"Where are these particular charming people?"
"I haven't seen them lately. Durano has himself a place in the desert, and they could be living there, though it's hardly the season. They could be back in Chicago, but I doubt it. Durano is running this territory permanently." He clicked his teeth. "That's a nice fat five dollar's worth."
"It's pretty hot in the desert this time of year."
"Heat doesn't seem to bother Durano. He's got ice water in his veins. I saw him in the Springs in the middle of August. It was close to 110 in the shade, and he was wearing a topcoat."
"Is that where his place is — Palm Springs?"
"It's a few miles beyond Palm Springs, towards Indio. Everybody out there knows him. Better be nice to him, Lew, if you get that far. He was indicted for homicide once, even in Chicago."
I said that I was always nice to people. The harpsichord drowned me out.
The sun was low when I reached Palm Springs, glowing dull red like a cigar-butt balanced on the rim of the horizon. The tall sky rose above it, blue-grey like a column of smoke. Beyond the town, which was miniatured by space, the chameleon desert burned red in the sun's reflection. It was hot.
I stopped at a highway gas-station and ordered a tankful. Paying the attendant, I mentioned casually that Mr. Durano had invited me to dinner.
"Mr. Angelo Durano?"
"That's the one. Know him?"
His manner changed perceptibly, became a little contemptuous and a little obsequious. "I don't know him, no. He bought some gas here once, at least his chauffeur did. He was in the car." He eyed me curiously.
"It's a lovely doll he travels with," I said. "You see her, too? The blonde?"
"I didn't see her. Here's your change, sir."
"Keep it. You don't know where he lives, do you? They gave me full instructions how to find it, but this is new country to me."
"Sure, sir. He lives on Canyon Road. Take the second turn to the right and you can't miss it. It's a great big place with round towers. Used to be a gambling casino in the old days."
It stood by itself on a slight rise like somebody's idea of a castle in Spain. The last rays of the sun washed its stucco walls in purple light. Its acreage was surrounded by an eight-foot wire fence, barbed along the top. The single gate was closed and guarded.
The guard wore riding breeches, a Stetson, and a suede windbreaker bulky enough to hide a gun. When I stopped in front of the gate, he waved me on. I got out and approached him. "Is this Durano's place?"
"Beat it, mac. This is private property."
"I didn't think it was a national park. I'm looking for Mr. Durano."
"Keep right on looking." He took a step towards me, left foot first, right foot coming up behind. In the shadow of his hat, his face was thick with scar-tissue. "Someplace else."
I spoke soothingly: "Why don't you ask Mr. Durano if he'll see me? My name is Lew Archer."
"Mr. Durano ain't here. Now amscray, mac. I mean it." He acted out his meaning, advancing his left shoulder and balling his right fist.
"Miss Dee, then. Fern Dee. Can I talk to her?"
The name had an effect on him, interrupting his preparations to hit me. "You know Miss Dee?"
"I have something of hers." I reached for the turban.
"Keep your hands away from your pockets." He moved up close to me and patted me down, then jerked the hat out of my jacket pocket. "Where did you get ahold of this?"
"I'll tell Miss Dee."
"That's what you think," he said in brilliant repartee. "You better come on inside."
The man who guarded the front door relieved him at the gate. Durano received me in the great hall. It was a large rectangular room with a high roof supported by black oak beams, crowded with stiff old Spanish furniture, carpeted with Oriental rugs. A baronial room, built for giants.
Durano was a tired-looking little man. He might have been a moderately successful grocer or barkeep who had come to California for his health. Clearly his health was poor. Even in the stifling heat of the room he looked pale and chilly, as if he had caught a slight case of chronic death from one of his victims.
He had been playing solitaire on one end of a refectory table. He rose and advanced towards me, his legs shuffling feebly in wrinkled blue trousers that bagged at the knees. The upper part of his body was swathed in a heavy turtleneck sweater. He had two days' beard on his chin, like motheaten grey plush.
"Mr. Durano?" I said. "My name is Lew Archer."
The guard spoke up behind me: "He brung this little hat with him, Mr. Durano. Said it belongs to Fern — Miss Dee."
Durano took the hat from him, and turned it over in his blue hands. His eyes were like thin stab-wounds filled with watery blood. "Where did you get this, Mr. Archer?"
"I sort of thought I'd like to tell the owner where I got it."
"You sort of thought." He smiled at me quite pleasantly, and pressed his toe into the center of the rug that he was standing on. Two more men entered the room.
Durano nodded to the guard behind me, who reached to pin my arms. I turned on him, landed one punch, and took a very hard counter in the neck. One of the men behind me hit my kidneys like a heavy truck-bumper. I turned on him and kneed him, catching his companion with an elbow under the chin. The original guard delivered a rabbit-punch that made my head ring like a gong. Under that clangor, Durano was saying quietly:
"Where did you get the hat?"
I didn't say. The two men held me upright by the arms while the guard employed my face and body as punching bags. At intervals Durano asked me politely to tell him about the hat. After a while he shook his head. My handlers deposited me in a chair which swung on a wire from the ceiling in great circles. It swung out over the desert into black space.
When I came to, a young man was standing over me. He had curly black hair, Mediterranean features and coloring, light tan jacket, red tie. Alex's description had been excellent. There was an empty water-glass in his hand, and my face was dripping.
"Did you get the hat from Lucy?" he said.
"Lucy?" My mouth was numb, and I lisped. "I don't know any Lucy."
"Sure you do." He shattered the glass on the arm of my chair, and held the jagged base up close to my eyes. "You tell me all about it like a nice fella."
"Nix, Gino," the old man said. "I got a better idea as usual."
They conferred in low voices, and the younger man left the room. He returned with a photograph in a silver frame, which he held in front of my face. It was a studio portrait, of the kind intended for use as publicity cheesecake. Against a black velvet background, a young blonde half-reclined in a gossamer sort of robe that was split to show one bent leg. Though she was adequately stacked and pretty in a rather dull, corn-fed way, her best feature was her long pull-taffy hair. The picture was signed in a childish hand: "To my Angel, with love and everything. Fern."
"You know the dame?" Gino demanded. "Ever seen her before?"
I thought I had, and said I hadn't.
"You're sure?" The shard of glass was still in his other hand.
"I see a lot of blondes. How can I be sure?"
"Where did you get the hat, then?"
"I won it in a raffle."
Gino's face thickened, and his eyes almost crossed. Durano stepped in front of him. "Leave him alone, leave him go. There is heat on, remember. We keep our hands clean." He scoured his thin blue hands with each other. They sounded like sticks rubbing together.
Gino backed away, joining the three others who stood in a semi-circle behind Durano. The old man leaned towards me:
"Mr. Detective, I don't know who you work for, I don't care. You took a nice good look at the lady in the picture? You ever see her, come back and visit me. I promise a nicer reception."