«You’d better have a drink,» she said. «You probably can’t talk without a glass in your hand.»
I sat down and reached for the Scotch. The girl sat in a deep chair and crossed her knees. I thought of Hawkins walking around the block. I could see a little something in his point of view.
«So you’re from Marty Estel,» she said, refusing a drink.
«Never met him.»
«I had an idea to that effect. What’s the racket, bum? Marty will love to hear how you used his name.»
«I’m shaking in my shoes. What made you let me up?»
«Curiosity. I’ve been expecting lads like you any day. I never dodge trouble. Some kind of a dick, aren’t you?»
I lit a cigarette and nodded. «Private. I have a little deal to propose.»
«Propose it.» She yawned.
«How much will you take to lay off young Jeeter?»
She yawned again. «You interest me — so little I could hardly tell you.»
«Don’t scare me to death. Honest, how much are you asking? Or is that an insult?»
She smiled. She had a nice smile. She had lovely teeth. «I’m a bad girl now,» she said. «I don’t have to ask. They bring it to me, tied up with ribbon.»
«The old man’s a little tough. They say he draws a lot of water.»
«Water doesn’t cost much.»
I nodded and drank some more of my drink. It was good Scotch. In fact it was perfect. «His idea is you get nothing. You get smeared. You get put in the middle. I can’t see it that way.»
«But you’re working for him.»
«Sounds funny, doesn’t it? There’s probably a smart way to play this, but I just can’t think of it at the moment. How much would you take — or would you?»
«How about fifty grand?»
«Fifty grand for you and another fifty for Marty?»
She laughed. «Now, you ought to know Marty wouldn’t like me to mix in his business. I was just thinking of my end.»
She crossed her legs the other way. I put another lump of ice in my drink.
«I was thinking of five hundred,» I said.
«Five hundred what?» She looked puzzled.
«Dollars — not Rolls-Royces.»
She laughed heartily. «You amuse me. I ought to tell you to go to hell, but I like brown eyes. Warm brown eyes with flecks of gold in them.»
«You’re throwing it away. I don’t have a nickel.»
She smiled and fitted a fresh cigarette between her lips. I went over to light it for her. Her eyes came up and looked into mine. Hers had sparks in them.
«Maybe I have a nickel already,» she said softly.
«Maybe that’s why he hired the fat boy — so you couldn’t make him dance.» I sat down again.
«Who hired what fat boy?»
«Old Jeeter hired a fat boy named Arbogast. He was on the case before me. Didn’t you know? He got bumped off this afternoon.»
I said it quite casually for the shock effect, but she didn’t move. The provocative smile didn’t leave the corners of her lips. Her eyes didn’t change. She made a dim sound with her breath.
«Does it have to have something to do with me?» she asked quietly.
«I don’t know. I don’t know who murdered him. It was done in his office, around noon or a little later. It may not have anything to do with the Jeeter case. But it happened pretty pat — just after I had been put on the job and before I got a chance to talk to him.»
She nodded. «I see. And you think Marty does things like that. And of course you told the police?»
«Of course I did not.»
«You’re giving away a little weight there, brother.»
«Yeah. But let’s get together on a price and it had better be low. Because whatever the cops do to me they’ll do plenty to Marty Estel and you when they get the story — if they get it.»
«A little spot of blackmail,» the girl said coolly. «I think I might call it that. Don’t go too far with me, brown-eyes. By the way, do I know your name?»
«Philip Marlowe.»
«Then listen, Philip. I was in the Social Register once. My family were nice people. Old man Jeeter ruined my father — all proper and legitimate, the way that kind of heel ruins people — but he ruined him, and my father committed suicide, and my mother died and I’ve got a kid sister back East in school and perhaps I’m not too damn particular how I get the money to take care of her. And maybe I’m going to take care of old Jeeter one of these days, too — even if I have to marry his son to do it.»
«Stepson, adopted son,» I said. «No relation at all.»
«It’ll hurt him just as hard, brother. And the boy will have plenty of the long green in a couple of years. I could do worse — even if he does drink too much.»
«You wouldn’t say that in front of him, lady.»
«No? Take a look behind you, gumshoe. You ought to have the wax taken out of your ears.»
I stood up and turned fast. He stood about four feet from me. He had come out of some door and sneaked across the carpet and I had been too busy being clever with nothing on the ball to hear him. He was big, blond, dressed in a rough sporty suit, with a scarf and open-necked shirt. He was red-faced and his eyes glittered and they were not focusing any too well. He was a bit drunk for that early in the day.
«Beat it while you can still walk,» he sneered at me. «I heard it. Harry can say anything she likes about me. I like it. Dangle, before I knock your teeth down your throat!»
The girl laughed behind me. I didn’t like that. I took a step towards the big blond boy. His eyes blinked. Big as he was, he was a pushover.
«Ruin him, baby,» the girl said coldly behind my back. «I love to see these hard numbers bend at the knees.»
I looked back at her with a leer. That was a mistake. He was wild, probably, but he could still hit a wall that didn’t jump. He hit me while I was looking back over my shoulder. It hurts to be hit that way. He hit me plenty hard, on the back end of the jawbone.
I went over sideways, tried to spread my legs, and slid on the silk rug. I did a nose dive somewhere or other and my head was not as hard as the piece of furniture it smashed into.
For a brief blurred moment I saw his red face sneering down at me in triumph. I think I was a little sorry for him — even then.
Darkness folded down and I went out.
FOUR
When I came to, the light from the windows across the room was hitting me square in the eyes. The back of my head ached. I felt it and it was sticky. I moved around slowly, like a cat in a strange house, got up on my knees and reached for the bottle of Scotch on the tabouret at the end of the davenport. By some miracle I hadn’t knocked it over. Falling I had hit my head on the clawlike leg of a chair. That had hurt me a lot more than young Jeeter’s haymaker. I could feel the sore place on my jaw all right, but it wasn’t important enough to write in my diary.
I got up on my feet, took a swig of the Scotch and looked around. There wasn’t anything to see. The room was empty. It was full of silence and the memory of a nice perfume. One of those perfumes you don’t notice until they are almost gone, like the last leaf on a tree. I felt my head again, touched the sticky place with my handkerchief, decided it wasn’t worth yelling about, and took another drink.
I sat down with the bottle on my knees, listening to traffic noise somewhere, far off. It was a nice room. Miss Harriet Huntress was a nice girl. She knew a few wrong numbers, but who didn’t? I should criticize a little thing like that. I took another drink. The level in the bottle was a lot lower now. It was smooth and you hardly noticed it going down. It didn’t take half your tonsils with it, like some of the stuff I had to drink. I took some more. My head felt all right now. I felt fine. I felt like singing the Prologue to Pagliacci. Yes, she was a nice girl. If she was paying her own rent, she was doing right well. I was for her. She was swell. I used some more of her Scotch.