Книга The Big Sleep. Содержание - 11
After a while I said: "Watch the weight, bud. She's only tested for half a ton. Where's the stuff going?"
"Brody, four-o-five," he grunted. "Manager?"
"Yeah. Looks like a nice lot of loot."
He glared at me with pale white rimmed eyes. "Books," he snarled. "A hundred pounds a box, easy, and me with a seventy-five pound back."
"Well, watch the weight," I said.
He got into the elevator with six boxes and shut the doors. I went back up the steps to the lobby and out to the street and the cab took me downtown again to my office building. I gave the fresh-faced kid too much money and he gave me a dog-eared business card which for once I didn't drop into the majolica jar of sand beside the elevator bank.
I had a room and a half on the seventh floor at the back. The half-room was an office split in two to make reception rooms. Mine had my name on it and nothing else, and that only on the reception room. I always left this unlocked, in case I had a client, and the client cared to sit down and wait.
I had a client.
She wore brownish speckled tweeds, a mannish shirt and tie, handcarved walking shoes. Her stockings were just as sheer as the day before, but she wasn't showing as much of her legs. Her black hair was glossy under a brown Robin Hood hat that might have cost fifty dollars and looked as if you could have made it with one hand out of a desk blotter.
"Well, you do get up," she said, wrinkling her nose at the faded red settee, the two odd semi-easy chairs, the net curtains that needed laundering and the boy's size library table with the venerable magazines on it to give the place a professional touch. "I was beginning to think perhaps you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust."
"Who's he?" I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her. She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain.
"A French writer, a connoisseur in degenerates. You wouldn't know him."
"Tut, tut," I said. "Come into my boudoir."
She stood up and said: "We didn't get along very well yesterday. Perhaps I was rude."
"We were both rude," I said. I unlocked the communicating door and held it for her. We went into the rest of my suite, which contained a rust-red carpet, not very young, five green filing cases, three of them full of California climate, an advertising calendar showing the Quints rolling around on a sky-blue floor, in pink dresses, with seal-brown hair and sharp black eyes as large as mammoth prunes. There were three near-walnut chairs, the usual desk with the usual blotter, pen set, ashtray and telephone, and the usual squeaky swivel chair behind it.
"You don't put on much of a front," she said, sitting down at the customer's side of the desk.
I went over to the mail slot and picked up six envelopes, two letters and four pieces of advertising matter. I hung my hat on the telephone and sat down.
"Neither do the Pinkertons," I said. "You can't make much money at this trade, if you're honest. If you have a front, you're making money — or expect to."
"Oh — are you honest?" she asked and opened her bag. She picked a cigarette out of a French enamel case, lit it with a pocket lighter, dropped case and lighter back into the bag and left the bag open.
"How did you get into this slimy kind of business then?"
"How did you come to marry a bootlegger?"
"My God, let's not start quarreling again. I've been trying to get you on the phone all morning. Here and at your apartment."
Her face tightened sharply. Her voice was soft. "Poor Owen," she said. "So you know about that."
"A D.A.'s man took me down to Lido. He thought I might know something about it. But he knew much more than I did. He knew Owen wanted to marry your sister — once."
She puffed silently at her cigarette and considered me with steady black eyes. "Perhaps it wouldn't have been a bad idea," she said quietly. "He was in love with her. We don't find much of that in our circle."
"He had a police record."
She shrugged. She said negligently: "He didn't know the right people. That's all a police record means in this rotten crime-ridden country."
"I wouldn't go that far."
She peeled her right glove off and bit her index finger at the first joint, looking at me with steady eyes. "I didn't come to see you about Owen. Do you feel yet that you can tell me what my father wanted to see you about?"
"Not without his permission."
"Was it about Carmen?"
"I can't even say that." I finished filling a pipe and put a match to it. She watched the smoke for a moment. Then her hand went into her open bag and came out with a thick white envelope. She tossed it across the desk.
"You'd better look at it anyway," she said.
I picked it up. The address was typewritten to Mrs. Vivian Regan, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood. Delivery had been by messenger service and the office stamp showed 8.35 a.m. as the time out. I opened the envelope and drew out the shiny 4 1/4 by 3 1/4 photo that was all there was inside.
It was Carmen sitting in Geiger's high-backed teakwood chair on the dais, in her earrings and her birthday suit. Her eyes looked even a little crazier than as I remembered them. The back of the photo was blank. I put it back in the envelope.
"How much do they want?" I asked.
"Five thousand — for the negative and the rest of the prints. The deal has to be closed tonight, or they give the stuff to some scandal sheet."
"The demand came how?"
"A woman telephoned me, about half an hour after this thing was delivered."
"There's nothing in the scandal sheet angle. Juries convict without leaving the box on that stuff nowadays. What else is there?"
"Does there have to be something else?"
She stared at me, a little puzzled. "There is. The woman said there was a police jam connected with it and I'd better lay it on the line fast, or I'd be talking to my little sister through a wire screen."
"Better," I said. "What kind of jam?"
"I don't know."
"Where is Carmen now?"
"She's at home. She was sick last night. She's still in bed, I think."
"Did she go out last night?"
"No. I was out, but the servants say she wasn't. I was down at Las Olindas, playing roulette at Eddie Mars' Cypress Club. I lost my shirt."
"So you like roulette. You would."
She crossed her legs and lit another cigarette. "Yes. I like roulette. All Sternwoods like losing games, like roulette and marrying men that walk out on them and riding steeplechases at fifty-eight years old and being rolled on by a jumper and crippled for life. The Sternwoods have money. All it has bought them is a rain check."
"What was Owen doing last night with your car?"
"Nobody knows. He took it without permission. We always let him take a car on his night off, but last night wasn't his night off." She made a wry mouth. "Do you think — "
"He knew about this nude photo? How would I be able to say? I don't rule him out. Can you get five thousand in cash right away?"
"Not unless I tell Dad — or borrow it. I could probably borrow it from Eddie Mars. He ought to be generous with me, heaven knows."
"Better try that. You may need it in a hurry."
She leaned back and hung an arm over the back of the chair. "How about telling the police?"
"It's a good idea. But you won't do it."
"No. You have to protect your father and your sister. You don't know what the police might turn up. It might be something they couldn't sit on. Though they usually try in blackmail cases."
"Can you do anything?"
"I think I can. But I can't tell you why or how."
"I like you," she said suddenly. "You believe in miracles. Would you have a drink in the office?"