cellophane at the window. The whisky was wearing off and I was myself in a flicker of panic: a middle-aging man lying alone in darkness while life fled by like traffic on the freeway.
I got up late and went out for breakfast. The morning papers reported no new developments. I went to my office and waited for Peter to change his mind and phone me.
I didn't really need him, I told myself. I still had some of his money. Even without it, and even without his backing in Montevista, I could go out and work with Perlberg on the Martel killing. But for some important reason I wanted him to rehire me. I think in my nighttime loneliness I'd fathered an imaginary son, a poor fat foolish son who ate his sorrow instead of drinking it.
The sun burned off the morning fog and dried the pavements. My depression lifted more slowly. I went through my mail in search of hopeful omens.
An interesting-looking envelope from Spain had pictures of General Franco on the stamps and was addressed to Senor Lew Archer. The letter inside said: 'Cordiales Saludos: This comes to you from far-off Spain to call your attention to our new Fiesta line of furniture with its authentically Spanish motif as exciting as a corrida, as colorful as a flamenco dance. Come see it at any one of our Greater Los Angeles stores.'
The piece of junk mail I liked best was a folder from the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce. Among the attractions of the city it mentioned swimming, golf, tennis, bowling, water-skiing, eating, going to shows, and going to church, but not a word about gambling.
It was an omen. While I was still smiling over the folder, Captain Perlberg phoned me.
'You busy, Archer?'
'Not so very. My client lost interest.'
'Too bad,' he said cheerfully. 'You could do us both a favor. How would you like to talk to Martel's old lady?'
'His mother?'
'That's what I said. She jetted in from Panama this morning and she's screaming for us to release her son's body, also for information. You know more about the background of the case than I do, and I thought if you were willing to talk it over with her, you could save us an international incident.'
'Where is she now?'
'She took a suite in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Right at the moment she's sleeping, but she'll be expecting you early this afternoon, say around two-fifteen? She'd make a nice client for you.'
'Who would pay me?'
'She would. The woman is loaded.'
'I thought she was from hunger.'
'You thought wrong,' Perlberg said. 'The consul general told me she's married to the vice-president of a bank in Panama City.'
'What's his name?'
'Rosales. Ricardo Rosales.'
It was the name of the vice-president of the Bank of New Granada who had written the letter to Marietta telling her that there would be no more money.
'I'll be glad to pay a visit to Mrs. Rosales.'
I called Professor Allan Bosch at Los Angeles State College. Bosch said he'd be happy to have lunch with me and brief me on Pedro Domingo, but he still had a time problem.
'I can drive out there, professor. Do you have a restaurant on the L.A. State campus?'
'We have three eating places,' he said. 'The Cafeteria, the Inferno, and the Top of the North. Incidentally our name's been changed to Cal State L.A.'
'The Inferno sounds interesting.'
'It's less interesting than it sounds. Actually it's just an automat. Why don't we meet at the Top of the North? That's on top of North Hall.'
The college is on the eastern border of the city. I took the Hollywood Freeway to the San Bernardino Freeway, which I left at the Eastern Avenue turnoff: The campus was a sort of chopped-off hill crowded with buildings. Parking spaces were scarce. Eventually I parked in a faculty slot, and rode the elevator six stories up to the Top of the North.
Professor Bosch was a youthful-looking man in his middle thirties, tall enough to play center on a basketball team. He had a big man's slouch, and a bright disenchanted eye. His speech was staccato, with a Middle Western accent.
'I'm surprised you made it on time. It's quite a drive. I saved us a place by the window.'
He led me to a table on the east side of the large buzzing room. Through the window I could see out toward Pasadena and the mountains.
'You want me to tell you what I know about Pedro Domingo,' Bosch said over our onion soup.
'Yes. I'm interested in him and his relatives. Professor Tappinger said his mother was a Blue Moon girl. That's the Panamanian equivalent of a B-girl, isn't it?'
'I guess it is.'
Bosch shifted his bulk in the chair and looked at me sideways across the table. 'Before we go any further, why wasn't Pedro's murder reported in the papers?'
'It was. Didn't Tappinger mention that he was using an alias?'
'Taps may have, I don't remember. We both got excited, and we went round in circles for a while.'
His gaze narrowed on my face. 'What alias was he using?'
'Francis Martel.'
'That's interesting.'
Bosch didn't tell me why. 'I did see the report of that shooting. Wasn't it supposed to be a gangster killing?'
'It was supposed to be.'
'You sound dubious.'
'I'm getting more and more that way.'
Bosch had stopped eating. He showed no further interest in his soup. When his minute steak arrived he cut it meticulously into small pieces which he failed to eat.
'I seem to be asking most of the questions,' he said. 'I was interested in Pedro Domingo. He had a good mind, rather disordered but definitely brilliant. Also he had a lot of life.'
'It's all run out now.'
'Why was he using an alias?'
'He stole a pile of money and didn't want to be caught. Also he wanted to impress a girl who was hipped on French. He represented himself as a French aristocrat named Francis Martel. It sounds better than Pedro Domingo, especially in Southern California.'
'It's almost authentic, too.' Bosch said quietly.
'Authentic?'
'At least as authentic as most genealogical claims. Pedro's grandfather, his mother's father, was named Martel. He may not have been an aristocrat, exactly, but he was an educated Parisian. He came over from France as a young engineer with La Compagnie Universelle.'
'I don't know French, professor.'
'La Compagnie Universelle du Canal Interoceanique de Panama is the name de Lesseps gave to his canal- building company - a big name for an enormous flop. It went broke somewhere before 1890 and Grandpere Martel lost his money. He decided to stay on in Panama. He was an amateur ornithologist, and the flora and fauna intrigued him.
'Eventually he went more or less native, and spent his declining years with a girl in one of the villages. Pedro said she was descended from the first Cimarrones, the escaped slaves who fought with Francis Drake against the Spaniards. He claimed to be a direct descendant of Drake through her - that would explain the name Francis-but I think this time he was spinning a pure genealogical fantasy. Pedro went in rather heavily for fantasy.'
'It's dangerous,' I said, 'when you start to act it out.'
'I suppose it is. Anyway, the village girl was Pedro's maternal grandmother. His mother and Pedro both took the name Domingo from her.'
