She was all in black now, or dark brown, with a small foolish hat. I smelled the sandalwood in her perfume.
«I wasn’t very nice to you, was I?» she said.
«All you did was save my life.»
«What happened?»
«I called the law and fed a few lies to a cop I don’t like and gave him all the credit for the pinch and that was that. That guy you took away from me was the man who killed Waldo.»
«You mean — you didn’t tell them about me?»
«Lady,» I said again, «all you did was save my life. What else do you want done? I’m ready, willing, and I’ll try to be able.»
She didn’t say anything, or move.
«Nobody learned who you are from me,» I said. «Incidentally, I don’t know myself.»
«I’m Mrs. Frank C. Barsaly, Two-twelve Fremont Place, Olympia Two-four-five-nine-six. Is that what you wanted?»
«Thanks,» I mumbled, and rolled a dry unlit cigarette around in my fingers. «Why did you come back?» Then I snapped the fingers of my left hand. «The hat and jacket,» I said. «I’ll go up and get them.»
«It’s more than that,» she said. «I want my pearls.» I might have jumped a little. It seemed as if there had been enough without pearls.
A car tore by down the street going twice as fast as it should. A thin bitter cloud of dust lifted in the streetlights and whirled and vanished. The girl ran the window up quickly against it.
«All right,» I said. «Tell me about the pearls. We have had a murder and a mystery woman and a mad killer and a heroic rescue and a police detective framed into making a false report. Now we will have pearls. All right — feed it to me.»
«I was to buy them for five thousand dollars. From the man you call Waldo and I call Joseph Coates. He should have had them.»
«No pearls,» I said. «I saw what came out of his pockets. A lot of money, but no pearls.»
«Could they be hidden in his apartment?»
«Yes,» I said. «So far as I know he could have had them hidden anywhere in California except in his pockets. How’s Mr. Barsaly this hot night?»
«He’s still downtown at his meeting. Otherwise I couldn’t have come.»
«Well, you could have brought him,» I said. «He could have sat in the rumble seat.»
«Oh, I don’t know,» she said. «Frank weighs two hundred pounds and he’s pretty solid. I don’t think he would like to sit in the rumble seat, Mr. Marlowe.»
«What the hell are we talking about anyway?»
She didn’t answer. Her gloved hands tapped lightly, provokingly on the rim of the slender wheel. I threw the unlit cigarette out the window, turned a little and took hold of her.
When I let go of her, she pulled as far away from me as she could against the side of the car and rubbed the back of her glove against her mouth. I sat quite still.
We didn’t speak for some time. Then she said very slowly: «I meant you to do that. But I wasn’t always that way. It’s only been since Stan Phillips was killed in his plane. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d be Mrs. Phillips now. Stan gave me the pearls. They cost fifteen thousand dollars, he said once. White pearls, forty-one of them, the largest about a third of an inch across. I don’t know how many grains. I never had them appraised or showed them to a jeweler, so I don’t know those things. But I loved them on Stan’s account. I loved Stan. The way you do just the one time. Can you understand?»
«What’s your first name?» I asked.
«Lola.»
«Go on talking, Lola.» I got another dry cigarette out of my pocket and fumbled it between my fingers just to give them something to do.
«They had a simple silver clasp in the shape of a two-bladed propeller. There was one small diamond where the boss would be. I told Frank they were store pearls I had bought myself. He didn’t know the difference. It’s not so easy to tell, I dare say. You see — Frank is pretty jealous.»
In the darkness she came closer to me and her side touched my side. But I didn’t move this time. The wind howled and the trees shook. I kept on rolling the cigarette around in my fingers.
«I suppose you’ve read that story,» she said. «About the wife and the real pearls and her telling her husband they were false?»
«I’ve read it,» I said, «Maugham.»
«I hired Joseph. My husband was in Argentina at the time. I was pretty lonely.»
«You should be lonely,» I said.
«Joseph and I went driving a good deal. Sometimes we had a drink or two together. But that’s all. I don’t go around —»
«You told him about the pearls,» I said. «And when your two hundred pounds of beef came back from Argentina and kicked him out — he took the pearls, because he knew they were real. And then offered them back to you for five grand.»
«Yes,» she said simply. «Of course I didn’t want to go to the police. And of course in the circumstance Joseph wasn’t afraid of my knowing where he lived.»
«Poor Waldo,» I said. «I feel kind of sorry for him. It was a hell of a time to run into an old friend that had a down on you.»
I struck a match on my shoe sole and lit the cigarette. The tobacco was so dry from the hot wind that it burned like grass. The girl sat quietly beside me, her hands on the wheel again.
«Hell with women — these fliers,» I said. «And you’re still in love with him, or think you are. Where did you keep the pearls?»
«In a Russian malachite jewelry box on my dressing table. With some other costume jewelry. I had to, if I ever wanted to wear them.»
«And they were worth fifteen grand. And you think Joseph might have hidden them in his apartment. Thirty-one, wasn’t it?»
«Yes,» she said. «I guess it’s a lot to ask.»
I opened the door and got out of the car. «I’ve been paid,» I said. «I’ll go look. The doors in my apartment are not very obstinate. The cops will find out where Waldo lived when they publish his photo, but not tonight, I guess.»
«It’s awfully sweet of you,» she said. «Shall I wait here?»
I stood with a foot on the running board, leaning in, looking at her. I didn’t answer her question. I just stood there looking in at the shine of her eyes. Then I shut the car door and walked up the street towards Franklin.
Even with the wind shriveling my face I could still smell the sandalwood in her hair. And feel her lips.
I unlocked the Berglund door, walked through the silent lobby to the elevator, and rode up to Three. Then I soft-footed along the silent corridor and peered down at the sill of Apartment 31. No light. I rapped — the old light, confidential tattoo of the bootlegger with the big smile and the extra-deep hip pockets. No answer. I took the piece of thick hard celluloid that pretended to be a window over the driver’s license in my wallet, and eased it between the lock and the jamb, leaning hard on the knob, pushing it toward the hinges. The edge of the celluloid caught the slope of the spring lock and snapped it back with a small brittle sound, like an icicle breaking. The door yielded and I went into near darkness. Street light filtered in and touched a high spot here and there.
I shut the door and snapped the light on and just stood. There was a queer smell in the air. I made it in a moment — the smell of dark-cured tobacco. I prowled over to a smoking stand by the window and looked down at four brown butts — Mexican or South American cigarettes.