“Maybe they won’t have to know,” I said. “I’ll get my drink.”
I went out around the back of her chair to the kitchen and poured it and I made it a drink that was a drink. I put it down in a lump and took the little gun off my hip and saw that the safety was on. I smelled the muzzle, broke out the magazine. There was a shell in the chamber, but it was one of those guns that won’t fire when the magazine is out. I held it so that I could look into the breech. The shell in there was the wrong size and was crooked against the breech block. It looked like a .32. The shells in the magazine were the right size, .25’s. I fitted the gun together again and went back to the living room.
I hadn’t heard a sound. She had just slid forward in a pile in front of the chair, on top of her nice hat. She was as cold as a mackerel.
I spread her out a little and took her glasses off and made sure she hadn’t swallowed her tongue. I wedged my folded handkerchief into the corner of her mouth so that she wouldn’t bite her tongue when she came out of it. I went to the phone and called Carl Moss.
“Phil Marlowe, Doc. Any more patients or are you through?”
“All through,” he said. “Leaving. Trouble?”
“I’m home,” I said. “Four-o-eight Bristol Apartments, if you don’t remember. I’ve got a girl here who has pulled a faint. I’m not afraid of the faint, I’m afraid she may be nuts when she comes out of it.”
“Don’t give her any liquor,” be said. “I’m on my way.”
I hung up and knelt down beside her. I began to rub her temples. She opened her eyes. The lip started to lift. I pulled the handkerchief out of her mouth. She looked up at me and said: “I’ve been over to Mr. Vannier’s house. He lives in Sherman Oaks. I—”
“Do you mind if I lift you up and put you on the davenport? You know me—Marlowe, the big boob that goes around asking all the wrong questions.”
“Hello,” she said.
I lifted her. She went stiff on me, but she didn’t say anything. I put her on the davenport and tucked her skirt down over her legs and put a pillow under her head and picked her hat up. It was as flat as a flounder. I did what I could to straighten it out and laid it aside on the desk.
She watched me sideways, doing this.
“Did you call the police?” she asked softly.
“Not yet,” I said. “I’ve been too busy.”
She looked surprised. I wasn’t quite sure, but I thought she looked a little hurt, too.
I opened up her bag and turned my back to her to slip the gun back into it. While I was doing that I took a look at what else was in the bag. The usual oddments, a couple of handkerchiefs, lipstick, a silver and red enamel compact with powder in it, a couple of tissues, a purse with some hard money and a few dollar bills, no cigarettes, no matches, no tickets to the theater.
I pulled open the zipper pocket at the back. That held her driver’s license and a flat packet of bills, ten fifties. I riffled them. None of them brand new. Tucked into the rubber band that held them was a folded paper. I took it out and opened it and read it. It was neatly typewritten, dated that day. It was a common receipt form and it would, when signed, acknowledge the receipt of $500. “Payment on Account.”
It didn’t seem as if it would ever be signed now. I slipped money and receipt into my pocket. I closed the bag and looked over at the davenport.
She was looking at the ceiling and doing that with her face again. I went into my bedroom and got a blanket to throw over her.
Then I went to the kitchen for another drink.
28
Dr. Carl Moss was a big burly Jew with a Hitler mustache, pop eyes and the calmness of a glacier. He put his hat and bag in a chair and went over and stood looking down at the girl on the davenport inscrutably.
“I’m Dr. Moss,” he said. “How are you?”
She said: “Aren’t you the police?”
He bent down and felt her pulse and then stood there watching her breathing. “Where does it hurt, Miss —”
“Davis,” I said. “Miss Merle Davis.”
“Miss Davis.”
“Nothing hurts me,” she said, staring up at him. “I—I don’t even know why I’m lying here like this. I thought you were the police. You see, I killed a man.”
“Well, that’s a normal human impulse,” he said. “I’ve killed dozens.” He didn’t smile.
She lifted her lip and moved her head around for him.
“You know you don’t have to do that,” he said, quite gently. “You feel a twitch of the nerves here and there and you proceed to build it up and dramatize it. You can control it, if you want to.”
“Can I?” she whispered.
“If you want to,” he said. “You don’t have to. It doesn’t make any difference to me either way. Nothing pains at all, eh?”
“No.” She shook her head.
He patted her shoulder and walked out to the kitchen. I went after him. He leaned his hips against the sink and gave me a cool stare. “What’s the story?”
