Джордж Хиггинс - The New Black Mask (No 4)

“That’s the last time I wake a sleeping beauty,” she said. “It smells like you’ve been sleeping with a bottle.”

I opened my eyes and found Robert Grey’s secretary standing over me. She was as pretty as ever, but her hair had been messed by the wind. I said:

“No, you just smell my French cologne.”

“I think Scotch cologne would be more exact, but I’m not one to argue. Tell me, why are you sleeping on the job anyway? Aren’t you afraid some of your ‘friends’ will come up here and do you in while you snooze?”

“They could, it’s true. But none of them hate me enough to come to this part of town to do it.”

“I think you have a point there.”

“Then what are you doing here? And how did you find my office?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions.”

“That’s my job — when I’m not sleeping.”

She motioned with her hand for me to scoot over and sat down next to me on the sofa. “Well, if you ever make enough money at your job to buy a new couch, I suggest you do it. This one is terrible. Anyway, I got your address from that dog-eared business card you gave me yesterday. And I came here to help you, believe it or not. I heard you and Mr. Grey yelling at each other today before I went on my break, so I figured you didn’t get too far with him. I might be able to tell you a few things you don’t know.”

I looked into her eyes and smiled. They were light blue and mischievous looking. I had a feeling she was the type of person who never took anything too seriously. I said, “I’m sure you could tell me a lot of things I don’t know, but why would you want to? Aren’t you supposed to be loyal to Mr. Grey? He doesn’t like anything told to seedy private investigators like me.”

“My loyalty stops when my employment does. I don’t work for Mr. Grey anymore. He got angry with me for typing a letter wrong, so he called the secretary service I work for to get a new girl. You see, I was only a temporary replacement while his regular secretary was on vacation.”

“So your motive is revenge.”

“Nope. I typed the letter wrong on purpose because I was tired of working there. I only take those jobs from the temporary service when I’m not modeling. Modeling is my main source of income.”

“I can believe that. You still haven’t told me why you drove all the way out here, though.”

“A person sure has to go through a lot just to give you a little help,” she said. “But I’ll tell you anyway. I came out here because I like you and because I wanted to see a real private eye in action.”

I winced. “There’s no such thing as private eyes. Not anymore, at least. They went out with big-time gangsters and Bogey movies. The only people left in the business are the big boys with the electronic spy equipment and the little operators like me. I’m doing well if I gross a thousand bucks a month, and the jobs I get are always leftovers. This isn’t a glamorous profession, and you can’t make it that way by calling me a private eye. If you call me anything, please call me a private investigator.”

She smiled. “Okay, Mr. Private Investigator, I came to see you in action. What exciting things have you done today besides sleeping?”

Nothing from my little speech had sunk in. She still expected me to talk out of the side of my mouth and show her the real brass knuckles I used to beat up criminals. I sighed. “Oh, not much. I did dispose of a body I found in the backseat of my car. And, of course, it’s always exciting to sit with you on the same sofa.”

“You’re not making a comparison between the two events I hope.”

“Never. Now tell me what I’m supposed to call you. I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Lynn Marrow. I know yours is August from your card.”

“All right, Lynn, let’s go somewhere we can talk and maybe eat something decent at the same time.”

We ate dinner at a nice restaurant and went back to her apartment, where I stole a few kisses. Much of the stuff she told me about Grey was useless. In her effort to play private eye with me, she blew the normal events of the office out of proportion. But there was one thing I found interesting: a tall man with a red, acne-scared face had come to Grey’s office after I’d left. He’d argued with Grey for a while and then stormed out of the office, promising loudly that he would come to see Grey again this evening. Finally, something was clicking. I decided Grey and Pockface would have one more person at their meeting — me.

I parked my crate outside Grey’s apartment building and went up the walk to the lobby entrance. The door was locked. It was on one of those intercom systems where you buzz up to the apartment to be let in. I punched about six of the room buttons and said “It’s me, honey, I forgot my key” into the speaker as they answered. I got in on the fourth try.

Grey’s apartment number, I knew from Delbert, was 312. I rode the elevator to the third floor and stepped out into a hallway that was as quiet as a sneak thief in the duchess’s bedroom. I found the apartment on the right side and put my ear to it. I heard nothing. I reached for the doorknob, turned it slowly.

The knob twisted sharply in my hand. Somebody pulled the door open and my arm went with it. “Too bad for you, Hammond,” said a voice. There was a swishing noise then, and I felt something burn hard at my left temple. Points of light blazed like welding sparks in front of my eyes. The floor reached up to grab me.

It was a man. He was saying something at my face, but I wasn’t listening. He was tall — or he seemed to be at the angle from which I viewed him. He had black greasy hair and sideburns that were much too long. He smoked a huge cigar that looked and smelled like a smoldering road flare. It made me nauseous. His fat belly was like nine pounds of stuff in a five pound bag. Presently, he laughed at me and showed off a set of teeth that could have made a poor orthodontist very happy.

I blinked my eyes with pain and concentrated on coming back to life. I was lying on a sofa in the middle of a dark-paneled room. Dark pieces of matching furniture were scattered about the room on top of a dark brown carpet. Everything was dark. There were three men in the room — and at least one gun.

“This bird ain’t too smart, is he, Mr. Mendoza?” Pockface said to the man with the cigar. Pockface gestured with his gun where he stood by the door, facing me. “He drives up to the apartment building and parks his car right underneath our window. Then he comes up to the apartment and expects to walk right in. Only thing is, he takes three weeks opening the door, and we have plenty of time to bash him in the head with a sap. You’d think he’d learn something gettin’ bashed in the head all the time like he does.”

“Yeah, you would, Eddie,” said Mr. Mendoza. “Just like you’d think fat Mr. Grey over here would learn that it’s not a good idea to back out of any deals he makes with me.” Mendoza nodded at Robert Grey, who stood by the foot of the couch looking as white as a sheet from an operating table. “Do you think you know what I’m talking about, shamus?” Mendoza said to me.

I struggled to sit up. “Yeah,” I said. “You helped Grey and Pamela Dyer fake the theft of the pendant so you could fence it. You would get part of the money from the pendant for your trouble, and they would get the rest plus the insurance money. But they never came across with the pendant, so you’re upset.”

“That’s close, shamus; you’re smarter than I thought you were,” said Mendoza. “You’re right about everything except the part about Grey and Dyer not coming across with the pendant. That’s not right; Mr. Grey gave us the pendant tonight. Look.” Mendoza reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a gold, heart-shaped pendant on a fine chain. He dangled it in front of my face. It was exactly as Mrs. Dyer had described it — except there wasn’t a large diamond at the top cleft, just a large hole. “So you see,” Mendoza went on, “I’m not upset because they didn’t give me the pendant. I’m upset because they didn’t give me all of the pendant. Without the big rock, it’s not even worth twenty grand: small change. And I don’t deal for small change.”