“I see no mystery,” Spencer said quietly, all the sharpness gone from his voice. “It was Roger’s own gun, and only the week before he had shot it off in his own room. You found Eileen struggling to get it away from him. His state of mind, his behavior, his depressions over his work—all that was brought out.”
“She told you the stuff is good. Why should he be depressed over it?”
“That’s just her opinion, you know. It may be very bad. Or he may have thought it worse than it was. Go on. I’m not a fool. I can see there is more.”
“The homicide dick who investigated the case is an old friend of mine. He’s a bulldog and a bloodhound and an old wise cop. He doesn’t like a few things. Why did Roger leave no note—when he was a writing fool? Why did he shoot himself in such a way as to leave the shock of discovery to his wife? Why did he bother to pick the moment when I couldn’t hear the gun go off? Why did she forget her house keys so that she had to be let in to the house? Why did she leave him alone on the day the help got off? Remember, she said she didn’t know I would be there. If she did, those two cancel out.”
“My God,” Spencer bleated, “are you telling me the damn fool cop suspects Eileen?”
“He would if he could think of a motive.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why not suspect you? You had all afternoon. There could have been only a few minutes when she could have done it—and she had forgotten her house keys.”
“What motive could I have?”
He reached back and grabbed my whiskey sour and swallowed it whole. He put the glass down carefully and got a handkerchief out and wiped his lips and his fingers where the chilled glass had moistened them. He put the handkerchief away. He stared at me.
“Is the investigation still going on?”
“Couldn’t say. One thing is sure. They know by now whether he had drunk enough hooch to pass him out. If he had, there may still be trouble.”
“And you want to talk to her,” he said slowly, “in the presence of a witness.”
“That’s right.”
“That means only one of two things to me, Marlowe. Either you are badly scared or you think she ought to be.”
I nodded.
“Which one?” he asked grimly.
“I’m not scared.”
He looked at his watch. “I hope to God you’re crazy.”
We looked at each other in silence.
42
North through Coldwater Canyon it began to get hot. When we topped the rise and started to wind down towards the San Fernando Valley it was breathless and blazing. I looked sideways at Spencer. He had a vest on, but the heat didn’t seem to bother him. He had something else to bother him a lot more. He looked straight ahead through the windshield and said nothing. The valley had a thick layer of smog nuzzling down on it. From above it looked like a ground mist and then we were in it and it jerked Spencer out of his silence.
“My God, I thought Southern California had a climate,” he said. “What are they doing—burning old truck tires?”
“It’ll be all right in Idle Valley,” I told him soothingly. “They get an ocean breeze in there.”
“I’m glad they get something besides drunk,” he said. “From what I’ve seen of the local crowd in the rich suburbs I think Roger made a tragic mistake in coming out here to live. A writer needs stimulation—and not the kind they bottle. There’s nothing around here but one great big suntanned hangover. I’m referring to the upper crust people of course.”
I turned off and slowed down for the dusty stretch to the entrance of Idle Valley, then hit the paving again and in a little while the ocean breeze made itself felt, drifting down through the gap in the hills at the far end of the lake. High sprinklers revolved over the big smooth lawns and the water made a swishing sound as it licked at the grass. By this time most of the well-heeled people were away somewhere else. You could tell by the shuttered look of the houses and the way the gardener’s truck was parked smack in the middle of the driveway. Then we reached the Wades’ place and I swung through the gateposts and stopped behind Eileen’s Jaguar. Spencer got out and marched stolidly across the flagstones to the portico of the house. He rang the bell and the door opened almost at once. Candy was there in the white jacket and the dark good-looking face and the sharp black eyes. Everything was in order.
Spencer went in. Candy gave me a brief look and nearly shut the door in my face. I waited and nothing happened. I leaned on the bell and heard the chimes. The door swung wide and Candy came out snarling.
“Beat it! Turn blue. You want a knife in the belly?”
“I came to see Mrs. Wade.”
“She don’t want any part of you.”
“Out of my way, peasant. I got business here.”
“Candy!” It was her voice, and it was sharp. He gave me a final scowl and backed into the house. I went in and shut the door. She was standing at the end of one of the facing davenports, and Spencer was standing beside her. She looked like a million. She had white slacks on, very high-waisted, and a white sport shirt with half sleeves, and a lilac-colored handkerchief budding from the pocket over her left breast.
“Candy is getting rather dictatorial lately,” she said to Spencer. “It’s so good to see you, Howard. And so nice of you to come all this way. I didn’t realize you were bringing someone with you.”
“Marlowe drove me out,” Spencer said. “Also he wanted to see you.”
