And this was under Lavery’s pillow and Miss Fromsett just never keeps her hankies under a man’s pillow. Therefore this has absolutely nothing to do with Miss Fromsett. It’s just an optical delusion.’”
“Oh shut up,” she said.
I grinned.
“What kind of girl do you think I am?” she snapped.
“I came in too late to tell you.”
She flushed, but delicately and all over her face this time.
Then, “Have you any idea who did it?”
“Ideas, but that’s all they are. I’m afraid the police are going to find it simple. Some of Mrs. Kingsley’s clothes are hanging in Lavery’s closet. And when they know the whole story—including what happened at Little Fawn Lake yesterday—I’m afraid they’ll just reach for the handcuffs. They have to find her first. But that won’t be so hard for them.”
“Crystal Kingsley,” she said emptily. “So he couldn’t be spared even that.”
I said: “It doesn’t have to be. It could be an entirely different motivation, something we know nothing about. It could have been somebody like Dr. Almore.”
She looked up quickly, then shook her head. “It could be,” I insisted. We don’t know anything against it. He was pretty nervous yesterday for a man who has nothing to be afraid of. But, of course, it isn’t only the guilty who are afraid.”
I stood up and tapped on the edge of the desk looking down at her. She had a lovely neck. She pointed to the handkerchief.
“What about that?” she asked dully.
“If it was mine, I’d wash that cheap scent out of it.”
“It has to mean something, doesn’t it? It might mean a lot.”
I laughed. “I don’t think it means anything at all. Women are always leaving their handkerchiefs around. A fellow like Lavery would collect them and keep them in a drawer with a sandalwood sachet. Somebody would find the stock and take one out to use. Or he would lend them, enjoying the reactions to the other girl’s initials. I’d say he was that kind of a heel. Goodbye, Miss Fromsett, and thanks for talking to me.”
I started to go, then I stopped and asked her: “Did you hear the name of the reporter down there who gave Brownwell all his information?”
She shook her head.
“Or the name of Mrs. Almore’s parents?”
“Not that either. But I could probably find that out for you. I’d be glad to try.”
“How?”
“Those things are usually printed in death notices, aren’t they? There is pretty sure to have been a death notice in the Los Angeles papers.”
“That would be very nice of you,” I said. I ran a finger along the edge of the desk and looked at her sideways. Pale ivory skin, dark arid lovely eyes, hair as light as hair can be and as dark as night can be.
I walked back down the room and out. The little blonde at the PBX looked at me expectantly, her small red lips parted, waiting for more fun.
I didn’t have any more. I went on out.
20
No police cars stood in front of Lavery’s house, nobody hung around on the sidewalk and when I pushed the front door open there was no smell of cigar or cigarette smoke inside. The sun had gone away from the windows and a fly buzzed softly over one of the liquor glasses. I went down to the end and hung over the railing that led downstairs. Nothing moved in Mr. Lavery’s house. Nothing made sound except very faintly down below in the bathroom the quiet trickle of water dripping on a dead man’s shoulder.
I went to the telephone and looked up the number of the police department in the directory. I dialed and while I was waiting for an answer, I took the little automatic out of my pocket and laid it on the table beside the telephone.
When the male voice said: “Bay City Police—Smoot talking,” I said: “There’s been a shooting at 623 Altair Street. Man named Lavery lives there. He’s dead.”
“Six-two-three Altair. Who are you?”
“The name is Marlowe.”
“You right there in the house?”
“Right.”
“Don’t touch anything at all.”
I hung up, sat down on the davenport and waited.
Not very long. A siren whined far off, growing louder with great surges of sound. Tires screamed at a corner, and the siren wail died to a metallic growl, then to silence, and the tires screamed again in front of the house. The Bay City police conserving rubber. Steps hit the sidewalk and I went over to the front door and opened it.
Two uniformed cops barged into the room. They were the usual large size and they had the usual weathered faces and suspicious eyes. One of them had a carnation tucked under his cap, behind his right ear. The other one was older, a little gray and grim. They stood and looked at me warily, then the older one said briefly: “All right, where is it?”
“Downstairs in the bathroom, behind the shower curtain.”
“You stay here with him, Eddie.”
He went rapidly along the room and disappeared. The other one looked at me steadily and said out of the corner of his mouth: “Don’t make any false moves, buddy.”
I sat down on the davenport again. The cop ranged the room with his eyes. There were sounds below stairs, feet walking. The cop with me suddenly spotted the gun lying on the telephone table. He charged at it violently, like a downfield blocker.
“This the death gun?” he almost shouted.
“I should imagine so. It’s been fired.”
“Ha!” He leaned over the gun, baring his teeth at me, and put his hand to his holster. His finger tickled the flap off the stud and he grasped the butt of the black revolver.
“You should what?” he barked.
“I should imagine so.”
“That’s very good,” he sneered. “That’s very good indeed.”
“It’s not that good,” I said.
He reeled back a little. His eyes were being careful of me.
“What you shoot him for?” he growled.
“I’ve wondered and wondered.”
“Oh, a wisenheimer.”
“Let’s just sit down and wait for the homicide boys,” I said. “I’m reserving my defense.”
“Don’t give me none of that,” he said.
“I’m not giving you any of anything. If I had shot him, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have called up. You wouldn’t have found the gun. Don’t work so hard on the case. You won’t be on it more than ten minutes.”
His eyes looked hurt. He took his cap off and the carnation dropped to the floor. He bent and picked it up and twirled it between his fingers, then dropped it behind the fire screen.
“Better not do that,” I told him. “They might think it’s a clue and waste a lot of time on it.”
“Aw hell.” He bent over the screen and retrieved the carnation and put it in his pocket. “You know all the answers, don’t you, buddy?”
The other cop came back up the stairs, looking grave. He stood in the middle of the floor and looked at his wrist watch and made a note in a notebook and then looked out of the front windows, holding the venetian blinds to one side to do it.
The one who had stayed with me said: “Can I look now?”
“Let it lie, Eddie. Nothing in it for us. You call the coroner?”
“I thought homicide would do that.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Captain Webber will be on it and he likes to do everything himself.” He looked at me and said: “You’re a man named Marlowe?”
I said I was a man named Marlowe.
“He’s a wise guy, knows all the answers,” Eddie said.
The older one looked at me absently, looked at Eddie absently, spotted the gun lying on the telephone table and looked at that not at all absently.
“Yeah, that’s the death gun,” Eddie said. “I ain’t touched it.”