in to the Terrapin Club at Las Vegas, Mr. Randy Starr. He probably wouldn’t take it. But he did. He had a quiet, competent, man-of-affairs voice.
“Nice to hear from you, Marlowe. Any friend of Terry’s is a friend of mine. What can I do for you?”
“Mendy is on his way.”
“On his way where?”
“To Vegas, with the three goons you sent after him in a big black Caddy with a red spotlight and siren. Yours, I presume?”
He laughed. “In Vegas, as some newspaper guy said, we use Cadillacs for trailers. What’s this all about?”
“Mendy staked out here in my house with a couple of hard boys. His idea was to beat me up—putting it low— for a piece in the paper he seemed to think was my fault.”
“Was it your fault?”
“I don’t own any newspapers, Mr. Starr.”
“I don’t own any hard boys in Cadillacs, Mr. Marlowe.”
“They were deputies maybe.”
“I couldn’t say. Anything else?”
“He pistol-whipped me. I kicked him in the stomach and used my knee on his nose. He seemed dissatisfied. All the same I hope he gets to Vegas alive.”
“I’m sure he will, if he started this way. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this conversation short now.”
“Just a second, Starr. Were you in on that caper at Otatoclan—or did Mendy work it alone?”
“Come again?”
“Don’t kid, Starr. Mendy wasn’t sore at me for why he said—not to the point of staking out in my house and giving me the treatment he gave Big Willie Magoon. Not enough motive. He warned me to keep my nose clean and not to dig into the Lennox case. But I did, because it just happened to work out that way. So he did what I’ve just told you. So there was a better reason.”
“I see,” he said slowly and still mildly and quietly. “You think there was something not quite kosher about how Terry got dead? That he didn’t shoot himself, for instance, but someone else did?”
“I think the details would help. He wrote a confession which was false. He wrote a letter to me which got mailed. A waiter or hop in the hotel was going to sneak it out and mail it for him. He was holed up in the hotel and couldn’t get out. There was a big bill in the letter and the letter was finished just as a knock came at his door. I’d like to know who came into the room.”
“Why?”
“If it had been a bellhop or a waiter, Terry would have added a line to the letter and said so. If it was a cop, the letter wouldn’t have been mailed. So who was it—and why did Terry write that confession?”
“No idea, Marlowe. No idea at all. ”
“Sorry I bothered you, Mr. Starr.”
“No bother, glad to hear from you. I’ll ask Mendy if he has any ideas.”
“Yeah—if you ever see him again—alive. If you don’t—find out anyway. Or somebody else will. ”
“You?” His voice hardened now, but it was still quiet.
“No, Mr. Starr. Not me. Somebody that could blow you out of Vegas without taking a long breath. Believe me, Mr. Starr. Just believe me. This is strictly on the level. ”
“I’ll see Mendy alive. Don’t worry about that, Marlowe.”
“I figured you knew all about that. Goodnight, Mr. Starr.”
49
When the car stopped out front and the door opened I went out and stood at the top of the steps to call down. But the middle-aged colored driver was holding the door for her to get out. Then he followed her up the steps carrying a small overnight case. So I just waited.
She reached the top and turned to the driver: “Mr. Marlowe will drive me to my hotel, Amos. Thank you for everything. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Yes, Mrs. Loring. May I ask Mr. Marlowe a question?”
“Certainly, Amos.”
He put the overnight case down inside the door and she went in past me and left us.
“‘I grow old… I grow old… I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.’ What does that mean, Mr. Marlowe?”
“Not a bloody thing. It just sounds good.”
He smiled. “That is from the ‘Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’ Here’s another one. ‘In the room the women come and go/Talking of Michael Angelo.’ Does that suggest anything to you, so far?”
“Yeah—it suggests to me that the guy didn’t know very much about women.”
“My sentiments exactly, sir. Nonetheless I admire T. S. Eliot Very much.”
“Did you say ‘nonetheless’?”
