«I’m afraid I don’t —»
«Don’t kid me,» I snarled. «Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty grand. I offered her five hundred — just for a gag.»
«You seem to treat this whole business in a spirit of considerable levity,» he snarled back. «I am not accustomed to that sort of thing and I don’t like it.»
I yawned. I didn’t give a damn if school kept in or not. «Listen, Mr. Jeeter, I’m a great guy to horse around, but I have my mind on the job just the same. And there are some very unusual angles to this case. For instance a couple of gunmen just stuck me up in my apartment here and told me to lay off the Jeeter case. I don’t see why it should get so tough.»
«Good heavens!» He sounded shocked. «I think you had better come to my house at once and we will discuss matters. I’ll send my car for you. Can you come right away?»
«Yeah. But I can drive myself. I —»
«No. I’m sending my car and chauffeur. His name is George; you may rely upon him absolutely. He should be there in about twenty minutes.»
«O.K.,» I said. «That just gives me time to drink my dinner. Have him park around the corner of Kenmore, facing towards Franklin.» I hung up.
When I’d had a hot-and-cold shower and put on some clean clothes I felt more respectable. I had a couple of drinks, small ones for a change, and put a light overcoat on and went down to the street.
The car was there already. I could see it half a block down the side street. It looked like a new market opening. It had a couple of headlamps like the one on the front end of a streamliner, two amber f’oglights hooked to the front fender, and a couple of sidelights as big as ordinary headlights. I came up beside it and stopped and a man stepped out of the shadows, tossing a cigarette over his shoulder with a neat flip of the wrist. He was tall, broad, dark, wore a peaked cap, a Russian tunic with a Sam Browne belt, shiny leggings and breeches that flared like an English staff major’s whipeords.
«Mr. Marlowe?» He touched the peak of his cap with a gloved forefinger.
«Yeah,» I said. «At ease. Don’t tell me that’s old man Jeeter’s car.»
«One of them.» It was a cool voice that could get fresh.
He opened the rear door and I got in and sank down into the cushions and George slid under the wheel and started the big car. It moved away from the curb and around the corner with as much noise as a bill makes in a wallet. We went west. We seemed to be drifting with the current, but we passed everything. We slid through the heart of Hollywood, the west end of it, down to the Strip and along the glitter of that to the cool quiet of Beverly Hills where the bridle path divides the boulevard.
We gave Beverly Hills the swift and climbed along the foothills, saw the distant lights of the university buildings and swung north into Bel-Air. We began to slide up long narrow streets with high walls and no sidewalks and big gates. Lights on mansions glowed politely through the early night. Nothing stirred. There was no sound but the soft purr of the tires on concrete. We swung left again and I caught a sign which read Calvello Drive. Halfway up this George started to swing the car wide to make a left turn in at a pair of twelve-foot wroughtiron gates. Then something happened.
A pair of lights flared suddenly just beyond the gates and a horn screeched and a motor raced. A car charged at us fast. George straightened out with a flick of the wrist, braked the car and slipped off his right glove, all in one motion.
The car came on, the lights swaying. «Damn drunk,» George swore over his shoulder.
It could be. Drunks in cars go all kinds of places to drink. It could be. I slid down onto the floor of the car and yanked the Luger from under my arm and reached up to open the catch. I opened the door a little and held it that way, looking over the sill. The headlights hit me in the face and I ducked, then came up again as the beam passed.
The other car jammed to a stop. Its door slammed open and a figure jumped out of it, waving a gun and shouting. I heard the voice and knew.
«Reach, you bastards!» Frisky screamed at us.
George put his left hand on the wheel and I opened my door a little more. The little man in the street was bouncing up and down and yelling. Out of the small dark car from which he had jumped came no sound except the noise of its motor.
«This is a heist!» Frisky yelled. «Out of there and line up, you sons of bitches!»
I kicked my door open and started to get out, the Luger down at my side.
«You asked for it!» the little man yelled.
I dropped — fast. The gun in his hand belched flame. Somebody must have put a firing pin in it. Glass smashed behind my head. Out of the corner of my eye, which oughtn’t to have had any corners at that particular moment, I saw George make a movement as smooth as a ripple of water. I brought the Luger up and started to squeeze the trigger, but a shot crashed beside me — George.
I held my fire. It wasn’t needed now.
The dark car lurched forward and started down the hill furiously. It roared into the distance while the little man out in the middle of the pavement was still reeling grotesquely in the light reflected from the walls.
There was something dark on his face that spread. His gun bounded along the concrete. His little legs buckled and he plunged sideways and rolled and then, very suddenly, became still.
George said, «Yah!» and sniffed at the muzzle of his revolver.
«Nice shooting.» I got out of the car, stood there looking at the little man — a crumpled nothing. The dirty white of his sneakers gleamed a little in the side glare of the car’s lights.
George got out beside me. «Why me, brother?»
«I didn’t fire. I was watching that pretty hip draw of yours. It was sweeter than honey.»
«Thanks, pal. They were after Mister Gerald, of course. I usually ferry him home from the club about this time, full of liquor and bridge losses.»
We went over to the little man and looked down at him. He wasn’t anything to see. He was just a little man who was dead, with a big slug in his face and blood on him.
«Turn some of those damn lights off,» I growled. «And let’s get away from here fast.»
«The house is just across the street.» George sounded as casual as if he had just shot a nickel in a slot machine instead of a man.
«The Jeeters are out of this, if you like your job. You ought to know that. We’ll go back to my place and start all over.»
«I get it,» he snapped, and jumped back into the big car. He cut the foglights and the sidelights and I got in beside him in the front seat.
We straightened out and started up the hill, over the brow. I looked back at the broken window. It was the small one at the extreme back of the car and it wasn’t shatterproof. A large piece was gone from it. They could fit that, if they got around to it, and make some evidence. I didn’t think it would matter, but it might.
At the crest of the hill a large limousine passed us going down. Its dome light was on and in the interior, as in a lighted showcase, an elderly couple sat stiffly, taking the royal salute. The man was in evening clothes, with a white scarf and a crush hat. The woman was in furs and diamonds.
George passed them casually, gunned the car and we made a fast right turn into a dark street. «There’s a couple of good dinners all shot to hell,» he drawled, «and I bet they don’t even report it.»
«Yeah. Let’s get back home and have a drink,» I said. «I never really got to like killing people.»
FIVE
We sat with some of Miss Harriet Huntress’ Scotch in our glasses and looked at each other across the rims. George looked nice with his cap off. His head was clustered over with wavy dark-brown hair and his teeth were very white and clean. He sipped his drink and nibbled a cigarette at the same time. His snappy black eyes had a cool glitter in them.