"Feel better?" I asked him, putting some white iodine on my wounds.
"I'm an old tired beat-up cop. All I feel is sore."
I turned around and stared at him. "You're a damp good cop, Bernie, but just the same you're all wet. In one way cops are all the same. They all blame the wrong things. If a guy loses his pay check at a crap table, stop gambling. If he gets drunk, stop liquor. If he kills somebody in a car crash, stop making automobiles. If he gets pinched with a girl in a hotel room, stop sexual intercourse. If he falls downstairs, stop building houses."
"Aw shut up!"
"Sure, shut me up. I'm just a private citizen. Get off it, Bernie. We don't have mobs and crime syndicates and goon squads because we have crooked politicians and their stooges in the City Hall and the legislatures. Crime isn't a disease, it's a symptom. Cops are like a doctor that gives you aspirin for a brain tumor, except that the cop would rather cure it with a blackjack. We're a big rough rich wild people and crime is the price we pay for it, and organized crime is the price we pay for organization. We'll have it with us a long time. Organized crime is just the dirty side of the sharp dollar."
"What's the clean side?"
"I never saw it. Maybe Harlan Potter could tell you. Let's have a drink."
"You looked pretty good walking in that door," Ohls said.
"You looked better when Mendy pulled the knife on you."
"Shake," he said, and put his hand out.
We had the drink and he left by the back door, which he had jimmied to get in, having dropped by the night before for scouting purposes. Back doors are a soft touch if they open out and are old enough for the wood to have dried and shrunk. You knock the pins out of the hinges and the rest is easy. Ohls showed me a dent in the frame when he left to go back over the hill to where he had left his car on the next street. He could have opened. the front door almost as easily but that would have broken the lock. It would have showed up too much.
I watched him climb through the trees with the beam of a torch in front of him and disappear over the- rise. I locked the door and mixed another mild drink and went back to the living room and sat down. I looked at my watch. It was still early. It only seemed a long time since I had come home.
I went to the phone and dialed the operator and gave her the Lorings' phone number. The butler asked who was calling, then went to see if Mrs. Loring was in. She was.
"I was the goat all right," I said, "but they caught the tiger alive. I'm bruised up a little."
"You must tell me about it sometime." She sounded about as far away as if she had got to Paris already.
"I could tell you over a drink-if you had time."
"Tonight? Oh, I'm packing my things to move out. I'm afraid that would be impossible."
"Yes, I can see that. Well, I just thought you might like to know. It was kind of you to warn me. It had nothing at all to do with your old man."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Oh. Just a minute." She was gone for a time, then she came back and sounded warmer. "Perhaps I could fit a drink in. Where?"
"Anywhere you say. I haven't a car tonight, but I can get a cab."
"Nonsense, I'll pick you up, but it will be an hour or longer. What is the address there?"
I told her and she hung up and I put the porch light on and then stood in the open door inhaling the night. It had got much cooler.
I went back in and tried to phone Lonnie Morgan but couldn't reach him. Then just for the hell of it I put a call in to the Terrapin Club at Las Vegas, Mr. Randy Starr.- He probably wouldn't take it. But he did. He had a quiet, competent, man-of-affairs voice.
"Nice to hear from you, Marlowe. Any friend of Terry's is a friend of mine. What can I do for you?"
"Mendy is on his way."
"On his way where?"
"To Vegas, with the three goons you sent after him in a big black Caddy with a red spotlight and siren. Yours, I presume?"
He laughed. "In Vegas, as some newspaper guy said, we use Cadillacs for trailers. What's this all about?"
"Mendy staked out here in my house with a couple of hard boys. His idea was to beat me up-putting it low-for a piece in the paper he seemed to think was my fault."
"Was it your fault?"
"I don't own any newspapers, Mr. Starr."
"I don't own any hard boys in Cadillacs, Mr. Marlowe."
"They were deputies maybe."
"I couldn't say. Anything else?"
"He pistol-whipped me. I kicked him in the stomach and used my knee on his nose. He seemed dissatisfied. All the same I hope he gets to Vegas alive."
"I'm sure he will, if he started this way. I'm afraid I'll have to cut this conversation short now."
"Just a second, Starr. Were you in on that caper at Otatoclán-or did Mendy work it alone?"
"Come again?"
"Don't kid, Starr. Mendy wasn't sore at me for why he said-not to the point of staking out in my house and giving me the treatment he gave Big Willie Magoon. Not enough motive. He warned me to keep my nose clean and not to dig into the Lennox case. But I did, because it just happened to work out that way. So he did what I've just told you. So there was a better reason."
"I see," he said slowly and still mildly and quietly. "You think there was something not quite kosher about how Terry got dead? That he didn't shoot himself, for instance, but someone else did?"
"I think the details would help. He wrote a confession which was false. He wrote a letter to me which got mailed. A waiter or hop in the hotel was going to sneak it out and mail it for him. He was holed up in the hotel and couldn't- get out. There was a big bill in the letter and the letter was finished just as a knock came.at his door. I'd like to know who came into the room."
"Why?"
"If it had been a bellhop or a waiter, Terry would have added a line to the letter and said so. If it was a cop, the letter wouldn't have been mailed. So who was it-and why did Terry write that confession?"
"No idea, Marlowe. No idea at all."
"Sorry I bothered you, Mr. Starr."
"No bother, glad to hear from you. I'll ask Mendy if he has any ideas."
"Yeah-if you ever see him again-alive. If you don't – find out anyway. Or somebody else will."
"You?" His voice hardened now, but it was still quiet.
"No, Mr. Starr. Not me. Somebody that could blow you out of Vegas without taking a long breath. Believe me, Mr. Starr. Just believe me. This is strictly on the level."