raymondchandler.thehighwindow-第12部分

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　 Another　batter　struck　out　or　flied　out　behind　my　back　in　the　recreated　ball　game。　I　turned　from　watching　the　tall　Italian；　put　the　key　into　the　door　of　Apartment　204　and　went　in。
　 A　square　room　with　a　brown　carpet；　very　little　furniture　and　that　not　inviting。　The　wall　bed　with　the　usual　distorting　mirror　faced　me　as　I　opened　the　door　and　made　me　look　like　a　two…time　loser　sneaking　home　from　a　reefer　party。　There　was　a　birchwood　easy　chair　with　some　hard　looking　upholstery　beside　it　in　the　form　of　a　davenport。　A　table　before　the　window　held　a　lamp　with　a　shirred　paper　shade。　There　was　a　door　on　either　side　of　the　bed。
　 The　door　to　the　left　led　into　a　small　kitchenette　with　a　brown　woodstone　sink　and　a　three…burner　stove　and　an　old　electric　icebox　that　clicked　and　began　to　throb　in　torment　just　as　I　pushed　the　door　open。　On　the　woodstone　drain　board　stood　the　remains　of　somebody's　breakfast；　mud　at　the　bottom　of　a　cup；　a　burnt　crust　of　bread；　crumbs　on　a　board；　a　yellow　slime　of　melted　butter　down　the　slope　of　a　saucer；　a　smeared　knife　and　a　granite　coffee　pot　that　smelled　like　sacks　in　a　hot　barn。
　 I　went　back　around　the　wall　bed　and　through　the　other　door。　It　gave　on　a　short　hallway　with　an　open　space　for　clothes　and　a　built…in　dresser。　On　the　dresser　was　a　b　and　a　black　brush　with　a　few　blond　hairs　in　its　black　bristles。　Also　a　can　of　talcum；　a　small　flashlight　with　a　cracked　lens；　a　pad　of　writing　paper；　a　bank　pen；　a　bottle　of　ink　on　a　blotter；　cigarettes　and　matches　in　a　glass　ashtray　that　contained　half　a　dozen　stubs。
　 In　the　drawers　of　the　dresser　were　about　what　one　suitcase　would　hold　in　the　way　of　socks　and　underclothes　and　handkerchiefs。　There　was　a　dark　gray　suit　on　a　hanger；　not　new　but　still　good；　and　a　pair　of　rather　dusty　black　brogues　on　the　floor　under　it。
　 I　pushed　the　bathroom　door。　It　opened　about　a　foot　and　then　stuck。　My　nose　twitched　and　I　could　feel　my　lips　stiffen　and　I　smelled　the　harsh　sharp　bitter　smell　from　beyond　the　door。　I　leaned　against　it。　It　gave　a　little；　but　came　back；　as　though　somebody　was　holding　it　against　me。　I　poked　my　head　through　the　opening。
　 The　floor　of　the　bathroom　was　too　short　for　him；　so　his　knees　were　poked　up　and　hung　outwards　slackly　and　his　head　was　pressed　against　the　woodstone　baseboard　at　the　other　end；　not　tilted　up；　but　jammed　tight。　His　brown　suit　was　rumpled　a　little　and　his　dark　glasses　stuck　out　of　his　breast　pocket　at　an　unsafe　angle。　As　if　that　mattered。　His　right　hand　was　thrown　across　his　stomach；　his　left　hand　lay　on　the　floor；　palm　up；　the　fingers　curled　a　little。　There　was　a　blood…caked　bruise　on　the　right　side　of　his　head；　in　the　blond　hair。　His　open　mouth　was　full　of　shiny　crimson　blood。
　 The　door　was　stopped　by　his　leg。　I　pushed　hard　and　edged　around　it　and　got　in。　I　bent　down　to　push　two　fingers　into　the　side　of　his　neck　against　the　big　artery。　No　artery　throbbed　there；　or　even　whispered。　Nothing　at　all。　The　skin　was　icy。　It　couldn't　have　been　icy。　I　just　thought　it　was。　I　straightened　up　and　leaned　my　back　against　the　door　and　made　hard　fists　in　my　pockets　and　smelled　the　cordite　fumes。　The　baseball　game　was　still　going　on；　but　through　two　closed　doors　it　sounded　remote。
　 I　stood　and　looked　down　at　him。　Nothing　in　that；　Marlowe；　nothing　at　all。　Nothing　for　you　here；　nothing。　You　didn't　even　know　him。　Get　out；　get　out　fast。
　 I　pulled　away　from　the　door　and　pulled　it　open　and　went　back　through　the　hall　into　the　living　room。　A　face　in　the　mirror　looked　at　me。　A　strained；　leering　face。　I　turned　away　from　it　quickly　and　took　out　the　flat　key　George　Anson　Phillips　had　given　me　and　rubbed　it　between　my　moist　palms　and　laid　it　down　beside　the　lamp。
　 I　smeared　the　doorknob　opening　the　door　and　the　outside　knob　closing　the　door。　The　Dodgers　were　ahead　seven　to　three；　the　first　half　of　the　eighth。　A　lady　who　sounded　well　on　with　her　drinking　was　singing　Frankie　and　Johnny；　the　roundhouse　version；　in　a　voice　that　even　whiskey　had　failed　to　improve。　A　deep　man's　voice　growled　at　her　to　shut　up　and　she　kept　on　singing　and　there　was　a　hard　quick　movement　across　the　floor　and　a　smack　and　a　yelp　and　she　stopped　singing　and　the　baseball　game　went　right　on。
　 I　put　the　cigarette　in　my　mouth　and　lit　it　and　went　back　down　the　stairs　and　stood　in　the　half　dark　of　the　hall　angle　looking　at　the　little　sign　that　read：　Manager；　Apt。　106。
　 I　was　a　fool　even　to　look　at　it。　I　looked　at　it　for　a　long　minute；　biting　the　cigarette　hard　between　my　teeth。
　 I　turned　and　walked　down　the　hallway　towards　the　back。　A　small　enameled　plate　on　a　door　said：　Manager。　I　knocked　on　the　door。
　
　
　9
　
　 A　chair　was　pushed　back；　feet　shuffled；　the　door　opened。
　 〃You　the　manager？〃
　 〃Yeah。〃　It　was　the　same　voice　I　had　heard　over　the　telephone。　Talking　to　Elisha　Morningstar。
　 He　held　an　empty　smeared　glass　in　his　hand。　It　looked　as　if　somebody　had　been　keeping　goldfish　in　it。　He　was　a　lanky　man　with　carroty　short　hair　growing　down　to　a　point　on　his　forehead。　He　had　a　long　narrow　head　packed　with　shabby　cunning。　Greenish　eyes　stared　under　orange　eyebrows。　His　ears　were　large　and　might　have　flapped　in　a　high　wind。　He　had　a　long　nose　that　would　be　into　things。　The　whole　face　was　a　trained　face；　a　face　that　would　know　how　to　keep　a　secret；　a　face　that　held　the　effortless　posure　of　a　corpse　in　the　morgue。
　 He　wore　his　vest　open；　no　coat；　a　woven　hair　watchguard；　and　round　blue　sleeve　garters　with　metal　clasps。　
　 I　said：　〃Mr。　Anson？〃
　 〃Two…o…four。〃
　 〃He's　not　in。〃
　 〃What　should　I　dolay　an　egg？〃
　 〃Neat；〃　I　said。　〃You　have　them　all　the　time；　or　is　this　your　birthday？〃
　 〃Beat　it；〃　he　said。　〃Drift。〃　He　started　to　close　the　door。　He　opened　it　again　to　say：　〃Take　the　air。　Scram。　Push　off〃　Having　made　his　meaning　clear　he　started　to　close　the　door　again。
　 I　leaned　against　the　door。　He　leaned　against　it　on　his　side。　That　brought　our　faces　close　together。　〃Five　bucks；〃　I　said。
　 It　rocked　him。　He　opened　the　door　very　suddenly　and　I　had　to　take　a　quick　step　forward　in　order　not　to　butt　his　chin　with　my　head。
　 〃e　in；〃　he　said。
　 A　living　room　with　a　wallbed；　everything　strictly　to　specifications；　even　to　the　shirred　paper　lampshade　and　the　glass　ashtray。　This　room　was　painted　egg…yolk　yellow。　All　it　needed　was　a　few　fat　black　spiders　painted　on　the　yellow　to　be　anybody's　bilious　attack。
　 〃Sit　down；〃　he　said；　shutting　the　door。
　 I　sat　down。　We　looked　at　each　other　with　the　clear　innocent　eyes　of　a　couple　of　used　car　salesmen。
　 〃Beer？〃　he　said。
　 〃Thanks。〃
　 He　opened　two　cans；　filled　the　smeared　glass　he　had　been　holding；　and　reached　for　another　like　it。　I　said　I　would　drink　out　of　the　can。　He　handed　me　the　can。
　 〃A　dime；〃　he　said。
　 I　gave　him　a　dime。
　 He　dropped　it　into　his　vest　and　went　on　looking　at　me。　He　pulled　a　chair　over　and　sat　in　it　and　spread　his　bony　upjutting　knees　and　let　his　empty　hand　droop　between　them。
　 〃I　ain't　interested　in　your　five　bucks；〃　he　said。
　 〃That's　fine；〃　I　said。　〃I　wasn't　really　thinking　of　giving　it　to　you。〃
　 〃A　wisey；〃　he　said。　〃What　gives？　We　run　a　nice　respectable　place　here。　No　funny　stuff　gets　pulled。〃
　 〃Quiet　too；〃　I　said。　〃Upstairs　you　could　almost　hear　an　eagle　scream。〃
　 His　smile　was　wide；　about　three　quarters　of　an　inch。　〃I　don't　amuse　easy；〃　he　said。
　 〃Just　like　Queen　Victoria；〃　I　said。
　 〃I　don't　get　it。〃
　 〃I　don't　expect　miracles；〃　I　said。　The　meaningless　talk　had　a　sort　of　cold　bracing　effect　on　me；　making　a　mood　with　a　hard　gritty　edge。
　 I　got　my　wallet　out　and　selected　a　card　from　it。　It　wasn't　my　card。　It　read：　James　B。　Pollock；　Reliance　Indemnity　pany；　Field　Agent。　I　tried　to　remember　what　James　B。　Pollock　looked　like　and　where　I　had　met　him。　I　couldn't。　I　handed　the　carroty　man　the　card。
　 He　read　it　and　scratched　the　end　of　his　nose　with　one　of　the　corners。　〃Wrong　john？〃　he　asked；　keeping　his　green　eyes　plastered　to　my　face。　
　 〃Jewelry；〃　I　said　and　waved　a　hand。
　 He　thought　this　over。　While　he　thought　it　over　I　tried　to　make　up　my　mind　whether　it　worried　him　at　all。　It　didn't　seem　to。
　 〃We　get　one　once　in　a　while；〃　he　conceded。　〃You　can't　help　it。　He　didn't　look　like　it　to　me；　though。　Soft　looking。〃
　 〃Maybe　I　got　a　bum　steer；〃　I　said。　I　described　George　Anson　Phillips　to　him；　George　Anson　Phillips　alive；　in　his　brown　suit　and　his　dark　glasses　and　his　cocoa　straw　hat　with　the　brown　and　yellow　print　band。　I　wondered　what　had　happened　to　the　hat。　It　hadn't　been　up　there。　He　must　have　got　rid　of　it；　thinking　it　was　too　conspicuous。　His　blond　head　was　almost；　but　not　quite；　as　bad。
　 〃That　sound　like　him？〃
　 The　carroty　man　took　his　time　making　up　his　mind。　Finally　he　nodded　yes；　green　eyes　watching　me　carefully；　lean　hard　hand　holding　the　card　up　to　his　mouth　and　running　the　card　along　his　teeth　like　a　stick　along　the　palings　of　a　picket　fence。
　 〃I　didn't　figure　him　for　no　crook；〃　he　said。　〃But　hell；　they　e　all　sizes　and　shapes。　Only　been　here　a　month。　If　he　looked　like　a　wrong　gee；　wouldn't　have　been　here　at　all。〃
　 I　did　a　good　job　of　not　laughing　in　his　face。　〃What　say　we　frisk　the　apartment　while　he's　out？〃
　 He　shook　his　head。　〃Mr。　Palermo　wouldn't　like　it。〃
　 〃Mr。　Palermo？〃
　 〃He's　the　owner。　Across　the　street。