is dead on your balcony, shot with your gun, and the man of course is Mitchell. Right?”
She nodded. “Yes, it’s Larry.”
“And you didn’t kill him, you say. And the cops would hardly believe that even at first, you say. And later on not at all. My guess is that you’ve been there before.”
She was still looking up at me. She came slowly to her feet. Our faces were close, we stared hard into each other’s eyes. It didn’t mean a thing.
“Half a million dollars is a lot of money, Marlowe. You’re not too hard to take. There are places in the world where you and I could have a beautiful life. In one of those tall apartment houses along the ocean front in Rio. I don’t know how long it would last, but things can always be arranged, don’t you think?”
I said: “What a lot of different girls you are. Now you’re making like a moll. When I first saw you, you were a quiet well-bred little lady. You didn’t like dreamboats like Mitchell making a pitch at you. Then you bought yourself a pack of cigarettes and smoked one as if you hated it. Then you let him cuddle you—after you got down here. Then you tore your blouse at me ha, ha, ha, cynical as a Park Avenue pet after her butter and egg man goes home. Then you let me cuddle you. Then you cracked me on the head with a whiskey bottle. Now you’re talking about a beautiful life in Rio. Which one of you would have her head on the next pillow when I woke up in the morning?”
“Five thousand dollars down. And a lot more to come. The police wouldn’t give you live toothpicks. If you think different, you have a telephone.”
“What do I do for the five grand?”
She let her breath out slowly as if a crisis was past. “The hotel is built almost on the edge of the cliff. At the foot of the wall there’s only a narrow walk, very narrow. Below the cliffs are rocks and the sea. It’s almost high tide. My balcony hangs right over all that.”
I nodded. “Are there fire stairs?”
“From the garage. They start just beside the basement elevator landing, which is up two or three steps from the garage floor. But it’s a long hard climb.”
“For five grand I’d climb it in a diver’s suit. Did you come out through the lobby?”
“Fire stairs. There’s an all night man in the garage but he was asleep in one of the cars.”
“You said Mitchell is lying on a chaise. Is there a lot of blood?”
She winced. “I—I didn’t notice. I suppose there must be.”
“You didn’t notice? You went near enough to find out he was stone cold dead. Where was he shot?”
“Nowhere that I saw. It must have been under him.”
“Where was the gun?”
“It was lying on the floor of the porch—beside his hand.”
“Which hand?”
She widened her eyes slightly. “Does it matter? I don’t know which hand. He’s sort of lying across the chaise with his head hanging on one side and his legs on the other. Do we have to keep on talking about it?”
“All right,” I said. “I don’t know a damn thing about the tides and currents around here. He might wash up on the beach tomorrow and he might not show up for two weeks. Assuming, of course, we bring it off. If it’s a long time they may not even find out he was shot. Then I guess there’s some possibility that he won’t be found at all. Not much, but some. There are barracuda in these waters, and other things.”
“You certainly do a thorough job of making it revolting,” she said.
“Well, I had a running start. Also I was thinking if there was any chance of suicide. Then we’d have to put the gun back. He was left-handed, you know. That’s why I wanted to know which hand.”
“Oh. Yes, he was left-handed. You’re right. But not suicide. Not that smirking, self-satisfied gentleman.”
“Sometimes a man kills the dearest thing he loves, they say. Couldn’t it be himself?”
“Not this character,” she said briefly and finally. “If we are very lucky, they will probably think he fell off the balcony. God knows he was drunk enough. And by that time I’ll be in South America. My passport is still valid.”
“In what name is your passport?”
She reached out and drew her fingertips down my cheek. “You’ll know all about me soon enough. Don’t be impatient. You’ll know all the intimate things about me. Can’t you wait a little?”
“Yeah. Start getting intimate with those American Express checks. We have another hour or two of darkness and more than that of fog. You play with the checks while I get dressed.”
I reached into my jacket and gave her a fountain pen. She sat down near the light and began to sign them with the second signature. Her tongue peeped out between her teeth. She wrote slowly and carefully. The name she wrote was Elizabeth Mayfield.
So the switch of names had been planned before she left Washington. While I dressed I wondered if she was really foolish enough to think I’d help her dispose of a body.
I carried the glasses out to the kitchenette and scooped the gun up on the way. I let the swing door close and slipped the gun and the magazine into the tray under the broiler of the stove. I rinsed out the glasses and wiped them off. I went back into the living room and threw my clothes on. She didn’t even look at me.
She went on signing the checks. When she had finished, I took the folder of checks and flipped them over one by one, checking the signatures. The big money meant nothing to me. I shoved the folder into my pocket, put the lamp out and moved to the door. I opened it and she was beside me. She was close beside me.
“Sneak out,” I said. “I’ll pick you up on the highway just above where the fence ends.”
She faced me and leaned a little towards me. “Can I trust you?” she asked softly.
