“Oh, it’s a gang murder this morning. Okey.”
“By the way, that was marihuana dust in that funny cigarette case — the one with the dragons on it. Sure you didn’t see him smoke one out of it?”
“Quite sure. In my presence he smoked only the others. But he wasn’t in my presence all the time.”
“I see. Well, that’s all. Remember what I told you last night. Don’t try getting ideas about this case. All we want from you is silence. Otherwise — “
He paused. I yawned into the mouthpiece.
“I heard that,” he snapped. “Perhaps you think I’m not in a position to make that stick. I am. One false move out of you and you’ll be locked up as a material witness.”
“You mean the papers are not to get the case?”
“They’ll get the murder — but they won’t know what’s behind it.”
“Neither do you,” I said.
“I’ve warned you twice now,” be said. “The third time is out.”
“You’re doing a lot of talking,” I said, “for a guy that holds cards.”
I got the phone hung in my face for that. Okey, the hell with him, let him work at it.
I walked around the office a little to cool off, bought myself a short drink, looked at my watch again and didn’t see what time it was, and sat down at the desk once more.
Jules Amthor, Psychic Consultant. Consultations by Appointment Only. Give him enough time and pay him enough money and he’ll cure anything from a jaded husband to a grasshopper plague. He would be an expert in frustrated love affairs, women who slept alone and didn’t like it, wandering boys and girls who didn’t write home, sell the property now or hold it for another year, will this part hurt me with my public or make me seem more versatile? Men would sneak in on him too, big strong guys that roared like lions around their offices and were all cold mush under their vests. But mostly it would be women, fat women that panted and thin women that burned, old women that dreamed and young women that thought they might have Electra complexes, women of all sizes, shapes and ages, but with one thing in common — money; No Thursdays at the County Hospital for Mr. Jules Amthor. Cash on the line for him. Rich bitches who had to be dunned for their milk bills would pay him right now.
A fakeloo artist, a hoopla spreader, and a lad who had his card rolled up inside sticks of tea, found on a dead man.
This was going to be good. I reached for the phone and asked the 0-operator for the Stillwood Heights number.
15
A woman’s voice answered, a dry, husky-sounding foreign voice: “’Allo.”
“May I talk to Mr. Amthor?”
“Ah no. I regret. I am ver-ry sor-ry. Amthor never speaks upon the telephone. I am hees secretary. Weel I take the message?”
“What’s the address out there? I want to see him.”
“Ah, you weesh to consult Amthor professionally? He weel be ver-ry pleased. But he ees ver-ry beesy. When you weesh to see him?”
“Right away. Sometime today.”
“Ah,” the voice regretted, “that cannot be. The next week per’aps. I weel look at the book.”
“Look,” I said, “never mind the book You ‘ave the pencil?”
“But certainly I ‘ave the pencil. I — “
“Take this down. My name is Philip Marlowe. My address is 615 Cahuenga Building, Hollywood. That’s on Hollywood Boulevard near Ivar. My phone number is Glenview 7537.” I spelled the hard ones and waited.
“Yes, Meester Marlowe. I ‘ave that.”
“I want to see Mr. Amthor about a man named Marriott.” I spelled that too. “it is very urgent. it is a matter of life and death. I want to see him fast. F-a-s-t — fast. Sudden, in other words. Am I clear?”
“You talk ver-ry strange,” the foreign voice said.
“No.” I took hold of the phone standard and shook it. “I feel fine. I always talk like that. This is a very queer business. Mr. Amthor will positively want to see me. I’m a private detective. But I don’t want to go to the police until I’ve seen him.”
“Ah,” the voice got as cool as a cafeteria dinner. “You are of the police, no.”
“Listen,” I said. “I am of the police, no. I am a private detective. Confidential. But it is very urgent just the same. You call me back, no? You ‘ave the telephone number, yes?”
“Si. I ‘ave the telephone number. Meester Marriott — he ees sick.”
“Well, he’s not up and around,” I said. “So you know him?”
“But no. You say a matter of life and death. Amthor he cure many people — “
“This is one time he flops,” I said. “I’ll be waiting for a call.”
I hung up and lunged for the office bottle. I felt as if I had been through a meat grinder. Ten minutes passed. The phone rang. The voice said:
“Amthor he weel see you at six o’clock.”
“That’s fine. What’s the address?”
“He weel send a car.”
“I have a car of my own. Just give me-“
“He weel send a car,” the voice said coldly, and the phone clicked in my ear.
I looked at my watch once more. It was more than time for lunch. My stomach burned from the last drink. I wasn’t hungry. I lit a cigarette. It tasted like a plumber’s handkerchief. I nodded across the office at Mr. Rembrandt, then I reached for my hat and went out. I was halfway to the elevator before the thought hit me. It hit me without any reason or sense, like a dropped brick. I stopped and leaned against the marbled wall and pushed my hat around on my head and suddenly I laughed.
A girl passing me on the way from the elevators back to her work turned and gave me one of those looks which are supposed to make your spine feel like a run in a stocking. I waved my hand at her and went back to my office and grabbed the phone. I called up a man I knew who worked on the Lot Books of a title company.
“Can you find a property by the address alone?” I asked him.
“Sure. We have a cross index. What is it?”
“1644 West 54th Place. I’d like to know a little something about the condition of the title.”
“I’d better call you back. What’s that number?”
He called back in about three minutes.
“Get your pencil out,” he said. “It’s Lot 8 of Block 11 of Caraday’s Addition to the Maplewood Tract Number 4. The owner of record, subject to certain things, is Jessie Pierce Florian, widow.”
“Yeah. What things?”
“Second half taxes, two ten-year street improvement bonds, one storm drain assessment bond also ten year, none of these delinquents, also a first trust deed of $2600.”
“You mean one of those things where they can sell you out on ten minutes’ notice?”
“Not quite that quick, but a lot quicker than a mortgage. There’s nothing unusual about it except the amount. It’s high for that neighborhood, unless it’s a new house.”
“It’s a very old house and in bad repair,” I said. “I’d say fifteen hundred would buy the place.”
“Then it’s distinctly unusual, because the refinancing was done only four years ago.”
“Okey, who holds it? Some investment company?”
“No. An individual. Man named Lindsay Marriott, a single man. Okey?”
I forget what I said to him or what thanks I made. They probably sounded like words. I sat there, just staring at the wall.
My stomach suddenly felt fine. I was hungry. I went down to the Mansion House Coffee Shop and ate lunch and got my car out of the parking lot next to my building.
