'I may not be alive that long,' he said quietly. 'Ever hear of the Agony Club? I own it.'
I looked back into the office of Senor Thorson. The newshawk and he both had their ears out a foot.
'Not here,' I said. 'Call me after I talk to the law.' I gave him the number.
He gave me a tired smile and moved out of the way. I went back to the Fleetwood and tooled it gracefully to the cop house down the line a little way. I parked in an official slot and went in. A very pretty blonde in a policewoman's uniform was at the desk.
'Damn all,' I said. 'I thought policewomen were hard-faced. You're a doll.'
'We have all kinds,' she said sedately. 'You're Philip Marlowe, aren't you? I've seen your photo in the L.A. papers. What can we do for you, Mr. Marlowe?'
'I'm checking in. Do I talk to you or to the duty sergeant? And which street could I walk down without being called by name?'
She smiled. Her teeth were even and as white as the snow on top of the mountain behind the Springs. I bet she used one of the nineteen kinds of toothpaste that are better and newer and larger than all the others.
'You'd better talk to Sergeant Whitestone.' She opened a swing gate and nodded me toward a closed door. I knocked and opened it and I was looking at a calm-looking man with red hair and the sort of eyes that every police sergeant gets in time. Eyes that have seen too much nastiness and heard too many liars.
'My name's Marlowe. I'm a private eye. I'm going to open up an office here if I can find one and if you let me.' I dumped another card on the desk and opened my wallet to let him look at my license.
'Divorce?'
'Never touch it, Sergeant.'
'Good. That helps. I can't say I'm enthusiastic, but we could get along, if you leave police business to the police.'
'I'd like to, but I've never been able to find out just where to stop.'
He scowled. Then he snapped his fingers. He yelled, 'Norman!'
The pretty blonde opened the door. 'Who is this character?' the sergeant wailed. 'Don't tell me. Let me guess.'
'I'm afraid so, Sergeant,' she said demurely.
'Hell! It's bad enough to have a private eye mousing around. But a private eye who's backed by a couple or three hundred million bucks-that's inhuman.'
'I'm not backed by any two hundred million, Sergeant. I'm on my own and I'm a relatively poor man.'
'Yeah? You and me both, but I forgot to marry the boss's daughter. Us cops are stupid.'
I sat down and lit a cigarette. The blonde went out and closed the door.
'It's no use, is it?' I said. 'I can't convince you that I'm just another guy trying to scratch a living. Do you know somebody named Lapshultz who owns a club?'
'Too well. His place is out in the desert, outside our jurisdiction. Every so often the Riverside D.A. has him raided. They say he permits gambling at his joint. I wouldn't know.'
He passed his horny hand over his face and made it look like the face of a man who wouldn't know.
'He braced me in front of the office of a real estate man named Thorson. Said he was in trouble.'
The sergeant stared at me expressionlessly. 'Being in trouble belongs with being a man named Lipshultz. Stay away from him. Some of that trouble might rub off on you.'
I stood up. 'Thanks, Sergeant. I just wanted to check with you.'
'You checked in. I'm looking forward to the day you check out.'
I went out and closed the door. The pretty policewoman gave me a nice smile. I stopped at the desk and stared at her for a moment without speaking.
'I guess no cop ever liked a private eye,' I said.
'You look all right to me, Mr. Marlowe.'
'You look more than all right to me. My wife likes me part of the time too.'
She leaned her elbows on the desk and clasped her hands under her chin. 'What does she do the rest of the time?'
'She wishes I had ten million dollars. Then we could afford a couple more Fleetwood Cadillacs.'
I grinned at her fascinatingly and went out of the cop house and climbed into our lonely Fleetwood. I struck out for the mansion.
4
At the end of the main drag the road swings to the left. To get to our place you keep straight on with nothing on the left but a hill and an occasional street on the right. A couple of tourist cars passed me going to see the palms in the State Park-as if they couldn't see all the palms they needed in Poodle Springs itself. A big Buick Roadmaster was behind me taking it easy. At a stretch of road that seemed empty it suddenly put on speed, flashed past and turned in ahead of me. I wondered what I had done wrong. Two men jumped out of the car, both were very sportsclothesy, and trotted back to where I had braked to a stop. A couple of guns flashed into their busy hands. I moved my hand on the indicator enough to shift the pointer to Low. I reached for the glove compartment, but there wasn't time. They were beside the Fleetwood.
'Lippy wants to talk to you,' a nasal voice snarled.
He looked like any cheap punk. I didn't bother taking an inventory of him. The other one was taller, thinner but no more delicious. But they held the guns in a casually competent manner.
'And who might Lippy be? And put the heaters away. I don't have one.'
'After he spoke to you, you went to the cops. Lippy don't like that.'
'Let me guess,' I said brightly. 'Lippy would be Mr. Lipshultz who runs or owns the Agony Club, which is out of the territory of the Poodle Springs cops and the Agony Club is engaged in extralegal operations. Why does he want to see me so badly that he has to send a couple of shnooks after me?'
'On business, big stuff.'
'Naturally, I didn't think we were such close friends that he couldn't eat lunch without me.'
One of the boys, the taller one, moved around behind the Fleetwood and reached for the right-hand door. It had to be now if it was going to be at all. I pushed down on the accelerator. A cheap car would have stalled, but not the Fleetwood. It shot forward and sent the taller hood reeling. It smashed hard into the rear end of the Roadmaster. I couldn't see what it did to the Fleet-wood. There might be a small scratch or two on the front bumper. In the middle of the crash I yanked the glove compartment open and grabbed the .38 I had carried in Mexico, not that I had ever needed it. But when you are with Linda you don't take chances.
The smaller hood had started running. The other was still on his sitter. I hopped out of the Fleetwood and fired a shot over his head.
The other hood stopped dead, six feet away.
'Look, darlings,' I said, 'if Lappy wants to talk to me, he can't do it with me full of lead. And never show a gun unless you are prepared to use it. I am. You're not.'
The tall boy climbed to his feet and put his gun away sullenly. After an instant the other did the same. They went to look at their car. I backed the Fleetwood clear and swung it level with the Headmaster.
'Til go see Lippy,' I said. 'He needs some advice about his staff.'
'You got a pretty wife,' the little hood said nastily.
'And any punk that lays a hand on her is already half cremated. So long, putrid. See you in the boneyard.'
I gave the Fleetwood the gun and was out of sight. I turned into our street which like all the streets in that section was a dead end between high hills bordering the mountains. I pulled up in front of the house and looked at the front of the Fleetwood. It was bent a little-not much, but too much for a lady like Linda to drive it. I went into the house and found her in the bedroom staring at dresses.
'You've been loafing,' I said. 'You haven't rearranged the furniture yet.'
'Darling!' She threw herself at me like a medium fast pitch, high and inside. 'What have you been doing?'
