“You ought to have taken the case too,” I said quietly. “There was dust in it. And it being empty was suspicious.”
“I couldn’t—with you there. I—I almost went back and did. But I didn’t quite have the courage. Did it get you in wrong?”
“No,” I lied. “Why should it?”
“I’m glad of that,” she said wistfully.
“Why didn’t you throw them away?”
She thought about it, her bag clutched to her side, her wide-brimmed absurd hat tilted so that it hid one eye. “I guess it must be because I’m a cop’s daughter,” she said at last. “You just don’t throw away evidence.” Her smile was frail and guilty and her cheeks were flushed. I shrugged.
“Well—” the word hung in the air, like smoke in a closed room. Her lips stayed parted after saying it. I let it hang. The flush on her face deepened.
“I’m horribly sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”
I passed that too.
She went very quickly to the door and out.
FOURTEEN
I poked at one of the long Russian cigarettes with a finger, then laid them in a neat row, side by side and squeaked my chair. You just don’t throw away evidence. So they were evidence. Evidence of what? That a man occasionally smoked a stick of tea, a man who looked as if any touch of the exotic would appeal to him. On the other hand lots of tough guys smoked marihuana, also lots of band musicians and high school kids, and nice girls who had given up trying. American hasheesh. A weed that would grow anywhere. Unlawful to cultivate now. That meant a lot in a country as big as the U.S.A.
I sat there and puffed my pipe and listened to the clacking typewriter behind the wall of my office and the bong-bong of the traffic lights changing on Hollywood Boulevard and spring rustling in the air, like a paper bag blowing along a concrete sidewalk.
They were pretty big cigarettes, but a lot of Russians are, and marihuana is a coarse leaf. Indian hemp. American hasheesh. Evidence. God, what hats the women wear. My head ached. Nuts.
I got my penknife out and opened the small sharp blade, the one I didn’t clean my pipe with, and reached for one of them. That’s what a police chemist would do. Slit one down the middle and examine the stuff under a microscope, to start with. There might just happen to be something unusual about it. Not very likely, but what the hell, he was paid by the month.
I slit one down the middle. The mouthpiece part was pretty tough to slit. Okey, I was a tough guy, I slit it anyway. See if you can stop me.
Out of the mouthpiece shiny segments of rolled thin cardboard partly straightened themselves and had printing on them. I sat up straight and pawed for them. I tried to spread them out on the desk in order, but they slid around on the desk. I grabbed another of the cigarettes and squinted inside the mouthpiece. Then I went to work with the blade of the pocket knife in a different way. I pinched the cigarette down to the place where the mouthpieces began. The paper was thin all the way, you could feel the grain of what was underneath. So I cut the mouthpiece off carefully and then still more carefully cut through the mouthpiece longways, but only just enough. It opened out and there was another card underneath, rolled up, not touched this time.
I spread it out fondly. It was a man’s calling card. Thin pale ivory, just off white. Engraved on that were delicately shaded words. In the lower left hand corner a Stillwood Heights telephone number. In the lower right hand corner the legend, “By Appointment Only.” In the middle, a little larger, but still discreet: “Jules Amthor.” Below, a little smaller: “Psychic Consultant.”
I took hold of the third cigarette. This time, with a lot of difficulty, I teased the card out without cutting anything. It was the same. I put it back where it had been.
I looked at my watch, put my pipe in an ashtray, and then had to look at my watch again to see what time it was. I rolled the two cut cigarettes and the cut card in part of the tissue paper, the one that was complete with card inside in another part of the tissue paper and locked both little packages away in my desk.
I sat looking at the card. Jules Amthor, Psychic Consultant, By Appointment Only, Stillwood Heights phone number, no address. Three like that rolled inside three sticks of tea, in a Chinese or Japanese silk cigarette case with an imitation tortoise-shell frame, a trade article that might have cost thirty-five to seventy-five cents in any Oriental store, Hooey Phooey Sing—Long Sing Tung, that kind of place, where a nice-mannered Jap hisses at you, laughing heartily when you say that the Moon of Arabia incense smells like the girls in Frisco Sadie’s back parlor.
And all this in the pocket of a man who was very dead, and who had another and genuinely expensive cigarette case containing cigarettes which he actually smoked.
He must have forgotten it. It didn’t make sense. Perhaps it hadn’t belonged to him at all. Perhaps he had picked it up in a hotel lobby. Forgotten he had it on him. Forgotten to turn it in. Jules Amthor, Psychic Consultant.
The phone rang and I answered it absently. The voice had the cool hardness of a cop who thinks he is good. It was Randall. He didn’t bark. He was the icy type.
“So you didn’t know who that girl was last night? And she picked you up on the boulevard and you walked over to there. Nice lying, Marlowe.”
“Maybe you have a daughter and you wouldn’t like news cameramen jumping out of bushes and popping flashbulbs in her face.”
“You lied to me.”
“It was a pleasure.”
He was silent a moment, as if deciding something. “We’ll let that pass,” he said. “I’ve seen her. She came in and told me her story. She’s the daughter of a man I knew and respected, as it happens.”
“She told you,” I said, “and you told her.”
“I told her a little,” he said coldly. “For a reason. I’m calling you for the same reason. This investigation is going to be undercover. We have a chance to break this jewel gang and we’re going to do it.”
“Oh, it’s a gang murder this morning. Okey.”
“By the way, that was marihuana dust in that funny cigarette case—the one with the dragons on it. Sure you didn’t see him smoke one out of it?”
“Quite sure. In my presence he smoked only the others. But he wasn’t in my presence all the time.”
“I see. Well, that’s all. Remember what I told you last night. Don’t try getting ideas about this case. All we want from you is silence. Otherwise—”
He paused. I yawned into the mouthpiece.
“I heard that,” he snapped. “Perhaps you think I’m not in a position to make that stick. I am. One false move out of you and you’ll be locked up as a material witness.”
“You mean the papers are not to get the case?”
“They’ll get the murder—but they won’t know what’s behind it.”
“Neither do you,” I said.
“I’ve warned you twice now,” he said. “The third time is out.”
“You’re doing a lot of talking,” I said, “for a guy that holds cards.”
I got the phone hung in my face for that. Okey, the hell with him, let him work at it.
I walked around the office a little to cool off, bought myself a short drink, looked at my watch again and didn’t see what time it was, and sat down at the desk once more.
Jules Amthor, Psychic Consultant. Consultations by Appointment Only. Give him enough time and pay him enough money and he’ll cure anything from a jaded husband to a grasshopper plague. He would be an expert in frustrated love affairs, women who slept alone and didn’t like it, wandering boys and girls who didn’t write home, sell the property now or hold it for another year, will this part hurt me with my public or make me seem more versatile? Men would sneak in on him too, big strong guys that roared like lions around their offices and were all cold mush under their vests. But mostly it would be women, fat women that panted and thin women that burned, old women that dreamed and young women that thought they might have Electra complexes, women of all sizes, shapes and ages, but with one
thing in common—money. No Thursdays at the County Hospital for Mr. Jules Amthor. Cash on the line for him. Rich bitches who had to be dunned for their milk bills would pay him right now.
A fakeloo artist, a hoopla spreader, and a lad who had his card rolled up inside sticks of tea, found on a dead man.
This was going to be good. I reached for the phone and asked the O-operator for the Stillwood Heights number.
FIFTEEN
A woman’s voice answered, a dry, husky-sounding foreign voice: “ ’Allo.”
“May I talk to Mr. Amthor?”
“Ah no. I regret. I am ver-ry sor-ry. Amthor never speaks upon the telephone. I am hees secretary. Weel I take the message?”
“What’s the address out there? I want to see him.”
“Ah, you weesh to consult Amthor professionally? He weel be ver-ry pleased. But he ees ver-ry beesy. When you weesh to see him?”
“Right away. Sometime today.”
“Ah,” the voice regretted, “that cannot be. The next week per’aps. I weel look at the book.”
“Look,” I said, “never mind the book. You ’ave the pencil?”
“But certainly I ’ave the pencil. I—”
“Take this down. My name is Philip Marlowe. My address is 615 Cahuenga Building, Hollywood. That’s on Hollywood Boulevard near Ivar. My phone number is Glenview 7537.” I spelled the hard ones and waited.
“Yes, Meester Marlowe. I ’ave that.”
“I want to see Mr. Amthor about a man named Marriott.” I spelled that too. “It is very urgent. It is a matter of life and death. I want to see him fast. F-a-s-t—fast. Sudden, in other words. Am I clear?”
“You talk ver-ry strange,” the foreign voice said.
“No.” I took hold of the phone standard and shook it. “I feel fine. I always talk like that. This is a very queer business. Mr. Amthor will positively want to see me. I’m a private detective. But I don’t want to go to the police until I’ve seen him.”
“Ah,” the voice got as cool as a cafeteria dinner. “You are of the police, no?”
“Listen,” I said. “I am of the police, no. I am a private detective. Confidential. But it is very urgent just the same. You call me back, no? You ’ave the telephone number, yes?”
“Si. I ’ave the telephone number. Meester Marriott—he ees sick?”
“Well, he’s not up and around,” I said. “So you know him?”
“But no. You say a matter of life and death. Amthor he cure many people—”
“This is one time he flops,” I said. “I’ll be waiting for a call.”
I hung up and lunged for the office bottle. I felt as if I had been through a meat grinder. Ten minutes passed. The phone rang. The voice said:
“Amthor he weel see you at six o’clock.”
“That’s fine. What’s the address?”
“He weel send a car.”
“I have a car of my own. Just give me—”
“He weel send a car,” the voice said coldly, and the phone clicked in my ear.
I looked at my watch once more. It was more than time for lunch. My stomach burned from the last drink. I wasn’t hungry. I lit a cigarette. It tasted like a plumber’s handkerchief. I nodded across the office at Mr. Rembrandt, then I reached for my hat and went out. I was halfway to the elevator before the thought hit me. It hit me without any reason or sense, like a dropped brick. I stopped and leaned against the marbled wall and pushed my hat around on my head and suddenly I laughed.
A girl passing me on the way from the elevators back to her work turned and gave me one of those looks which are supposed to make your spine feel like a run in a stocking. I waved my hand at her and went back to my office and grabbed the phone. I called up a man I knew who worked on the Lot Books of a title company. “Can you find a property by the address alone?” I asked him.
“Sure. We have a cross-index. What is it?”
“1644 West 54th Place. I’d like to know a little something about the condition of the title.”
“I’d better call you back. What’s that number?”
He called back in about three minutes.
“Get your pencil out,” he said. “It’s Lot 8 of Block 11 of Caraday’s Addition to the Maplewood Tract Number 4. The owner of record, subject to certain things, is Jessie Pierce Florian, widow.”
“Yeah. What things?”
“Second half taxes, two ten-year street improvement bonds, one storm drain assessment bond also ten year, none of these delinquent, also a first trust deed of $2600.”
“You mean one of those things where they can sell you out on ten minutes’ notice?”
“Not quite that quick, but a lot quicker than a mortgage. There’s nothing unusual about it except the amount. It’s high for that neighborhood, unless it’s a new house.”
“It’s a very old house and in bad repair,” I said. “I’d say fifteen hundred would buy the place.”
“Then it’s distinctly unusual, because the refinancing was done only four years ago.”
“Okey, who holds it? Some investment company?”
“No. An individual. Man named Lindsay Marriott, a single man. Okey?”
I forget what I said to him or what thanks I made. They probably sounded like words. I sat there, just staring at the wall.
My stomach suddenly felt fine. I was hungry. I went down to the Mansion House Coffee Shop and ate lunch and got my car out of the parking lot next to my building.
I drove south and east, towards West 54th Place. I didn’t carry any liquor with me this time.
SIXTEEN
The block looked just as it had looked the day before. The street was empty except for an ice truck, two Fords in driveways, and a swirl of dust going around a corner. I drove slowly past No. 1644 and parked farther along and studied the houses on either side of mine. I walked back and stopped in front of it, looking at the tough palm tree and the drab unwatered scrap of lawn. The house seemed empty, but probably wasn’t. It just had that look. The lonely rocker on the front porch stood just where it had stood yesterday. There was a throw-away paper on the walk. I picked it up and slapped it against my leg and then I saw the curtain move next door, in the near front window.
Old Nosey again. I yawned and tilted my hat down. A sharp nose almost flattened itself against the inside of the glass. White hair above it, and eyes that were just eyes from where I stood. I strolled along the sidewalk and the eyes watched me. I turned in towards her house. I climbed the wooden steps and rang the bell.
The door snapped open as if it had been on a spring. She was a tall old bird with a chin like a rabbit. Seen from close her eyes were as sharp as lights on still water. I took my hat off.
“Are you the lady who called the police about Mrs. Florian?” She stared at me coolly and missed nothing about me, probably not even the mole on my right shoulder blade.
“I ain’t sayin’ I am, young man, and I ain’t sayin’ I ain’t. Who are you?” It was a high twangy voice, made for talking over an eight party line.
“I’m a detective.”
“Land’s sakes. Why didn’t you say so? What’s she done now? I ain’t seen a thing and I ain’t missed a minute. Henry done all the goin’ to the store for me. Ain’t been a sound out of there.”
She snapped the screen door unhooked and drew me in. The hall smelled of furniture oil. It had a lot of dark furniture that had once been in good style. Stuff with inlaid panels and scollops at the corners. We went into a front room that had cotton lace antimacassars pinned on everything you could stick a pin into.
“Say, didn’t I see you before?” she asked suddenly, a note of suspicion crawling around in her voice. “Sure enough I did. You was the man that—”
“That’s right. And I’m still a detective. Who’s Henry?”
“Oh, he’s just a little colored boy that does errands for me. Well, what you want, young man?” She patted a clean red and white apron and gave me the beady eye. She clicked her store teeth a couple of times fo
r practice.
“Did the officers come here yesterday after they went to Mrs. Florian’s house?”
“What officers?”
“The uniformed officers,” I said patiently.
“Yes, they was here a minute. They didn’t know nothing.”
“Describe the big man to me—the one that had a gun and made you call up.”
She described him with complete accuracy. It was Malloy all right.
“What kind of car did he drive?”
“A little car. He couldn’t hardly get into it.”
“That’s all you can say? This man’s a murderer!”
Her mouth gaped, but her eyes were pleased. “Land’s sakes, I wish I could tell you, young man. But I never knew much about cars. Murder, eh? Folks ain’t safe a minute in this town. When I come here twenty-two years ago we didn’t lock our doors hardly. Now it’s gangsters and crooked police and politicians fightin’ each other with machine guns, so I’ve heard. Scandalous is what it is, young man.”
“Yeah. What do you know about Mrs. Florian?”
The small mouth puckered. “She ain’t neighborly. Plays her radio loud late nights. Sings. She don’t talk to anybody.” She leaned forward a little. “I’m not positive, but my opinion is she drinks liquor.”
“She have many visitors?”
“She don’t have no visitors at all.”
“You’d know, of course, Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Morrison. Land’s sakes, yes. What else have I got to do but look out of the windows?”
“I bet it’s fun. Mrs. Florian has lived here a long time?”
“About ten years, I reckon. Had a husband once. Looked like a bad one to me. He died.” She paused and thought. “I guess he died natural,” she added. “I never heard different.”
“Left her money?”
Her eyes receded and her chin followed them. She sniffed hard. “You been drinkin’ liquor,” she said coldly.
Farewell, My Lovely Page 9