raymondchandler.thehighwindow-第33部分
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t her in。 He just sort of sat there sort of leering。〃
He nodded and said： 〃Oh。〃 He pushed a cigarette between his heavy lips and lit it。 〃If you expect me to tell you whether she really thinks she shot him； I can't do it。 From your description I gather that the man is shot。 That so？〃
〃Brother； I haven't been there。 But that much seems pretty clear。〃
〃If she thinks she shot him and isn't just actingand God； how these types do act！that indicates it was not a new idea to her。 You say she carried a gun。 So perhaps it wasn't。 She may have a guilt plex。 Wants to be punished； wants to expiate some real or imaginary crime。 Again I ask what do you want me to do with her？ She's not sick； she's not loony。〃
〃She's not going back to Pasadena。〃
〃Oh。〃 He looked at me curiously。 〃Any family？〃
〃In Wichita。 Father's a vet。 I'll call him； but she'll have to stay here tonight。〃
〃I don't know about that。 Does she trust you enough to spend the night in your apartment？〃
〃She came here of her own free will； and not socially。 So I guess she does。〃
He shrugged and fingered the sidewall of his coarse black mustache。 〃Well； I'll give her some nembutal and we'll put her to bed。 And you can walk the floor wrestling with your conscience。〃
〃I have to go out；〃 I said。 〃I have to go over there and see what has happened。 And she can't stay here alone。 And no man； not even a doctor is going to put her to bed。 Get a nurse。 I'll sleep somewhere else。〃
〃Phil Marlowe；〃 he said。 〃The shop…soiled Galahad。 Okay。 I'll stick around until the nurse es。〃
He went back into the living room and telephoned the Nurses' Registry。 Then he telephoned his wife。 While he was telephoning； Merle sat up on the davenport and clasped her hands primly in her lap。
〃I don't see why the lamp was on；〃 she said。 〃It wasn't dark in the house at all。 Not that dark。〃
I said： 〃What's your dad's first name？〃
〃Dr。 Wilbur Davis。 Why？〃
〃Wouldn't you like something to eat？〃
At the telephone Carl Moss said to me： 〃Tomorrow will do for that。 This is probably just a lull。〃 He finished his call； hung up； went to his bag and came back with a couple of yellow capsules in his hand on a fragment of cotton。 He got a glass of water； handed her the capsules and said： 〃Swallow。〃
〃I'm not sick； am I？〃 she said； looking up at him。
〃Swallow； my child； swallow。〃
She took them and put them in her mouth and took the glass of water and drank。
I put my hat on and left。
On the way down in the elevator I remembered that there hadn't been any keys in her bag； so I stopped at the lobby floor and went out through the lobby to the Bristol Avenue side。 The car was not hard to find。 It was parked crookedly about two feet from the curb。 It was a gray Mercury convertible and its license number was 2X1111。 I remembered that this was the number of Linda Murdock's car。
A leather keyholder hung in the lock。 I got into the car； started the engine； saw that there was plenty of gas； and drove it away。 It was a nice eager little car。 Over Cahuenga Pass it had the wings of a bird。
29
Escamillo Drive made three jogs in four blocks； for no reason that I could see。 It was very narrow； averaged about five houses to a block and was overhung by a section of shaggy brown foothill on which nothing lived at this season except sage and manzanita。 In its fifth and last block； Escamillo Drive did a neat little curve to the left； hit the base of the hill hard； and died without a whimper。 In this last block were three houses； two on the opposite entering corners； one at the dead end。 This was Vannier's。 My spotlight showed the key still in the door。
It was a narrow English type bungalow with a high roof； leaded front windows； a garage to the side； and a trailer parked beside the garage。 The early moon lay quietly on its small lawn。 A large oak tree grew almost on the front porch。 There was no light in the house now； none visible from the front at least。
From the lay of the land a light in the living room in the daytime did not seem utterly improbable。 It would be a dark house except in the morning。 As a love nest the place had its points； but as a residence for a blackmailer I didn't give it very high marks。 Sudden death can e to you anywhere； but Vannier had made it too easy。
I turned into his driveway； backed to get myself pointed out of the dead end； and then drove down to the corner and parked there。 I walked back in the street because there was no sidewalk。 The front door was made of ironbound oak planks； bevelled where they joined。 There was a thumb latch instead of a knob。 The head of the flat key projected from the lock。 I rang the bell； and it rang with that remote sound of a bell ringing at night in an empty house。 I walked around the oak tree and poked the light of my pencil flash between the leaves of the garage door。 There was a car in there。 I went back around the house and looked at a small flowerless yard walled in by a low wall of fieldstone。 Three more oak trees； a table and a couple of all metal chairs under one of them。 A rubbish burner at the back。 I shone my light into the trailer before I went back to the front。 There didn't seem to be anybody in the trailer。 Its door was locked。
I opened the front door； leaving the key in the lock。 I wasn't going to work any dipsy…doodle in this place。 What ever was； was。 I just wanted to make sure。 I felt around on the wall inside the door for a light switch； found one and tilted it up。 Pale flame bulbs in pairs in wall brackets went on all around the room； showing me the big lamp Merle had spoken of； as well as other things。 I went over to switch the lamp on； then back to switch the wall light off。 The lamp had a big bulb inverted in a porcelain glass bowl。 You could get three different intensities of light。 I clicked the button switch around until I had all there was。
The room ran from front to back； with a door at the back and an arch up front to the right。 Inside that was a small dining room。 Curtains were half drawn across the arch； heavy pale green brocade curtains； far from new。 The fireplace was in the middle of the left wall； bookshelves opposite and on both sides of it； not built in。 Two davenports angled across the corners of the room and there was one gold chair； one pink chair； one brown chair； one brown and gold jacquard chair with footstool。
Yellow pajama legs were on the footstool； bare ankles； feet in dark green morocco leather slippers。 My eyes ran up from the feet； slowly； carefully。 A dark green figured silk robe； tied with a tasseled belt。 Open above the belt showing a monogram on the pocket of the pajamas。 A handkerchief neat in the pocket； two stiff points of white linen。 A yellow neck； the face turned sideways； pointed at a mirror on the wall。 I walked around and looked in the mirror。 The face leered all right。
The left arm and hand lay between a knee and the side of the chair； the right arm hung outside the chair； the ends of the fingers touching the rug。 Touching also the butt of a small revolver； about 。32 caliber； a belly gun； with practically no barrel。 The right side of the face was against the back of the chair； but the right shoulder was dark brown with blood and there was some on the right sleeve。 Also on the chair。 A lot of it on the chair。
I didn't think his head had taken that position naturally。 Some sensitive soul had not liked the right side of it。
I lifted my foot and gently pushed the footstool sideways a few inches。 The heels of the slippers moved reluctantly over the jacquard surface； not with it。 The man was as stiff as a board。 So I reached down and touched his ankle。 Ice was never half as cold。
On a table at his right elbow was half of a dead drink； an ashtray full of butts and ash。 Three of the butts had lipstick on them。 Bright Chinese red lipstick。 What a blond would use。
There was another ashtray beside another chair。 Matches in it and a lot of ash； but no stubs。
On the air of the room a rather heavy perfume struggled with the smell of death； and lost。 Although defeated； it was still there。
I poked through the rest of the house； putting lights on and off。 Two bedrooms； one furnished in light wood； one in red maple。 The light one seemed to be a spare。 A nice bathroom with tan and mulberry tiling and a stall shower with a glass door。 The kitchen was small。 There were a lot of bottles on the sink。 Lots of bottles； lots of glass； lots of fingerprints； lots of evidence。 Or not； as the case may be。
I went back to the living room and stood in the middle of the floor breathing with my mouth as far as possible and wondering what the score would be when I turned this one in。 Turn this one in and report that I was the fellow who had found Morningstar and run away。 The score would be low； very low。 Marlowe； three murders。 Marlowe practically kneedeep in dead men。 And no reasonable； logical； friendly account of himself whatsoever。 But that wasn't the worst of it。 The minute I opened up I would cease to be a free agent。 I would be through with doing whatever it was I was doing and with finding out whatever it was I was finding out。
Carl Moss might be willing to protect Merle with the mantle of Aesculapius
