“And what could I call that lovable character?” I asked.
Joseph P. Toad gathered the five hundred-dollar bills together, lined up the edges neatly and pushed the packet across the desk. “You can call him a guy that would rather spill money than blood,” he said. “But he don’t mind spilling blood if it looks like that’s what he’s got to do.”
“How is he with an ice pick?” I asked. “I can see how lousy he is with a .45.”
The big man chewed his lower lip, then pulled it out with a blunt forefinger and thumb and nibbled on the inside of it softly, like a milk cow chewing her cud. “We’re not talking about ice picks,” he said at length. “All we’re talking about is how you might get off on the wrong foot and do yourself a lot of harm. Whereas if you don’t get off on no foot at all, you’re sitting pretty and money coming in.”
“Who is the blonde?” I asked.
He thought about that and nodded. “Maybe you’re into this too far already,” he sighed. “Maybe it’s too late to do business.”
After a moment he leaned forward and said gently: “Okay. I’ll check back with my principal and see how far out he wants to come. Maybe we can still do business. Everything stands as it is until you hear from me. Check?”
I let him have that one. He put his hands on the desk and very slowly stood up, watching the gun I was pushing around on the blotter.
“You can keep the dough,” he said. “Come on, Alfred.” He turned and walked solidly out of the office.
Alfred’s eyes crawled sideways watching him, then jerked to the money on the desk. The big automatic appeared with the same magic in his thin right hand. Dartingly as an eel he moved over to the desk. He kept the gun on me and reached for the money with his left hand. It disappeared into his pocket. He gave me a smooth cool empty grin, nodded and moved away, apparently not realizing for a moment that I was holding a gun too.
“Come on, Alfred,” the big man called sharply from outside the door. Alfred slipped through the door and was gone.
The outer door opened and closed. Steps went along the hail. Then silence. I sat there thinking back over it, trying to make up my mind whether it was pure idiocy or just a new way to toss a scare.
Five minutes later the telephone rang.
A thick pleasant voice said: “Oh by the way, Mr. Marlowe, I guess you know Sherry Ballou, don’t you?”
“Nope.”
“Sheridan Ballou, Incorporated. The big agent? You ought to look him up sometime.”
I held the phone silently for a moment. Then I said: “Is he her agent?”
“He might be,” Joseph P. Toad said, and paused a moment. “I suppose you realize we’re just a couple of bit players, Mr. Marlowe. That’s all. Just a couple of bit players. Somebody wanted to find out a little something about you. It seemed the simplest way to do it. Now, I’m not so sure.”
I didn’t answer. He hung up. Almost at once the phone rang again.
A seductive voice said: “You do not like me so well, do you, amigo?”
“Sure I do. Just don’t keep biting me.”
“I am at home at the Chateau Bercy. I am lonely.”
“Call an escort bureau.”
“But please. That is no way to talk. This is business of a great importance.”
“I bet. But not the business I’m in.”
“That slut—What does she say about me?” she hissed.
“Nothing. Oh, she might have called you a Tijuana hooker in riding pants. Would you mind?”
That amused her. The silvery giggle went on for a little while. “Always the wisecrack with you. Is it not so? But you see I did not then know you were a detective. That makes a very big difference.”
I could have told her how wrong she was. I just said: “Miss Gonzales, you said something about business. What kind of business, if you’re not kidding me?”
“Would you like to make a great deal of money? A very great deal of money?”
“You mean without getting shot?” I asked.
Her in caught breath came over the wire. “Si,” she said thoughtfully. “There is also that to consider. But you are so brave, so big, so—”
“I’ll be at my office at nine in the morning, Miss Gonzales. I’ll be a lot braver then. Now if you’ll excuse me —”
“You have a date? Is she beautiful? More beautiful than I am?”
“For Christ’s sake,” I said. “Don’t you ever think of anything but one thing?”
“The hell with you, darling,” she said and hung up in my face.
I turned the lights out and left. Halfway down the hall I met a man looking at numbers. He had a special delivery in his hand. So I had to go back to the office and put it in the safe. And the phone rang again while I was doing this.
I let it ring. I had had enough for one day. I just didn’t care. It could have been the Queen of Sheba with her cellophane pajamas on—or off—I was too tired to bother. My brain felt like a bucket of wet sand.
It was still ringing as I reached the door. No use. I had to go back. Instinct was stronger than weariness. I
