The gray man scowled at me.
“I give up,” I said. “Better call your friends downtown.”
“I don’t get it,” he snapped. “I don’t get your game here.”
“Go ahead, call the buttons. You’ll get a big reaction from it.”
He thought that over without moving. His lips went back against his teeth. “I don’t get that, either,” he said tightly.
“Maybe it just isn’t your day. I know you, Mr. Mars. The Cypress Club at Las Olindas. Flash gambling for flash people. The local law in your pocket and a well-greased line into L.A. In other words, protection. Geiger was in a racket that needed that too. Perhaps you spared him a little now and then, seeing he’s your tenant.”
His mouth became a hard white grimace. “Geiger was in what racket?”
“The smut book racket.”
He stared at me for a long level minute. “Somebody got to him,” he said softly. “You know something about it. He didn’t show at the store today. They don’t know where he is. He didn’t answer the phone here. I came up to see about it. I find blood on the floor, under a rug. And you and a girl here.”
“A little weak,” I said. “But maybe you can sell the story to a willing buyer. You missed a little something, though. Somebody moved his books out of the store today—the nice books he rented out.”
He snapped his fingers sharply and said: “I should have thought of that, soldier. You seem to get around. How do you figure it?”
“I think Geiger was rubbed. I think that is his blood. And the books being moved out gives a motive for hiding the body for a while. Somebody is taking over the racket and wants a little time to organize.”
“They can’t get away with it,” Eddie Mars said grimly.
“Who says so? You and a couple of gunmen in your car outside? This is a big town now, Eddie. Some very tough people have checked in here lately. The penalty of growth.”
“You talk too damned much,” Eddie Mars said. He bared his teeth and whistled twice, sharply. A car door slammed outside and running steps came through the hedge. Mars flicked the Luger out again and pointed it at my chest. “Open the door.”
The knob rattled and a voice called out. I didn’t move. The muzzle of the Luger looked like the mouth of the Second Street tunnel, but I didn’t move. Not being bullet proof is an idea I had had to get used to.
“Open it yourself, Eddie. Who the hell are you to give me orders? Be nice and I might help you out.”
He came to his feet rigidly and moved around the end of the desk and over to the door. He opened it without taking his eyes off me. Two men tumbled into the room, reaching busily under their arms. One was an obvious pug, a good-looking pale-faced boy with a bad nose and one ear like a club steak. The other man was slim, blond, deadpan, with close-set eyes and no color in them.
Eddie Mars said: “See if this bird is wearing any iron.”
The blond flicked a short-barreled gun out and stood pointing it at me. The pug sidled over flatfooted and felt my pockets with care. I turned around for him like a bored beauty modeling an evening gown.
“No gun,” he said in a burry voice.
“Find out who he is.”
The pug slipped a hand into my breast pocket and drew out my wallet. He flipped it open and studied the contents. “Name’s Philip Marlowe, Eddie. Lives at the Hobart Arms on Franklin. Private license, deputy’s badge and all. A shamus.” He slipped the wallet back in my pocket, slapped my face lightly and turned away.
“Beat it,” Eddie Mars said.
The two gunmen went out again and closed the door. There was the sound of them getting back into the car. They started its motor and kept it idling once more.
“All right. Talk,” Eddie Mars snapped. The peaks of his eyebrows made sharp angles against his forehead.
“I’m not ready to give out. Killing Geiger to grab his racket would be a dumb trick and I’m not sure it happened that way, assuming he has been killed. But I’m sure that whoever got the books knows what’s what, and I’m sure that the blonde lady down at his store is scared batty about something or other. And I have a guess who got the books.”
“Who?”
“That’s the part I’m not ready to give out. I’ve got a client, you know.”
He wrinkled his nose. “That—” he chopped it off quickly.
“I expected you would know the girl,” I said.
“Who got the books, soldier?”
“Not ready to talk, Eddie. Why should I?”
He put the Luger down on the desk and slapped it with his open palm. “This,” he said. “And I might make it worth your while.”
“That’s the spirit. Leave the gun out of it. I can always hear the sound of money. How much are you clinking at me?”
“For doing what?”
“What did you want done?”
He slammed the desk hard. “Listen, soldier. I ask you a question and you ask me another. We’re not getting anywhere. I want to know where Geiger is, for my own personal reasons. I didn’t like his racket and I didn’t protect him. I happen to own this house. I’m not so crazy about that right now. I can believe that whatever you know about all this is under glass, or there would be a flock of johns squeaking sole leather around this dump. You haven’t got anything to sell. My guess is you need a little protection yourself. So cough up.”
It was a good guess, but I wasn’t going to let him know it. I lit a cigarette and blew the match out and flicked it at the glass eye of the totem pole. “You’re right,” I said. “If anything has happened to Geiger, I’ll have to give what I have to the law. Which puts it in the public domain and doesn’t leave me anything to sell. So with your permission I’ll just drift.”
His face whitened under the tan. He looked mean, fast and tough for a moment. He made a movement to lift the gun. I added casually: “By the way, how is Mrs. Mars these days?”
I thought for a moment I had kidded him a little too far. His hand jerked at the gun, shaking. His face was stretched out by hard muscles. “Beat it,” he said quite softly. “I don’t give a damn where you go or what you do when you get there. Only take a word of advice, soldier. Leave me out of your plans or you’ll wish your name was Murphy and you lived in Limerick.”
“Well, that’s not so far from Clonmel,” I said. “I hear you had a pal came from there.”
He leaned down on the desk, frozen-eyed, unmoving. I went over to the door and opened it and looked back at him. His eyes had followed me, but his lean gray body had not moved. There was hate in his eyes. I went out and through the hedge and up the hill to my car and got into it. I turned it around and drove up over the crest. Nobody shot at me. After a few blocks I turned off, cut the motor and sat for a few moments. Nobody followed me either. I drove back into Hollywood.
CHAPTER 14
It was ten minutes to five when I parked near the lobby entrance of the apartment house on Randall Place. A few windows were lit and radios were bleating at the dusk. I rode the automatic elevator up to the fourth floor and went along a wide hall carpeted in green and paneled in ivory. A cool breeze blew down the hall from the open screened door to the fire escape.
There was a small ivory pushbutton beside the door marked “405.” I pushed it and waited what seemed a long time. Then the door opened noiselessly about a foot. There was a steady, furtive air in the way it opened. The man was long-legged, long-waisted, high-shouldered and he had dark brown eyes in a brown expressionless face that had learned to control its expressions long ago. Hair like steel wool grew far back on his head and gave him a great deal of domed brown forehead that might at a careless glance have seemed a dwelling place for brains. His somber eyes probed at me impersonally. His long thin brown fingers held the edge of the door. He said nothing.
I said: “Geiger?”
Nothing in the man’s face changed that I could see. He brought a cigarette from behind the door and tucked it between his lips and drew a little smoke from it. The smoke came towards
me in a lazy, contemptuous puff and behind it words in a cool, unhurried voice that had no more inflection than the voice of a faro dealer.
“You said what?”
“Geiger. Arthur Gwynn Geiger. The guy that has the books.”
The man considered that without any haste. He glanced down at the tip of his cigarette. His other hand, the one that had been holding the door, dropped out of sight. His shoulder had a look as though his hidden hand might be making motions.
“Don’t know anybody by that name,” he said. “Does he live around here?”
I smiled. He didn’t like the smile. His eyes got nasty. I said: “You’re Joe Brody?”
The brown face hardened. “So what? Got a grift, brother—or just amusing yourself?”
“So you’re Joe Brody,” I said. “And you don’t know anybody named Geiger. That’s very funny.”
“Yeah? You got a funny sense of humor maybe. Take it away and play on it somewhere else.”
I leaned against the door and gave him a dreamy smile. “You got the books, Joe. I got the sucker list. We ought to talk things over.”
He didn’t shift his eyes from my face. There was a faint sound in the room behind him, as though a metal curtain ring clicked lightly on a metal rod. He glanced sideways into the room. He opened the door wider.
“Why not—if you think you’ve got something?” he said coolly. He stood aside from the door. I went past him into the room.
It was a cheerful room with good furniture and not too much of it. French windows in the end wall opened on a stone porch and looked across the dusk at the foothills. Near the windows a closed door in the west wall and near the entrance door another door in the same wall. This last had a plush curtain drawn across it on a thin brass rod below the lintel.
That left the east wall, in which there were no doors. There was a davenport backed against the middle of it, so I sat down on the davenport. Brody shut the door and walked crab-fashion to a tall oak desk studded with square nails. A cedarwood box with gilt hinges lay on the lowered leaf of the desk. He carried the box to an easy chair midway between the other two doors and sat down. I dropped my hat on the davenport and waited.
“Well, I’m listening,” Brody said. He opened the cigar box and dropped his cigarette stub into a dish at his side. He put a long thin cigar in his mouth. “Cigar?” He tossed one at me through the air.
I reached for it. Brody took a gun out of the cigar box and pointed it at my nose. I looked at the gun. It was a black Police .38. I had no argument against it at the moment.
“Neat, huh?” Brody said. “Just kind of stand up a minute. Come forward just about two yards. You might grab a little air while you’re doing that.” His voice was the elaborately casual voice of the tough guy in pictures. Pictures have made them all like that.
“Tsk, tsk,” I said, not moving at all. “Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains. You’re the second guy I’ve met within hours who seems to think a gat in the hand means a world by the tail. Put it down and don’t be silly, Joe.”
His eyebrows came together and he pushed his chin at me. His eyes were mean.
“The other guy’s name is Eddie Mars,” I said. “Ever hear of him?”
“No.” Brody kept the gun pointed at me.
“If he ever gets wise to where you were last night in the rain, he’ll wipe you off the way a check raiser wipes a check.”
“What would I be to Eddie Mars?” Brody asked coldly. But he lowered the gun to his knee.
“Not even a memory,” I said.
We stared at each other. I didn’t look at the pointed black slipper that showed under the plush curtain on the doorway to my left.
Brody said quietly: “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a tough guy—just careful. I don’t know hell’s first whisper about you. You might be a lifetaker for all I know.”
“You’re not careful enough,” I said. “That play with Geiger’s books was terrible.”
He drew a long slow breath and let it out silently. Then he leaned back and crossed his long legs and held the Colt on his knee.
“Don’t kid yourself I won’t use this heat, if I have to,” he said. “What’s your story?”
“Have your friend with the pointed slippers come on in. She gets tired holding her breath.”
Brody called out without moving his eyes off my stomach. “Come on in, Agnes.”
The curtain swung aside and the green-eyed, thigh-swinging ash blonde from Geiger’s store joined us in the room. She looked at me with a kind of mangled hatred. Her nostrils were pinched and her eyes had darkened a couple of shades. She looked very unhappy.
“I knew damn well you were trouble,” she snapped at me. “I told Joe to watch his step.”
“It’s not his step, it’s the back of his lap he ought to watch,” I said.
“I suppose that’s funny,” the blonde squealed.
“It has been,” I said. “But it probably isn’t any more.”
“Save the gags,” Brody advised me. “Joe’s watchin’ his step plenty. Put some light on so I can see to pop this guy, if it works out that way.”
The blonde snicked on a light in a big square standing lamp. She sank down into a chair beside the lamp and sat stiffly, as if her girdle was too tight. I put my cigar in my mouth and bit the end off. Brody’s Colt took a close interest in me while I got matches out and lit the cigar. I tasted the smoke and said:
“The sucker list I spoke of is in code. I haven’t cracked it yet, but there are about five hundred names. You got twelve boxes of books that I know of. You should have at least five hundred books. There’ll be a bunch more out on loan, but say five hundred is the full crop, just to be cautious. If it’s a good active list and you could run it even fifty per cent down the line, that would be one hundred and twenty-five thousand rentals. Your girl friend knows all about that. I’m only guessing. Put the average rental as low as you like, but it won’t be less than a dollar. That merchandise costs money. At a dollar a rental you take one hundred and twenty-five grand and you still have your capital. I mean, you still have Geiger’s capital. That’s enough to spot a guy for.”
The blonde yelped: “You’re crazy, you goddam egg-headed—!”
Brody put his teeth sideways at her and snarled: “Pipe down, for Chrissake. Pipe down!”
She subsided into an outraged mixture of slow anguish and bottled fury. Her silvery nails scraped on her knees.
“It’s no racket for bums,” I told Brody almost affectionately. “It takes a smooth worker like you, Joe. You’ve got to get confidence and keep it. People who spend their money for second-hand sex jags are as nervous as dowagers who can’t find the rest room. Personally I think the blackmail angles are a big mistake. I’m for shedding all that and sticking to legitimate sales and rentals.”
Brody’s dark brown stare moved up and down my face. His Colt went on hungering for my vital organs. “You’re a funny guy,” he said tonelessly. “Who has this lovely racket?”
“You have,” I said. “Almost.”
The blonde choked and clawed her ear. Brody didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.
“What?” the blonde yelped. “You sit there and try to tell us Mr. Geiger ran that kind of business right down on the main drag? You’re nuts!”
I leered at her politely. “Sure I do. Everybody knows the racket exists. Hollywood’s made to order for it. If a thing like that has to exist, then right out on the street is where all practical coppers want it to exist. For the same reason they favor red light districts. They know where to flush the game when they want to.”
“My God,” the blonde wailed. “You let this cheesehead sit there and insult me, Joe? You with a gun in your hand and him holding nothing but a cigar and his thumb?”
“I like it,” Brody said. “The guy’s got good ideas. Shut your trap and keep it shut, or I’ll slap it shut for you with this.” He flicked the gun around in an increasingly negligent manner.
The blonde gasp
ed and turned her face to the wall. Brody looked at me and said cunningly: “How have I got that lovely racket?”
“You shot Geiger to get it. Last night in the rain. It was dandy shooting weather. The trouble is he wasn’t alone when you whiffed him. Either you didn’t notice that, which seems unlikely, or you got the wind up and lammed. But you had nerve enough to take the plate out of his camera and you had nerve enough to come back later on and hide his corpse, so you could tidy up on the books before the law knew it had a murder to investigate.”
“Yah,” Brody said contemptuously. The Colt wobbled on his knee. His brown face was as hard as a piece of carved wood. “You take chances, mister. It’s kind of goddamned lucky for you I didn’t bop Geiger.”
“You can step off for it just the same,” I told him cheerfully. “You’re made to order for the rap.”
Brody’s voice rustled. “Think you got me framed for it?”
“Positive.”
“How come?”
“There’s somebody who’ll tell it that way. I told you there was a witness. Don’t go simple on me, Joe.”
He exploded then. “That goddamned little hot pants!” he yelled. “She would, god damn her! She would—just that!”
I leaned back and grinned at him. “Swell. I thought you had those nude photos of her.”
He didn’t say anything. The blonde didn’t say anything. I let them chew on it. Brody’s face cleared slowly, with a sort of grayish relief. He put his Colt down on the end table beside his chair but kept his right hand close to it. He knocked ash from his cigar on the carpet and stared at me with eyes that were a tight shine between narrowed lids.
“I guess you think I’m dumb,” Brody said.
“Just average, for a grifter. Get the pictures.”
“What pictures?”
I shook my head. “Wrong play, Joe. Innocence gets you nowhere. You were either there last night, or you got the nude photo from somebody that was there. You knew she was there, because you had your girl friend threaten Mrs. Regan with a police rap. The only ways you could know enough to do that would be by seeing what happened or by holding the photo and knowing where and when it was taken. Cough up and be sensible.”
The Collected Raymond Chandler Page 8
