the windows again, put the whiskey away, clicked the lights off and had the office door unlatched when the phone rang.
The ringing bell had a sinister sound, for no reason of itself, but because of the ears to which it rang. I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn back in a half grin. Beyond the closed window the neon lights glowed. The dead air didn’t move. Outside the corridor was still. The bell rang in darkness, steady and strong.
I went back and leaned on the desk and answered. There was a click and a droning on the wire and beyond that nothing. I depressed the connection and stood there in the dark, leaning over, holding the phone with one hand and holding the flat riser on the pedestal down with the other. I didn’t know what I was waiting for.
The phone rang again. I made a sound in my throat and put it to my ear again, not saying anything at all.
So we were there silent, both of us, miles apart maybe, each one holding a telephone and breathing and listening and hearing nothing, not even the breathing.
Then after what seemed a very long time there was the quiet remote whisper of a voice saying dimly, without any tone:
“Too bad for you, Marlowe.”
Then the click again and the droning on the wire and I hung up and went back across the office and out.
THIRTEEN
I drove west on Sunset, fiddled around a few blocks without making up my mind whether anyone was trying to follow me, then parked near a drugstore and went into its phone booth. I dropped my nickel and asked the O-operator for a Pasadena number. She told me how much money to put in.
The voice which answered the phone was angular and cold. “Mrs. Murdock’s residence.”
“Philip Marlowe here. Mrs. Murdock, please.” I was told to wait. A soft but very clear voice said: “Mr. Marlowe? Mrs. Murdock is resting now. Can you tell me what it is?”
“You oughtn’t to have told him.”
“I—who—?”
“That loopy guy whose handkerchief you cry into.”
“How dare you?”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Now let me talk to Mrs. Murdock. I have to.”
“Very well. I’ll try.” The soft clear voice went away and I waited a long wait. They would have to lift her up on the pillows and drag the port bottle out of her hard gray paw and feed her the telephone. A throat was cleared suddenly over the wire. It sounded like a freight train going through a tunnel.
“This is Mrs. Murdock.”
“Could you identify the property we were talking about this morning, Mrs. Murdock? I mean could you pick it out from others just like it?”
“Well—are there others just like it?”
“There must be. Dozens, hundreds for all I know. Anyhow dozens. Of course I don’t know where they are.”
She coughed. “I don’t really know much about it. I suppose I couldn’t identify it then. But in the circumstances—”
“That’s what I’m getting at, Mrs. Murdock. The identification would seem to depend on tracing the history of the article back to you. At least to be convincing.”
“Yes. I suppose it would. Why? Do you know where it is?”
“Morningstar claims to have seen it. He says it was offered to him for sale—just as you suspected. He wouldn’t buy. The seller was not a woman, he says. That doesn’t mean a thing, because he gave me a detailed description of the party which was either made up or was a description of somebody he knew more than casually. So the seller may have been a woman.”
“I see. It’s not important now.”
“Not important?”
“No. Have you anything else to report?”
“Another question to ask. Do you know a youngish blond fellow named George Anson Phillips? Rather heavy set, wearing a brown suit and a dark pork pie hat with a gay band. Wearing that today. Claimed to be a private detective. ”
“I do not. Why should I?”
“I don’t know. He enters the picture somewhere. I think he was the one who tried to sell the article. Morningstar tried to call him up after I left. I snuck back into
The ringing bell had a sinister sound, for no reason of itself, but because of the ears to which it rang. I stood there braced and tense, lips tightly drawn back in a half grin. Beyond the closed window the neon lights glowed. The dead air didn’t move. Outside the corridor was still. The bell rang in darkness, steady and strong.
I went back and leaned on the desk and answered. There was a click and a droning on the wire and beyond that nothing. I depressed the connection and stood there in the dark, leaning over, holding the phone with one hand and holding the flat riser on the pedestal down with the other. I didn’t know what I was waiting for.
The phone rang again. I made a sound in my throat and put it to my ear again, not saying anything at all.
So we were there silent, both of us, miles apart maybe, each one holding a telephone and breathing and listening and hearing nothing, not even the breathing.
Then after what seemed a very long time there was the quiet remote whisper of a voice saying dimly, without any tone:
“Too bad for you, Marlowe.”
Then the click again and the droning on the wire and I hung up and went back across the office and out.
THIRTEEN
I drove west on Sunset, fiddled around a few blocks without making up my mind whether anyone was trying to follow me, then parked near a drugstore and went into its phone booth. I dropped my nickel and asked the O-operator for a Pasadena number. She told me how much money to put in.
The voice which answered the phone was angular and cold. “Mrs. Murdock’s residence.”
“Philip Marlowe here. Mrs. Murdock, please.” I was told to wait. A soft but very clear voice said: “Mr. Marlowe? Mrs. Murdock is resting now. Can you tell me what it is?”
“You oughtn’t to have told him.”
“I—who—?”
“That loopy guy whose handkerchief you cry into.”
“How dare you?”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Now let me talk to Mrs. Murdock. I have to.”
“Very well. I’ll try.” The soft clear voice went away and I waited a long wait. They would have to lift her up on the pillows and drag the port bottle out of her hard gray paw and feed her the telephone. A throat was cleared suddenly over the wire. It sounded like a freight train going through a tunnel.
“This is Mrs. Murdock.”
“Could you identify the property we were talking about this morning, Mrs. Murdock? I mean could you pick it out from others just like it?”
“Well—are there others just like it?”
“There must be. Dozens, hundreds for all I know. Anyhow dozens. Of course I don’t know where they are.”
She coughed. “I don’t really know much about it. I suppose I couldn’t identify it then. But in the circumstances—”
“That’s what I’m getting at, Mrs. Murdock. The identification would seem to depend on tracing the history of the article back to you. At least to be convincing.”
“Yes. I suppose it would. Why? Do you know where it is?”
“Morningstar claims to have seen it. He says it was offered to him for sale—just as you suspected. He wouldn’t buy. The seller was not a woman, he says. That doesn’t mean a thing, because he gave me a detailed description of the party which was either made up or was a description of somebody he knew more than casually. So the seller may have been a woman.”
“I see. It’s not important now.”
“Not important?”
“No. Have you anything else to report?”
“Another question to ask. Do you know a youngish blond fellow named George Anson Phillips? Rather heavy set, wearing a brown suit and a dark pork pie hat with a gay band. Wearing that today. Claimed to be a private detective. ”
“I do not. Why should I?”
“I don’t know. He enters the picture somewhere. I think he was the one who tried to sell the article. Morningstar tried to call him up after I left. I snuck back into
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