The Little Sister

“You said you’d go to him.”

“I said if I got into a jam and hadn’t really done anything, I’d go to him. But I have done something now.”

“How about Ballou? You’re worth a lot to him too.”

“I’m not worth a plugged nickel to anybody. Forget it, Marlowe. You mean well, but I know these people.”

“That puts it up to me,” I said. “That would be why you sent for me.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “You fix it, darling. For free.” Her voice was brittle and shallow again.

I went and sat beside her on the davenport. I took hold of her arm and pulled her hand out of the fur pocket and took hold of that. It was almost ice cold, in spite of the fur.

She turned her head and looked at me squarely. She shook her head a little. “Believe me, darling, I’m not worth it—even to sleep with.”

I turned the hand over and opened the fingers out. They were stiff and resisted. I opened them out one by one. I smoothed the palm of her hand.

“Tell me why you had the gun with you.”

“The gun?”

“Don’t take time to think. Just tell me. Did you mean to kill him?”

“Why not, darling? I thought I meant something to him. I guess I’m a little vain. He fooled me. Nobody means anything to the Steelgraves of this world. And nobody means anything to the Mavis Welds of this world any more.”

She pulled away from me and smiled thinly. “I oughtn’t to have given you that gun. If I killed you I might get clear yet.”

I took it out and held it towards her. She took it and stood up quickly. The gun pointed at me. The small tired smile moved her lips again. Her finger was very firm on the trigger.

“Shoot high,” I said. “I’m wearing my bullet-proof underwear.”

She dropped the gun to her side and for a moment she just stood staring at me. Then she tossed the gun down on the davenport.

“I guess I don’t like the script,” she said. “I don’t like the lines. It just isn’t me, if you know what I mean.”

She laughed and looked down at the floor. The point of her shoe moved back and forth on the carpeting. “We’ve had a nice chat, darling. The phone’s over there at the end of the bar.”

“Thanks, do you remember Dolores’s number?”

“Why Dolores?”

When I didn’t answer she told me. I went along the room to the corner of the bar and dialed. The same routine as before. Good evening, the Chateau Bercy, who is calling Miss Gonzales please. One moment, please, buzz, buzz, and then a sultry voice saying: “Hello?”

“This is Marlowe. Did you really mean to put me on a spot?”

I could almost hear her breath catch. Not quite. You can’t really hear it over the phone. Sometimes you think you can.

“Amigo, but I am glad to hear your voice,” she said, “I am so very very glad.”

“Did you or didn’t you?”

“I—I don’t know. I am very sad to think that I might have. I like you very much.”

“I’m in a little trouble here.”

“Is he—” Long pause. Apartment house phone. Careful. “Is he there?”

“Well—in a way. He is and yet he isn’t.”

I really did hear her breath this time. A long indrawn sigh that was almost a whistle.

“Who else is there?”

“Nobody. Just me and my homework. I want to ask you something. It is deadly important. Tell me the truth. Where did you get that thing you gave me tonight?”

“Why, from him. He gave it to me.”

“When?”

“Early this evening. Why?”

“How early?”

“About six o’clock, I think.”

“Why did he give it to you?”

“He asked me to keep it. He always carried one.”

“Asked you to keep it why?”

“He did not say, amigo. He was a man that did things like that. He did not often explain himself.”

“Notice anything unusual about it? About what he gave you?”