raymondchandler.thehighwindow-第14部分

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　 I　gave　it　to　him。　He　wrote　it　down。　〃So　long；〃　he　said　drearily：　〃Don't　leave　town。　We'll　want　a　statementmaybe　tonight。〃
　 I　went　out。　There　were　two　uniformed　cops　outside　on　the　landing。　The　door　across　the　way　was　open　and　a　fingerprint　man　was　still　working　inside。　Downstairs　I　met　two　more　cops　in　the　hallway；　one　at　each　end　of　it。　I　didn't　see　the　carroty　manager。　I　went　out　the　front　door。　There　was　an　ambulance　pulling　away　from　the　curb。　A　knot　of　people　hung　around　on　both　sides　of　the　street；　not　as　many　as　would　accumulate　in　some　neighborhoods。
　 I　pushed　along　the　sidewalk。　A　man　grabbed　me　by　the　arm　and　said：　〃What's　the　damage；　Jack？〃
　 I　shook　his　arm　off　without　speaking　or　looking　at　his　face　and　went　on　down　the　street　to　where　my　car　was。
　
　
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　 It　was　a　quarter　to　seven　when　I　let　myself　into　the　office　and　clicked　the　light　on　and　picked　a　piece　of　paper　off　the　floor。　It　was　a　notice　from　the　Green　Feather　Messenger　Service　saying　that　a　package　was　held　awaiting　my　call　and　would　be　delivered　upon　request　at　any　hour　of　the　day　or　night。　I　put　it　on　the　desk；　peeled　my　coat　off　and　opened　the　windows。　I　got　a　half　bottle　of　Old　Taylor　out　of　the　deep　drawer　of　the　desk　and　drank　a　short　drink；　rolling　it　around　on　my　tongue。　Then　I　sat　there　holding　the　neck　of　the　cool　bottle　and　wondering　how　it　would　feel　to　be　a　homicide　dick　and　find　bodies　lying　around　and　not　mind　at　all；　not　have　to　sneak　out　wiping　doorknobs；　not　have　to　ponder　how　much　I　could　tell　without　hurting　a　client　and　how　little　I　could　tell　without　too　badly　hurting　myself。　I　decided　I　wouldn't　like　it。
　 I　pulled　the　phone　over　and　looked　at　the　number　on　the　slip　and　called　it。　They　said　my　package　could　be　sent　right　over。　I　said　I　would　wait　for　it。
　 It　was　getting　dark　outside　now。　The　rushing　sound　of　the　traffic　had　died　a　little　and　the　air　from　the　open　window；　not　yet　cool　from　the　night；　had　that　tired　end…of…the…day　smell　of　dust；　automobile　exhaust；　sunlight　rising　from　hot　walls　and　sidewalks；　the　remote　smell　of　food　in　a　thousand　restaurants；　and　perhaps；　drifting　down　from　the　residential　hills　above　Hollywoodif　you　had　a　nose　like　a　hunting　doga　touch　of　that　peculiar　tomcat　smell　that　eucalyptus　trees　give　off　in　warm　weather。
　 I　sat　there　smoking。　Ten　minutes　later　the　door　was　knocked　on　and　I　opened　it　to　a　boy　in　a　uniform　cap　who　took　my　signature　and　gave　me　a　small　square　package；　not　more　than　two　and　a　half　inches　wide；　if　that。　I　gave　the　boy　a　dime　and　listened　to　him　whistling　his　way　back　to　the　elevators。
　 The　label　had　my　name　and　address　printed　on　it　in　ink；　in　a　quite　fair　imitation　of　typed　letters；　larger　and　thinner　than　pica。　I　cut　the　string　that　tied　the　label　to　the　box　and　unwound　the　thin　brown　paper。　Inside　was　a　thin　cheap　cardboard　box　pasted　over　with　brown　paper　and　stamped　Made　in　Japan　with　a　rubber　stamp。　It　would　be　the　kind　of　box　you　would　get　in　a　Jap　store　to　hold　some　small　carved　animal　or　a　small　piece　of　jade。　The　lid　fitted　down　all　the　way　and　tightly。　I　pulled　it　off　and　saw　tissue　paper　and　cotton　wool。
　 Separating　these　I　was　looking　at　a　gold　coin　about　the　size　of　a　half　dollar；　bright　and　shining　as　if　it　had　just　e　from　the　mint。
　 The　side　facing　me　showed　a　spread　eagle　with　a　shield　for　a　breast　and　the　initials　E。B。　punched　into　the　left　wing。　Around　these　was　a　circle　of　beading；　between　the　beading　and　the　smooth　unmilled　edge　of　the　coin；　the　legend　E　PLURIBUS　UNUM。　At　the　bottom　was　the　date　1787。
　 I　turned　the　coin　over　on　my　palm。　It　was　heavy　and　cold　and　my　palm　felt　moist　under　it。　The　other　side　showed　a　sun　rising　or　setting　behind　a　sharp　peak　of　mountain；　then　a　double　circle　of　what　looked　like　oak　leaves；　then　more　Latin；　NOVA　EBOBACA　COLUMBIA　EXCELSIOR。　At　the　bottom　of　this　side；　in　smaller　capitals；　the　name　BRASHER。
　 I　was　looking　at　the　Brasher　Doubloon。
　 There　was　nothing　else　in　the　box　or　in　the　paper；　nothing　on　the　paper。　The　handwritten　printing　meant　nothing　to　me。　I　didn't　know　anybody　who　used　it。
　 I　filled　an　empty　tobacco　pouch　half　full；　wrapped　the　coin　up　in　tissue　paper；　snapped　a　rubber　band　around　it　and　tucked　it　into　the　tobacco　in　the　pouch　and　put　more　in　on　top。　I　closed　the　zipper　and　put　the　pouch　in　my　pocket。　I　locked　the　paper　and　string　and　box　and　label　up　in　a　filing　cabinet；　sat　down　again　and　dialed　Elisha　Morningstar's　number　on　the　phone。　The　bell　rang　eight　times　at　the　other　end　of　the　line。　It　was　not　answered。　I　hardly　expected　that。　I　hung　up　again；　looked　Elisha　Morningstar　up　in　the　book　and　saw　that　he　had　no　listing　for　a　residence　phone　in　Los　Angeles　or　the　outlying　towns　that　were　in　the　phone　book。
　 I　got　a　shoulder　holster　out　of　the　desk　and　strapped　it　on　and　slipped　a　Colt　。38　automatic　into　it；　put　on　hat　and　coat；　shut　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。
　
　
　13
　
　 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。〃
　 〃Iwho？〃
　 〃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？〃
　 〃Wellare　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　salejust　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　his　office　and　overheard。〃
　 〃You　what？'
　 〃I　snuck。〃
　 〃Please　do　not　be　witty；　Mr。　Marlowe。　Anything　else？〃
　 〃Yes；　I　agreed　to　pay　Morningstar　one　thousand　dollars　for　the　return　of　thethe　article。　He　said　he　could　get　it　for　eight　hundred　。　。　。〃
　 〃And　where　were　you　going　to　get　the　money；　may　I　ask？〃
　 〃Well；　I　was　just　talking。　This　Morningstar　is　a　downy　bird。　That's　the　kind　of　language　he　understands。　And　then　again　you　might　have　wanted　to　pay　it。　I　wouldn't　want　to　persuade　you。　You　could　always　go　to　the　police。　But　if　for　any　reason　you　didn't　want　to　go　to　the　police；　it　might　be　the　only　way　you　could　get　it　backbuying　it　back。〃
　 I　would　probably　have　gone　on　like　that　for　a　long　time；　not　knowing　just　what　I　was　trying　to　say；　if　she　hadn't　stopped　me　with　a　noise　like　a　seal　barking。
　 〃This　is　all　very　unnecessary　now；　Mr。　Marlowe。　I　have　decided　to　drop　the　matter。　The　coin　has　been　returned　to　me。〃
　 〃Hold　the　wire　a　minute；〃　I　said。
　 I　put　the　phone　down　on　the　shelf　and　opened　the　booth　door　and　stuck　my　head　out；　filling　my　chest　with　what　they　were　using　for　air　in　the　drugstore。　Nobody　was　paying　any　attention　to　me。　Up　front　the　druggist；　in　a　pale　blue　smock；　was　chatting　across　the　cigar　counter。　The　counter　boy　was　polishing　glasses　at　the　fountain。　Two　girls　in　slacks　were　playing　the　pinball　machine。　A　tall　narrow　party　in　a　black　shirt　and　a　pale　yellow　scarf　was　fumbling　magazines　at　the　rack。　He　di