raymondchandler.thehighwindow-第11节

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　 〃Fine。　Got　it　with　you？　That　leaves　you　two　hundred。　Fair　enough。　A　quick　turnover；　a　reasonable　profit　and　no　trouble　for　anybody。〃
　 〃It　is　not　in　my　office；〃　he　said。　〃Do　you　take　me　for　a　fool？〃　He　reached　an　ancient　silver　watch　out　of　his　vest　on　a　black　fob。　He　screwed　up　his　eyes　to　look　at　it。　〃Let　us　say　eleven　in　the　morning；〃　he　said。　〃e　back　with　your　money。　The　coin　may　or　may　not　be　here；　but　if　I　am　satisfied　with　your　behavior；　I　will　arrange　matters。〃
　 〃That　is　satisfactory；〃　I　said；　and　stood　up。　〃I　have　to　get　the　money　anyhow。〃
　 〃Have　it　in　used　bills；〃　he　said　almost　dreamily。　〃Used　twenties　will　do。　An　occasional　fifty　will　do　no　harm。〃
　 I　grinned　and　started　for　the　door。　Halfway　there　I　turned　around　and　went　back　to　lean　both　hands　on　the　desk　and　push　my　face　over　it。
　 〃What　did　she　look　like？〃
　 He　looked　blank。
　 〃The　girl　that　sold　you　the　coin。〃
　 He　looked　blanker。
　 〃Okay；〃　I　said。　〃It　wasn't　a　girl。　She　had　help。　It　was　a　man。　What　did　the　man　look　like？〃
　 He　pursed　his　lips　and　made　another　steeple　with　his　fingers。　〃He　was　a　middle…aged　man；　heavy　set；　about　five　feet　seven　inches　tall　and　weighing　around　one　hundred　and　seventy　pounds。　He　said　his　name　was　Smith。　He　wore　a　blue　suit；　black　shoes；　a　green　tie　and　shirt；　no　hat。　There　was　a　brown　bordered　handkerchief　in　his　outer　pocket。　His　hair　was　dark　brown　sprinkled　with　gray。　There　was　a　bald　patch　about　the　size　of　a　dollar　on　the　crown　of　his　head　and　a　scar　about　two　inches　long　running　down　the　side　of　his　jaw。　On　the　left　side；　I　think。　Yes；　on　the　left　side。〃
　 〃Not　bad；〃　I　said。　〃What　about　the　hole　in　his　right　sock？〃
　 〃I　omitted　to　take　his　shoes　off。〃
　 〃Darn　careless　of　you；〃　I　said。
　 He　didn't　say　anything。　We　just　stared　at　each　other；　half　curious；　half　hostile；　like　new　neighbors。　Then　suddenly　he　went　into　his　laugh　again。
　 The　five　dollar　bill　I　had　given　him　was　still　lying　on　his　side　of　the　desk。　I　flicked　a　hand　across　and　took　it。
　 〃You　won't　want　this　now；〃　I　said。　〃Since　we　started　talking　in　thousands。〃
　 He　stopped　laughing　very　suddenly。　Then　he　shrugged。
　 〃At　eleven　a。m。；〃　he　said。　〃And　no　tricks；　Mr。　Marlowe。　Don't　think　I　don't　know　how　to　protect　myself。〃
　 〃I　hope　you　do；〃　I　said；　〃because　what　you　are　handling　is　dynamite。〃
　 I　left　him　and　tramped　across　the　empty　outer　office　and　opened　the　door　and　let　it　shut；　staying　inside。　There　ought　to　be　footsteps　outside　in　the　corridor；　but　his　transom　was　closed　and　I　hadn't　made　much　noise　ing　on　crepe　rubber　soles。　I　hoped　he　would　remember　that。　I　sneaked　back　across　the　threadbare　carpet　and　edged　in　behind　the　door；　between　the　door　and　the　little　closed　typewriter　desk。　A　kid　trick；　but　once　in　a　while　it　will　work；　especially　after　a　lot　of　smart　conversation；　full　of　worldliness　and　sly　wit。　Like　a　sucker　play　in　football。　And　if　it　didn't　work　this　time；　we　would　just　be　there　sneering　at　each　other　again。
　 It　worked。　Nothing　happened　for　a　while　except　that　a　nose　was　blown。　Then　all　by　himself　in　there　he　went　into　his　sick　rooster　laugh　again。　Then　a　throat　was　cleared。　Then　a　swivel　chair　squeaked；　and　feet　walked。
　 A　dingy　white　head　poked　into　the　room；　about　two　inches　past　the　end　of　the　door。　It　hung　there　suspended　and　I　went　into　a　state　of　suspended　animation。　Then　the　head　was　drawn　back　and　four　unclean　fingernails　came　around　the　edge　of　the　door　and　pulled。　The　door　closed；　clicked；　was　shut。　I　started　breathing　again　and　put　my　ear　to　the　wooden　panel。
　 The　swivel　chair　squeaked　once　more。　The　threshing　sound　of　a　telephone　being　dialed。　I　lunged　across　to　the　instrument　on　the　little　typewriter　desk　and　lifted　it。　At　the　other　end　of　the　line　the　bell　had　started　to　ring。　It　rang　six　times。　Then　a　man's　voice　said：　〃Yeah？〃
　 〃The　Florence　Aparments？〃
　 〃Yeah。〃
　 〃I'd　like　to　speak　to　Mr。　Anson　in　Apartment　two…o…four。〃
　 〃Hold　the　wire。　I'll　see　if　he's　in。〃
　 Mr。　Morningstar　and　I　held　the　wire。　Noise　came　over　it；　the　blaring　sound　of　a　loud　radio　broadcasting　a　baseball　game。　It　was　not　close　to　the　telephone；　but　it　was　noisy　enough。
　 Then　I　could　hear　the　hollow　sound　of　steps　ing　nearer　and　the　harsh　rattle　of　the　telephone　receiver　being　picked　up　and　the　voice　said：
　 〃Not　in。　Any　message？〃
　 〃I'll　call　later；〃　Mr。　Morningstar　said。
　 I　hung　up　fast　and　did　a　rapid　glide　across　the　floor　to　the　entrance　door　and　opened　it　very　silently；　like　snow　falling；　and　let　it　close　the　same　way；　taking　its　weight　at　the　last　moment；　so　that　the　click　of　the　catch　would　not　have　been　heard　three　feet　away。
　 I　breathed　hard　and　tight　going　down　the　hall；　listening　to　myself。　I　pushed　the　elevator　button。　Then　I　got　out　the　card　which　Mr。　George　Anson　Phillips　had　given　me　in　the　lobby　of　the　Hotel　Metropole。　I　didn't　look　at　it　in　any　real　sense。　I　didn't　have　to　look　at　it　to　recall　that　it　referred　to　Apartment　204；　Florence　Apartments；　128　Court　Street。　I　just　stood　there　flicking　it　with　a　fingernail　while　the　old　elevator　came　heaving　up　in　the　shaft；　straining　like　a　gravel　truck　on　a　hairpin　turn。
　 The　time　was　three…fifty。
　
　
　8
　
　 Bunker　Hill　is　old　town；　lost　town；　shabby　town；　crook　town。　Once；　very　long　ago；　it　was　the　choice　residential　district　of　the　city；　and　there　are　still　standing　a　few　of　the　jigsaw　Gothic　mansions　with　wide　porches　and　walls　covered　with　round…end　shingles　and　full　corner　bay　windows　with　spindle　turrets。　They　are　all　rooming　houses　now；　their　parquetry　floors　are　scratched　and　worn　through　the　once　glossy　finish　and　the　wide　sweeping　staircases　are　dark　with　time　and　with　cheap　varnish　laid　on　over　generations　of　dirt。　In　the　tall　rooms　haggard　landladies　bicker　with　shifty　tenants。　On　the　wide　cool　front　porches；　reaching　their　cracked　shoes　into　the　sun；　and　staring　at　nothing；　sit　the　old　men　with　faces　like　lost　battles。
　 In　and　around　the　old　houses　there　are　flyblown　restaurants　and　Italian　fruitstands　and　cheap　apartment　houses　and　little　candy　stores　where　you　can　buy　even　nastier　things　than　their　candy。　And　there　are　ratty　hotels　where　nobody　except　people　named　Smith　and　Jones　sign　the　register　and　where　the　night　clerk　is　half　watchdog　and　half　pander。
　 Out　of　the　apartment　houses　e　women　who　should　be　young　but　have　faces　like　stale　beer；　men　with　pulled…down　hats　and　quick　eyes　that　look　the　street　over　behind　the　cupped　hand　that　shields　the　match　flame；　worn　intellectuals　with　cigarette　coughs　and　no　money　in　the　bank；　fly　cops　with　granite　faces　and　unwavering　eyes；　cokies　and　coke　peddlers；　people　who　look　like　nothing　in　particular　and　know　it；　and　once　in　a　while　even　men　that　actually　go　to　work。　But　they　e　out　early；　when　the　wide　cracked　sidewalks　are　empty　and　still　have　dew　on　them。
　 I　was　earlier　than　four…thirty　getting　over　there；　but　not　much。　I　parked　at　the　end　of　the　street；　where　the　funicular　railway　es　struggling　up　the　yellow　clay　bank　from　Hill　Street；　and　walked　along　Court　Street　to　the　Florence　Apartments。　It　was　dark　brick　in　front；　three　stories；　the　lower　windows　at　sidewalk　level　and　masked　by　rusted　screens　and　dingy　net　curtains。　The　entrance　door　had　a　glass　panel　and　enough　of　the　name　left　to　be　read。　I　opened　it　and　went　down　three　brass　bound　steps　into　a　hallway　you　could　touch　on　both　sides　without　stretching。　Dim　doors　painted　with　numbers　in　dim　paint。　An　alcove　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs　with　a　pay　telephone。　A　sign：　Manager　Apt。　106。　At　the　back　of　the　hallway　a　screen　door　and　in　the　alley　beyond　it　four　tall　battered　garbage　pails　in　a　line；　with　a　dance　of　flies　in　the　sunlit　air　above　them。
　 I　went　up　the　stairs。　The　radio　I　had　heard　over　the　telephone　was　still　blatting　the　baseball　game。　I　read　numbers　and　went　up　front。　Apartment　204　was　on　the　right　side　and　the　baseball　game　was　right　across　the　hall　from　it。　I　knocked；　got　no　answer　and　knocked　louder。　Behind　my　back　three　Dodgers　struck　out　against　a　welter　of　synthetic　crowd　noise。　I　knocked　a　third　time　and　looked　out　of　the　front　hall　window　while　I　felt　in　my　pocket　for　the　key　George　Anson　Phillips　had　given　me。
　 Across　the　street　was　an　Italian　funeral　home；　neat　and　quiet　and　reticent；　white　painted　brick；　flush　with　the　sidewalk。　Pietro　Palermo　Funeral　Parlors。　The　thin　green　script　of　a　neon　sign　lay　across　its　fa？ade；　with　a　chaste　air。　A　tall　man　in　dark　clothes　came　out　of　the　front　door　and　leaned　against　the　white　wall。　He　looked　very　handsome。　He　had　dark　skin　and　a　handsome　head　of　iron…gray　hair　brushed　back　from　his　forehead。　He　got　out　what　looked　at　that　distance　to　be　a　silver　or　platinum　and　black　enamel　cigarette　case；　opened　it　languidly　with　two　long　brown　fingers　and　selected　a　gold…tipped　cigarette。　He　put　the　case　away　and　lit　the　cigarette　with　a　pocket　lighter　that　seemed　to　match　the　case。　He　put　that　away　and　folded　his　arms　and　stared　at　nothing　with　half…closed　eyes。　From　the　tip　of　his　motionless　cigarette　a　thin　wisp　of　smoke　rose　straight　up　past　his　face；　as　thin　and　straight　as　the　smoke　of　a　dying　campfire　at　dawn。
　 Another　batter　struck　out　or　flied　out　behind　my　back　in　the　recreated　ball　game。　I　turned　from　watching　the　tall　Italian；