raymondchandler.thehighwindow-第33节

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t　her　in。　He　just　sort　of　sat　there　sort　of　leering。〃
　 He　nodded　and　said：　〃Oh。〃　He　pushed　a　cigarette　between　his　heavy　lips　and　lit　it。　〃If　you　expect　me　to　tell　you　whether　she　really　thinks　she　shot　him；　I　can't　do　it。　From　your　description　I　gather　that　the　man　is　shot。　That　so？〃
　 〃Brother；　I　haven't　been　there。　But　that　much　seems　pretty　clear。〃
　 〃If　she　thinks　she　shot　him　and　isn't　just　actingand　God；　how　these　types　do　act！that　indicates　it　was　not　a　new　idea　to　her。　You　say　she　carried　a　gun。　So　perhaps　it　wasn't。　She　may　have　a　guilt　plex。　Wants　to　be　punished；　wants　to　expiate　some　real　or　imaginary　crime。　Again　I　ask　what　do　you　want　me　to　do　with　her？　She's　not　sick；　she's　not　loony。〃
　 〃She's　not　going　back　to　Pasadena。〃
　 〃Oh。〃　He　looked　at　me　curiously。　〃Any　family？〃
　 〃In　Wichita。　Father's　a　vet。　I'll　call　him；　but　she'll　have　to　stay　here　tonight。〃
　 〃I　don't　know　about　that。　Does　she　trust　you　enough　to　spend　the　night　in　your　apartment？〃
　 〃She　came　here　of　her　own　free　will；　and　not　socially。　So　I　guess　she　does。〃
　 He　shrugged　and　fingered　the　sidewall　of　his　coarse　black　mustache。　〃Well；　I'll　give　her　some　nembutal　and　we'll　put　her　to　bed。　And　you　can　walk　the　floor　wrestling　with　your　conscience。〃
　 〃I　have　to　go　out；〃　I　said。　〃I　have　to　go　over　there　and　see　what　has　happened。　And　she　can't　stay　here　alone。　And　no　man；　not　even　a　doctor　is　going　to　put　her　to　bed。　Get　a　nurse。　I'll　sleep　somewhere　else。〃
　 〃Phil　Marlowe；〃　he　said。　〃The　shop…soiled　Galahad。　Okay。　I'll　stick　around　until　the　nurse　es。〃
　 He　went　back　into　the　living　room　and　telephoned　the　Nurses'　Registry。　Then　he　telephoned　his　wife。　While　he　was　telephoning；　Merle　sat　up　on　the　davenport　and　clasped　her　hands　primly　in　her　lap。
　 〃I　don't　see　why　the　lamp　was　on；〃　she　said。　〃It　wasn't　dark　in　the　house　at　all。　Not　that　dark。〃
　 I　said：　〃What's　your　dad's　first　name？〃
　 〃Dr。　Wilbur　Davis。　Why？〃
　 〃Wouldn't　you　like　something　to　eat？〃
　 At　the　telephone　Carl　Moss　said　to　me：　〃Tomorrow　will　do　for　that。　This　is　probably　just　a　lull。〃　He　finished　his　call；　hung　up；　went　to　his　bag　and　came　back　with　a　couple　of　yellow　capsules　in　his　hand　on　a　fragment　of　cotton。　He　got　a　glass　of　water；　handed　her　the　capsules　and　said：　〃Swallow。〃
　 〃I'm　not　sick；　am　I？〃　she　said；　looking　up　at　him。
　 〃Swallow；　my　child；　swallow。〃
　 She　took　them　and　put　them　in　her　mouth　and　took　the　glass　of　water　and　drank。
　 I　put　my　hat　on　and　left。
　 On　the　way　down　in　the　elevator　I　remembered　that　there　hadn't　been　any　keys　in　her　bag；　so　I　stopped　at　the　lobby　floor　and　went　out　through　the　lobby　to　the　Bristol　Avenue　side。　The　car　was　not　hard　to　find。　It　was　parked　crookedly　about　two　feet　from　the　curb。　It　was　a　gray　Mercury　convertible　and　its　license　number　was　2X1111。　I　remembered　that　this　was　the　number　of　Linda　Murdock's　car。
　 A　leather　keyholder　hung　in　the　lock。　I　got　into　the　car；　started　the　engine；　saw　that　there　was　plenty　of　gas；　and　drove　it　away。　It　was　a　nice　eager　little　car。　Over　Cahuenga　Pass　it　had　the　wings　of　a　bird。
　
　
　29
　
　 Escamillo　Drive　made　three　jogs　in　four　blocks；　for　no　reason　that　I　could　see。　It　was　very　narrow；　averaged　about　five　houses　to　a　block　and　was　overhung　by　a　section　of　shaggy　brown　foothill　on　which　nothing　lived　at　this　season　except　sage　and　manzanita。　In　its　fifth　and　last　block；　Escamillo　Drive　did　a　neat　little　curve　to　the　left；　hit　the　base　of　the　hill　hard；　and　died　without　a　whimper。　In　this　last　block　were　three　houses；　two　on　the　opposite　entering　corners；　one　at　the　dead　end。　This　was　Vannier's。　My　spotlight　showed　the　key　still　in　the　door。
　 It　was　a　narrow　English　type　bungalow　with　a　high　roof；　leaded　front　windows；　a　garage　to　the　side；　and　a　trailer　parked　beside　the　garage。　The　early　moon　lay　quietly　on　its　small　lawn。　A　large　oak　tree　grew　almost　on　the　front　porch。　There　was　no　light　in　the　house　now；　none　visible　from　the　front　at　least。
　 From　the　lay　of　the　land　a　light　in　the　living　room　in　the　daytime　did　not　seem　utterly　improbable。　It　would　be　a　dark　house　except　in　the　morning。　As　a　love　nest　the　place　had　its　points；　but　as　a　residence　for　a　blackmailer　I　didn't　give　it　very　high　marks。　Sudden　death　can　e　to　you　anywhere；　but　Vannier　had　made　it　too　easy。
　 I　turned　into　his　driveway；　backed　to　get　myself　pointed　out　of　the　dead　end；　and　then　drove　down　to　the　corner　and　parked　there。　I　walked　back　in　the　street　because　there　was　no　sidewalk。　The　front　door　was　made　of　ironbound　oak　planks；　bevelled　where　they　joined。　There　was　a　thumb　latch　instead　of　a　knob。　The　head　of　the　flat　key　projected　from　the　lock。　I　rang　the　bell；　and　it　rang　with　that　remote　sound　of　a　bell　ringing　at　night　in　an　empty　house。　I　walked　around　the　oak　tree　and　poked　the　light　of　my　pencil　flash　between　the　leaves　of　the　garage　door。　There　was　a　car　in　there。　I　went　back　around　the　house　and　looked　at　a　small　flowerless　yard　walled　in　by　a　low　wall　of　fieldstone。　Three　more　oak　trees；　a　table　and　a　couple　of　all　metal　chairs　under　one　of　them。　A　rubbish　burner　at　the　back。　I　shone　my　light　into　the　trailer　before　I　went　back　to　the　front。　There　didn't　seem　to　be　anybody　in　the　trailer。　Its　door　was　locked。
　 I　opened　the　front　door；　leaving　the　key　in　the　lock。　I　wasn't　going　to　work　any　dipsy…doodle　in　this　place。　What　ever　was；　was。　I　just　wanted　to　make　sure。　I　felt　around　on　the　wall　inside　the　door　for　a　light　switch；　found　one　and　tilted　it　up。　Pale　flame　bulbs　in　pairs　in　wall　brackets　went　on　all　around　the　room；　showing　me　the　big　lamp　Merle　had　spoken　of；　as　well　as　other　things。　I　went　over　to　switch　the　lamp　on；　then　back　to　switch　the　wall　light　off。　The　lamp　had　a　big　bulb　inverted　in　a　porcelain　glass　bowl。　You　could　get　three　different　intensities　of　light。　I　clicked　the　button　switch　around　until　I　had　all　there　was。
　 The　room　ran　from　front　to　back；　with　a　door　at　the　back　and　an　arch　up　front　to　the　right。　Inside　that　was　a　small　dining　room。　Curtains　were　half　drawn　across　the　arch；　heavy　pale　green　brocade　curtains；　far　from　new。　The　fireplace　was　in　the　middle　of　the　left　wall；　bookshelves　opposite　and　on　both　sides　of　it；　not　built　in。　Two　davenports　angled　across　the　corners　of　the　room　and　there　was　one　gold　chair；　one　pink　chair；　one　brown　chair；　one　brown　and　gold　jacquard　chair　with　footstool。
　 Yellow　pajama　legs　were　on　the　footstool；　bare　ankles；　feet　in　dark　green　morocco　leather　slippers。　My　eyes　ran　up　from　the　feet；　slowly；　carefully。　A　dark　green　figured　silk　robe；　tied　with　a　tasseled　belt。　Open　above　the　belt　showing　a　monogram　on　the　pocket　of　the　pajamas。　A　handkerchief　neat　in　the　pocket；　two　stiff　points　of　white　linen。　A　yellow　neck；　the　face　turned　sideways；　pointed　at　a　mirror　on　the　wall。　I　walked　around　and　looked　in　the　mirror。　The　face　leered　all　right。
　 The　left　arm　and　hand　lay　between　a　knee　and　the　side　of　the　chair；　the　right　arm　hung　outside　the　chair；　the　ends　of　the　fingers　touching　the　rug。　Touching　also　the　butt　of　a　small　revolver；　about　。32　caliber；　a　belly　gun；　with　practically　no　barrel。　The　right　side　of　the　face　was　against　the　back　of　the　chair；　but　the　right　shoulder　was　dark　brown　with　blood　and　there　was　some　on　the　right　sleeve。　Also　on　the　chair。　A　lot　of　it　on　the　chair。
　 I　didn't　think　his　head　had　taken　that　position　naturally。　Some　sensitive　soul　had　not　liked　the　right　side　of　it。
　 I　lifted　my　foot　and　gently　pushed　the　footstool　sideways　a　few　inches。　The　heels　of　the　slippers　moved　reluctantly　over　the　jacquard　surface；　not　with　it。　The　man　was　as　stiff　as　a　board。　So　I　reached　down　and　touched　his　ankle。　Ice　was　never　half　as　cold。
　 On　a　table　at　his　right　elbow　was　half　of　a　dead　drink；　an　ashtray　full　of　butts　and　ash。　Three　of　the　butts　had　lipstick　on　them。　Bright　Chinese　red　lipstick。　What　a　blond　would　use。
　 There　was　another　ashtray　beside　another　chair。　Matches　in　it　and　a　lot　of　ash；　but　no　stubs。
　 On　the　air　of　the　room　a　rather　heavy　perfume　struggled　with　the　smell　of　death；　and　lost。　Although　defeated；　it　was　still　there。
　 I　poked　through　the　rest　of　the　house；　putting　lights　on　and　off。　Two　bedrooms；　one　furnished　in　light　wood；　one　in　red　maple。　The　light　one　seemed　to　be　a　spare。　A　nice　bathroom　with　tan　and　mulberry　tiling　and　a　stall　shower　with　a　glass　door。　The　kitchen　was　small。　There　were　a　lot　of　bottles　on　the　sink。　Lots　of　bottles；　lots　of　glass；　lots　of　fingerprints；　lots　of　evidence。　Or　not；　as　the　case　may　be。
　 I　went　back　to　the　living　room　and　stood　in　the　middle　of　the　floor　breathing　with　my　mouth　as　far　as　possible　and　wondering　what　the　score　would　be　when　I　turned　this　one　in。　Turn　this　one　in　and　report　that　I　was　the　fellow　who　had　found　Morningstar　and　run　away。　The　score　would　be　low；　very　low。　Marlowe；　three　murders。　Marlowe　practically　kneedeep　in　dead　men。　And　no　reasonable；　logical；　friendly　account　of　himself　whatsoever。　But　that　wasn't　the　worst　of　it。　The　minute　I　opened　up　I　would　cease　to　be　a　free　agent。　I　would　be　through　with　doing　whatever　it　was　I　was　doing　and　with　finding　out　whatever　it　was　I　was　finding　out。
　 Carl　Moss　might　be　willing　to　protect　Merle　with　the　mantle　of　Aesculapius