raymondchandler.thehighwindow-第34部分

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as　I　was　finding　out。
　 Carl　Moss　might　be　willing　to　protect　Merle　with　the　mantle　of　Aesculapius；　up　to　a　point。　Or　he　might　think　it　would　do　her　more　good　in　the　long　run　to　get　it　all　off　her　chest；　whatever　it　was。
　 I　wandered　back　to　the　jacquard　chair　and　set　my　teeth　and　grabbed　enough　of　his　hair　to　pull　the　head　away　from　the　chair　back。　The　bullet　had　gone　in　at　the　temple。　The　set…up　could　be　for　suicide。　But　people　like　Louis　Vannier　do　not　mit　suicide。　A　blackmailer；　even　a　scared　blackmailer；　has　a　sense　of　power；　and　loves　it。
　 I　let　the　head　go　back　where　it　wanted　to　go　and　leaned　down　to　scrub　my　hand　on　the　nap　of　the　rug。　Leaning　down　I　saw　the　corner　of　a　picture　frame　under　the　lower　shelf　of　the　table　at　Vannier's　elbow。　I　went　around　and　reached　for　it　with　a　handkerchief。
　 The　glass　was　cracked　across。　It　had　fallen　off　the　wall。　I　could　see　the　small　nail。　I　could　make　a　guess　how　it　had　happened。　Somebody　standing　at　Vannier's　right；　even　leaning　over　him；　somebody　he　knew　and　had　no　fear　of；　had　suddenly　pulled　a　gun　and　shot　him　in　the　right　temple。　And　then；　startled　by　the　blood　or　the　recoil　of　the　shot；　the　killer　had　jumped　back　against　the　wall　and　knocked　the　picture　down。　It　had　landed　on　a　corner　and　jumped　under　the　table。　And　the　killer　had　been　too　careful　to　touch　it；　or　too　scared。
　 I　looked　at　it。　It　was　a　small　picture；　not　interesting　at　all。　A　guy　in　doublet　and　hose；　with　lace　at　his　sleeve　ends；　and　one　of　those　round　puffy　velvet　hats　with　a　feather；　leaning　far　out　of　a　window　and　apparently　calling　out　to　somebody　downstairs。　Downstairs　not　being　in　the　picture。　It　was　a　color　reproduction　of　something　that　had　never　been　needed　in　the　first　place。
　 I　looked　around　the　room。　There　were　other　pictures；　a　couple　of　rather　nice　water　colors；　some　engravingsvery　old…fashioned　this　year；　engravings；　or　are　they？　Half　a　dozen　in　all。　Well；　perhaps　the　guy　liked　the　picture；　so　what？　A　man　leaning　out　of　a　high　window。　A　long　time　ago。
　 I　looked　at　Vannier。　He　wouldn't　help　me　at　all。　A　man　leaning　out　of　a　high　window；　a　long　time　ago。
　 The　touch　of　the　idea　at　first　was　so　light　that　I　almost　missed　it　and　passed　on。　A　touch　of　a　feather；　hardly　that。　The　touch　of　a　snowflake。　A　high　window；　a　man　leaning　outa　long　time　ago。
　 It　snapped　in　place。　It　was　so　hot　it　sizzled。　Out　of　a　high　window　a　long　time　agoeight　years　agoa　man　leaningtoo　fara　man　fallingto　his　death。　A　man　named　Horace　Bright。
　 〃Mr。　Vannier；〃　I　said　with　a　little　touch　of　admiration；　〃you　played　that　rather　neatly。〃
　 I　turned　the　picture　over。　On　the　back　dates　and　amounts　of　money　were　written。　Dates　over　almost　eight　years；　amounts　mostly　of　500；　a　few　750's；　two　for　1000。　There　was　a　running　total　in　small　figures。　It　was　11；100。　Mr。　Vannier　had　not　received　the　latest　payment。　He　had　been　dead　when　it　arrived。　It　was　not　a　lot　of　money；　spread　over　eight　years。　Mr。　Vannier's　customer　had　bargained　hard。
　 The　cardboard　back　was　fastened　into　the　frame　with　steel　victrola　needles。　Two　of　them　had　fallen　out。　I　worked　the　cardboard　loose　and　tore　it　a　little　getting　it　loose。　There　was　a　white　envelope　between　the　back　and　the　picture。　Sealed；　blank。　I　tore　it　open。　It　contained　two　square　photographs　and　a　negative。　The　photos　were　just　the　same。　They　showed　a　man　leaning　far　out　of　a　window　with　his　mouth　open　yelling。　His　hands　were　on　the　brick　edges　of　the　window　frame。　There　was　a　woman's　face　behind　his　shoulder。
　 He　was　a　thinnish　dark…haired　man。　His　face　was　not　very　clear；　nor　the　face　of　the　woman　behind　him。　He　was　leaning　out　of　a　window　and　yelling　or　calling　out。
　 There　I　was　holding　the　photograph　and　looking　at　it。　And　so　far　as　I　could　see　it　didn't　mean　a　thing。　I　knew　it　had　to。　I　just　didn't　know　why。　But　I　kept　on　looking　at　it。　And　in　a　little　while　something　was　wrong。　It　was　a　very　small　thing；　but　it　was　vital。　The　position　of　the　man's　hands；　lined　against　the　corner　of　the　wall　where　it　was　cut　out　to　make　the　window　frame。　The　hands　were　not　holding　anything；　they　were　not　touching　anything。　It　was　the　inside　of　his　wrists　that　lined　against　the　angle　of　the　bricks。　The　hands　were　in　air。
　 The　man　was　not　leaning。　He　was　falling。
　 I　put　the　stuff　back　in　the　envelope　and　folded　the　cardboard　back　and　stuffed　that　into　my　pocket　also。　I　hid　frame；　glass　and　picture　in　the　linen　closet　under　towels。
　 All　this　had　taken　too　long。　A　car　stopped　outside　the　house。　Feet　came　up　the　walk。
　 I　dodged　behind　the　curtains　in　the　archway。
　
　
　30
　
　 The　front　door　opened　and　then　quietly　closed。
　 There　was　a　silence；　hanging　in　the　air　like　a　man's　breath　in　frosty　air；　and　then　a　thick　scream；　ending　in　a　wail　of　despair。
　 Then　a　man's　voice；　tight　with　fury；　saying：　〃Not　bad；　not　good。　Try　again。〃
　 The　woman's　voice　said：　〃My　God；　it's　Louis！　He's　dead！〃　
　 The　man's　voice　said：　〃I　may　be　wrong；　but　I　still　think　it　stinks。〃
　 〃My　God！　He's　dead；　Alex。　Do　somethingfor　God's　sakedo　something！〃
　 〃Yeah；〃　the　hard　tight　voice　of　Alex　Morny　said。　〃I　ought　to。　I　ought　to　make　you　look　just　like　him。　With　blood　and　everything。　I　ought　to　make　you　just　as　dead；　just　as　cold；　just　as　rotten。　No；　I　don't　have　to　do　that。　You're　that　already。　Just　as　rotten。　Eight　months　married　and　cheating　on　me　with　a　piece　of　merchandise　like　that。　My　God！　What　did　I　ever　think　of　to　put　in　with　a　chippy　like　you？〃
　 He　was　almost　yelling　at　the　end　of　it。
　 The　woman　made　another　wailing　noise。
　 〃Quit　stalling；〃　Morny　said　bitterly。　〃What　do　you　think　I　brought　you　over　here　for？　You're　not　kidding　anybody。　You've　been　watched　for　weeks。　You　were　here　last　night。　I've　been　here　already　today。　I've　seen　what　there　is　to　see。　Your　lipstick　on　cigarettes；　your　glass　that　you　drank　out　of。　I　can　see　you　now；　sitting　on　the　arm　of　his　chair；　rubbing　his　greasy　hair；　and　then　feeding　him　a　slug　while　he　was　still　purring。　Why？〃
　 〃Oh；　Alexdarlingdon't　say　such　awful　things。〃
　 〃Early　Lillian　Gish；〃　Morny　said。　〃Very　early　Lillian　Cish。　Skip　the　agony；　toots。　I　have　to　know　how　to　handle　this。　What　the　hell　you　think　I'm　here　for？　I　don't　give　one　little　flash　in　hell　about　you　any　more。　Not　any　more；　toots；　not　any　more；　my　precious　darling　angel　blond　mankiller。　But　I　do　care　about　myself　and　my　reputation　and　my　business。　For　instance；　did　you　wipe　the　gun　off？〃
　 Silence。　Then　the　sound　of　a　blow。　The　woman　wailed。　She　was　hurt；　terribly　hurt。　Hurt　in　the　depths　of　her　soul。　She　made　it　rather　good。
　 〃Look；　angel；〃　Morny　snarled。　〃Don't　feed　me　the　ham。　I've　been　in　pictures。　I'm　a　connoisseur　of　ham。　Skip　it。　You're　going　to　tell　me　how　this　was　done　if　I　have　to　drag　you　around　the　room　by　your　hair。　Nowdid　you　wipe　off　the　gun？〃
　 Suddenly　she　laughed。　An　unnatural　laugh；　but　clear　and　with　a　nice　tinkle　to　it。　Then　she　stopped　laughing；　Just　as　suddenly。
　 Her　voice　said：　〃Yes。〃
　 〃And　the　glass　you　were　using？〃
　 〃Yes。〃　
　 Very　quiet　now；　very　cool；　〃And　you　put　his　prints　on　the　gun？〃　
　 〃Yes。〃
　 He　thought　in　the　silence。　〃Probably　won't　fool　them；〃　he　said。　〃It's　almost　impossible　to　get　a　dead　man's　prints　on　a　gun　in　a　convincing　way。　However。　What　else　did　you　wipe　off。〃
　 〃N…nothing。　Oh　Alex。　Please　don't　be　so　brutal。〃
　 〃Stop　it。　Stop　it！　Show　me　how　you　did　it；　how　you　were　standing；　how　you　held　the　gun。〃
　 She　didn't　move。
　 〃Never　mind　about　the　prints；〃　Morny　said。　〃I'll　put　better　ones　on。　Much　better　ones。〃
　 She　moved　slowly　across　the　opening　of　the　curtains　and　I　saw　her。　She　was　wearing　pale　green　gabardine　slacks；　a　fawn…colored　leisure　jacket　with　stitching　on　it；　a　scarlet　turban　with　a　gold　snake　in　it。　Her　face　was　smeared　with　tears。
　 〃Pick　it　up；〃　Morny　yelled　at　her。　〃Show　me！〃
　 She　bent　beside　the　chair　and　came　up　with　the　gun　in　her　hand　and　her　teeth　bared。　She　pointed　the　gun　across　the　opening　in　the　curtains；　towards　the　space　of　room　where　the　door　was。
　 Morny　didn't　move；　didn't　make　a　sound。
　 The　blond's　hand　began　to　shake　and　the　gun　did　a　queer　up　and　down　dance　in　the　air。　Her　mouth　trembled　and　her　arm　fell。
　 〃I　can't　do　it；〃　she　breathed。　〃I　ought　to　shoot　you；　but　I　can't。〃
　 The　hand　opened　and　the　gun　thudded　to　the　floor。
　 Morny　went　swiftly　past　the　break　in　the　curtains；　pushed　her　out　of　the　way　and　with　his　foot　pushed　the　gun　back　to　about　where　it　had　been。
　 〃You　couldn't　do　it；〃　he　said　thickly。　〃You　couldn't　do　it。　Now　watch。〃
　 He　whipped　a　handkerchief　out　and　bent　to　pick　the　gun　up　again。　He　pressed　something　and　the　gate　fell　open。　He　reached　his　right　hand　into　his　pocket　and　rolled　a　cartridge　in　his　fingers；　moving　his　fingertips　on　the　metal；　pushed　the　cartridge　into　a　cylinder。　He　repeated　the　performance　four　times　more；　snapped　the　gate　shut；　then　opened　it　and　spun　it　a　little　to　set　it　in　a　certain　spot。　He　placed　the　gun　down　on　the　floor；　withdrew　his　hand　and　handkerchief　and　straightened　up。
　 〃You　couldn't　shoot　me；〃　he　sneered；　〃because　there　was　nothing　in　the　gun　but　one　empty　shell。　Now　its　loaded　again。　The　cylinders　are　in　the　right　place。　One　shot　has　been　fired。　And　your　fingerprints　are　on　t