The Lady in the Lake

by Raymond Chandler

  Webber said: “You put Cooney and Dobbs over there?”

  “Well—yes, I did,” Degarmo said. “I don’t see where we have to put up with these snoopers coming into our town and stirring up a lot of dead leaves just to promote themselves a job and work a couple of old suckers for a big fee. Guys like that need a good sharp lesson.”

  “Is that how it looks to you?” Webber asked.

  “That’s exactly how it looks to me,” Degarmo said.

  “I wonder what fellows like you need,” Webber said.

  “Right now I think you need a little air. Would you please take it, lieutenant?”

  Degarmo opened his mouth slowly. “You mean you want me to breeze on out?”

  Webber leaned forward suddenly and his sharp little chin seemed to cut the air like the forefoot of a cruiser. “Would you be so kind?”

  Degarmo stood up slowly, a dark flush staining his cheekbones. He leaned a hard hand flat on the desk and looked at Webber. There was a little charged silence. He said: “Okay, captain. But you’re playing this wrong.”

  Webber didn’t answer him. Degarmo walked to the door and out. Webber waited for the door to close before he spoke.

  “Is it your line that you can tie this Almore business a year and a half ago to the shooting in Lavery’s place today? Or is it just a smoke screen you’re laying down because you know damn well Kingsley’s wife shot Lavery?”

  I said: “It was tied to Lavery before he was shot. In a rough sort of way, perhaps only with a granny knot. But enough to make a man think.”

  “I’ve been into this matter a little more thoroughly than you might think,” Webber said coldly. “Although I never had anything personally to do with the death of Almore’s wife and I wasn’t chief of detectives at that time. If you didn’t even know Almore yesterday morning, you must have heard a lot about him since.”

  I told him exactly what I had heard, both from Miss Fromsett and from the Graysons.

  “Then it’s your theory that Lavery may have blackmailed Dr. Almore?” he asked at the end. “And that that may have something to do with the murder?”

  “It’s not a theory. It’s no more than a possibility. I wouldn’t be doing a job if I ignored it. The relations, if any, between Lavery and Almore might have been deep and dangerous or just the merest acquaintance, or not even that. For all I positively know they may never even have spoken to each other. But if there was nothing funny about the Almore case, why get so tough with anybody who shows an interest in it? It could be coincidence that George Talley was hooked for drunk driving just when he was working on it. It could be coincidence that Almore called a cop because I stared at his house, and that Lavery was shot before I could talk to him a second time. But it’s no coincidence that two of your men were watching Talley’s home tonight, ready, willing and able to make trouble for me, if I went there.”

  “I grant you that,” Webber said. “And I’m not done with that incident. Do you want to file charges?”

  “Life’s too short for me to be filing charges of assault against police officers,” I said.

  He winced a little. “Then we’ll wash all that out and charge it to experience,” he said. “And as I understand you were not even booked, you’re free to go home any time you want to. And if I were you, I’d leave Captain Webber to deal with the Lavery case and with any remote connection it might turn out to have with the Almore case.”

  I said: “And with any remote connection it might have with a woman named Muriel Chess being found drowned in a mountain lake near Puma Point yesterday?”

  He raised his little eyebrows. “You think that?”

  “Only you might not know her as Muriel Chess. Supposing that you knew her at all you might have known her as Mildred Haviland, who used to be Dr. Almore’s office nurse. Who put Mrs. Almore to bed the night she was found dead in the garage, and who, if there was any hanky-panky about that, might know who it was, and be bribed or scared into leaving town shortly thereafter.”

  Webber picked up two matches and broke them. His small bleak eyes were fixed on my face. He said nothing.

  “And at that point,” I said, “you run into a real basic coincidence, the only one I’m willing to admit in the whole picture. For this Mildred Haviland met a man named Bill Chess in a Riverside beer parlor and for reasons of her own married him and went to live with him at Little Fawn Lake. And Little Fawn Lake was the property of a man whose wife was intimate with Lavery, who had found Mrs. Almore’s body. That’s what I call a real coincidence. It can’t be anything else but, but it’s basic, fundamental. Everything else flows from it.”

  Webber got up from his desk and went over to the water cooler and drank two paper cups of water. He crushed the cups slowly in his hand and twisted them into a ball and dropped the ball into a brown metal basket under the cooler. He walked to the windows and stood looking out over the bay. This was before the dimout went into effect, and there were many lights in the yacht harbor.

  He came slowly back to the desk and sat down. He reached up and pinched his nose. He was making up his mind about something.

  He said slowly: “I can’t see what the hell sense there is in trying to mix that up with something that happened a year and a half later.”

  “Okay,” I said, “and thanks for giving me so much of your time.” I got up to go.

  “Your leg feel pretty bad?” he asked, as I leaned down to rub it.

  “Bad enough, but it’s getting better.”

  “Police business,” he said almost gently, “is a hell of a problem. It’s a good deal like politics. It asks for the highest type of men, and there’s nothing in it to attract the highest type of men. So we have to work with what we get—and we get things like this.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve always known that. I’m not bitter about it. Goodnight, Captain Webber.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Sit down a minute. If we’ve got to have the Almore case in this, let’s drag it out into the open and look at it.”

  “It’s about time somebody did that,” I said. I sat down again.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Webber said quietly: “I suppose some people think we’re just a bunch of crooks down here. I suppose they think a fellow kills his wife and then calls me up on the phone and says: ‘Hi, Cap, I got a little murder down here cluttering up the front room. And I’ve got five hundred iron men that are not working.’ And then I say: ‘Fine. Hold everything and I’ll be right down with a blanket.’ ”

  “Not quite that bad,” I said.

  “What did you want to see Talley about when you went to his house tonight?”

  “He had some line on Florence Almore’s death. Her parents hired him to follow it up, but he never told them what it was.”

  “And you thought he would tell you?” Webber asked sarcastically.

  “All I could do was try.”

  “Or was it just that Degarmo getting tough with you made you feel like getting tough right back at him?”

  “There might be a little of that in it too,” I said.

  “Talley was a petty blackmailer,” Webber said contemptuously. “On more than one occasion. Any way to get rid of him was good enough. So I’ll tell you what it was he had. He had a slipper he had stolen from Florence Almore’s foot.”

  “A slipper?”

  He smiled faintly. “Just a slipper. It was later found hidden in his house. It was a green velvet dancing pump with some little stones set into the heel. It was custom made, by a man in Hollywood who makes theatrical footwear and such. Now ask me what was important about this slipper?”

  “What was important about it, captain?”

  “She had two pair of them, exactly alike, made on the same order. It seems that is not unusual. In case one of them gets scuffed or some drunken ox tries to walk up a lady’s leg.” He paused and smiled thinly. “It seems that one pair had never been worn.”

  “I think I’m beginning to get it,” I said.

  He leaned
back and tapped the arms of his chair. He waited.

  “The walk from the side door of the house to the garage is rough concrete,” I said. “Fairly rough. Suppose she didn’t walk it, but was carried. And suppose whoever carried her put her slippers on—and got one that had not been worn.”

  “Yes?”

  “And suppose Talley noticed this while Lavery was telephoning to the doctor, who was out on his rounds. So he took the unworn slipper, regarding it as evidence that Florence Almore had been murdered.”

  Webber nodded his head. “It was evidence if he left it where it was, for the police to find it. After he took it, it was just evidence that he was a rat.”

  “Was a monoxide test made of her blood?”

  He put his hands flat on his desk and looked down at them. “Yes,” he said. “And there was monoxide all right. Also the investigating officers were satisfied with appearances. There was no sign of violence. They were satisfied that Dr. Almore had not murdered his wife. Perhaps they were wrong. I think the investigation was a little superficial.”

  “And who was in charge of it?” I asked.

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “When the police came, didn’t they notice that a slipper was missing?”

  “When the police came there was no slipper missing. You must remember that Dr. Almore was back at his home, in reponse to Lavery’s call, before the police were called. All we know about the missing shoe is from Talley himself. He might have taken the unworn shoe from the house. The side door was unlocked. The maids were asleep. The objection to that is that he wouldn’t have been likely to know there was an unworn slipper to take. I wouldn’t put it past him to think of it. He’s a sharp sneaky little devil. But I can’t fix the necessary knowledge on him.”

  We sat there and looked at each other, thinking about it.

  “Unless,” Webber said slowly, “we can suppose that this nurse of Almore’s was involved with Talley in a scheme to put the bite on Almore. It’s possible. There are things in favor of it. There are more things against it. What reason have you for claiming that the girl drowned up in the mountains was this nurse?”

  “Two reasons, neither one conclusive separately, but pretty powerful taken together. A tough guy who looked and acted like Degarmo was up there a few weeks ago showing a photograph of Mildred Haviland that looked something like Muriel Chess. Different hair and eyebrows and so on, but a fair resemblance. Nobody helped him much. He called himself De Soto and said he was a Los Angeles cop. There isn’t any Los Angeles cop named De Soto. When Muriel Chess heard about it, she looked scared. If it was Degarmo, that’s easily established. The other reason is that a golden anklet with a heart on it was hidden in a box of powdered sugar in the Chess cabin. It was found after her death, after her husband had been arrested. On the back of the heart was engraved: Al to Mildred. June 28th, 1938. With all my love.”

  “It could have been some other Al and some other Mildred,” Webber said.

  “You don’t really believe that, captain.”

  He leaned forward and made a hole in the air with his forefinger. “What do you want to make of all this exactly?”

  “I want to make it that Kingsley’s wife didn’t shoot Lavery. That his death had something to do with the Almore business. And with Mildred Haviland. And possibly with Dr. Almore. I want to make it that Kingsley’s wife disappeared because something happened that gave her a bad fright, that she may or may not have guilty knowledge, but that she hasn’t murdered anybody. There’s five hundred dollars in it for me, if I can determine that. It’s legitimate to try.”

  He nodded. “Certainly it is. And I’m the man that would help you, if I could see any grounds for it. We haven’t found the woman, but the time has been very short. But I can’t help you put something on one of my boys.”

  I said: “I heard you call Degarmo Al. But I was thinking of Almore. His name’s Albert.”

  Webber looked at his thumb. “But he was never married to the girl,” he said quietly. “Degarmo was. I can tell you she led him a pretty dance. A lot of what seems bad in him is the result of it.”

  I sat very still. After a moment I said: “I’m beginning to see things I didn’t know existed. What kind of a girl was she?”

  “Smart, smooth and no good. She had a way with men. She could make them crawl over her shoes. The big boob would tear your head off right now, if you said anything against her. She divorced him, but that didn’t end it for him.”

  “Does he know she is dead?”

  Webber sat quiet for a long moment before he said: “Not from anything he has said. But how could he help it, if it’s the same girl?”

  “He never found her in the mountains—so far as we know.” I stood up and leaned down on the desk.

  “Look, captain, you’re not kidding me, are you?”

  “No. Not one damn bit. Some men are like that and some women can make them like it. If you think Degarmo went up there looking for her because he wanted to hurt her, you’re as wet as a bar towel.”

  “I never quite thought that,” I said. “It would be possible, provided Degarmo knew the country up there pretty well. Whoever murdered the girl did.”

  “This is all between us,” he said. “I’d like you to keep it that way.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t promise him. I said goodnight again and left. He looked after me as I went down the room. He looked hurt and sad.

  The Chrysler was in the police lot at the side of the building with the keys in the ignition and none of the fenders smashed. Cooney hadn’t made good on his threat. I drove back to Hollywood and went up to my apartment in the Bristol. It was late, almost midnight.

  The green and ivory hallway was empty of all sound except that a telephone bell was ringing in one of the apartments. It rang insistently and got louder as I came near to my door. I unlocked the door. It was my telephone.

  I walked across the room in darkness to where the phone stood on the ledge of an oak desk against the side wall. It must have rung at least ten times before I got to it.

  I lifted it out of the cradle and answered, and it was Derace Kingsley on the line.

  His voice sounded tight and brittle and strained. “Good Lord, where in hell have you been?” he snapped. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

  “All right. I’m here now,” I said. “What is it?”

  “I’ve heard from her.”

  I held the telephone very tight and drew my breath in slowly and let it out slowly. “Go ahead,” I said.

  “I’m not far away. I’ll be over there in five or six minutes. Be prepared to move.”

  He hung up.

  I stood there holding the telephone halfway between my ear and the cradle. Then I put it down very slowly and looked at the hand that had held it. It was half open and clenched stiff, as if it was still holding the instrument.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The discreet midnight tapping sounded on the door and I went over and opened it. Kingsley looked as big as a horse in a creamy Shetland sports coat with a green and yellow scarf around the neck inside the loosely turned-up collar. A dark reddish brown snapbrim hat was pulled low on his forehead and under its brim, his eyes looked like the eyes of a sick animal.

  Miss Fromsett was with him. She was wearing slacks and sandals and a dark green coat and no hat and her hair had a wicked lustre. In her ears hung ear drops made of a pair of tiny artificial gardenia blooms, hanging one above the other, two on each ear. Gillerlain Regal, the Champagne of Perfumes, came in at the door with her.

  I shut the door and indicated the furniture and said: “A drink will probably help.”

  Miss Fromsett sat in an armchair and crossed her legs and looked around for cigarettes. She found one and lit it with a long casual flourish and smiled bleakly at a corner of the ceiling.

  Kingsley stood in the middle of the floor trying to bite his chin. I went out to the dinette and mixed three drinks and brought them in and handed them. I went over to
the chair by the chess table with mine.

  Kingsley said: “What have you been doing and what’s the matter with the leg?”

  I said: “A cop kicked me. A present from the Bay City police department. It’s a regular service they give down there. As to where I’ve been in jail for drunk driving. And from the expression on your face, I think I may be right back there soon.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said shortly. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. This is no time to kid around.”

  “All right, don’t,” I said. “What did you hear and where is she?”

  He sat down with his drink and flexed the fingers of his right hand, and put it inside his coat. It came out with an envelope, a long one.

  “You have to take this to her,” he said. “Five hundred dollars. She wanted more, but this is all I could raise. I cashed a check at a night club. It wasn’t easy. She has to get out of town.”

  I said: “Out of what town?”

  “Bay City somewhere. I don’t know where. She’ll meet you at a place called the Peacock Lounge, on Arguello Boulevard, at Eighth Street, or near it.”

  I looked at Miss Fromsett. She was still looking at the corner of the ceiling as if she had just come along for the ride.

  Kingsley tossed the envelope across and it fell on the chess table. I looked inside. It was money all right. That much of his story made sense. I let it lie on the small polished table with its inlaid squares of brown and pale gold.

  I said: “What’s the matter with her drawing her own money? Any hotel would clear a check for her. Most of them would cash one. Has her bank account got lockjaw or something?”

  “That’s no way to talk,” Kingsley said heavily. “She’s in trouble. I don’t know how she knows she’s in trouble. Unless a pickup order has been broadcast. Has it?”

  I said I didn’t know. I hadn’t had much time to listen to police calls. I had been too busy listening to live policemen.

  Kingsley said: “Well, she won’t risk cashing a check now. It was all right before. But not now.” He lifted his eyes slowly and gave me one of the emptiest stares I had ever seen.