the weight is on your hands."
They did as they were told. No one spoke. I patted them down. The Mexican had no gun. He'd probably gotten hungry one day and eaten it. I took a Smith and Wesson .38 out from under the other guy's left arm.
"Anyone pokes his nose through the door," I said, "gets a bullet in it."
No one moved or spoke. I opened the front door carefully and looked out. The front yard was empty. The two orderlies leaned on the wall. I stepped out the front door and closed it and ran for my car.
CHAPTER 9
There were 105 people named Simpson in the L. A. phone book, if you counted the guy who spelled it without the P, or the one who spelled it Sympson. Of them, five were women, and three more had only the first initial and thus probably were women. Which left only 97 people for me to run down. If Carmen was with someone whose phone was listed, or with someone in L. A. If his real name was Mr. Simpson. My source was not impeccable.
I got up from my desk and stared out the window at the heat shimmering up off Hollywood Boulevard. The sun was steady and hot, and the smell of the grill from the coffee shop downstairs went perfectly with the weather. My coat was off and hanging on my chair. My shirt stuck to my back and I had taken off my shoulder holster and hung it on the chair over my coat, handy in case a horde of sanitarium orderlies burst in and tried to stick me in a straitjacket. If I looked left I could stare down Cahuenga toward lower Hollywood, out of the glitter district where big comfortable homes with deep verandas still lined quiet streets. It would be cool inside those homes with their thick walls and their low roofs, some people kept the windows closed and the heat out, others opened them for ventilation and the lace curtains would stir lazily in the hot wind and make a soft whisper. But listen though I might, it didn't whisper where Carmen Sternwood was. I needed a different approach.
I called Vivian Regan. Her maid said she was resting. I said I'd be there in an hour. I washed my hands and face in the sink. Dried them, put my shoulder holster back on and my coat and went down to get my car. I drove over the Alta Brea Crescent with the top down and the hot wind blew some of the perspiration off my face. But my shirt was still wet under my jacket and my hat band was damp. I was early to the Sternwoods' so I cruised a little in the hills, looking at all the sprinklers on all the lawns. Brown was the normal and permanent color of southern California, it was held at bay by regiments of lawn sprinklers.
At two I was at the front door of the Sternwood home. The maid opened the door for me and led me through the house to the patio beside the pool where Vivian lay on a pink chaise under a pink and white umbrella, wearing a gleaming white one-piece swim-suit. She had on oversized sunglasses and there was an ice bucket handy with a bottle of champagne in it. Vivian's body was tanned the color of honey and all of it that I could see was smooth and resilient.
"My God, Marlowe," she said to me. "Take off your coat in this beastly heat."
"I'm wearing a gun," I said.
"For goodness' sake I should hope so," Vivian said. "I don't mind. I might rather like to see it, actually."
I peeled my jacket off and folded it and put it on the ground. I took the chair she offered and tilted my hat brim forward so that the sun would stay out of my eyes.
"Would you care for champagne?" Vivian said. "On a day like this I find it helps take your mind off the heat."
She took a sip of her champagne from a fluted glass.
Moisture had beaded on the side of the ice bucket and coursed down along the sides, making fine tracks in the condensation.
"When I drink champagne in the sun," I said, "I get a walloping headache."
"Well"-she laughed, showing teeth perfectly even and perfectly
They did as they were told. No one spoke. I patted them down. The Mexican had no gun. He'd probably gotten hungry one day and eaten it. I took a Smith and Wesson .38 out from under the other guy's left arm.
"Anyone pokes his nose through the door," I said, "gets a bullet in it."
No one moved or spoke. I opened the front door carefully and looked out. The front yard was empty. The two orderlies leaned on the wall. I stepped out the front door and closed it and ran for my car.
CHAPTER 9
There were 105 people named Simpson in the L. A. phone book, if you counted the guy who spelled it without the P, or the one who spelled it Sympson. Of them, five were women, and three more had only the first initial and thus probably were women. Which left only 97 people for me to run down. If Carmen was with someone whose phone was listed, or with someone in L. A. If his real name was Mr. Simpson. My source was not impeccable.
I got up from my desk and stared out the window at the heat shimmering up off Hollywood Boulevard. The sun was steady and hot, and the smell of the grill from the coffee shop downstairs went perfectly with the weather. My coat was off and hanging on my chair. My shirt stuck to my back and I had taken off my shoulder holster and hung it on the chair over my coat, handy in case a horde of sanitarium orderlies burst in and tried to stick me in a straitjacket. If I looked left I could stare down Cahuenga toward lower Hollywood, out of the glitter district where big comfortable homes with deep verandas still lined quiet streets. It would be cool inside those homes with their thick walls and their low roofs, some people kept the windows closed and the heat out, others opened them for ventilation and the lace curtains would stir lazily in the hot wind and make a soft whisper. But listen though I might, it didn't whisper where Carmen Sternwood was. I needed a different approach.
I called Vivian Regan. Her maid said she was resting. I said I'd be there in an hour. I washed my hands and face in the sink. Dried them, put my shoulder holster back on and my coat and went down to get my car. I drove over the Alta Brea Crescent with the top down and the hot wind blew some of the perspiration off my face. But my shirt was still wet under my jacket and my hat band was damp. I was early to the Sternwoods' so I cruised a little in the hills, looking at all the sprinklers on all the lawns. Brown was the normal and permanent color of southern California, it was held at bay by regiments of lawn sprinklers.
At two I was at the front door of the Sternwood home. The maid opened the door for me and led me through the house to the patio beside the pool where Vivian lay on a pink chaise under a pink and white umbrella, wearing a gleaming white one-piece swim-suit. She had on oversized sunglasses and there was an ice bucket handy with a bottle of champagne in it. Vivian's body was tanned the color of honey and all of it that I could see was smooth and resilient.
"My God, Marlowe," she said to me. "Take off your coat in this beastly heat."
"I'm wearing a gun," I said.
"For goodness' sake I should hope so," Vivian said. "I don't mind. I might rather like to see it, actually."
I peeled my jacket off and folded it and put it on the ground. I took the chair she offered and tilted my hat brim forward so that the sun would stay out of my eyes.
"Would you care for champagne?" Vivian said. "On a day like this I find it helps take your mind off the heat."
She took a sip of her champagne from a fluted glass.
Moisture had beaded on the side of the ice bucket and coursed down along the sides, making fine tracks in the condensation.
"When I drink champagne in the sun," I said, "I get a walloping headache."
"Well"-she laughed, showing teeth perfectly even and perfectly
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