Mallory rubbed his chin. He said: «It’s funny he didn’t remember he’d given you back your letters. Very funny.»
«He wouldn’t care, darling. He was that kind of actor, and he’d like the show. It gave him a chance for a swell pose. He’d like that terribly.»
Mallory let his face get hard and disgusted. He said: «The job looked on the level to me. I didn’t know much about Landrey, but he knew a good friend of mine in Chicago. He figured a way to the boys who were working on you, and I played his hunch. Things happened that made it easier—but a lot noisier.»
Rhonda Farr tapped little bright nails against her little bright teeth. She said: «What are you back where you live, darling? One of those hoods they call private dicks?»
Mallory laughed harshly, made a vague movement and ran his fingers through his crisp dark hair. «Let it go, baby,» he said softly. «Let it go.»
Rhonda Farr looked at him with a surprised glance, then laughed rather shrilly. «It gets mad, doesn’t it?» she cooed. She went on, in a dry voice: «Atkinson has been bleeding me for years, one way and another. I fixed the letters up and put them where he could get hold of them. They disappeared. A few days afterward a man with one of those tough voices called up and began to apply the pressure. I let it ride. I figured I’d hang a pinch on Atkinson somehow, and our two reputations put together would be good for a write-up that wouldn’t hurt me too much. But the thing seemed to be spreading out, and I got scared. I thought of asking Landrey to help me out. I was sure he would like it.»
Mallory said roughly: «Simple, straightforward kid, ain’t you? Like hell!»
«You don’t know much about this Hollywood racket, do you, darling?» Rhonda Farr said. She put her head on one side and hummed softly. The strains of a dance band floated idly through the quiet air. «That’s a gorgeous melody… It’s swiped from a Weber sonata… Publicity has to hurt a bit out here. Otherwise nobody believes it.»
Mallory stood up, lifting the manila envelope off his knee. He dropped it in her lap.
«Five grand these are costing you,» he said.
Rhonda Farr leaned back and crossed her jade-green legs. One little green slipper fell off her bare foot to the rug, and the manila envelope fell down beside it. She didn’t stir towards either one.
She said: «Why?»
«I’m a business man, baby. I get paid for my work. Landrey didn’t pay me. Five grand was the price. The price to him, and now the price to you.»
She looked at him almost casually, out of placid, cornflower-blue eyes, and said: «No deal… blackmailer. Just like I told you at the Bolivar. You have all my thanks, but I’m spending my money myself.»
Mallory said curtly: «This might be a damn’ good way to spend some of it.»
He leaned over and picked up her highball, drank a little of it. When he put the glass down he tapped the nails of two fingers against the side for a moment. A small tight smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into a bowl of hyacinths.
He said slowly: «Landrey’s driver talked of course. Landrey’s friends want to see me. They want to know how come Landrey got rubbed out in Westwood. The cops will get around to me after a while. Someone is sure to tip them off. I was right beside four killings last night, and naturally I’m not going to run out on them. I’ll probably have to spill the whole story. The cops will give you plenty of publicity, baby. Landrey’s friends—I don’t know what they’ll do. Something that will hurt a lot, I should say.»
Rhonda Farr jerked to her feet, fumbling with her toe for the green slipper. Her eyes had gone wide and startled.
«You’d… sell me out?» she breathed.
Mallory laughed. His eyes were bright and hard. He stared along the floor at a splash of light from one of the standing lamps. He said in a bored voice:
«Why the hell should I protect you? I don’t owe you anything. And you’re too damn’ tight with your dough to hire me. I haven’t a record, but you know how the law boys love my sort. And Landrey’s friends will just see a dirty plant that got a good lad killed. — sake, why should I front for a chiseler like you, baby?»
He snorted angrily and flung his cigarette at the bowl of hyacinths. Red spots showed in his tanned cheeks.
Rhonda Farr stood quite still and shook her head slowly from side to side. She said: «No deal, blackmailer… no deal.» Her voice was small and tired, but her chin stuck out hard and brave.
Mallory reached out and picked up his hat. «You’re a hell of a guy, baby,» he said, grinning. «— ! but you Hollywood frails must be hard to get on with!»
He leaned forward suddenly, put his left hand behind her head and kissed her on the mouth hard. Then he flipped the tips of his fingers across her cheek.
«You’re a nice kid—in some ways,» he said. «And a fair liar. Just fair. You didn’t fake any letters, baby. Atkinson wouldn’t fall for a trick like that.» Rhonda Farr stooped over, snatched the manila envelope off the rug, and tumbled out what was in it—a number of closely written gray pages, deckle-edged, with thin gold monograms. She stared down at them with quivering nostrils.
She said slowly: «I’ll send you the money.»
Mallory put his hand against her chin, and pushed her head back.
He said rather gently:
«I was kidding you, baby. I have that bad habit. But there are two funny things about these letters. They haven’t any envelopes, and there’s nothing to show who they were written to—nothing at all. The second thing is, Landrey had them in his pocket when he was killed.»
He nodded once, turned away. Rhonda Farr said sharply: «Wait!» Her voice was suddenly terrified. She flopped down into the chair, sat limp.
Mallory said: «It gets you when it’s over, baby. Take a drink.»
He went a little way down the room, turned his head. He said: «I have to go. Got a date with a big black spot… Send me some flowers, baby. Wild, blue flowers, like your eyes.»
He went out under an arch. A door opened and shut heavily. Rhonda Farr sat without moving for a long time.
EIGHT
CIGARETTE smoke laced the air. A group of people in evening clothes stood sipping cocktails at one side of a curtained opening that led to the gambling rooms. Beyond the curtains light blazed down on one end of a roulette table. Mallory put his elbows on the bar, and the bartender left two young girls in party gowns and slid a white towel along the polished wood towards him. He said:
«What’ll it be, chief?»
Mallory said: «A small beer.»
The bartender gave it to him, smiled, went back to the two girls. Mallory sipped the beer, made a face, and looked into the long mirror that ran all the way behind the bar and slanted forward a little, so that it showed the floor all the way over to the far wall. A door opened in the wall and a man in dinner clothes came through. He had a wrinkled brown face and hair the color of steel wool. He met Mallory’s glance in the mirror and came across the room nodding.
He said. «I’m Mardonne. Nice of you to come.» He had a soft, husky voice, the voice of a fat man, but he was not fat.
Mallory said: «It’s not a social call.»
Mardonne said: «Let’s go up to my office.»
Mallory drank a little more of the beer, made another face, and pushed the glass away from him across the bar top. They went through the door, up a carpeted staircase that met another staircase halfway up. An open door shone light on the landing. They went in where the light was.
The room had been a bedroom, and no particular trouble had been taken to make it over into an office. It had gray walls, two or three prints in narrow frames. There was a big filing cabinet, a good safe, chairs. A parchment-shaded lamp stood on a walnut desk. A very blond young man sat on a corner of the desk swinging one leg over the other. He was wearing a soft hat with a gay band.