chapter 11

She wore brownish speckled tweeds, a mannish shirt and tie, handcarved walking shoes. Her stockings were just as sheer as the day before, but she wasn't showing as much of her legs. Her black hair was glossy under a brown Robin Hood hat that might have cost fifty dollars and looked as if you could have made it with one hand out of a desk blotter. "Well, you do get up," she said, wrinkling her nose at the faded red settee, the two odd semi-easy chairs, the net curtains that needed laundering and the boy's size library table with the venerable magazines on it to give the place a professional touch. "I was beginning to think perhaps you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust." "Who's he?" I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her. She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain. "A French writer, a connoisseur in degenerates. You wouldn't know him." "Tut, tut," I said. "Come into my boudoir." She stood up and said: "We didn't get along very well yesterday. Perhaps I was rude." "We were both rude," I said. I unlocked the communicating door and held it for her. We went into the rest of my suite, which contained a rust-red carpet, not very young, five green filing cases, three of them full of California climate, an advertising calendar showing the Quints rolling around on a sky-blue floor, in pink dresses, with seal-brown hair and sharp black eyes as large as mammoth prunes. There were three near-walnut chairs, the usual desk with the usual blotter, pen set, ashtray and telephone, and the usual squeaky swivel chair behind it. "You don't put on much of a front," she said, sitting down at the customer's side of the desk. I went over to the mail slot and picked up six envelopes, two letters and four pieces of advertising matter. I hung my hat on the telephone and sat down. "Neither do the Pinkertons," I said. "You can't make much money at this trade, if you're honest. If you have a front, you're making money--or expect to." "Oh--are you honest?" she asked and opened her bag. She picked a cigarette out of a French enamel case, lit it with a pocket lighter, dropped case and lighter back into the bag and left the bag open. "Painfully." "How did you get into this slimy kind of business then?" "How did you come to marry a bootlegger?" "My God, let's not start quarreling again. I've been trying to get you on the phone all morning. Here and at your apartment." "About Owen?" Her face tightened sharply. Her voice was soft. "Poor Owen," she said. "So you know about that." "A D.A.'s man took me down to Lido. He thought I might know something about it. But he knew much more than I did. He knew Owen wanted to marry your sister--once."She puffed silently at her cigarette and considered me with steady black eyes. "Perhaps it wouldn't have been a bad idea," she said quietly. "He was in love with her. We don't find much of that in our circle." "He had a police record." She shrugged. She said negligently: "He didn't know the right people. That's all a police record means in this rotten crime-ridden country." "I wouldn't go that far." She peeled her right glove off and bit her index finger at the first joint, looking at me with steady eyes. "I didn't come to see you about Owen. Do you feel yet that you can tell me what my father wanted to see you about?" "Not without his permission." "Was it about Carmen?" "I can't even say that." I finished filling a pipe and put a match to it. She watched the smoke for a moment. Then her hand went into her open bag and came out with a thick white envelope. She tossed it across the desk. "You'd better look at it anyway," she said. I picked it up. The address was typewritten to Mrs. Vivian Regan, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood. Delivery had been by messenger service and the office stamp showed 8.35 a.m. as the time out. I opened the envelope and drew out the shiny 4?by 3?photo that was all there was inside. It was Carmen sitting in Geiger's high-backed teakwood chair on the dais, in her earrings and her birthday suit. Her eyes looked even a little crazier than as I remembered them. The back of the photo was blank. I put it back in the envelope. "How much do they want?" I asked. "Five thousand--for the negative and the rest of the prints. The deal has to be closed tonight, or they give the stuff to some scandal sheet." "The demand came how?" "A woman telephoned me, about half an hour after this thing was delivered." "There's nothing in the scandal sheet angle. Juries convict without leaving the box on that stuff nowadays. What else is there?" "Does there have to be something else?" "Yes." She stared at me, a little puzzled. "There is. The woman said there was a police jam connected with it and I'd better lay it on the line fast, or I'd be talking to my little sister through a wire screen." "Better," I said. "What kind of jam?" "I don't know." "Where is Carmen now?" "She's at home. She was sick last night. She's still in bed, I think." "Did she go out last night?" "No. I was out, but the servants say she wasn't. I was down at Las Olindas, playing roulette at Eddie Mars' Cypress Club. I lost my shirt." "So you like roulette. You would." She crossed her legs and lit another cigarette. "Yes. I like roulette. All Sternwoods like losing games, like roulette and marrying men that walk out on them and riding steeplechases at fifty-eight years old and being rolled on by a jumper and crippled for life. The Sternwoods have money. All it has bought them is a rain check." "What was Owen doing last night with your car?" "Nobody knows. He took it without permission. We always let him take a car on his night off, but last nightwasn't his night off." She made a wry mouth. "Do you think--" "He knew about this nude photo? How would I be able to say? I don't rule him out. Can you get five thousand in cash right away?" "Not unless I tell Dad--or borrow it. I could probably borrow it from Eddie Mars. He ought to be generous with me, heaven knows." "Better try that. You may need it in a hurry." She leaned back and hung an arm over the back of the chair. "How about telling the police?" "It's a good idea. But you won't do it." "Won't I?" "No. You have to protect your father and your sister. You don't know what the police might turn up. It might be something they couldn't sit on. Though they usually try in blackmail cases." "Can you do anything?" "I think I can. But I can't tell you why or how." "I like you," she said suddenly. "You believe in miracles. Would you have a drink in the office?" I unlocked my deep drawer and got out my office bottle and two pony glasses. I filled them and we drank. She snapped her bag shut and pushed the chair back. "I'll get the five grand," she said. "I've been a good customer of Eddie Mars. There's another reason why he should be nice to me, which you may not know." She gave me one of those smiles the lips have forgotten before they reach the eyes. "Eddie's blonde wife is the lady Rusty ran away with." I didn't say anything. She stared tightly at me and added: "That doesn't interest you?" "It ought to make it easier to find him--if I was looking for him. You don't think he's in this mess, do you?" She pushed her empty glass at me. "Give me another drink. You're the hardest guy to get anything out of. You don't even move your ears." I filled the little glass. "You've got all you wanted out of me--a pretty good idea I'm not looking for your husband." She put the drink down very quickly. It made her gasp--or gave her an opportunity to gasp. She let a breath out slowly. "Rusty was no crook. If he had been, it wouldn't have been for nickles. He carried fifteen thousand dollars, in bills. He called it his mad money. He had it when I married him and he had it when he left me. No--Rusty's not in on any cheap blackmail racket." She reached for the envelope and stood up. "I'll keep in touch with you," I said. "If you want to leave me a message, the phone girl at my apartment house will take care of it." We walked over to the door. Tapping the white envelope against her knuckles, she said: "You still feel you can't tell me what Dad--" "I'd have to see him first." She took the photo out and stood looking at it, just inside the door. "She has a beautiful little body, hasn't she?" "Uh-huh." She leaned a little towards me. "You ought to see mine," she said gravely. "Can it be arranged?" She laughed suddenly and sharply and went halfway through the door, then turned her head to say coolly: "You're as cold-blooded a beast as I ever met, Marlowe. Or can I call you Phil?" "Sure." "You can can me Vivian.""Thanks, Mrs. Regan." "Oh, go to hell, Marlowe." She went on out and didn't look back. I let the door shut and stood with my hand on it, staring at the hand. My face felt a little hot. I went back to the desk and put the whiskey away and rinsed out the two pony glasses and put them away. I took my hat off the phone and called the D.A.'s office and asked for Bernie Ohls. He was back in his cubbyhole. "Well, I let the old man alone," he said. "The butler said he or one of the girls would tell him. This Owen Taylor lived over the garage and I went through his stuff. Parents at Dubuque, Iowa. I wired the Chief of Police there to find out what they want done. The Sternwood family will pay for it." "Suicide?" I asked. "No can tell. He didn't leave any notes. He had no leave to take the car. Everybody was home last night but Mrs. Regan. She was down at Las Olindas with a playboy named Larry Cobb. I checked on that. I know a lad on one of the tables." "You ought to stop some of that flash gambling," I said. "With the syndicate we got in this county? Be your age, Marlow. That sap mark on the boy's head bothers me. Sure you can't help me on this?" I liked his putting it that way. It let me say no without actually lying. We said good-by and I left the office, bought all three afternoon papers and rode a taxi down to the Hall of Justice to get my car out of the lot. There was nothing in any of the papers about Geiger. I took another look at his blue notebook, but the code was just as stubborn as it had been the night before.