"Yep," I said finally, "that's you."
"Where did you get it?" she said. Her face was very tight but her voice was surprisingly lilting.
"Lola Faithful had it hidden," I said. "I found it in the checked-baggage room at Union Station."
"Why did you send it to me?" she said. The lilt in her voice was more pronounced. It wasn't calmness, I realized, it was the sing-song of hysteria.
"I have been walking around the edges of this case since I started. I thought maybe if I couldn't get in I could get someone to come out."
"You are… trying…" Her voice began to go on her.
It would rise in a fluty way and then fail and she'd start again in the lower registers. "You… are trying… to ruin… my marriage," she trilled.
I shook my head. "No, I'm trying to find your husband, and I'm trying to find out who killed Lola Faithful and Lippy," I said. "And so far I'm not doing a hell of a job at it."
"Who… To whom have you… shown this… picture?
"I have not shown it to your father," I said.
"You leave my father out of this, you filthy…" The words came in a rush and she had no finish for them. She couldn't think of anything filthy enough to fit me.
"I thought you liked having your picture passed around," I said. "How come you're throwing a wing-ding?"
"What do you know?" she said, and her voice was no longer lilting. It had sunk into her chest. There was a little bubble of saliva at the left corner of her mouth. She was still standing in front of the desk, her feet wide apart, her hands back in the pockets of her raincoat. She wore bright red lipstick and a lot of stuff on her eyes, but her face was pale, nearly chalky, as if she'd never seen the desert.
"I know you met Les when he was taking pictures out of an office down on Highland Ave. I know you liked posing nude, liked having the picture distributed, wanted it to be seen. I know you've had a life full of dope and booze and a string of wrong guys, and I know your old man has bailed you out of every one."
"Or sent Eddie," she said. The bubble of saliva was still there.
I waited. She gnawed a little on her lower lip, enough to smear the thick lipstick. She licked the corners of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. First the right, then the left. The saliva bubble disappeared.
"You working for my father?" she said.
"He hired me to find Larry for you, and bring him back."
"Don't call him that," she said, her voice still in her chest. "Don't call him Larry."
"Sure," I said.
"He doesn't want you to bring him back to me. He just wants you to find him so Eddie can kill him."
"Why would he do that?" I said.
"Because he won't let anyone have me. He'll never let me go. He finds a way, always."
"How come he let you marry Les?" I said.
"We ran away and when we came back we were already married," she said. "It was too late."
"That wouldn't have bothered a guy like Black-stone," I said. "A little thing like marriage? And it sure wouldn't bother Eddie Garcia."
"I knew you wouldn't believe me," she said. Her voice was starting to flute upward again. "No one will. He'll ruin this too… like he ruined everything… and you'll help him."
The saliva had appeared again at the corner of her mouth, and her voice was into the range where only dogs could hear her. "Why don't you sit down, Mrs. Valentine," I said. Her hands came out of her pockets again, and in her right hand was a gun. It wasn't very big. It was silver plated and what I could see of the handle was pearl. It was a cute gun, a gun for a lady to carry, a nice little cute automatic, probably a.25. Maybe hot-loaded. The cruel black eye of the gun never wavered as she pointed it at me. It wouldn't make a very big hole in my forehead. Probably wouldn't even make an exit wound, just ricochet around inside there so the coroner could find it with no trouble when they did the autopsy on me downtown.
She held the gun in both hands, straight out in front of her, her knees bent a little, feet comfortably apart just like someone taught her. Her mouth was open and her tongue moved rapidly back and forth across her lower lip. She was breathing through her nose in little snorts.
"He loves me," she said, "And I won't… let… you… spoil…"
Everything moved very slowly. The rain uncoiled with infinite leisure against the window behind me. I could see a stray drop of rainwater meander down the lapel of Muriel's raincoat.
"They've all been trying to spoil it," I said. "Haven't they?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"And you had to kill them?"
"Yes," again a whisper, the word drawn out into a long hiss.
"Lola," I said. She nodded slowly. "Lippy." Again the nod.
I reached forward slowly and picked up my coffee. "But not me," I said. "I'm trying to help. I know where Larry is."
She shook her head slowly. Everything was very slow.
"You… won't… spoil… it," she said.
I dropped my coffee cup. The coffee sloshed out on my pants leg as the cup bounced on my thigh and went to the floor.
"Oops," I said and bent to pick it up and went out of the chair behind my desk digging the .38 out from under my arm as I went. I hit the floor on my left shoulder. Above me there was a flat snap and then another and two bullets buried in the wall behind my desk chair. I fired one shot straight up to the ceiling, to let her know I had a gun. I had rolled onto my knees now, still down behind the desk, and I waited with the .38 poised at the edge of the desktop. I could hear her fast shallow breathing.
"I don't want to shoot you," I said and edged around the corner of the desk low. I heard her heels, then the door. I stood and saw my outer office door swing shut. I walked to the window and looked down at Hollywood Boulevard. In maybe a minute I saw her come out into the wet street and turn right and head up Hollywood, walking fast with her head down and her hands still in her raincoat pockets.
Most of the cars on the boulevard had their headlights on in the slate-grey morning. They shone on the wet pavement and blended with the colored neon reflections and the sheen of the roofs of wet cars as I watched her out of sight, moving west toward the Chinese Theater, past the souvenir shops and the places that sold peekaboo underwear.
I turned away and took the empty shell out of the cylinder and put in a fresh one and stored the gun back under my arm. I got some paper towels and cleaned up the spilled coffee and threw the paper cup away. I looked at the bullet holes in the wall and the one in the ceiling. Nothing much I could do about those. Probably just as well to leave them. Be good for my image. I got my trench coat back on and headed out to get my car out of the lot up Cahuenga.
I was in no hurry. I was pretty sure where she'd go. There wasn't anyplace else.
39
I sometimes think that Southern California looks better in the rain than any other time. The rain washes away the dust and glazes the cheapness and poverty and pretense, and freshens the trees and flowers and grass that the sun has blasted. Bel Air under the wet sky was all emerald and scarlet and gold with the rain making the streets glisten.
I told the guy at Clayton Blackstone's gate, "Marlowe. I'm working for Mr. Blackstone."
The guard went back inside the shack. Only in Bel Air would it be a shack. In Thousand Oaks it would have been a two-bedroom ranch with a garden. After two or three minutes the guard came out and said, "Wait here, Eddie'll be down to get you."
I sat and watched the wipers make their truncated triangle on my windshield. In another maybe three minutes a car pulled up inside the gate, Eddie Garcia got out, the gate opened and Eddie walked over to my car with the collar of his trench coat turned up. He got in beside me.
"Follow the other car," he said.
We went up the winding driveway with the wet greenery around us and pulled in under the big front entrance. The car ahead stopped and J.D. got out and stared back at me. Garcia got out his side and I got out on mine. Garcia jerked his head and I followed him into the office and he led me through
the library to Black-stone's office. Neither one of us said a word.
Blackstone was behind the big desk again, this time wearing a double-breasted blue blazer and white tennis shirt. There was some kind of crest on the breast pocket of the blazer. Standing near the bar, with a drink in her hand, where I had expected her to be, was Muriel. Her cute gun was not in sight. Eddie closed the door behind us when we came into the room and stood a foot or so inside the door, with his back to it. I walked across and took the same chair near Blackstone's desk that I'd sat in before.
"Raining," Blackstone said absently.
"Even in Bel Air," I said.
He nodded, staring past me at his daughter.
"You were pretty straight with me, Marlowe, last time you were here."
I waited.
"But you kept some things back," he said.
"Never said I didn't."
He spoke slowly and almost without inflection. Like a man thinking of other things: lost romances, children playing on a beach, things like that. He leaned forward and got a cigar from a box and trimmed it carefully with a knife he took from the middle drawer of the desk. He lit it carefully, turning the end slowly in the flame, and then took a puff, let the smoke out and watched it disperse in the air-conditioned atmosphere. Nobody spoke while this went on. Through the picture window I could see the rain dimpling the surface of the cerulean water in the pool.
"Now, Marlowe, what have you to tell me?"
"Your daughter stopped by my office," I said. "Just before she came here."
"Oh?" He looked at Muriel. Muriel held on to the glass in both hands. It was nearly full; she seemed to have forgotten about drinking from it.
"What was the substance of your discussion?" he said.
"That you were intent on destroying her marriage and I, as your agent, was being employed to the same end."
Blackstone stared at his daughter. "Muriel?"
She didn't answer. She was holding her glass against her breast, as if trying to warm the drink.
"She said she would kill me as she had Lola and Lippy," I said, "and then she pulled a.25 automatic with a chrome finish and pearl handle grips and began plugging away."
Blackstone didn't change expressions or move. He gazed at me like a man lost in contemplation.
"Lippy and Lola were shot with a.25," I said.
Blackstone nodded slowly, but he wasn't looking at me. He was gazing across the room at his daughter. He stood, finally. I could see that he was wearing white slacks and white loafers. He walked across the room and stood maybe three feet in front of his daughter.
"There is nothing, Muffy, that I cannot buy or frighten. Nothing so broken that I cannot fix it."
She didn't look at him.
"Tell me about this," Blackstone said. "About the gun and Lola and Lippy. Tell me about what Mr. Marlowe has said."
"Lola had a bad picture of me," Muriel said; her voice was childish. "The kind I used to pose for a long time ago."
Blackstone nodded. "You're not doing that anymore, are you, Muffy?" he said.
She shook her head, still staring at the floor, her glass still clutched to her chest.
"She said she would show it to all the people at the Springs and tell people that Les took it, and…" She shook her head without looking up.
"And?" Blackstone said.
Muriel didn't move.
"And she arranged to meet Lola at Larry's office and when she got the picture she shot her," I said. "And took the picture and cleaned out Larry's files and left."
"Didn't she know there'd be other pictures?" Black-stone said.
"She's not playing with all the dots on her dice," I said. "She didn't know that it would implicate Larry and lead people to Les either."
We were talking.about her as if she were a jade ornament.
"What about Lippy?" he said to Muriel. "I didn't even know you knew him."
"He hired Mr. Marlowe to find Les, to harass him over money. He owed Mr. Lipshultz money."
Blackstone looked at me once, hard. I shrugged.
"Did you know that Mr. Lipshultz worked for me, Muffy?"
"Not until Mr. Marlowe said."
"Even so, why didn't you just come to me? I could have given you money. I've done it before."
She stared at the floor.
"Why, Muffy?"
"I was ashamed," she said. "I didn't want you to know Les was in debt from gambling. So I went out to talk with Mr. Lipshultz."
"Did Lippy know your daughter?" I said.
"No. He didn't know I had one. I kept business very separate from family." He turned back to his daughter. "What happened, Muffy?"
"I asked him not to bother Les and me, and he said business was business and his boss would nail his hide to the club door if he lost an IOU for that much. And I said I didn't have the money but there were other ways I could pay."
"Jesus," Blackstone said softly.
His daughter didn't speak.
"And so Lippy gets a smile like Br'er Bear," I said, "and he tells the shooters to hit the road and pours out a Scotch and says, 'How do you like the view of the desert here, sweetie,' and…" I shot an imaginary gun, dropping my thumb on my extended forefinger.
"He would have… ruined… it," Muriel said. I'd heard that sound before.
Blackstone stood and looked down at his daughter for a long moment. Then he turned and walked back behind his desk and sank into the chair. He picked up his cigar and puffed on it to see that it was still going and leaned back and stared silently across the room at his daughter. But when he spoke it was to me.
"I had Eddie chase Larry Victor down," he said. "See what was cooking." He paused, looking at his cigar. "You know he's got a wife."
"Yeah," I said. "I've known it all along."
"And didn't see any need to tell me that even when you took my five hundred dollars."
"Until I had the lay of it," I said, "I thought it would only hurt."
"What are you saying," Muriel said. "What… are… you… talking about?"
"He had another wife, Muffy," Blackstone said. "The guy you killed two people for had another wife."
"What… do… you… mean… another… wife?"
"He's married to another woman at the same time he's married to you, Muffy," Blackstone said. "He's a bigamist."
The silence in the room imploded, getting denser and denser like a collapsing star. Against the door Eddie Garcia looked as if he might be asleep, except that his eyes moved languidly from time to time.
'That's… not… true," Muriel said in her lilting whisper. "It's not… true."
Blackstone was looking at me now.
"Where do you stand, Marlowe?"
"She killed two people," I said. "I can't lindy off into the sunset on that."
"And I can't let her go down for it," he said.
Muriel straightened at the bar and half turned and, using both hands, put the drink down carefully on the bar.
"I won't stand here and listen to lies," she said. Her voice was in its lower register.
Blackstone shook his head. "No, Muffy," he said. "You're too shaky now, you need to calm down for a while."
"You sit there and make up lies," she said. Her voice was still deep but her breath was coming short and she spoke in basso profundo gasps. "You want to… ruin my marriage." She was moving slowly across the room, her hands back in her pockets. Eddie stood in the doorway as if he were observing the Big Dipper. "You won't let anyone… have me. Never. You… ruin it."
"Muffy," Blackstone said. There was more sharpness in his voice.
She turned suddenly. Her hands came out of her pockets, the gun in her right. She clasped her left hand over the right and dropped into her shooter's stance and put two bullets into Blackstone's forehead. I was half turned in my seat when the side of her head spurted blood and the heavy thump of Garcia's big magnum sounded and Muriel spun halfway round and fell facedown on the floor.
I checked both of them in the resonant sile
nce that followed the gunfire, smelling the cordite in the room. They were both dead. Garcia was still holding his gun, standing by the door. "Half a.second," he said. "I was half a second late."
I nodded.
"Ten years ago," Garcia said softly. "Ten years ago I could have saved him."
"Cops will pour it on you, Eddie, if they make you for this," I said.
"They won't find me, Marlowe."
"Still pretty fair shooting," I said. "She had the jump."
"Half second," Garcia said again, "half second slow." Then he opened the door and closed it and was gone.
I went slowly to Blackstone's desk and picked up the phone and dialed a number I knew a lot better than I wanted to.
40
The cops turned me loose in the middle of the afternoon. They didn't want to, but there was nothing to hold me for, except being a lousy detective, and they had their own problems with that. As I drove down the coast highway toward Venice I tried to sort out how bad a detective I'd been. By the time I reached Santa Monica I had decided I couldn't sort it out and might as well think I'd been a good detective for all the difference it made.
I parked behind the restaurant where Angel worked and went and said, "Tell the boss there's an emergency, and come with me."
Her eyes widened, but she didn't ask questions. In five minutes we were in my Olds heading for Hollywood.
"There's no emergency," I said in the car. "I made that up to get you away."
"Have you found Larry?"
"Yeah, I have," I said. "I'm taking you to him."
"Oh my God," she said. "Is he all right?"
"Sure," I said. Though I wasn't sure Larry Victor would ever be all right.
We drove in silence then. The rain had tapered to a drizzle, just enough to engage the wipers.
"About being married to another woman," I said.
"I know that's not true," she said.
"Yeah, that's right," I said. "I was wrong about that."
By the time we pulled up in front of the motel where Larry was stashed the rain had stopped altogether.
Poodle Springs (philip marlowe) Page 16
