“If you are speaking for yourself, I am well aware of it,” Loring sneered. “And I don’t need lessons in manners from you.”
“I only take promising pupils,” Wade said. “Sorry you have to leave so soon.” He raised his voice. “Candy! Que el Doctor Loring salga de aqui en el acto!” He swung back to Loring. “In case you don’t know Spanish, Doctor, that means the door is over there.” He pointed.
Loring stared at him without moving. “I have warned you, Mr. Wade,” he said icily. “And a number of people have heard me. I shall not warn you again.”
“Don’t,” Wade said curtly. “But if you do, make it on neutral territory. Gives me a little more freedom of action. Sorry, Linda. But you married him.” He rubbed his cheek gently where the heavy end of the glove had hit him. Linda Loring was smiling bitterly. She shrugged.
“We are leaving,” Loring said. “Come, Linda.”
She sat down again and reached for her glass. She gave her husband a glance of quiet contempt. “You are,” she said. “You have a number of calls to make, remember.”
“You are leaving with me,” he said furiously.
She turned her back on him. He reached suddenly and took hold of her arm. Wade took him by the shoulder and spun him around.
“Take it easy, Doc. You can’t win them all.”
“Take your hand off me!”
“Sure, just relax,” Wade said. “I have a good idea, Doctor. Why don’t you see a good doctor?”
Somebody laughed loudly. Loring tensed like an animal all set to spring. Wade sensed it and neatly turned his back and moved away. Which left Dr. Loring holding the bag. If he went after Wade, he would look sillier than he looked now. There was nothing for him to do but leave, and he did it. He marched quickly across the room staring straight in front of him to where Candy was holding the door open. He went out. Candy shut the door, wooden-faced, and went back to the bar. I went over there and asked for some Scotch. I didn’t see where Wade went. He just disappeared. I didn’t see Eileen either. I turned my back on the room and let them sizzle while I drank my Scotch.
A small girl with mud-colored hair and a band around her forehead popped up beside me and put a glass on the bar and bleated. Candy nodded and made her another drink.
The small girl turned to me. “Are you interested in Communism?” she asked me. She was glassy-eyed and she was running a small red tongue along her lips as if looking for a crumb of chocolate. “I think everyone ought to be,” she went on. “But when you ask any of the men here they just want to paw you.”
I nodded and looked over my glass at her snub nose and sun-coarsened skin.
“Not that I mind too much if it’s done nicely,” she told me, reaching for the fresh drink. She showed me her molars while she inhaled half of it.
“Don’t rely on me,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“Marlowe.”
“With an ‘e’ or not?”
“With.”
“Ah, Marlowe,” she intoned. “Such a sad beautiful name.” She put her glass down damn nearly empty and closed her eyes and threw her head back and her arms out, almost hitting me in the eye. Her voice throbbed with emotion, saying:
“Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.”
She opened her eyes, grabbed her glass, and winked at me. “You were pretty good in there, chum. Been writing any poetry lately?”
“Not very much.”
“You can kiss me if you like,” she said coyly.
A guy in a shantung jacket and an open neck shirt came up behind her and grinned at me over the top of her head. He had short red hair and a face like a collapsed lung. He was as ugly a guy as I ever saw. He patted the top of the girl’s head.
“Come on, kitten. Time to go home.”
She rounded on him furiously. “You mean you got to water those goddamned tuberous begonias again?” she yelled.
“Aw listen, kitten—”
“Take your hands off me, you goddamned rapist,” she screamed, and threw the rest of her drink in his face. The rest wasn’t more than a teaspoonful and two lumps of ice.
“For Chrissake, baby, I’m your husband,” he yelled back, grabbing for a handkerchief and mopping his face. “Get it? Your husband.”
She sobbed violently and threw herself into his arms. I stepped around them and got out of there. Every cocktail party is the same, even the dialogue.
The house was leaking guests out into the evening air now. Voices were fading, cars were starting, goodbyes were bouncing around like rubber balls. I went to the french windows and out onto a flagged terrace. The ground sloped towards the lake, which was as motionless as a sleeping cat. There was a short wooden pier down there with a rowboat tied to it by a white painter. Towards the far shore, which wasn’t very far, a black waterhen was doing lazy curves, like a skater. They didn’t seem to cause as much as a shallow ripple.
I stretched out on a padded aluminum chaise and lit a pipe and smoked peacefully and wondered what the hell I was doing there. Roger Wade seemed to have enough control to handle himself if he really wanted to. He had done all right with Loring. I wouldn’t have been too surprised if he had hung one on Loring’s sharp little chin. He would have been out of line by the rules, but Loring was much farther out of line.
If the rules mean anything at all any more, they mean that you don’t pick a roomful of people as the spot to threaten a man and hit him across the face with a glove when your wife is standing right beside you and you are practically accusing her of a little double time. For a man still shaky from a hard bout with the hard stuff Wade had done all right. He had done more than all right. Of course I hadn’t seen him drunk. I didn’t know what he would be like drunk. I didn’t even know that he was an alcoholic. There’s a big difference. A man who drinks too much on occasion is still the same man as he was sober. An alcoholic, a real alcoholic, is not the same man at all. You can’t predict anything about him for sure except that he will be someone you never met before.
Light steps sounded behind me and Eileen Wade came across the terrace and sat down beside me on the edge of a chaise.
“Well, what did you think?” she asked quietly.
“About the gentleman with the loose gloves?”
“Oh no.” She frowned. Then she laughed. “I hate people who make stagy scenes like that. Not that he isn’t a fine doctor. He has played that scene with half the men in the valley. Linda Loring is no tramp. She doesn’t look like one, talk like one, or behave like one. I don’t know what makes Dr. Loring behave as if she was.”
“Maybe he’s a reformed drunk,” I said. “A lot of them grow pretty puritanical.”
“It’s possible,” she said, and looked towards the lake. “This is a very peaceful place. One would think a writer would be happy here—if a writer is ever happy anywhere.” She turned to look at me. “So you won’t be persuaded to do what Roger asked.”
“There’s no point in it, Mrs. Wade. Nothing I could do. I’ve said all this before. I couldn’t be sure of being around at the right time. I’d have to be around all the time. That’s impossible, even if I had nothing else to do. If he went wild, for example, it would happen in a flash. And I haven’t seen any indications that he does get wild. He seems pretty solid to me.”
She looked down at her hands. “If he could finish his book, I think things would be much better.”
“I can’t help him do that.”
She looked up and put her hands on the edge of the chaise beside her. She leaned forward a little. “You can if he thinks you can. That’s the whole point. Is it that you would find it distasteful to be a guest in our house and be paid for it?”
“He needs a psychiatrist, Mrs. Wade. If you know one that isn’t a quack.”
She looked startled. “A psychiatrist? Why?”
I knocked the ashes out of my pipe and sat hold
ing it, waiting for the bowl to get cooler before I put it away.
“You want an amateur opinion, here it is. He thinks he has a secret buried in his mind and he can’t get at it. It may be a guilty secret about himself, it may be about someone else. He thinks that’s what makes him drink, because he can’t get at this thing. He probably thinks that whatever happened, happened while he was drunk and he ought to find it wherever people go when they’re drunk—really bad drunk, the way he gets. That’s a job for a psychiatrist. So far, so good. If that is wrong, then he gets drunk because he wants to or can’t help it, and the idea about the secret is just his excuse. He can’t write his book, or anyway can’t finish it. Because he gets drunk. That is, the assumption seems to be that he can’t finish his book because he knocks himself out by drinking. It could be the other way around.”
“Oh no,” she said. “No. Roger has a great deal of talent. I feel quite sure that his best work is still to come.”
“I told you it was an amateur opinion. You said the other morning that he might have fallen out of love with his wife. That’s something else that could go the other way around.”
She looked towards the house, then turned so that she had her back to it. I looked the same way. Wade was standing inside the doors, looking out at us. As I watched he moved behind the bar and reached for a bottle.
“There’s no use interfering,” she said quickly. “I never do. Never. I suppose you’re right, Mr. Marlowe. There just isn’t anything to do but let him work it out of his system.”
The pipe was cool now and I put it away. “Since we’re groping around in the back of the drawer, how about that other way around?”
“I love my husband,” she said simply. “Not as a young girl loves, perhaps. But I love him. A woman is only a young girl once. The man I loved then is dead. He died in the war. His name, strangely enough, had the same initials as yours. It doesn’t matter now—except that sometimes I can’t quite believe that he is dead. His body was never found. But that happened to many men.”
She gave me a long searching look. “Sometimes—not often, of course—when I go into a quiet cocktail lounge or the lobby of a good hotel at a dead hour, or along the deck of a liner early in the morning or very late at night, I think I may see him waiting for me in some shadowy corner.” She paused and dropped her eyes. “It’s very silly. I’m ashamed of it. We were very much in love—the wild, mysterious, improbable kind of love that never comes but once.”
She stopped talking and sat there half in a trance looking out over the lake. I looked back at the house again. Wade was standing just inside the open french windows with a glass in his hand. I looked back at Eileen. For her I wasn’t there any more. I got up and went into the house. Wade stood there with the drink and the drink looked pretty heavy. And his eyes looked wrong.
“How you making out with my wife, Marlowe?” It was said with a twist of the mouth.
“No passes, if you mean it that way.”
“That’s exactly the way I mean it. You got to kiss her the other night. Probably fancy yourself as a fast worker, but you’re wasting your time, bud. Even if you had the right kind of polish.”
I tried to move around him but he blocked me with a solid shoulder. “Don’t hurry away, old man. We like you around. We get so few private dicks in our house.”
“I’m the one too many,” I said.
He hoisted the glass and drank from it. When he lowered it he leered at me.
“You ought to give yourself a little more time to build resistance,” I told him. “Empty words, huh?”
“Okay, coach. Some little character builder, aren’t you? You ought to have more sense than to try educating a drunk. Drunks don’t educate, my friend. They disintegrate. And part of the process is a lot of fun.” He drank from the glass again, leaving it nearly empty. “And part of it is damned awful. But if I may quote the scintillating words of the good Dr. Loring, a bastardly bastard with a little black bag, stay away from my wife, Marlowe. Sure you go for her. They all do. You’d like to sleep with her. They all would. You’d like to share her dreams and sniff the rose of her memories. Maybe I would too. But there is nothing to share, chum—nothing, nothing, nothing. You’re all alone in the dark.”
He finished his drink and turned the glass upside down.
“Empty like that, Marlowe. Nothing there at all. I’m the guy that knows.”
He put the glass on the edge of the bar and walked stiffy to the foot of the stairs. He made about a dozen steps up, holding on to the rail, and stopped and leaned against it. He looked down at me with a sour grin.
“Forgive the corny sarcasm, Marlowe. You’re a nice guy. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Anything like what?”
“Perhaps she didn’t get around yet to that haunting magic of her first love, the guy that went missing in Norway. You wouldn’t want to be missing, would you, chum? You’re my own special private eye. You find me when I’m lost in the savage splendor of Sepulveda Canyon.” He moved the palm of his hand in a circular motion on the polished wood banister. “It would hurt me to the quick if you got lost yourself. Like that character who hitched up with the limeys. He got so lost a man sometimes wonders if he ever existed. You figure she could have maybe just invented him to have a toy to play with?”
“How would I know?”
He looked down at me. There were deep lines between his eyes now and his mouth was twisted with bitterness.
“How would anybody know? Maybe she don’t know herself. Baby’s tired. Baby been playing too long with broken toys. Baby wants to go bye-bye.”
He went on up the stairs.
I stood there until Candy came in and started tidying up around the bar, putting glasses on a tray, examining bottles to see what was left, paying no attention to me. Or so I thought. Then he said: “Señor. One good drink left. Pity to waste him.” He held up a bottle.
“You drink it.”
“Gracias, señor, no me gusta. Un vaso de Cerveza, no más. A glass of beer is my limit.”
“Wise man.”
“One lush in the house is enough,” he said, staring at me. “I speak good English, not?”
“Sure, fine.”
“But I think Spanish. Sometimes I think with a knife. The boss is my guy. He don’t need any help, hombre. I take care of him, see.”
“A great job you’re doing, punk.”
“Hijo de la flauta,” he said between his white teeth. He picked up a loaded tray and swung it up on the edge of his shoulder and the flat of his hand, bus boy style.
I walked to the door and let myself out, wondering how an expression meaning ‘son of a flute’ had come to be an insult in Spanish. I didn’t wonder very long. I had too many other things to wonder about. Something more than alcohol was the matter with the Wade family. Alcohol was no more than a disguised reaction.
Later that night, between nine-thirty and ten, I called the Wades’ number. After eight rings I hung up, but I had only just taken my hand off the instrument when it started to ring me. It was Eileen Wade.
“Someone just rang here,” she said. “I had a sort of hunch it might be you. I was just getting ready to take a shower.”
“It was me, but it wasn’t important, Mrs. Wade. He seemed a little woolly-headed when I left—Roger did. I guess maybe I feel a little responsibility for him by now.”
“He’s quite all right,” she said. “Fast asleep in bed. I think Dr. Loring upset him more than he showed. No doubt he talked a lot of nonsense to you.”
“He said he was tired and wanted to go to bed. Pretty sensible, I thought.”
“If that is all he said, yes. Well, goodnight and thank you for calling, Mr. Marlowe.”
“I didn’t say it was all he said. I said he said it.”
There was a pause, then: “Everyone gets fantastic ideas once in a while. Don’t take Roger too seriously, Mr. Marlowe. After all, his imagination is rather highly developed. Naturally it would be. He shoul
dn’t have had anything to drink so soon after the last time. Please try to forget all about it. I suppose he was rude to you among other things.”
“He wasn’t rude to me. He made quiet a lot of sense. Your husband is a guy who can take a long hard look at himself and see what is there. It’s not a very common gift. Most people go through life using up half their energy trying to protect a dignity they never had. Goodnight, Mrs. Wade.”
She hung up and I set out the chess board. I filled a pipe, paraded the chessmen and inspected them for French shaves and loose buttons, and played a championship tournament game between Gortchakoff and Meninkin, seventy-two moves to a draw, a prize specimen of the irresistible force meeting the immovable object, a battle without armor, a war without blood, and as elaborate a waste of human intelligence as you could find anywhere outside an advertising agency.
CHAPTER 25
Nothing happened for a week except that I went about my business which just then didn’t happen to be very much business. One morning George Peters of the The Carne Organization called me up and told me he had happened to be down Sepulveda Canyon way and had looked in on Dr. Verringer’s place just out of curiosity. But Dr. Verringer was no longer there. Half a dozen teams of surveyors were mapping the tract for a subdivision. Those he spoke to had never even heard of Dr. Verringer.
“The poor sucker got closed out on a trust deed,” Peters said. “I checked. They gave him a grand for a quitclaim just to save time and expense, and now somebody is going to make a million bucks clear, out of cutting the place up for residential property. That’s the difference between crime and business. For business you gotta have capital. Sometimes I think it’s the only difference.”
“A properly cynical remark,” I said, “but big time crime takes capital too.”
“And where does it come from, chum? Not from guys that hold up liquor stores. So long. See you soon.”
It was ten minutes to eleven on a Thursday night when Wade called me up. His voice was thick, almost gurgling, but I recognized it somehow. And I could hear short hard rapid breathing over the telephone.
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