“How come your old man didn’t leave you some money?” I sneered. “Or did you blow it all?”
He spoke between his teeth, stiff trying to jerk loose. “If it’s any of your rotten business and you mean Jasper Murdock, he wasn’t my father. He didn’t like me and he didn’t leave me a cent. My father was a man named Horace Bright who lost his money in the crash and jumped out of his office window.”
“You milk easy,” I said, “but you give pretty thin milk. I’m sorry for what I said about your wife supporting you. I just wanted to get your goat.”
I dropped his wrist and stepped back. He still breathed hard and heavily. His eyes on mine were very angry, but he kept his voice down.
“Well, you got it. If you’re satisfied, I’ll be on my way.”
“I was doing you a favor,” I said. “A gun toter oughtn’t to insult so easily. Better ditch it.”
“That’s my business,” he said. “I’m sorry I took a swing at you. It probably wouldn’t have hurt much, if it had connected.”
“That’s all right.”
He opened the door and went on out. His steps died along the corridor. Another screwball. I tapped my teeth with a knuckle in time to the sound of his steps as long as I could hear them. Then I went back to the desk, looked at my pad, and lifted the phone.
4
After the bell had rung three times at the other end of the line a light childish sort of girl’s voice filtered itself through a hank of gum and said: “Good morning. Mr. Morningstar’s office.”
“Is the old gentleman in?”
“Who is calling, please?”
“Marlowe.”
“Does he know you, Mr. Marlowe?”
“Ask him if he wants to buy any early American gold coins.”
“Just a minute, please.”
There was a pause suitable to an elderly party in an inner office having his attention called to the fact that somebody on the telephone wanted to talk to him. Then the phone clicked and a man spoke. He had a dry voice. You might even call it parched.
“This is Mr. Morningstar.”
“I’m told you called Mrs. Murdock in Pasadena, Mr. Morningstar. About a certain coin.”
“About a certain coin,” he repeated. “Indeed. Well?”
“My understanding is that you wished to buy the coin in question from the Murdock collection.”
“Indeed? And who are you, sir?”
“Philip Marlowe. A private detective. I’m working for Mrs. Murdock.”
“Indeed,” he said for the third time. He cleared his throat carefully. “And what did you wish to talk to me about, Mr. Marlowe?”
“About this coin.”
“But I was informed it was not for sale.”
“I still want to talk to you about it. In person.”
“Do you mean she has changed her mind about selling?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand what you want, Mr. Marlowe. What have we to talk about?” He sounded sly now.
I took the ace out of my sleeve and played it with a languid grace. “The point is, Mr. Morningstar, that at the time you called up you already knew the coin wasn’t for sale.”
“Interesting,” he said slowly. “How?”
“You’re in the business, you couldn’t help knowing. It’s a matter of public record that the Murdock collection cannot be sold during Mrs. Murdock’s lifetime.”
“Ah,” he said. “Ah.” There was a silence. Then, “At three o’clock,” he said, not sharp, but quick. “I shall be glad to see you here in my office. You probably know where it is. Will that suit you?”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I hung up and lit my pipe again and sat there looking at the wall. My face was stiff with thought, or with something that made my face stiff. I took Linda Murdock’s photo out of my pocket, stared at it for a while, decided that the face was pretty commonplace after all, locked the photo away in my desk. I picked Murdock’s second match out of my ashtray and looked it over. The lettering on this one read: TOP ROW W. D. WRIGHT ‘36.
I dropped it back in the tray, wondering what made this important. Maybe it was a clue.
I got Mrs. Murdock’s check out of my wallet, endorsed it, made out a deposit slip and a check for cash, got my bank book out of the desk, and folded the lot under a rubber band and put them in my pocket.
Lois Magic was not listed in the phone book.
