He was picking his teeth, sitting in one chair with his feet on the other. He was looking at his left thumb, holding it up in front of his eyes and at arms length. The thumb looked all right to me, but Nultys stare was gloomy, as if he thought it wouldnt get well.
He lowered it to his thigh and swung his feet to the floor and looked at me instead of at his thumb. He wore a dark gray suit and a mangled cigar end was waiting on the desk for him to get through with the toothpick.
I turned the felt seat cover that lay on the other chair with its straps not fastened to anything, sat down, and put a cigarette in my face.
You, Nulty said, and looked at his toothpick, to see if it was chewed enough.
Any luck?
Malloy? I aint on it any more.
Who is?
Nobody aint. Why? The guys lammed. We got him on the teletype and they got readers out. Hell, hell be in Mexico long gone.
Well, all he did was kill a Negro, I said. I guess thats only a misdemeanor.
You still interested? I thought you was workin? His pale eyes moved damply over my face.
I had a job last night, but it didnt last. Have you still got that Pierrot photo?
He reached around and pawed under his blotter. He held it out. It still looked pretty. I stared at the face.
This is really mine, I said. If you dont need it for the file, Id like to keep it.
Should be in the file, I guess, Nulty said. I forgot about it. Okey, keep it under your hat. I passed the file in.
I put the photo in my breast pocket and stood up. Well, I guess thats all, I said, a little too airily.
I smell something, Nulty said coldly.
I looked at the piece of rope on the edge of his desk. His eyes followed my look. He threw the toothpick on the floor and stuck the chewed cigar in his mouth.
Not this either, he said.
Its a vague hunch. If it grows more solid, I wont forget you.
Things is tough. I need a break, pal.
A man who works as hard as you deserves one, I said.
He struck a match on his thumbnail, looked pleased because it caught the first time, and started inhaling smoke from the cigar.
Im laughing, Nulty said sadly, as I went out.
The hall was quiet, the whole building was quiet. Down in front the prowl car men were still looking at their bent fender. I drove back to Hollywood.
The phone was ringing as I stepped into the office. I leaned down over the desk and said, Yes?
Am I addressing Mr. Philip Marlowe?
Yes, this is Marlowe.
This is Mrs. Grayles residence. Mrs. Lewin Lockridge Grayle. Mrs. Grayle would like to see you here as soon as convenient.
Where?
The address is Number 862 Aster Drive, in Bay City. May I say you will arrive within the hour?
Are you Mr. Grayle?
Certainly not, sir. I am the butler.
Thats me you hear ringing the door bell, I said.
18
It was close to the ocean and you could feel the ocean in the air but you couldnt see water from the front of the place. Aster Drive had a long smooth curve there and the houses on the inland side were just nice houses, but on the canyon side they were great silent estates, with twelve foot walls and wrought-iron gates and ornamental hedges; and inside, if you could get inside, a special brand of sunshine, very quiet, put up in noise-proof containers just for the upper classes.
A man in a dark blue Russian tunic and shiny black puttees and flaring breeches stood in the half-open gates. He was a dark, good-looking lad, with plenty of shoulders and shiny smooth hair and the peak on his rakish cap made a soft shadow over his eyes. He had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and he held his head tilted a little, as if he liked to keep the smoke out of his nose. One hand had a smooth black gauntlet on it and the other was bare. There was a heavy ring on his third finger.
There was no number in sight, but this should be 862. I stopped my car and leaned out and asked him. It took him a long time to answer. He had to look me over very carefully. Also the car I was driving. He came over to me and as he came he carelessly dropped his ungloved hand towards his hip. It was the kind of carelessness that was meant to be noticed.
He stopped a couple of feet away from my car and looked me over again.
Im looking for the Grayle residence, I said.
This is it. Nobody in.
Im expected.
He nodded. His eyes gleamed like water. Name?
Philip Marlowe.
Wait there. He strolled, without hurry, over to the gates and unlocked an iron door set into one of the massive pillars. There was a telephone inside. He spoke briefly into it, snapped the door shut, and came back to me.
You have some identification.
I let him look at the license on the steering post. That doesnt prove anything, he said. How do I know its your car?
I pulled the key out of the ignition and threw the door open and got out. That put me about a foot from him. He had a nice breath. Haig and Haig at least.
Youve been at the sideboy again, I said.
He smiled. His eyes measured me. I said:
Listen, Ill talk to the butler over that phone and hell know my voice. Will that pass me in or do I have to ride on your back?
I just work here, he said softly. If I didnt he let the rest hang in the air, and kept on smiling.
Youre a nice lad, I said and patted his shoulder. Dartmouth or Dannemora?
Christ, he said. Why didnt you say you were a cop?
We both grinned. He waved his hand and I went in through the half open gate. The drive curved and tall molded hedges of dark green completely screened it from the street and from the house. Through a green gate I saw a Jap gardener at work weeding a huge lawn. He was pulling a piece of weed out of the vast velvet expanse and sneering at it the way Jap gardeners do. Then the tall hedge closed in again and I didnt see anything more for a hundred feet. Then the hedge ended in a wide circle in which half a dozen cars were parked.
One of them was a small coupe. There were a couple of very nice two-tone Buicks of the latest model, good enough to go for the mail in. There was a black limousine, with dull nickel louvres and hubcaps the size of bicycle wheels. There was a long sport phaeton with the top down. A short very wide all-weather concrete driveway led from these to the side entrance of the house.
Off to the left, beyond the parking space there was a sunken garden with a fountain at each of the four corners. The entrance was barred by a wrought-iron gate with a flying Cupid in the middle. There were busts on light pillars and a stone seat with crouching griffins at each end. There was an oblong pool with stone, waterlilies in it and a big stone bullfrog sitting on one of the leaves. Still farther a rose colonnade led to a thing like an altar, hedged in at both sides, yet not so completely but that the sun lay in an arabesque along the steps of the altar. And far over to the left there was a wild garden, not very large, with a sun-dial in the corner near an angle of wall that was built to look like a ruin. And there were flowers. There were a million flowers.
The house itself was not so much. It was smaller than Buckingham Palace, rather gray for California, and probably had fewer windows than the Chrysler Building.
I sneaked over to the side entrance and pressed a bell and somewhere a set of chimes made a deep mellow sound like church bells.