hard and heavily. His eyes on mine were very angry, but he kept his voice down.
“Well, you got it. If you’re satisfied, I’ll be on my way.”
“I was doing you a favor,” I said. “A gun toter oughtn’t to insult so easily. Better ditch it.”
“That’s my business,” he said. “I’m sorry I took a swing at you. It probably wouldn’t have hurt much, if it had connected.”
“That’s all right.”
He opened the door and went on out. His steps died along the corridor. Another screwball. I tapped my teeth with a knuckle in time to the sound of his steps as long as I could hear them. Then I went back to the desk, looked at my pad, and lifted the phone.
CHAPTER 4
After the bell had rung three times at the other end of the line a light childish sort of girl’s voice filtered itself through a hank of gum and said: “Good morning. Mr. Morningstar’s office.”
“Is the old gentleman in?”
“Who is calling, please?”
“Marlowe.”
“Does he know you, Mr. Marlowe?”
“Ask him if he wants to buy any early American gold coins.”
“Just a minute, please.”
There was a pause suitable to an elderly party in an inner office having his attention called to the fact that somebody on the telephone wanted to talk to him. Then the phone clicked and a man spoke. He had a dry voice. You might even call it parched.
“This is Mr. Morningstar.”
“I’m told you called Mrs. Murdock in Pasadena, Mr. Morningstar. About a certain coin.”
“About a certain coin,” he repeated. “Indeed. Well?”
“My understanding is that you wished to buy the coin in question from the Murdock collection.”
“Indeed? And who are you, sir?”
“Philip Marlowe. A private detective. I’m working for Mrs. Murdock.”
“Indeed,” he said for the third time. He cleared his throat carefully. “And what did you wish to talk to me about, Mr. Marlowe?”
“About this coin.”
“But I was informed it was not for sale.”
“I still want to talk to you about it. In person.”
“Do you mean she has changed her mind about selling?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand what you want, Mr. Marlowe. What have we to talk about?” He sounded sly now.
I took the ace out of my sleeve and played it with a languid grace. “The point is, Mr. Morningstar, that at the time you called up you already knew the coin wasn’t for sale.”
“Interesting,” he said slowly. “How?”
“You’re in the business, you couldn’t help knowing. It’s a matter of public record that the Murdock collection cannot be sold during Mrs. Murdock’s lifetime.”
“Ah,” he said. “Ah.” There was a silence. Then, “At three o’clock,” he said, not sharp, but quick. “I shall be glad to see you here in my office. You probably know where it is. Will that suit you?”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I hung up and lit my pipe again and sat there looking at the wall. My face was stiff with thought, or with something that made my face stiff. I took Linda Murdock’s photo out of my pocket, stared at it for a while, decided that the face was pretty commonplace after all, locked the photo away in my desk. I picked Murdock’s second match out of my ashtray and looked it over. The lettering on this one read: TOP ROW W. D. WRIGHT ’36.
I dropped it back in the tray, wondering what made this important. Maybe it was a clue.
I got Mrs. Murdock’s check out of my wallet, endorsed it, made out a deposit slip and a check for cash, got my bank book out of the desk, and folded the lot under a rubber band and put them in my pocket.
Lois Magic was not listed in the phone book.
I got the classified section up on the desk and made a list of the half dozen theatrical agencies that showed in the largest type and called them. They all had bright cheerful voices and wanted to ask a lot of questions, but they either didn’t know or didn’t care to tell me anything about a Miss Lois Magic, said to be an entertainer.
I threw the list in the waste basket and called Kenny Haste, a crime reporter on the Chronicle.
“What do you know about Alex Morny?” I asked him when we were through cracking wise at each other.
“Runs a plushy night club and gambling joint in Idle Valley, about two miles off the highway back towards the hills. Used to be in pictures. Lousy actor. Seems to have plenty of protection. I never heard of him shooting anybody on the public square at high noon. Or at any other time for that matter. But I wouldn’t like to bet on it.”
“Dangerous?”
“I’d say he might be, if necessary. All those boys have been to picture shows and know how night club bosses are supposed to act. He has a bodyguard who is quite a character. His name�
�s Eddie Prue, he’s about six feet five inches tall and thin as an honest alibi. He has a frozen eye, the result of a war wound.”
“Is Morny dangerous to women?”
“Don’t be Victorian, old top. Women don’t call it danger.”
“Do you know a girl named Lois Magic, said to be an entertainer. A tall gaudy blond, I hear.”
“No. Sounds as though I might like to.”
“Don’t be cute. Do you know anybody named Vannier? None of these people are in the phone book.”
“Nope. But I could ask Gertie Arbogast, if you want to call back. He knows all the night club aristocrats. And heels.”
“Thanks, Kenny. I’ll do that. Half an hour?”
He said that would be fine, and we hung up. I locked the office and left.
At the end of the corridor, in the angle of the wall, a youngish blond man in a brown suit and a cocoa-colored straw hat with a brown and yellow tropical print band was reading the evening paper with his back to the wall. As I passed him he yawned and tucked the paper under his arm and straightened up.
He got into the elevator with me. He could hardly keep his eyes open he was so tired. I went out on the street and walked a block to the bank to deposit my check and draw out a little folding money for expenses. From there I went to the Tigertail Lounge and sat in a shallow booth and drank a martini and ate a sandwich. The man in the brown suit posted himself at the end of the bar and drank coca colas and looked bored and piled pennies in front of him, carefully smoothing the edges. He had his dark glasses on again. That made him invisible.
I dragged my sandwich out as long as I could and then strolled back to the telephone booth at the inner end of the bar. The man in the brown suit turned his head quickly and then covered the motion by lifting his glass. I dialed the Chronicle office again.
“Okay,” Kenny Haste said. “Gertie Arbogast says Morny married your gaudy blond not very long ago. Lois Magic. He doesn’t know Vannier. He says Morny bought a place out beyond Bel-Air, a white house on Stillwood Crescent Drive, about five blocks north of Sunset. Gertie says Morny took it over from a busted flush named Arthur Blake Popham who got caught in a mail fraud rap. Pop-ham’s initials are still on the gates. And probably on the toilet paper, Gertie says. He was that kind of a guy. That’s all we seem to know.”
“Nobody could ask more. Many thanks, Kenny.”
I hung up, stepped out of the booth, met the dark glasses above the brown suit under the cocoa straw hat and watched them turn quickly away.
I spun around and went back through a swing door into the kitchen and through that to the alley and along the alley a quarter block to the back of the parking lo where I had put my car.
No sand-colored coupé succeeded in getting behind me as I drove off, in the general direction of Bel-Air.
CHAPTER 5
Stillwood Crescent Drive curved leisurely north from Sunset Boulevard, well beyond the Bel-Air Country Club golf course. The road was lined with walled and fenced estates. Some had high walls, some had low walls, some had ornamental iron fences, some were a bit old-fashioned and got along with tall hedges. The street had no sidewalk. Nobody walked in that neighborhood, not even the mailman.
The afternoon was hot, but not hot like Pasadena. There was a drowsy smell of flowers and sun, a swishing of lawn sprinklers gentle behind hedges and walls, the clear ratchety sound of lawn mowers moving delicately over serene and confident lawns.
I drove up the hill slowly, looking for monograms on gates. Arthur Blake Popham was the name. ABP would be the initials. I found them almost at the top, gilt on a black shield, the gates folded back on a black composition driveway.
It was a glaring white house that had the air of being brand new, but the landscaping was well advanced. It was modest enough for the neighborhood, not more than fourteen rooms and probably only one swimming pool. Its wall was low, made of brick with the concrete all oozed out between and set that way and painted over white. On top of the wall a low iron railing painted black. The name A. P. Morny was stencilled on the large silver-colored mailbox at the service entrance.
I parked my crate on the street and walked up the black driveway to a side door of glittering white paint shot with patches of color from the stained glass canopy over it. I hammered on a large brass knocker. Back along the side of the house a chauffeur was washing off a Cadillac.
The door opened and a hard-eyed Filipino in a white coat curled his lip at me. I gave him a card.
“Mrs. Morny,” I said.
He shut the door. Time passed, as it always does when I go calling. The swish of water on the Cadillac had a cool sound. The chauffeur was a little runt in breeches and leggings and a sweat-stained shirt. He looked like an overgrown jockey and he made the same kind of hissing noise as he worked on the car that a groom makes rubbing down a horse.
A red-throated hummingbird went into a scarlet bush beside the door, shook the long tubular blooms around a little, and zoomed off so fast he simply disappeared in the air.
The door opened, the Filipino poked my card at me. I didn’t take it.
“What you want?”
It was a tight crackling voice, like someone tiptoeing across a lot of eggshells.
“Want to see Mrs. Morny.”
“She not at home.”
“Didn’t you know that when I gave you the card?”
He opened his fingers and let the card flutter to the ground. He grinned, showing me a lot of cut-rate dental work.
“I know when she tell me.”
He shut the door in my face, not gently.
I picked the card up and walked along the side of the house to where the chauffeur was squirting water on the Cadillac sedan and rubbing the dirt off with a big sponge. He had red rimmed eyes and a bang of corn-colored hair. A cigarette hung exhausted at the corner of his lower lip.
He gave me the quick side glance of a man who is minding his own business with difficulty. I said:
“Where’s the boss?”
The cigarette jiggled in his mouth. The water went on swishing gently on the paint.
“Ask at the house, Jack.”
“I done asked. They done shut the door in mah face.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Jack.”
“How about Mrs. Morny?”
“Same answer, Jack. I just work here. Selling something?”
I held my card so that he could read it. It was a business card this time. He put the sponge down on the running board, and the hose on the cement. He stepped around the water to wipe his hands on a towel that hung at the side of the garage doors. He fished a match out of his pants, struck it and tilted his head back to light the dead butt that was stuck in his face.
His foxy little eyes flicked around this way and that and he moved behind the car, with a jerk of the head. I went over near him.
“How’s the little old expense account?” he asked in a small careful voice.
“Fat with inactivity.”
“For five I could start thinking.”
“I wouldn’t want to make it that tough for you.”
“For ten I could sing like four canaries and a steel guitar.”
“I don’t like these plushy orchestrations,” I said.
He cocked his head sideways. “Talk English, Jack.”
“I don’t want you to lose your job, son. All I want to know is whether Mrs. Morny is home. Does that rate more than a buck?”
“Don’t worry about my job, Jack. I’m solid.”
“With Morny—or somebody else?”
“You want that for the same buck?”
“Two bucks.”
He eyed me over. “You ain’t working for him, are you?”
“Sure.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Sure.”
“Gimme the two bucks,” he snapped.
I gave him two dollars.
“She’s in the backyard with a friend,” he said. “A nice friend. You got a friend that don’t work and a h
usband that works, you’re all set, see?” he leered.
“You’ll be all set in an irrigation ditch one of these days.”
“Not me, Jack. I’m wise. I know how to play ’em. I monkeyed around these kind of people all my life.”
He rubbed the two dollar bills between his palms, blew on them, folded them longways and wideways and tucked them in the watch pocket of his breeches.
“That was just the soup,” he said. “Now for five more—”
A rather large blond cocker spaniel tore around the Cadillac, skidded a little on the wet concrete, took off neatly, hit me in the stomach and thighs with all four paws, licked my face, dropped to the ground, ran around my legs, sat down between them, let his tongue out all the way and started to pant.
I stepped over him and braced myself against the side of the car and got my handkerchief out.
A male voice called: “Here, Heathcliff. Here, Heathcliff.” Steps sounded on a hard walk.
“That’s Heathcliff,” the chauffeur said sourly.
“Heathcliff?”
“Cripes, that’s what they call the dog, Jack.”
“Wuthering Heights?” I asked.
“Now you’re double-talking again,” he sneered. “Look out—company.”
He picked up the sponge and the hose and went back to washing the car. I moved away from him. The cocker spaniel immediately moved between my legs again, almost tripping me.
“Here, Heathcliff,” the male voice called out louder, and a man came into view through the opening of a latticed tunnel covered with climbing roses.
Tall, dark, with a clear olive skin, brilliant black eyes, gleaming white teeth. Sideburns. A narrow black mustache. Sideburns too long, much too long. White shirt with embroidered initials on the pocket, white slacks, white shoes. A wrist watch that curved halfway around a lean dark wrist, held on by a gold chain. A yellow scarf around a bronzed slender neck.
He saw the dog squatted between my legs and didn’t like it. He snapped long fingers and snapped a clear hard voice:
“Here, Heathcliff. Come here at once!”
The dog breathed hard and didn’t move, except to lean a little closer to my right leg.
The Collected Raymond Chandler Page 48