good, and it might be a hell of a mistake for me to try. It might do a lot of harm.”
She was very serious now. The smile had gone. “You are deciding too soon. You can’t judge people by what they do. If you judge them at all, it must be by what they are.”
I nodded vaguely. Because that was exactly the way I had thought about Terry Lennox. On the facts he was no bargain, except for that one brief flash of glory in the foxhole—if Menendez told the truth about that—but the facts didn’t tell the whole story by any means. He had been a man it was impossible to dislike. How many do you meet in a lifetime that you can say that about?
“And you have to know them for that,” she added gently. “Goodbye, Mr. Marlowe. If you should change your mind—” She opened her bag quickly and gave me a card—”and thank you for being here.”
She nodded to Spencer and walked away. I watched her out of the bar, down the glassed-in annex to the dining room. She carried herself beautifully. I watched her turn under the archway that led to the lobby. I saw the last flicker of her white linen skirt as she turned the corner. Then I eased myself down into the booth and grabbed the gin and orange.
Spencer was watching me. There was something hard in his eyes.
“Nice work,” I said, “but you ought to have looked at her once in a while. A dream like that doesn’t sit across the room from you for twenty minutes without your even noticing.”
“Stupid of me, wasn’t it?” He was trying to smile, but he didn’t really want to. He didn’t like the way I had looked at her. “People have such queer ideas about private detectives. When you think of having one in your home —”
“Don’t think of having this one in your home,” I said. “Anyhow, think up another story first. You can do better than trying to make me believe anybody, drunk or sober, would throw that gorgeous downstairs and break five ribs for her.”
He reddened. His hands tightened on the briefcase. “’You think I’m a liar?”
“What’s the difference? You’ve made your play. You’re a little hot for the lady yourself, maybe.”
He stood up suddenly. “I don’t like your tones” he said. “I’m not sure I like you. Do me a favor and forget the whole idea. I think this ought to pay you for your time.”
He threw a twenty on the table, and then added some ones for the waiter. He stood a moment staring down at me. His eyes were bright and his face was still red. “I’m married and have four children,” he said abruptly.
“Congratulations.”
He made a swift noise in his throat and turned and went. He went pretty fast. I watched him for a while and then I didn’t. I drank the rest of my drink and got out my cigarettes and shook one loose and stuck it in my mouth and lit it. The old waiter came up and looked at the money.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?”
“Nope. The dough is all yours.”
He picked it up slowly. “This is a twenty-dollar bill, sir. The gentleman made a mistake.”
“He can read. The dough is all yours, I said.”
“I’m sure I’m very grateful; If you are quite sure, sir—”
“Quite sure.”
He bobbed his head and went away, still looking worried. The bar was filling up. A couple of streamlined demi- virgins went by caroling and waving. They knew the two hotshots in the booth farther on. The air began to be spattered with darlings and crimson fingernails.
I smoked half of my cigarette, scowling at nothing, and then got up to leave. I turned to reach back for my cigarettes and something bumped into me hard from behind. It was just what I needed. I swung around and I was looking at the profile of a broad-beamed crowd-pleaser in an overdraped oxford flannel. He had the outstretched arm of the popular character and the two-by-six grin of the guy who never loses a sale.
I took hold of the outstretched arm and spun him around. “What’s the matter, Jack? Don’t they make the aisles wide enough for your personality?”
He shook his arm loose and got tough, “Don’t get fancy, buster. I might loosen your jaw for you.”
“Ha, ha,” I said, “You might play center field for the Yankees and hit a home run with a breadstick,”
He doubled a meaty fist.
“Darling, think of your manicure,” I told him.
He controlled his emotions. “Nuts to you, wise guy,” he sneered. “Some other time, when I have less on my mind.”
“Could there be less?”
“G’wan, beat it,” he snarled. “One more crack and you’ll need new bridgework.”
I grinned at him. “Call me up, Jack. But with better dialogue.”
His expression changed. He laughed. “You in pictures, chum?”
“Only the kind they pin up in the post office.”
“See you in the mug book,” he said, and walked away, still grinning.
It was all very silly, but it got rid of the feeling. I went along the annex and across the lobby of the hotel to the main entrance. I paused inside to put on my sunglasses. It wasn’t until I got into my car that I remembered to look at the card Eileen Wade had given me. It was an engraved card, but not a formal calling card, because it had an address and a telephone number on it. Mrs. Roger Stearns Wade, 1247 Idle Valley Road. Tel. Idle Valley 5- 6524.
