raymondchandler.thehighwindow-第11部分
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〃Fine。 Got it with you？ That leaves you two hundred。 Fair enough。 A quick turnover； a reasonable profit and no trouble for anybody。〃
〃It is not in my office；〃 he said。 〃Do you take me for a fool？〃 He reached an ancient silver watch out of his vest on a black fob。 He screwed up his eyes to look at it。 〃Let us say eleven in the morning；〃 he said。 〃e back with your money。 The coin may or may not be here； but if I am satisfied with your behavior； I will arrange matters。〃
〃That is satisfactory；〃 I said； and stood up。 〃I have to get the money anyhow。〃
〃Have it in used bills；〃 he said almost dreamily。 〃Used twenties will do。 An occasional fifty will do no harm。〃
I grinned and started for the door。 Halfway there I turned around and went back to lean both hands on the desk and push my face over it。
〃What did she look like？〃
He looked blank。
〃The girl that sold you the coin。〃
He looked blanker。
〃Okay；〃 I said。 〃It wasn't a girl。 She had help。 It was a man。 What did the man look like？〃
He pursed his lips and made another steeple with his fingers。 〃He was a middle…aged man； heavy set； about five feet seven inches tall and weighing around one hundred and seventy pounds。 He said his name was Smith。 He wore a blue suit； black shoes； a green tie and shirt； no hat。 There was a brown bordered handkerchief in his outer pocket。 His hair was dark brown sprinkled with gray。 There was a bald patch about the size of a dollar on the crown of his head and a scar about two inches long running down the side of his jaw。 On the left side； I think。 Yes； on the left side。〃
〃Not bad；〃 I said。 〃What about the hole in his right sock？〃
〃I omitted to take his shoes off。〃
〃Darn careless of you；〃 I said。
He didn't say anything。 We just stared at each other； half curious； half hostile； like new neighbors。 Then suddenly he went into his laugh again。
The five dollar bill I had given him was still lying on his side of the desk。 I flicked a hand across and took it。
〃You won't want this now；〃 I said。 〃Since we started talking in thousands。〃
He stopped laughing very suddenly。 Then he shrugged。
〃At eleven a。m。；〃 he said。 〃And no tricks； Mr。 Marlowe。 Don't think I don't know how to protect myself。〃
〃I hope you do；〃 I said； 〃because what you are handling is dynamite。〃
I left him and tramped across the empty outer office and opened the door and let it shut； staying inside。 There ought to be footsteps outside in the corridor； but his transom was closed and I hadn't made much noise ing on crepe rubber soles。 I hoped he would remember that。 I sneaked back across the threadbare carpet and edged in behind the door； between the door and the little closed typewriter desk。 A kid trick； but once in a while it will work； especially after a lot of smart conversation； full of worldliness and sly wit。 Like a sucker play in football。 And if it didn't work this time； we would just be there sneering at each other again。
It worked。 Nothing happened for a while except that a nose was blown。 Then all by himself in there he went into his sick rooster laugh again。 Then a throat was cleared。 Then a swivel chair squeaked； and feet walked。
A dingy white head poked into the room； about two inches past the end of the door。 It hung there suspended and I went into a state of suspended animation。 Then the head was drawn back and four unclean fingernails came around the edge of the door and pulled。 The door closed； clicked； was shut。 I started breathing again and put my ear to the wooden panel。
The swivel chair squeaked once more。 The threshing sound of a telephone being dialed。 I lunged across to the instrument on the little typewriter desk and lifted it。 At the other end of the line the bell had started to ring。 It rang six times。 Then a man's voice said： 〃Yeah？〃
〃The Florence Aparments？〃
〃Yeah。〃
〃I'd like to speak to Mr。 Anson in Apartment two…o…four。〃
〃Hold the wire。 I'll see if he's in。〃
Mr。 Morningstar and I held the wire。 Noise came over it； the blaring sound of a loud radio broadcasting a baseball game。 It was not close to the telephone； but it was noisy enough。
Then I could hear the hollow sound of steps ing nearer and the harsh rattle of the telephone receiver being picked up and the voice said：
〃Not in。 Any message？〃
〃I'll call later；〃 Mr。 Morningstar said。
I hung up fast and did a rapid glide across the floor to the entrance door and opened it very silently； like snow falling； and let it close the same way； taking its weight at the last moment； so that the click of the catch would not have been heard three feet away。
I breathed hard and tight going down the hall； listening to myself。 I pushed the elevator button。 Then I got out the card which Mr。 George Anson Phillips had given me in the lobby of the Hotel Metropole。 I didn't look at it in any real sense。 I didn't have to look at it to recall that it referred to Apartment 204； Florence Apartments； 128 Court Street。 I just stood there flicking it with a fingernail while the old elevator came heaving up in the shaft； straining like a gravel truck on a hairpin turn。
The time was three…fifty。
8
Bunker Hill is old town； lost town； shabby town； crook town。 Once； very long ago； it was the choice residential district of the city； and there are still standing a few of the jigsaw Gothic mansions with wide porches and walls covered with round…end shingles and full corner bay windows with spindle turrets。 They are all rooming houses now； their parquetry floors are scratched and worn through the once glossy finish and the wide sweeping staircases are dark with time and with cheap varnish laid on over generations of dirt。 In the tall rooms haggard landladies bicker with shifty tenants。 On the wide cool front porches； reaching their cracked shoes into the sun； and staring at nothing； sit the old men with faces like lost battles。
In and around the old houses there are flyblown restaurants and Italian fruitstands and cheap apartment houses and little candy stores where you can buy even nastier things than their candy。 And there are ratty hotels where nobody except people named Smith and Jones sign the register and where the night clerk is half watchdog and half pander。
Out of the apartment houses e women who should be young but have faces like stale beer； men with pulled…down hats and quick eyes that look the street over behind the cupped hand that shields the match flame； worn intellectuals with cigarette coughs and no money in the bank； fly cops with granite faces and unwavering eyes； cokies and coke peddlers； people who look like nothing in particular and know it； and once in a while even men that actually go to work。 But they e out early； when the wide cracked sidewalks are empty and still have dew on them。
I was earlier than four…thirty getting over there； but not much。 I parked at the end of the street； where the funicular railway es struggling up the yellow clay bank from Hill Street； and walked along Court Street to the Florence Apartments。 It was dark brick in front； three stories； the lower windows at sidewalk level and masked by rusted screens and dingy net curtains。 The entrance door had a glass panel and enough of the name left to be read。 I opened it and went down three brass bound steps into a hallway you could touch on both sides without stretching。 Dim doors painted with numbers in dim paint。 An alcove at the foot of the stairs with a pay telephone。 A sign： Manager Apt。 106。 At the back of the hallway a screen door and in the alley beyond it four tall battered garbage pails in a line； with a dance of flies in the sunlit air above them。
I went up the stairs。 The radio I had heard over the telephone was still blatting the baseball game。 I read numbers and went up front。 Apartment 204 was on the right side and the baseball game was right across the hall from it。 I knocked； got no answer and knocked louder。 Behind my back three Dodgers struck out against a welter of synthetic crowd noise。 I knocked a third time and looked out of the front hall window while I felt in my pocket for the key George Anson Phillips had given me。
Across the street was an Italian funeral home； neat and quiet and reticent； white painted brick； flush with the sidewalk。 Pietro Palermo Funeral Parlors。 The thin green script of a neon sign lay across its fa？ade； with a chaste air。 A tall man in dark clothes came out of the front door and leaned against the white wall。 He looked very handsome。 He had dark skin and a handsome head of iron…gray hair brushed back from his forehead。 He got out what looked at that distance to be a silver or platinum and black enamel cigarette case； opened it languidly with two long brown fingers and selected a gold…tipped cigarette。 He put the case away and lit the cigarette with a pocket lighter that seemed to match the case。 He put that away and folded his arms and stared at nothing with half…closed eyes。 From the tip of his motionless cigarette a thin wisp of smoke rose straight up past his face； as thin and straight as the smoke of a dying campfire at dawn。
Another batter struck out or flied out behind my back in the recreated ball game。 I turned from watching the tall Italian；
