We straightened out and started up the hill, over the brow. I looked back at the broken window. It was the small one at the extreme back of the car and it wasn’t shatterproof. A large piece was gone from it. They could fit that, if they got around to it, and make some evidence. I didn’t think it would matter, but it might.
At the crest of the hill a large limousine passed us going down. Its dome light was on and in the interior, as in a lighted showcase, an elderly couple sat stiffly, taking the royal salute. The man was in evening clothes, with a white scarf and a crush hat. The woman was in furs and diamonds.
George passed them casually, gunned the car and we made a fast right turn into a dark street. «There’s a couple of good dinners all shot to hell,» he drawled, «and I bet they don’t even report it.»
«Yeah. Let’s get back home and have a drink,» I said. «I never really got to like killing people.»
FIVE
We sat with some of Miss Harriet Huntress’ Scotch in our glasses and looked at each other across the rims. George looked nice with his cap off. His head was clustered over with wavy dark-brown hair and his teeth were very white and clean. He sipped his drink and nibbled a cigarette at the same time. His snappy black eyes had a cool glitter in them.
«Yale?» I asked.
«Dartmouth, if it’s any of your business.»
«Everything’s my business. What’s a college education worth these days?»
«Three squares and a uniform,» he drawled.
«What kind of guy is young Jeeter?»
«Big blond bruiser, plays a fair game of golf, thinks he’s hell with the women, drinks heavy but hasn’t sicked up on the rugs so far.»
«What kind of guy is old Jeeter?»
«He’d probably give you a dime — if he didn’t have a nickel with him.»
«Tsk, tsk, you’re talking about your boss.»
George grinned. «He’s so tight his head squeaks when he takes his hat off. I always took chances. Maybe that’s why I’m just somebody’s driver. This is good Scotch.»
I made another drink, which finished the bottle. I sat down again.
«You think those two gunnies were stashed out for Mister Gerald?»
«Why not? I usually drive him home about that time. Didn’t today. He had a bad hangover and didn’t go out until late. You’re a dick, you know what it’s all about, don’t you?»
«Who told you I was a dick?»
«Nobody but a dick ever asked so goddam many questions.»
I shook my head. «Uh-uh. I’ve asked you just six questions. Your boss has a lot of confidence in you. He must have told you.»
The dark man nodded, grinned faintly and sipped. «The whole set-up is pretty obvious,» he said. «When the car started to swing for the turn into the driveway these boys went to work. I don’t figure they meant to kill anybody, somehow. It was just a scare. Only that little guy was nuts.»
I looked at George’s eyebrows. They were nice black eyebrows, with a gloss on them like horsehair.
«It doesn’t sound like Marty Estel to pick that sort of helpers.»
«Sure. Maybe that’s why he picked that sort of helpers.»
«You’re smart. You and I can get along. But shooting that little punk makes it tougher. What will you do about that?»
«Nothing.»
«O.K. If they get to you and tie it to your gun, if you still have the gun, which you probably won’t, I suppose it will be passed off as an attempted stick-up. There’s just one thing.»
«What?» George finished his second drink, laid the glass aside, lit a fresh cigarette and smiled.
«It’s pretty hard to tell a car from in front — at night. Even with all those lights. It might have been a visitor.»
He shrugged and nodded. «But if it’s a scare, that would do just as well. Because the family would hear about it and the old man would guess whose boys they were — and why.»
«Hell, you really are smart,» I said admiringly, and the phone rang.
It was an English-butler voice, very clipped and precise, and it said that if I was Mr. Philip Marlowe, Mr. Jeeter would like to speak to me. He came on at once, with plenty of frost.
«I must say that you take your time about obeying orders,» he barked. «Or hasn’t that chauffeur of mine —»
«Yeah, he got here, Mr. Jeeter,» I said. «But we ran into a little trouble. George will tell you.»
«Young man, when I want something done —»
«Listen, Mr. Jeeter, I’ve had a hard day. Your son punched me on the jaw and I fell and cut my head open. When I staggered back to my apartment, more dead than alive, I was stuck up by a couple of hard guys with guns who told me to lay off the Jeeter case. I’m doing my best but I’m feeling a little frail, so don’t scare me.»
«Young man —»
«Listen,» I told him earnestly, «if you want to call all the plays in this game, you can carry the ball yourself. Or you can save yourself a lot of money and hire an order taker. I have to do things my way. Any cops visit you tonight?»
«Cops?» he echoed in a sour voice. «You mean policemen?»
«By all means — I mean policemen.»
«And why should I see any policemen?» he almost snarled.
«There was a stiff in front of your gates half an hour ago. Stiff meaning dead man. He’s quite small. You could sweep him up in a dustpan, if he bothers you.»
«My God! Are you serious?»
«Yes. What’s more he took a shot at George and me. He recognized the car. He must have been all set for your son, Mr. Jeeter.»
A silence with barbs on it. «I thought you said a dead man,» Mr. Jeeter’s voice said very coldly. «Now you say he shot at you.»
«That was while he wasn’t dead,» I said. «George will tell you. George —»
«You come out here at once!» he yelled at me over the phone. «At once, do you hear? At once!»
«George will tell you,» I said softly and hung up.
George looked at me coldly. He stood up and put his cap on. «O.K., pal,» he said. «Maybe some day I can put you on to a soft thing.» He started for the door.
«It had to be that way. It’s up to him. He’ll have to decide.»
«Nuts,» George said, looking back over his shoulder. «Save your breath, shamus. Anything you say to me is just so much noise in the wrong place.»
He opened the door, went out, shut it, and I sat there still holding the telephone, with my mouth open and nothing in it but my tongue and a bad taste on that.
I went out to the kitchen and shook the Scotch bottle, but it was still empty. I opened some rye and swallowed a drink and it tasted sour. Something was bothering me. I had a feeling it was going to bother me a lot more before I was through.
They must have missed George by a whisker. I heard the elevator come up again almost as soon as it had stopped going down. Solid steps grew louder along the hallway. A fist hit the door. I went over and opened it.
One was in brown, one in blue, both large, hefty and bored.
The one in brown pushed his hat back on his head with a freckled hand and said: «You Philip Marlowe?»
«Me,» I said.
They rode me back into the room without seeming to. The one in blue shut the door. The one in brown palmed a shield and let me catch a glint of the gold and enamel.
«Finlayson, Detective Lieutenant working out of Central Homicide,» he said. «This is Sebold, my partner. We’re a couple of swell guys not to get funny with. We hear you’re kind of sharp with a gun.»
Sebold took his hat off and dusted his salt-and-pepper hair back with the flat of his hand. He drifted noiselessly out to the kitchen.
Finlayson sat down on the edge of a chair and flicked his chin with a thumbnail as square as an ice cube and yellow as a mustard plaster. He was older than Sebold, but not so goodlooking. He had the frowsy expression of a veteran cop who hadn’t got very far.