“The poor sucker got closed out on a trust deed,” Peters said. “I checked. They gave him a grand for a quitclaim just to save time and expense, and now somebody is going to make a million bucks clear, out of cutting the place up for residential property. That’s the difference between crime and business. For business you gotta have capital. Sometimes I think it’s the only difference.”
“A properly cynical remark,” I said, “but big time crime takes capital too.”
“And where does it come from, chum? Not from guys that hold up liquor stores. So long. See you soon.”
It was ten minutes to eleven on a Thursday night when Wade called me up. His voice was thick, almost gurgling, but I recognized it somehow. And I could hear short hard rapid breathing over the telephone.
“I’m in bad shape, Marlowe. Very bad. I’m slipping my anchor. Could you make it out here in a hurry?”
“Sure—but let me talk to Mrs. Wade a minute.”
He didn’t answer. There was a crashing sound, then a dead silence, then in a short while a kind of banging around. I yelled something into the phone without getting any answer. Time passed. Finally the light click of the receiver being replaced and the buzz of an open line.
In five minutes I was on the way. I made it in slightly over half an hour and I still don’t know how. I went over the pass on wings and hit Ventura Boulevard with the light against me and made a left turn anyhow and dodged between trucks and generally made a damn fool of myself. I went through Encino at close to sixty with a spotlight on the outer edge of the parked cars so that it would freeze anyone with a notion to step out suddenly. I had the kind of luck you only get when you don’t care. No cops, no sirens, no red flashers. Just visions of what might be happening in the Wade residence and not very pleasant visions. She was alone in the house with a drunken maniac, she was lying at the bottom of the stairs with her neck broken, she was behind a locked door and somebody was howling outside and trying to break it in, she was running down a moonlit road barefoot and a big buck Negro with a meat cleaver was chasing her.
It wasn’t like that at all. When I swung the Olds into their driveway lights were on all over the house and she was standing in the open doorway with a cigarette in her mouth. I got out and walked over the flagstones to her. She had slacks on and a shirt with an open collar. She looked at me calmly. If there was any excitement around there I had brought it with me.
The first thing I said was as loony as the rest of my behavior. “I thought you didn’t smoke.”
“What? No, I don’t usually.” She took the cigarette out and looked at it and dropped it and stepped on it. “Once in a long while. He called Dr. Verringer.”
It was a remote placid voice, a voice heard at night over water. Completely relaxed.
“He couldn’t,” I said. “Dr. Verringer doesn’t live there any more. He called me.”
“Oh really? I just heard him telephoning and asking someone to come in a hurry. I thought it must be Dr. Verringer.”
“Where is he now?”
“He fell down,” she said. “He must have tipped the chair too far back. He’s done it before. He cut his head on something. There’s a little blood, not much.”
“Well, that’s fine,” I said. “We wouldn’t want a whole lot of blood. Where is he now, I asked you.”
She looked at me solemnly. Then she pointed, “Out there somewhere. By the edge of the road or in the bushes along the fence.”
I leaned forward and peered at her. “Chrissake, didn’t you look?” I decided by this time that she was in shock. Then I looked back across the lawn. I didn’t see anything but there was heavy shadow near the fence.
“No, I didn’t look,” she said quite calmly. “You find him. I’ve had all of it I can take. I’ve had more than I can take. You find him.”
She turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door open. She didn’t walk very far. About a yard inside the door she just crumpled to the floor and lay there. I scooped her up and spread her out on one of the two big davenports that faced each other across a long blond cocktail table. I felt her pulse. It didn’t seem very weak or unsteady. Her eyes were closed and the lids were blue. I left her there and went back out.
He was there all right, just as she had said. He was lying on his side in the shadow of the hibiscus. He had a fast thumping pulse and his breathing was unnatural. Something on the back of his head was sticky. I spoke to him and shook him a little. I slapped his face a couple of times. He mumbled but didn’t come to. I dragged him up into a sitting position and dragged one of his arms over my shoulder and heaved him up with my back turned to him and grabbed for a leg. I lost. He was as heavy as a block of cement. We both sat down on the grass and I took a short breather and tried again. Finally I got him hoisted into a fireman’s lift position and plowed across the lawn in the direction of the open front door. It seemed about the same distance as a round trip to Siam. The two steps of the porch were ten feet high. I staggered over to the couch and went down on my knees and rolled him off. When I straightened up again my spine felt as if it had cracked in at least three places.
Eileen Wade wasn’t there any more. I had the room to myself. I was too bushed at the moment to care where anybody was. I sat down and looked at him and waited for some breath. Then I looked at his head. It was smeared with blood. His hair was sticky with it. It didn’t look very bad but you never know with a head wound.
Then Eileen Wade was standing beside me, quietly looking down at him with that same remote expression.
“I’m sorry I fainted,” she said. “I don’t know why.”
“I guess we’d better call a doctor.”
“I telephoned Dr. Loring. He is my doctor, you know. He didn’t want to come.”
“Try somebody else then.”
“Oh he’s coming,” she said. “He didn’t want to. But he’s coming as soon as he can manage.”
“Where’s Candy?”
“This is his day off. Thursday. The cook and Candy have Thursdays off. It’s the usual thing around here. Can you get him up to bed?”
