Steve Grayce saw Leopardi in the far corner, with a girl. There was an empty table on each side of him. The girl was a knockout.
She looked tall and her hair was the color of a brush fire seen through a dust cloud. On it, at the ultimate rakish angle, she wore a black velvet double-pointed beret with two artificial butterflies made of polka-dotted feathers and fastened on with tall silver pins. Her dress was burgundy-red wool and the blue fox draped over one shoulder was at least two feet wide. Her eyes were large, smoke-blue, and looked bored. She slowly turned a small glass on the table top with a gloved left hand.
Leopardi faced her, leaning forward, talking. His shoulders looked very big in a shaggy, cream-colored sports coat. Above the neck of it his hair made a point on his brown neck. He laughed across the table as Steve came up and his laugh had a confident, sneering sound.
Steve stopped, then moved behind the next table. The movement caught Leopardi’s eye. His head turned, he looked annoyed, and then his eyes got very wide and brilliant and his whole body turned slowly, like a mechanical toy.
Leopardi put both his rather small well-shaped hands down on the table, on either side of a highball glass. He smiled. Then he pushed his chair back and stood up. He put one finger up and touched his hairline mustache, with theatrical delicacy. Then he said drawlingly, but distinctly: “You son of a bitch!”
A man at a nearby table turned his head and scowled. A waiter who had started to come over stopped in his tracks, then faded back among the tables. The girl looked at Steve Grayce and then leaned back against the cushions of the wall seat and moistened the end of one bare finger on her right hand and smoothed a chestnut eyebrow.
Steve stood quite still. There was a sudden high flush on his cheekbones. He said softly: “You left something at the hotel last night. I think you ought to do something about it. Here.”
He reached a folded paper out of his pocket and held it out. Leopardi took it, still smiling, opened it and read it. It was a sheet of yellow paper with torn pieces of white paper pasted on it. Leopardi crumpled the sheet and let it drop at his feet.
He took a smooth step towards Steve and repeated more loudly: “You son of a bitch!”
The man who had first looked around stood up sharply and turned. He said clearly: “I don’t like that sort of language in front of my wife.”
Without even looking at the man Leopardi said: “To hell with you and your wife.”
The man’s face got a dusky red. The woman with him stood up and grabbed a bag and a coat and walked away. After a moment’s indecision the man followed her. Everybody in the place was staring now. The waiter who had faded back among the tables went through the doorway into the entrance foyer, walking very quickly.
Leopardi took another, longer step and slammed Steve Grayce on the jaw. Steve rolled with the punch and stepped back and put his hand down on another table and upset a glass. He turned to apologize to the couple at the table. Leopardi jumped forward very fast and hit him behind the ear.
Dockery came through the doorway, split two waiters like a banana skin and started down the room showing all his teeth.
Steve gagged a little and ducked away. He turned and said thickly: “Wait a minute, you fool—that isn’t all of it—there’s—”
Leopardi closed in fast and smashed him full on the mouth. Blood oozed from Steve’s lip and crawled down the line at the corner of his mouth and glistened on his chin. The girl with the red hair reached for her bag, white-faced with anger, and started to get up from behind her table.
Leopardi turned abruptly on his heel and walked away. Dockery put out a hand to stop him. Leopardi brushed it aside and went on, went out of the lounge.
The tall red-haired girl put her bag down on the table again and dropped her handkerchief on the floor. She looked at Steve quietly, spoke quietly. “Wipe the blood off your chin before it drips on your shirt.” She had a soft, husky voice with a trill in it.
Dockery came up harsh-faced, took Steve by the arm and put weight on the arm. “All right, you! Let’s go!”
Steve stood quite still, his feet planted, staring at the girl. He dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. He half smiled. Dockery couldn’t move him an inch. Dockery dropped his hand, signaled two waiters and they jumped behind Steve, but didn’t touch him.
Steve felt his lip carefully and looked at the blood on his handkerchief. He turned to the people at the table behind him and said: “I’m terribly sorry. I lost my balance.”
The girl whose drink he had spilled was mopping her dress with a small fringed napkin. She smiled up at him and said: “It wasn’t your fault.”
The two waiters suddenly grabbed Steve’s arms from behind. Dockery shook his head and they let go again. Dockery said tightly: “You hit him?”
“No.”
“You say anything to make him hit you?”
“No.”
The girl at the corner table bent down to get her fallen handkerchief. It took her quite a time. She finally got it and slid into the corner behind the table again. She spoke coldly.
“Quite right, Bill. It was just some more of the King’s sweet way with his public.”
Dockery said “Huh?” and swiveled his head on his thick hard neck. Then he grinned and looked back at Steve.
Steve said grimly: “He gave me three good punches, one from behind, without a return. You look pretty hard. See can you do it.”
Dockery measured him with his eyes. He said evenly: “You win. I couldn’t … Beat it!” he added sharply to the waiters. They went away. Dockery sniffed his carnation, and said quietly: “We don’t go for brawls in here.” He smiled at the girl again and went away, saying a word here and there at the tables. He went out through the foyer doors.
Steve tapped his lip, put his handkerchief in his pocket and stood searching the floor with his eyes.
The red-haired girl said calmly: “I think I have what you want—in my handkerchief. Won’t you sit down?”
Her voice had a remembered quality, as if he had heard it before.
He sat down opposite her, in the chair where Leopardi had been sitting.
The red-haired girl said: “The drink’s on me. I was with him”
Steve said, “Coke with a dash of bitters,” to the waiter.
The waiter said: “Madame?”
“Brandy and soda. Light on the brandy, please.” The waiter bowed and drifted away. The girl said amusedly: “Coke with a dash of bitters. That’s what I love about Hollywood. You meet so many neurotics.”
Steve stared into her eyes and said softly: “I’m an occasional drinker, the kind of guy who goes out for a beer and wakes up in Singapore with a full beard.”
“I don’t believe a word of it. Have you known the King long?”
“I met him last night. I didn’t get along with him.”
“I sort of noticed that.” She laughed. She had a rich low laugh, too.
“Give me that paper, lady.”
“Oh, one of these impatient men. Plenty of time.” The handkerchief with the crumpled yellow sheet inside it was clasped tightly in her gloved hand. Her middle right finger played with an eyebrow. “You’re not in pictures, are you?”
“Hell, no.”
“Same here. Me, I’m too tall. The beautiful men have to wear stilts in order to clasp me to their bosoms.”
The waiter set the drinks down in front of them, made a grace note in the air with his napkin and went away.
Steve said quietly, stubbornly: “Give me that paper, lady.”
“I don’t like that ‘lady’ stuff. It sounds like cop to me.”
“I don’t know your name.”
“I don’t know yours. Where did you meet Leopardi?”
Steve sighed. The music from the little Spanish orchestra had a melancholy minor sound now and the muffled clicking of gourds dominated it.
Steve listened to it with his head on one side. He said: “The E string is a half-tone flat. Rather cute effect.”
; The girl stared at him with new interest. “I’d never have noticed that,” she said. “And I’m supposed to be a pretty good singer. But you haven’t answered my question.”
He said slowly: “Last night I was house dick at the Carlton Hotel. They called me night clerk, but house dick was what I was. Leopardi stayed there and cut up too rough. I threw him out and got canned.”
The girl said: “Ah. I begin to get the idea. He was being the King and you were being—if I might guess—a pretty tough order of house detective.”
“Something like that. Now will you please—”
“You still haven’t told me your name.”
He reached for his wallet, took one of the brand-new cards out of it and passed it across the table. He sipped his drink while she read it.
“A nice name,” she said slowly. “But not a very good address. And Private investigator is bad. It should have been Investigations, very small, in the lower left-hand corner.”
“They’ll be small enough,” Steve grinned. “Now will you please—”
She reached suddenly across the table and dropped the crumpled ball of paper in his hand.
“Of course I haven’t read it—and of course I’d like to. You do give me that much credit, I hope”—she looked at the card again, and added—“Steve. Yes, and your office should be in a Georgian or very modernistic building in the Sunset Eighties. Suite Something-or-other. And your clothes should be very jazzy. Very jazzy indeed, Steve. To be inconspicuous in this town is to be a busted flush.”
He grinned at her. His deep-set black eyes had lights in them. She put the card away in her bag, gave her fur piece a yank, and drank about half of her drink. “I have to go.” She signaled the waiter and paid the check. The waiter went away and she stood up.
Steve said sharply: “Sit down.”
She stared at him wonderingly. Then she sat down again and leaned against the wall, still staring at him. Steve leaned across the table, asked: “How well do you know Leopardi?”
“Off and on for years. If it’s any of your business. Don’t go masterful on me, for God’s sake. I loathe masterful men. I once sang for him, but not for long. You can’t just sing for Leopardi—if you get what I mean.”
“You were having a drink with him.”
She nodded slightly and shrugged. “He opens here tomorrow night. He was trying to talk me into singing for him again. I said no, but I may have to, for a week or two anyway. The man who owns the Club Shalotte also owns my contract
– and the radio station where I work a good deal.”
“Jumbo Walters,” Steve said. “They say he’s tough but square. I never met him, but I’d like to. After all I’ve got a living to get. Here.”
He reached back across the table and dropped the crumpled paper. “The name was—”
“Dolores Chiozza.”
Steve repeated it lingeringly. “I like it. I like your singing too. I’ve heard a lot of it. You don’t oversell a song, like most of these high-money torchers.” His eyes glistened.
The girl spread the paper on the table and read it slowly, without expression. Then she said quietly: “Who tore it up?”
“Leopardi, I guess. The pieces were in his wastebasket last night. I put them together, after he was gone. The guy has guts—or else he gets these things so often they don’t register any more.”
“Or else he thought it was a gag.” She looked across the table levelly, then folded the paper and handed it back.
“Maybe. But if he’s the kind of guy I hear he is—one of them is going to be on the level and the guy behind it is going to do more than just shake him down.”
Dolores Chiozza said: “He’s the kind of guy you hear he is.”
“It wouldn’t be hard for a woman to get to him then—would it—a woman with a gun?”
She went on staring at him. “No. And everybody would give her a big hand, if you ask me. If I were you, I’d just forget the whole thing. If he wants protection—Walters can throw more around him than the police. If he doesn’t—who cares? I don’t. I’m damn sure I don’t.”
“You’re kind of tough yourself, Miss Chiozza—over some things.”
She said nothing. Her face was a little white and more than a little hard.
Steve finished his drink, pushed his chair back and reached for his hat. He stood up. “Thank you very much for the drink, Miss Chiozza. Now that I’ve met you I’ll look forward all the more to hearing you sing again.”
“You’re damn formal all of a sudden,” she said.
He grinned. “So long, Dolores.”
“So long, Steve. Good luck—in the sleuth racket. If I hear of anything—”
He turned and walked among the tables out of the bar lounge.
CHAPTER 5
In the crisp fall evening the lights of Hollywood and Los Angeles winked at him. Searchlight beams probed the cloudless sky as if searching for bombing-planes.
Steve got his convertible out of the parking lot and drove it east along Sunset. At Sunset and Fairfax he bought an evening paper and pulled over to the curb to look through it. There was nothing in the paper about 118 Court Street.
He drove on and ate dinner at the little coffee shop beside his hotel and went to a movie. When he came out he bought a Home Edition of the Tribune, a morning sheet. They were in that—both of them.
Police thought Jake Stoyanoff might have strangled the girl, but she had not been attacked. She was described as a stenographer, unemployed at the moment. There was no picture of her. There was a picture of Stoyanoff that looked like a touched-up police photo. Police were looking for a man who had been talking to Stoyanoff just before he was shot. Several people said he was a tall man in a dark suit. That was all the description the police got—or gave out.
Steve grinned sourly, stopped at the coffee shop for a good-night cup of coffee and then went up to his room. It was a few minutes to eleven o’clock. As he unlocked his door the telephone started to ring.
He shut the door and stood in the darkness remembering where the phone was. Then he walked straight to it, catlike in the dark room, sat in an easy chair and reached the phone up from the lower shelf of a small table. He held the one-piece to his ear and said: “Hello.”
“Is this Steve?” It was a rich, husky voice, low, vibrant. It held a note of strain.
“Yeah, this is Steve. I can hear you. I know who you are.”
There was a faint dry laugh. “You’ll make a detective after all. And it seems I’m to give you your first case. Will you come over to my place at once? It’s Twenty-four-twelve Renfrew—North, there isn’t any South—just half a block below Fountain. It’s a sort of bungalow court. My house is the last in line, at the back.”
Steve said: “Yes. Sure. What’s the matter?”
There was a pause. A horn blared in the street outside the hotel. A wave of white light went across the ceiling from some car rounding the corner uphill. The low voice said very slowly: “Leopardi. I can’t get rid of him. He’s—he’s passed out in my bedroom.” Then a tinny laugh that didn’t go with the voice at all.
Steve held the phone so tight his hand ached. His teeth clicked in the darkness. He said flatly, in a dull, brittle voice: “Yeah. It’ll cost you twenty bucks.”
“Of course. Hurry, please.”
He hung up, sat there in the dark room breathing hard. He pushed his hat back on his head, then yanked it forward again with a vicious jerk and laughed out loud. “Hell,” he said. “That kind of a dame.”
Twenty-four-twelve Renfrew was not strictly a bungalow court. It was a staggered row of six bungalows, all facing the same way, but so-arranged that no two of their front entrances overlooked each other. There was a brick wall at the back and beyond the brick wall a church. There was a long smooth lawn, moon-silvered.
The door was up two steps, with lanterns on each side and an iron-work grille over the peep hole. This opened to his knock and a girl’s face looked out, a small oval face with a Cupid’s-bow mouth
, arched and plucked eyebrows, wavy brown hair. The eyes were like two fresh and shiny chestnuts.
Steve dropped a cigarette and put his foot on it. “Miss Chiozza. She’s expecting me. Steve Grayce.”
“Miss Chiozza has retired, sir,” the girl said with a half-insolent twist to her lips.
“Break it up, kid. You heard me, I’m expected.”
The wicket slammed shut. He waited, scowling back along the narrow moonlit lawn towards the street. Okay. So it was like that—well, twenty bucks was worth a ride in the moonlight anyway.
The lock clicked and the door opened wide. Steve went past the maid into a warm cheerful room, old-fashioned with chintz. The lamps were neither old nor new and there were enough of them—in the right places. There was a hearth behind a paneled copper screen, a davenport close to it, a bar-top radio in the corner.
The maid said stiffly: “I’m sorry, sir. Miss Chiozza forgot to tell me. Please have a chair.” The voice was soft, and it might be cagey. The girl went off down the room—short skirts, sheer silk stockings, and four-inch spike heels.
Steve sat down and held his hat on his knee and scowled at the wall. A swing door creaked shut. He got a cigarette out and rolled it between his fingers and then deliberately squeezed it to a shapeless flatness of white paper and ragged tobacco. He threw it away from him, at the fire screen.
Dolores Chiozza came towards him. She wore green velvet lounging pajamas with a long gold-fringed sash. She spun the end of the sash as if she might be going to throw a loop with it. She smiled a slight artificial smile. Her face had a clean scrubbed look and her eyelids were bluish and they twitched.
Steve stood up and watched the green morocco slippers peep out under the pajamas as she walked. When she was close to him he lifted his eyes to her face and said dully: “Hello.”
The Collected Raymond Chandler Page 234