raymondchandler.farewellmylovely-第21部分

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　〃Huh。　Big　shot；〃　the　Indian　sneered。
　He　worked　under　his　greasy　hatband　and　threw　another　fold　of　tissue　paper　on　the　desk。　I　took　it　and　unwound　it。　It　contained　a　brand　new　hundred　dollar　bill。
　The　Indian　put　his　hat　back　on　his　head　without　bothering　to　tuck　the　hatband　back　in　place。　It　looked　only　slightly　more　ic　that　way。　I　sat　staring　at　the　hundred　dollar　bill；　with　my　mouth　open。
　〃Psychic　is　right；〃　I　said　at　last。　〃A　guy　that　smart　I'm　afraid　of。〃
　〃Not　got　all　day；〃　the　Indian　remarked；　conversationally。　I　opened　my　desk　and　took　out　a　Colt　。38　automatic　of　the　type　known　as　Super　Match。　I　hadn't　worn　it　to　visit　Mrs。　Lewin　Lockridge　Grayle。　I　stripped　my　coat　off　and　strapped　the　leather　harness　on　and　tucked　the　automatic　down　inside　it　and　strapped　the　lower　strap　and　put　my　coat　back　on　again。
This　meant　as　much　to　the　Indian　as　if　I　had　scratched　my　neck。
〃Gottum　car；〃　he　said。　〃Big　car。〃
〃I　don't　like　big　cars　any　more；〃　I　said。　〃I　gottum　own　car。〃
〃You　e　my　car；〃　the　Indian　said　threateningly。
〃I　e　your　car；〃　I　said。
I　locked　the　desk　and　office　up；　switched　the　buzzer　off　and　went　out；　leaving　the　reception　room　door　unlocked　as　usual。
We　went　along　the　hall　and　down　in　the　elevator。　The　Indian　smelled。　Even　the　elevator　operator　noticed　it。
　
　
　21
　The　car　was　a　dark　blue　seven…passenger　sedan；　a　Packard　of　the　latest　model；　custom…built。　It　was　the　kind　of　car　you　wear　your　rope　pearls　in。　It　was　parked　by　a　firehydrant　and　a　dark　foreign…looking　chauffeur　with　a　face　of　carved　wood　was　behind　the　wheel。　The　interior　was　upholstered　in　quilted　gray　chenille。　The　Indian　put　me　in　the　back。　Sitting　there　alone　I　felt　like　a　high…class　corpse；　laid　out　by　an　undertaker　with　a　lot　of　good　taste。
　The　Indian　got　in　beside　the　chauffeur　and　the　car　turned　in　the　middle　of　the　block　and　a　cop　across　the　street　said：　〃Hey；〃　weakly；　as　if　he　didn't　mean　it；　and　then　bent　down　quickly　to　tie　his　shoe。
　We　went　west；　dropped　over　to　Sunset　and　slid　fast　and　noiselessly　along　that。　The　Indian　sat　motionless　beside　the　chauffeur。　An　occasional　whiff　of　his　personality　drifted　back　to　me。　The　driver　looked　as　if　he　was　half　asleep　but　he　passed　the　fast　boys　in　the　convertible　sedans　as　though　they　were　being　towed。　They　turned　on　all　the　green　lights　for　him。　Some　drivers　are　like　that。　He　never　missed　one。
　We　curved　through　the　bright　mile　or　two　of　the　Strip；　past　the　antique　shops　with　famous　screen　names　on　them；　past　the　windows　full　of　point　lace　and　ancient　pewter；　past　the　gleaming　new　nightclubs　with　famous　chefs　and　equally　famous　gambling　rooms；　run　by　polished　graduates　of　the　Purple　Gang；　past　the　Georgian…Colonial　vogue；　now　old　hat；　past　the　handsome　modernistic　buildings　in　which　the　Hollywood　flesh…peddlers　never　stop　talking　money；　past　a　drive…in　lunch　which　somehow　didn't　belong；　even　though　the　girls　wore　white　silk　blouses　and　drum　majorettes'　shakos　and　nothing　below　the　hips　but　glazed　kid　Hessian　boots。　Past　all　this　and　down　a　wide　smooth　curve　to　the　bridle　path　of　Beverly　Hills　and　lights　to　the　south；　all　colors　of　the　spectrum　and　crystal　clear　in　an　evening　without　fog；　past　the　shadowed　mansions　up　on　the　hills　to　the　north；　past　Beverly　Hills　altogether　and　up　into　the　twisting　foothill　boulevard　and　the　sudden　cool　dusk　and　the　drift　of　wind　from　the　sea。
　It　had　been　a　warm　afternoon；　but　the　heat　was　gone。　We　whipped　past　a　distant　cluster　of　lighted　buildings　and　an　endless　series　of　lighted　mansions；　not　too　close　to　the　road。　We　dipped　down　to　skirt　a　huge　green　polo　field　with　another　equally　huge　practice　field　beside　it；　soared　again　to　the　top　of　a　hill　and　swung　mountainward　up　a　steep　hillroad　of　clean　concrete　that　passed　orange　groves；　some　rich　man's　pet　because　this　is　not　orange　country；　and　then　little　by　little　the　lighted　windows　of　the　millionaires'　homes　were　gone　and　the　road　narrowed　and　this　was　Stillwood　Heights。
　The　smell　of　sage　drifted　up　from　a　canyon　and　made　me　think　of　a　dead　man　and　a　moonless　sky。　Straggly　stucco　houses　were　molded　flat　to　the　side　of　the　hill；　like　bas…reliefs。　Then　there　were　no　more　houses；　just　the　still　dark　foothills　with　an　early　star　or　two　above　them；　and　the　concrete　ribbon　of　road　and　a　sheer　drop　on　one　side　into　a　tangle　of　scrub　oak　and　manzanita　where　sometimes　you　can　hear　the　call　of　the　quails　if　you　stop　and　keep　still　and　wait。　On　the　other　side　of　the　road　was　a　raw　clay　bank　at　the　edge　of　which　a　few　unbeatable　wild　flowers　hung　on　like　naughty　children　that　won't　go　to　bed。
　Then　the　road　twisted　into　a　hairpin　and　the　big　tires　scratched　over　loose　stones；　and　the　car　tore　less　soundlessly　up　a　long　driveway　lined　with　the　wild　geraniums。　At　the　top　of　this；　faintly　lighted；　lonely　as　a　lighthouse；　stood　an　eyrie；　an　eagle's　nest；　an　angular　building　of　stucco　and　glass　brick；　raw　and　modernistic　and　yet　not　ugly　and　altogether　a　swell　place　for　a　psychic　consultant　to　hang　out　his　shingle。　Nobody　would　be　able　to　hear　any　screams。
　The　car　turned　beside　the　house　and　a　light　flicked　on　over　a　black　door　set　into　the　heavy　wall。　The　Indian　climbed　out　grunting　and　opened　the　rear　door　of　the　car。　The　chauffeur　lit　a　cigarette　with　an　electric　lighter　and　a　harsh　smell　of　tobacco　came　back　to　me　softly　in　the　evening。　I　got　out。
　We　went　over　to　the　black　door。　It　opened　of　itself　slowly；　almost　with　menace。　Beyond　it　a　narrow　hallway　probed　back　into　the　house。　Light　glowed　from　the　glass　brick　walls。
The　Indian　growled。　〃Huh。　You　go　in；　big　shot。〃
〃After　you；　Mr。　Planting。〃
　He　scowled　and　went　in　and　the　door　closed　after　us　as　silently　and　mysteriously　as　it　had　opened。　At　the　end　of　the　narrow　hallway　we　squeezed　into　a　little　elevator　and　the　Indian　closed　the　door　and　pressed　a　button。　We　rose　softly；　without　sound。　Such　smelling　as　the　Indian　had　done　before　was　a　mooncast　shadow　to　what　he　was　doing　now。
　The　elevator　stopped；　the　door　opened。　There　was　light　and　I　stepped　out　into　a　turret　room　where　the　day　was　still　trying　to　be　remembered。　There　were　windows　all　around　it。　Far　off　the　sea　flickered。　Darkness　prowled　slowly　on　the　hills。　There　were　paneled　walls　where　there　were　no　windows；　and　rugs　on　the　floor　with　the　soft　colors　of　old　Persians；　and　there　was　a　reception　desk　that　looked　as　if　it　had　been　made　of　carvings　stolen　from　an　ancient　church。　And　behind　the　desk　a　woman　sat　and　smiled　at　me；　a　dry　tight　withered　smile　that　would　turn　to　powder　if　you　touched　it。
　She　had　sleek　coiled　hair　and　a　dark；　thin；　wasted　Asiatic　face。　There　were　heavy　colored　stones　in　her　ears　and　heavy　rings　on　her　fingers；　including　a　moonstone　and　an　emerald　in　a　silver　setting　that　may　have　been　a　real　emerald　but　somehow　managed　to　look　as　phony　as　a　dime　store　slave　bracelet。　And　her　hands　were　dry　and　dark　and　not　young　and　not　fit　for　rings。
　She　spoke。　The　voice　was　familiar。　〃Ah；　Meester　Marlowe；　so　ver…ry　good　of　you　to　e。　Amthor　he　weel　be　so　ver…ry　pleased。〃
　I　laid　the　hundred　dollar　bill　the　Indian　had　given　me　down　on　the　desk。　I　looked　behind　me。　The　Indian　had　gone　down　again　in　the　elevator。
　〃Sorry。　It　was　a　nice　thought；　but　I　can't　take　this。〃
　〃Amthor　he…he　weesh　to　employ　you；　is　it　not？〃　She　smiled　again。　Her　lips　rustled　like　tissue　paper。
　〃I'd　have　to　find　out　what　the　job　is　first。〃
　She　nodded　and　got　up　slowly　from　behind　the　desk。　She　swished　before　me　in　a　tight　dress　that　fitted　her　like　a　mermaid's　skin　and　showed　that　she　had　a　good　figure　if　you　like　them　four　sizes　bigger　below　the　waist。
　〃I　weel　conduct　you；〃　she　said。
　She　pressed　a　button　in　the　paneling　and　a　door　slid　open　noiselessly。　There　was　a　milky　glow　beyond　it；　I　looked　back　at　her　smile　before　I　went　through。　It　was　older　than　Egypt　now。　The　door　slid　silently　shut　behind　me。
　There　was　nobody　in　the　room。
　It　was　octagonal；　draped　in　black　velvet　from　floor　to　ceiling；　with　a　high　remote　black　ceiling　that　may　have　been　of　velvet　too。　In　the　middle　of　a　coal　black　lustreless　rug　stood　an　octagonal　white　table；　just　large　enough　for　two　pairs　of　elbows　and　in　the　middle　of　it　a　milk　white　globe　on　a　black　stand。　The　light　came　from　this。　How；　I　couldn't　see。　On　either　side　of　the　table　there　was　a　white　octagonal　stool　which　was　a　smaller　edition　of　the　table。　Over　against　one　wall　there　was　one　more　such　stool。　There　were　no　windows。　There　was　nothing　else　in　the　room；　nothing　at　all。　On　the　walls　there　was　not　even　a　light　fixture。　If　there　were　other　doors；　I　didn't　see　them。　I　looked　back　at　the　one　by　which　I　had　e　in。　I　couldn't　see　that　either。
　I　stood　there　for　perhaps　fifteen　seconds　with　the　faint　obscure　feeling　of　being　watched。　There　was　probably　a　peephole　somewhere；　but　I　couldn't　spot　it。　I　gave　up　trying。　I　listened　to　my　breath。　The　room　was　so　still　that　I　could　hear　it　going　through　my　nose；　softly；　like　little　curtains　rustling。
　Then　an　invisible　door　on　the　far　side　of　the　room　slid　open　and　a　man　stepped　through　and　the　door　closed　behind　him。　The　man　walked　straight　to　the　table　with　his　head　down　and　sat　on　one　of　the　octagonal　stools　and　made　a　sweeping　motion　with　one　of　the　most　beautiful　hands　I　have　ever　seen。
　〃Please　be　seated。　Opposite　me。　Do　not　smoke　and　do　not　fidget。　Try　to　relax；　pletely。　Now　how　may　I　serve　you？〃
　I　sat　down；　got　a　cigarette　into　my　mouth　and　rolled　it　along　my　lips　without　lighting　it。　I　looked　him　over。　He　was　thin；　tall　and　straight　as　a　steel　rod。　He　had　the　palest　finest　white　hair　I　ever　saw。　It　could　have　been　strained　through　silk　gauze。　His　skin　was　as　fresh　as　a　rose　petal。　He　might　have　been　thirty…five　or　sixty…five。　He　was　ageless。　His　hair　was　brushed　straight　back　from　as　good　a　profile　as　Barrymore　ever　had。　His　eyebrows　were　coal　black；　like　the　walls　and　ceiling　and　floor。　His　eyes　were　deep；　far　too　deep。　They　were　the　depthless　drugged　eyes　of　the　somnambulist。　They　were　like　a　well　I　read　about　once。　It　was　nine　hundred　years　old；　in　an　old　castle。　You　could　drop　a　stone　into　it　and　wait。　You　could　listen　and　wait　and　then　you　would　give　up　waiting　and　laugh　and　then　just　as　you　were　ready　to　turn　away　a　faint；　minute　splash　would　e　back　up　to　you　from　the　bottom