rc.theladyinthelake-第35部分

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　　I　smelled　of　gin。　Not　just　casually；　as　if　I　had　taken　four　or　five　drinks　of　a　winter　morning　to　get　out　of　bed　on；　but　as　'if　the　Pacific　Ocean　was　pure　gin　and　I　had　nosedived　off　the　boat　deck。　The　gin　was　in　my　hair　and　eyebrows；　on　my　chin　and　under　my　chin。　It　was　on　my　shirt。　I　smelled　like　dead　toads。
　　My　coat　was　off　and　I　was　lying　flat　on　my　back　beside　the　davenport　on　somebody's　carpet　and　I　was　looking　at　a　framed　picture。　The　frame　was　of　cheap　soft　wood　varnished　and　the　picture　showed　part　of　an　enormously　high　pale　yellow　viaduct　across　which　a　shiny　black　lootive　was　dragging　a　Prussian　blue　train。　Through　one　lofty　arch　of　the　viaduct　a　wide　yellow　beach　showed　and　was　dotted　with　sprawled　bathers　and　striped　beach　umbrellas。　Three　girls　walked　close　up；　with　paper　parasols；　one　girl　in　cerise；　one　in　pale　blue；　one　in　green。　Beyond　the　beach　a　curving　bay　was　bluer　than　any　bay　has　any　right　to　be。　It　was　drenched　with　sunshine　and　flecked　and　dotted　with　arching　white　sails。　Beyond　the　inland　curve　of　the　bay　three　ranges　of　hills　rose　in　three　precisely　opposed　colors；　gold　and　terra　cotta　and　lavender。
　　Across　the　bottom　of　the　picture　was　printed　in　large　capitals　SEE　THE　FRENCH　RIVIERA　BY　THE　BLUE　TRAIN。
　　It　was　a　fine　time　to　bring　that　up。
　　I　reached　up　wearily　and　felt　the　back　of　my　head。　It　felt　pulpy。　A　shoot　of　pain　from　the　touch　went　clear　to　the　soles　of　my　feet。　I　groaned；　and　made　a　grunt　out　of　the　groan；　from　professional　pride…what　was　left　of　it。　I　rolled　over　slowly　and　carefully　and　looked　at　the　foot　of　a　pulled　down　wall　bed；　one　twin；　the　other　being　still　up。　in　the　wall。　The　flourish　of　design　on　the　painted　wood　was　familiar。　The　picture　had　hung　over　the　davenport　and　I　hadn't　even　looked　at　it。
　　When　I　rolled　a　square　gin　bottle　rolled　off　my　chest　and　hit　the　floor。　It　was　water　white；　and　empty。　It　didn't　seem　possible　there　could　be　so　much　gin　in　just　one　bottle。
　　I　got　my　knees　under　me　and　stayed　on　all　fours　for　a　while；　sniffing　like　a　dog　who　can't　finish　his　dinner；　but　hates　to　leave　it。　I　moved　my　head　around　on　my　neck。　It　hurt。　I　moved　it　around　some　more　and　it　still　hurt；　so　I　climbed　up　on　my　feet　and　discovered　I　didn't　have　any　shoes　on。
　　The　shoes　were　lying　against　the　baseboard；　looking　as　dissipated　as　shoes　ever　looked。　I　put　them　on　wearily。　I　was　an　old　man　now。　I　was　going　down　the　last　long　hill。　I　still　had　a　tooth　left　though。　I　felt　it　with　my　tongue。　It　didn't　seem　to　taste　of　gin。
　　〃It　will　all　e　back　to　you；〃　I　said。　〃Some　day　it　will　all　e　back　to　you。　And　you　won't　like　it。〃　There　was　the　lamp　on　the　table　by　the　open　window。　There　was　the　fat　green　davenport。　There　was　the　doorway　with　the　green　curtains　across　it。　Never　sit　with　your　back　to　a　green　curtain。　It　always　turns　out　badly。　Something　always　happens。　Who　had　I　said　that　to？　A　girl　with　a　gun。　A　girl　with　a　clear　empty　face　and　dark　brown　hair　that　had　been　blond。
　　I　looked　around　for　her。　She　was　still　there。　She　was　lying　on　the　pulled…down　twin　bed。
　　She　was　wearing　a　pair　of　tan　stockings　and　nothing　else。　Her　hair　was　tumbled。　There　were　dark　bruises　on　her　throat。　Her　mouth　was　open　and　a　swollen　tongue　filled　it　to　over…flowing。　Her　eyes　bulged　and　the　whites　of　them　were　not　white。
　　Across　her　naked　belly　four　angry　scratches　leered　crimson　red　against　the　whiteness　of　flesh。　Deep　angry　scratches；　gouged　out　by　four　bitter　fingernails。
　　On　the　davenport　there　were　tumbled　clothes；　mostly　hers。　My　coat　was　there　also。　I　disentangled　it　and　put　it　on。　Something　crackled　under　my　hand　in　the　tumbled　clothes。　I　drew　out　a　long　envelope　with　money　still　in　it。　I　put　it　in　my　pocket。　Marlowe；　five　hundred　dollars。　I　hoped　it　was　all　there。　There　didn't　seem　much　else　to　hope　for。
　　I　stepped　on　the　balls　of　my　feet　softly；　as　if　walking　on　very　thin　ice。　I　bent　down　to　rub　behind　my　knee　and　wondered　which　hurt　most；　my　knee；　or　my　head　when　I　bent　down　to　nib　the　knee。
　　Heavy　feet　came　along　the　hallway　and　there　was　a　hard　mutter　of　voices。　The　feet　stopped。　A　hard　fist　knocked　on　the　door。
　　I　stood　there　leering　at　the　door；　with　my　lips　drawn　back　tight　against　my　teeth。　I　waited　for　somebody　to　open　the　door　and　walk　in。　The　knob　was　tried；　but　nobody　walked　in。　The　knocking　began　again；　stopped；　the　voices　muttered　again。　The　steps　went　away。　I　wondered　how　long　it　would　take　to　get　the　manager　with　a　pass　key。　Not　very　long。
　　Not　nearly　long　enough　for　Marlowe　to　get　home　from　the　French　Riviera。
　　I　went　to　the　green　curtain　and　brushed　it　aside　and　looked　down　a　short　dark　hallway　into　a　bathroom。　I　went　in　there　and　put　the　light　on。　Two　wash　rugs　on　the　floor；　a　bath　mat　folded　over　the　edge　of　the　tub；　a　pebbled　glass　window　at　the　corner　of　the　tub。　I　shut　the　bathroom　door　and　stood　on　the　edge　of　the　tub　and　eased　the　window　up。　This　was　the　sixth　floor。　There　was　no　screen。　I　put　my　head　out　and　looked　into　darkness　and　a　narrow　glimpse　of　a　street　with　trees。　I　looked　sideways　and　saw　that　the　bathroom　window　of　the　next　apartment　was　not　more　than　three　feet　away。　A　wellnourished　mountain　goat　could　make　it　without　any　trouble　at　all。
　　The　question　was　whether　a　battered　private　detective　could　make　it；　and　if　so；　what　the　harvest　would　be。
　　Behind　me　a　rather　remote　and　muffled　voice　seemed　to　be　chanting　the　policeman's　litany：　〃Open　it　up　or　we'll　kick　it　in。〃　I　sneered　back　at　the　voice。　They　wouldn't　kick　it　in　because　kicking　in　a　door　is　hard　on　the　feet。　Policemen　are　kind　to　their　feet。　Their　feet　are　about　all　they　are　kind　to。
　　I　grabbed　a　towel　off　the　rack　and　pulled　the　two　halves　of　the　window　down　and　eased　out　on　the　sill。　I　swung　half　of　me　over　to　the　next　sill；　holding　on　to　the　frame　of　the　open　window。　I　could　just　reach　to　push　the　next　window　down；　if　it　was　unlocked。　It　wasn't　unlocked。　I　got　my　foot　over　there　and　kicked　the　glass　over　the　catch。　It　made　a　noise　that　ought　to　have　been　heard　in　Reno。　I　wrapped　the　towel　around　my　left　hand　and　reached　in　to　turn　the　catch。　Down　on　the　street　a　car　went　by；　but　nobody　yelled　at　me。
　　I　pushed　the　broken　window　down　and　climbed　across　to　the　other　sifi。　The　towel　fell　out　of　my　hand　and　fluttered　down　into　the　darkness　to　a　strip　of　grass　far　below；　between　the　two　wings　of　the　building。
　　I　climbed　in　at　the　window　of　the　other　bathroom。
　　
　　
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　　I　climbed　down　into　darkness　and　groped　through　darkness　to　a　door　and　opened　it　and　listened。　Filtered　moonlight　ing　through　north　windows　showed　a　bedroom　with　twin　beds；　made　up　and　empty。　Not　wall　beds。　This　was　a　larger　apartment。　I　moved　past　the　beds　to　another　door　and　into　a　living　room。　Both　rooms　were　closed　up　and　smelled　musty。　I　felt　my　way　to　a　lamp　and　switched　it　on。　I　ran　a　finger　along　the　wood　of　a　table　edge。　There　was　a　light　ifim　of　dust；　such　as　accumulates　in　the　cleanest　room　when　it　is　left　shut　up。
　　The　room　contained　a　library　dining　table；　an　armchair　radio；　a　book　rack　built　like　a　hod；　a　big　bookcase　full　of　novels　with　their　jackets　still　on　them；　a　dark　wood　highboy　with　a　siphon　and　a　cut　glass　bottle　of　liquor　and　four　striped　glasses　upside　down　on　an　Indian　brass　tray。　Besides　this　paired　photographs　in　a　double　silver　frame；　a　youngish　middle…aged　man　and　woman；　with　round　healthy　faces　and　cheerful　eyes。　They　looked　out　at　me　as　if　they　didn't　mind　my　being　there　at　all。
　　I　sniffed　the　liquor；　which　was　Scotch；　and　used　some　of　it。　It　made　my　head　feel　worse　but　it　made　the　rest　of　me　feel　better。　I　put　light　on　the　bedroom　and　poked　into　closets。　One　of　them　had　a　man's　clothes；　tailor…made；　plenty　of　them。　The　tailor's　label　inside　a　coat　pocket　declared　the　owner's　name　to　be　H。　G。　Talbot。　I　went　to　the　bureau　and　poked　around　and　found　a　soft　blue　shirt　that　looked　a　little　small　for　me。　I　carried　it　into　the　bathroom　and　stripped　mine　off　and　washed　my　face　and　chest　and　wiped　my　hair　off　with　a　wet　towel　and　put　the　blue　shirt　on。　I　used　plenty　of　Mr。　Talbot's　rather　insistent　hair　tonic　on　my　hair　and　used　his　brush　and　b　to　tidy　it　up。　By　that　time　I　smelled　of　gin　only　remotely；　if　at　all。
　　The　top　button　of　the　shirt　wouldn't　meet　its　buttonhole　so　I　poked　into　the　bureau　again　and　found　a　dark　blue　crepe　tie　and　strung　it　around　my　neck。　I　got　my　coat　back　on　and　looked　at　myself　in　the　mirror。　I　looked　slightly　too　neat　for　that　hour　of　the　night；　even　for　as　careful　a　man　as　Mr。　Talbot's　clothes　indicated　him　to　be。　Too　neat　and　too　sober。
　　I　rumpled　my　hair　a　little　and　pulled　the　tie　close；　and　went　back　to　the　whisky　decanter　and　did　what　I　could　about　being　too　sober。　I　lit　one　of　Mr。　Talbot's　cigarettes　and　hoped　that　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Talbot；　wherever　they　were；　were　having　a　much　better　time　than　I　was。　I　hoped　I　would　live　long　enough　to　e　and　visit　them。
　　I　went　to　the　living　room　door；　the　one　giving　on　the　hallway；　and　opened　it　and　leaned　in　the　opening　smoking。　I　didn't　think　it　was　going　to　work。　But　I　didn't　think　waiting　there　for　them　to　follow　my　trail　through　the　window　was　going　to　work　any　better。
　　A　man　coughed　a　little　way　down