A voice said: “Brody?”
Brody said something I didn’t hear. The two quick reports were muffled. The gun must have been pressed tight against Brody’s body. He tilted forward against the door and the weight of his body pushed it shut with a bang. He slid down the wood. His feet pushed the carpet away behind him. His left hand dropped off the knob and the arm slapped the floor with a thud. His head was wedged against the door. He didn’t move. The Colt clung to his right hand.
I jumped across the room and rolled him enough to get the door open and crowd through. A woman peered out of a door almost opposite. Her face was full of fright and she pointed along the hall with a clawlike hand.
I raced down the hall and heard thumping feet going down the tile steps and went down after the sound. At the lobby level the front door was closing itself quietly and running feet slapped the sidewalk outside. I made the door before it was shut, clawed it open again and charged out.
A tall hatless figure in a leather jerkin was running diagonally across the street between the parked cars. The figure turned and flame spurted from it. Two heavy hammers hit the stucco wall beside me. The figure ran on, dodged between two cars, vanished.
A man came up beside me and barked: “What happened?”
“Shooting going on,” I said.
“Jesus!” He scuttled into the apartment house.
I walked quickly down the sidewalk to my car and got in and started it. I pulled out from the curb and drove down the hill, not fast. No other car started up on the other side of the street. I thought I heard steps, but I wasn’t sure about that. I rode down the hill a block and a half, turned at the intersection and started back up. The sound of a muted whistling came to me faintly along the sidewalk. Then steps. I double parked and slid out between two cars and went down low. I took Carmen’s little revolver out of my pocket.
The sound of the steps grew louder, and the whistling went on cheerfully. In a moment the jerkin showed. I stepped out between the two cars and said: “Got a match, buddy?”
The boy spun towards me and his right hand darted up to go inside the jerkin. His eyes were a wet shine in the glow of the round electroliers. Moist dark eyes shaped like almonds, and a pallid handsome face with wavy black hair growing low on the forehead in two points. A very handsome boy indeed, the boy from Geiger’s store.
He stood there looking at me silently, his right hand on the edge of the jerkin, but not inside it yet. I held the little revolver down at my side.
“You must have thought a lot of that queen,” I said.
“Go — yourself,” the boy said softly, motionless between the parked cars and the five-foot retaining wall on the inside of the sidewalk.
A siren wailed distantly coming up the long hill. The boy’s head jerked towards the sound. I stepped in close and put my gun into his jerkin.
“Me or the cops?” I asked him.
His head rolled a little sideways as if I had slapped his face. “Who are you?” he snarled.
“Friend of Geiger’s.”
“Get away from me, you son of a bitch.”
“This is a small gun, kid. I’ll give it you through the navel and it will take three months to get you well enough to walk. But you’ll get well. So you can walk to the nice new gas chamber up in Quentin.”
He said: “Go — yourself.” His hand moved inside the jerkin. I pressed harder on his stomach. He let out a long soft sigh, took his hand away from the jerkin and let it fall limp at his side. His wide shoulders sagged. “What you want?” he whispered.
I reached inside the jerkin and plucked out the automatic. “Get into my car, kid.”
He stepped past me and I crowded him from behind. He got into the car.
“Under the wheel, kid. You drive.”
He slid under the wheel and I got into the car beside him. I said: “Let the prowl car pass up the hill. They’ll think we moved over when we heard the siren. Then turn her down hill and we’ll go home.”
I put Carmen’s gun away and leaned the automatic against the boy’s ribs. I looked back through the window. The whine of the siren was very loud now. Two red lights swelled in the middle of the street. They grew larger and blended into one and the car rushed by in a wild flurry of sound.
“Let’s go,” I said.
The boy swung the car and started off down the hill.
“Let’s go home,” I said. “To Laverne Terrace.”
His smooth lips twitched. He swung the car west on Franklin. “You’re a simple-minded lad. What’s your name?”
“Carol Lundgren,” he said lifelessly.
“You shot the wrong guy, Carol. Joe Brody didn’t kill your queen.”
He spoke three words to me and kept on driving.
SEVENTEEN
A moon half gone from the full glowed through a ring of mist among the high branches of the eucalyptus trees on Laverne Terrace. A radio sounded loudly from a house low down the hill. The boy swung the car over to the box hedge in front of Geiger’s house, killed the motor and sat looking straight before him with both hands on the wheel. No light showed through Geiger’s hedge.
I said: “Anybody home, son?”
“You ought to know.”
“How would I know?”
“Go — yourself.”
“That’s how people get false teeth.”
He showed me his in a tight grin. Then he kicked the door open and got out. I scuttled out after him. He stood with his fists on his hips, looking silently at the house above the top of the hedge.
“All right,” I said. “You have a key. Let’s go on in.”
“Who said I had a key?”
“Don’t kid me, son. The fag gave you one. You’ve got a nice clean manly little room in there. He shooed you out and locked it up when he had lady visitors. He was like Caesar, a husband to women and a wife to men. Think I can’t figure people like him and you out?”
I still held his automatic more or less pointed at him, but he swung on me just the same. It caught me flush on the chin. I backstepped fast enough to keep from falling, but I took plenty of the punch. It was meant to be a hard one, but a pansy has no iron in his bones, whatever he looks like.
I threw the gun down at the kid’s feet and said: “Maybe you need this.”
He stooped for it like a flash. There was nothing slow about his movements. I sank a fist in the side of his neck. He toppled over sideways, clawing for the gun and not reaching it. I picked it up again and threw it in the car. The boy came up on all fours, leering with his eyes too wide open. He coughed and shook his head.
“You don’t want to fight,” I told him. “You’re giving away too much weight.”
He wanted to fight. He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees in a diving tackle. I sidestepped and reached for his neck and took it into chancery. He scraped the dirt hard and got his feet under him enough to use his hands on me where it hurt. I twisted him around and heaved him a little higher. I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and turned my right hipbone into him and for a moment it was a balance of weights. We seemed to hang there in the misty moonlight, two grotesque creatures whose feet scraped on the road and whose breath panted with effort.
I had my right forearm against his windpipe now and all the strength of both arms in it. His feet began a frenetic shuffle and he wasn’t panting any more. He was ironbound. His left foot sprawled off to one side and the knee went slack. I held on half a minute longer. He sagged on my arm, an enormous weight I could hardly hold up. Then I let go. He sprawled at my feet, out cold. I went to the car and got a pair of handcuffs out of the glove compartment and twisted his wrists behind him and snapped them on. I lifted him by the armpits and managed to drag him in behind the hedge, out of sight from the street. I went back to the car and moved it a hundred feet up the hill and locked it.
He was still out when I got back. I unlocked the door, dragged him into the house, shut the door. He was beginning to gasp now. I switched a la
mp on. His eyes fluttered open and focused on me slowly.
I bent down, keeping out of the way of his knees and said: “Keep quiet or you’ll get the same and more of it. Just lie quiet and hold your breath. Hold it until you can’t hold it any longer and then tell yourself that you have to breathe, that you’re black in the face, that your eyeballs are popping out, and that you’re going to breathe right now, but that you’re sitting strapped in the chair in the clean little gas chamber up in San Quentin and when you take that breath you’re fighting with all your soul not to take it, it won’t be air you’ll get, it will be cyanide fumes. And that’s what they call humane execution in our state now.”
“Go — yourself,” he said with a soft stricken sigh.
“You’re going to cop a plea, brother, don’t ever think you’re not. And you’re going to say just what we want you to say and nothing we don’t want you to say.”
“Go — yourself.”
“Say that again and I’ll put a pillow under your head.”
His mouth twitched. I left him lying on the floor with his wrists shackled behind him and his cheek pressed into the rug and an animal brightness in his visible eye. I put on another lamp and stepped into the hallway at the back of the living room. Geiger’s bedroom didn’t seem to have been touched. I opened the door, not locked now, of the bedroom across the hall from it. There was a dim flickering light in the room and a smell of sandalwood. Two cones of incense ash stood side by side on a small brass tray on the bureau. The light came from the two tall black candles in the foot-high candlesticks. They were standing on straight-backed chairs, one on either side of the bed.
Geiger lay on the bed. The two missing strips of Chinese tapestry made a St. Andrew’s Cross over the middle of his body, hiding the blood-smeared front of his Chinese coat. Below the cross his black-pajama’d legs lay stiff and straight. His feet were in the slippers with thick white felt soles. Above the cross his arms were crossed at the wrists and his hands lay flat against his shoulders, palms down, fingers close together and stretched out evenly. His mouth was closed and his Charlie Chan moustache was as unreal as a toupee. His broad nose was pinched and white. His eyes were almost closed, but not entirely. The faint glitter of his glass eye caught the light and winked at me.
I didn’t touch him. I didn’t go very near him. He would be as cold as ice and as stiff as a board.
The black candles guttered in the draft from the open door. Drops of black wax crawled down their sides. The air of the room was poisonous and unreal. I went out and shut the door again and went back to the living room. The boy hadn’t moved. I stood still, listening for sirens. It was all a question of how soon Agnes talked and what she said. If she talked about Geiger, the police would be there any minute. But she might not talk for hours. She might even have got away.
I looked down at the boy. “Want to sit up, son?”
He closed his eye and pretended to go to sleep. I went over to the desk and scooped up the mulberry-colored phone and dialed Bernie Ohls’ office. He had left to go home at six o’clock. I dialed the number of his home. He was there.
“This is Marlowe,” I said. “Did your boys find a revolver on Owen Taylor this morning?”
I could hear him clearing his throat and then I could hear him trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. “That would come under the heading of police business,” he said.
“If they did, it had three empty shells in it.”
“How the hell did you know that?” Ohls asked quietly.
“Come over to 7244 Laverne Terrace, off Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I’ll show you where the slugs went.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that.”
Ohls said: “Look out the window and you’ll see me coming round the corner. I thought you acted a little cagey on that one.”
“Cagey is no word for it,” I said.
EIGHTEEN
Ohls stood looking down at the boy. The boy sat on the couch leaning sideways against the wall. Ohls looked at him silently, his pale eyebrows bristling and stiff and round like the little vegetable brushes the Fuller Brush man gives away.
He asked the boy: “Do you admit shooting Brody?”
The boy said his favorite three words in a muffled voice.
Ohls sighed and looked at me. I said: “He doesn’t have to admit that. I have his gun.”
Ohls said: “I wish to Christ I had a dollar for every time I’ve had that said to me. What’s funny about it?”
“It’s not meant to be funny,” I said.
“Well, that’s something,” Ohls said. He turned away. “I’ve called Wilde. We’ll go over and see him and take this punk. He can ride with me and you can follow on behind in case he tries to kick me in the face.”
“How do you like what’s in the bedroom?”
“I like it fine,” Ohls said. “I’m kind of glad that Taylor kid went off the pier. I’d hate to have to help send him to the deathhouse for rubbing that skunk.”
I went back into the small bedroom and blew out the black candles and let them smoke. When I got back to the living room Ohls had the boy up on his feet. The boy stood glaring at him with sharp black eyes in a face as hard and white as cold mutton fat.
“Let’s go,” Ohls said and took him by the arm as if he didn’t like touching him. I put the lamps out and followed them out of the house. We got into our cars and I followed Ohls’ twin tail-lights down the long curving hill. I hoped this would be my last trip to Laverne Terrace.
Taggart Wilde, the District Attorney, lived at the corner of Fourth and Lafayette Park, in a white frame house the size of a carbarn, with a red sandstone porte-cochere built on to one side and a couple of acres of soft rolling lawn in front. It was one of those solid old-fashioned houses which it used to be the thing to move bodily to new locations as the city grew westward. Wilde came of an old Los Angeles family and had probably been born in the house when it was on West Adams or Figueroa or St. James Park.
There were two cars in the driveway already, a big private sedan and a police car with a uniformed chauffeur who leaned smoking against his rear fender and admired the moon. Ohls went over and spoke to him and the chauffeur looked in at the boy in Ohls’ car.
We went up to the house and rang the bell. A slick-haired blond man opened the door and led us down the hall and through a huge sunken living room crowded with heavy dark furniture and along another hall on the far side of it. He knocked at a door and stepped inside, then held the door wide and we went into a paneled study with an open French door at the end and a view of dark garden and mysterious trees. A smell of wet earth and flowers came in at the window. There were large dim oils on the walls, easy chairs, books, a smell of good cigar smoke which blended with the smell of wet earth and flowers.
Taggart Wilde sat behind a desk, a middle-aged plump man with clear blue eyes that managed to have a friendly expression without really having any expression at all. He had a cup of black coffee in front of him and he held a dappled thin cigar between the neat careful fingers of his left hand. Another man sat at the corner of the desk in a blue leather chair, a cold-eyed hatchet-faced man, as lean as a rake and as hard as the manager of a loan office. His neat well-kept face looked as if it had been shaved within the hour. He wore a well-pressed brown suit and there was a black pearl in his tie. He had the long nervous fingers of a man with a quick brain. He looked ready for a fight.
Ohls pulled a chair up and sat down and said: “Evening, Cronjager. Meet Phil Marlowe, a private eye who’s in a jam.” Ohls grinned.
Cronjager looked at me without nodding. He looked me over as if he was looking at a photograph. Then he nodded his chin about an inch. Wilde said: “Sit down, Marlowe. I’ll try to handle Captain Cronjager, but you know how it is. This is a big city now.”
I sat down and lit a cigarette. Ohls looked at Cronjager and asked: “What did you get on the Randall Place killing?”
The hatchet-faced man pulled one of his fingers u
ntil the knuckle cracked. He spoke without looking up. “A stiff, two slugs in him. Two guns that hadn’t been fired. Down on the street we got a blonde trying to start a car that didn’t belong to her. Hers was right next to it, the same model. She acted rattled so the boys brought her in and she spilled. She was in there when this guy Brody got it. Claims she didn’t see the killer.”
“That all?” Ohls asked.
Cronjager raised his eyebrows a little. “Only happened about an hour ago. What did you expect—moving pictures of the killing?”
“Maybe a description of the killer,” Ohls said.
“A tall guy in a leather jerkin—if you call that a description.”
“He’s outside in my heap,” Ohls said. “Handcuffed. Marlowe put the arm on him for you. Here’s his gun.” Ohls took the boy’s automatic out of his pocket and laid it on a corner of Wilde’s desk. Cronjager looked at the gun but didn’t reach for it.
Wilde chuckled. He was leaning back and puffing his dappled cigar without letting go of it. He bent forward to sip from his coffee cup. He took a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of the dinner jacket he was wearing and touched his lips with it and tucked it away again.
“There’s a couple more deaths involved,” Ohls said, pinching the soft flesh at the end of his chin.
Cronjager stiffened visibly. His surly eyes became points of steely light.
Ohls said: “You heard about a car being lifted out of the Pacific Ocean off Lido pier this a.m. with a dead guy in it?”
Cronjager said: “No,” and kept on looking nasty.
“The dead guy in the car was chauffeur to a rich family,” Ohls said. “The family was being blackmailed on account of one of the daughters. Mr. Wilde recommended Marlowe to the family, through me. Marlowe played it kind of close to the vest.”
The Big Sleep Page 9
