“I like it fine,” Ohls said. “I’m kind of glad that Taylor kid went off the pier. I’d hate to have to help send him to the deathhouse for rubbing that skunk.”
I went back into the small bedroom and blew out the black candles and let them smoke. When I got back to the living room Ohls had the boy up on his feet. The boy stood glaring at him with sharp black eyes in a face as hard and white as cold mutton fat.
“Let’s go,” Ohls said and took him by the arm as if he didn’t like touching him. I put the lamps out and followed them out of the house. We got into our cars and I followed Ohls’ twin tail-lights down the long curving hill. I hoped this would be my last trip to Laverne Terrace.
Taggart Wilde, the District Attorney, lived at the corner of Fourth and Lafayette Park, in a white frame house the size of a carbarn, with a red sandstone porte-cochere built on to one side and a couple of acres of soft rolling lawn in front. It was one of those solid old-fashioned houses which it used to be the thing to move bodily to new locations as the city grew westward. Wilde came of an old Los Angeles family and had probably been born in the house when it was on West Adams or Figueroa or St. James Park.
There were two cars in the driveway already, a big private sedan and a police car with a uniformed chauffeur who leaned smoking against his rear fender and admired the moon. Ohls went over and spoke to him and the chauffeur looked in at the boy in Ohls’ car.
We went up to the house and rang the bell. A slick-haired blond man opened the door and led us down the hall and through a huge sunken living room crowded with heavy dark furniture and along another hall on the far side of it. He knocked at a door and stepped inside, then held the door wide and we went into a paneled study with an open French door at the end and a view of dark garden and mysterious trees. A smell of wet earth and flowers came in at the window. There were large dim oils on the walls, easy chairs, books, a smell of good cigar smoke which blended with the smell of wet earth and flowers.
Taggart Wilde sat behind a desk, a middle-aged plump man with clear blue eyes that managed to have a friendly expression without really having any expression at all. He had a cup of black coffee in front of him and he held a dappled thin cigar between the neat careful fingers of his left hand. Another man sat at the corner of the desk in a blue leather chair, a cold-eyed hatchet-faced man, as lean as a rake and as hard as the manager of a loan office. His neat well-kept face looked as if it had been shaved within the hour. He wore a well-pressed brown suit and there was a black pearl in his tie. He had the long nervous fingers of a man with a quick brain. He looked ready for a fight.
Ohls pulled a chair up and sat down and said: “Evening, Cronjager. Meet Phil Marlowe, a private eye who’s in a jam.” Ohls grinned.
Cronjager looked at me without nodding. He looked me over as if he was looking at a photograph. Then he nodded his chin about an inch. Wilde said: “Sit down, Marlowe. I’ll try to handle Captain Cronjager, but you know how it is. This is a big city now.”
I sat down and lit a cigarette. Ohls looked at Cronjager and asked: “What did you get on the Randall Place killing?”
The hatchet-faced man pulled one of his fingers until the knuckle cracked. He spoke without looking up. “A stiff, two slugs in him. Two guns that hadn’t been fired. Down on the street we got a blonde trying to start a car that didn’t belong to her. Hers was right next to it, the same model. She acted rattled so the boys brought her in and she spilled. She was in there when this guy Brody got it. Claims she didn’t see the killer.”
“That all?” Ohls asked.
Cronjager raised his eyebrows a little. “Only happened about an hour ago. What did you expect—moving pictures of the killing?”
“Maybe a description of the killer,” Ohls said.
“A tall guy in a leather jerkin—if you call that a description.”
“He’s outside in my heap,” Ohls said. “Handcuffed. Marlowe put the arm on him for you. Here’s his gun.” Ohls took the boy’s automatic out of his pocket and laid it on a corner of Wilde’s desk. Cronjager looked at the gun but didn’t reach for it.
Wilde chuckled. He was leaning back and puffing his dappled cigar without letting go of it. He bent forward to sip from his coffee cup. He took a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of the dinner jacket he was wearing and touched his lips with it and tucked it away again.
“There’s a couple more deaths involved,” Ohls said, pinching the soft flesh at the end of his chin.
Cronjager stiffened visibly. His surly eyes became points of steely light.
Ohls said: “You heard about a car being lifted out of the Pacific Ocean off Lido pier this a.m. with a dead guy in it?”
Cronjager said: “No,” and kept on looking nasty.
“The dead guy in the car was chauffeur to a rich family,” Ohls said. “The family was being blackmailed on account of one of the daughters. Mr. Wilde recommended Marlowe to the family, through me. Marlowe played it kind of close to the vest.”
“I love private dicks that play murders close to the vest,” Cronjager snarled. “You don’t have to be so goddamned coy about it.”
“Yeah,” Ohls said. “I don’t have to be so goddamned coy about it. It’s not so goddamned often I get a chance to be coy with a city copper. I spend most of my time telling them where to put their feet so they won’t break an ankle.”
Cronjager whitened around the corners of his sharp nose. His breath made a soft hissing sound in the quiet room. He said very quietly: “You haven’t had to tell any of my men where to put their feet, smart guy.”
“We’ll see about that,” Ohls said. “This chauffeur I spoke of that’s drowned off Lido shot a guy last night in your territory. A guy named Geiger who ran a dirty book racket in a store on Hollywood Boulevard. Geiger was living with the punk I got outside in my car. I mean living with him, if you get the idea.”
Cronjager was staring at him levelly now. “That sounds like it might grow up to be a dirty story,” he said.
“It’s my experience most police stories are,” Ohls growled and turned to me, his eyebrows bristling. “You’re on the air, Marlowe. Give it to him.”
I gave it to him.
I left out two things, not knowing just why, at the moment, I left out one of them. I left out Carmen’s visit to Brody’s apartment and Eddie Mars’ visit to Geiger’s in the afternoon. I told the rest of it just as it happened.
Cronjager never took his eyes off my face and no expression of any kind crossed his as I talked. At the end of it he was perfectly silent for a long minute. Wilde was silent, sipping his coffee, puffing gently at his dappled cigar. Ohls stared at one of his thumbs.
Cronjager leaned slowly back in his chair and crossed one ankle over his knee and rubbed the ankle bone with his thin nervous hand. His lean face wore a harsh frown. He said with deadly politeness:
“So all you did was not report a murder that happened last night and then spend today foxing around so that this kid of Geiger’s could commit a second murder this evening.”
“That’s all,” I said. “I was in a pretty tough spot. I guess I did wrong, but I wanted to protect my client and I hadn’t any reason to think the boy would go gunning for Brody.”
“That kind of thinking is police business, Marlowe. If Geiger’s death had been reported last night, the books could never have been moved from the store to Brody’s apartment. The kid wouldn’t have been led to Brody and wouldn’t have killed him. Say Brody was living on borrowed time. His kind usually are. But a life is a life.”
“Right,” I said. “Tell that to your coppers next time they shoot down some scared petty larceny crook running away up an alley with a stolen spare.”
Wilde put both his hands down on his desk with a solid smack. “That’s enough of that,” he snapped. “What makes you so sure, Marlowe, that this Taylor boy shot Geiger? Even if the gun that killed Geiger was found on Taylor’s body or in the car, it doesn’t absolutely follow that he was the killer. The gun might have been planted—say by Brody, the actual killer.”
“It’s physically possible,” I said, “but morally impossible. It assumes too much coincidence and too much that’s out of character for Brody and his girl, and out of character for what he was trying to do. I talked to Brody for a long time. He was a crook, but not a killer type. He had two guns, but he wasn’t wearing either of them. He was trying to find a way to cut in on Geiger’s racket, which naturally he knew all about from the girl. He says he was watching Geiger off and on to see if he had any tough backers. I believe him. To suppose he killed Geiger in order to get his books, then scrammed with the nude photo Geiger had just taken of Carmen Sternwood, then planted the gun on Owen Taylor and pushed Taylor into the ocean off Lido, is to suppose a hell of a lot too much. Taylor had the motive, jealous rage, and the opportunity to kill Geiger. He was out in one of the family cars without permission. He killed Geiger right in front of the girl, which Brody would never have done, even if he had been a killer. I can’t see anybody with a purely commercial interest in Geiger doing that. But Taylor would have done it. The nude photo business was just what would have made him do it.”
Wilde chuckled and looked along his eyes at Cronjager. Cronjager cleared his throat with a snort. Wilde asked: “What’s this business about hiding the body? I don’t see the point of that.”
I said: “The kid hasn’t told us, but he must have done it. Brody wouldn’t have gone into the house after Geiger was shot. The boy must have got home when I was away taking Carmen to her house. He was afraid of the police, of course, being what he is, and he probably thought it a good idea to have the body hidden until he had removed his effects from the house. He dragged it out of the front door, judging by the marks on the rug, and very likely put it in the garage. Then he packed up whatever belongings he had there and took them away. And later on, sometime in the night and before the body stiffened, he had a revulsion of feeling and thought he hadn’t treated his dead friend very nicely. So he went back and laid him out on the bed. That’s all guessing, of course.”
Wilde nodded. “Then this morning he goes down to the store as if nothing had happened and keeps his eyes open. And when Brody moved the books out he found out where they were going and assumed that whoever got them had killed Geiger just for that purpose. He may even have known more about Brody and the girl than they suspected. What do you think, Ohls?”
Ohls said: “We’ll find out—but that doesn’t help Cronjager’s troubles. What’s eating him is all this happened last night and he’s only just been rung in on it.”
Cronjager said sourly: “I think I can find some way to deal with that angle too.” He looked at me sharply and immediately looked away again.
Wilde waved his cigar and said: “Let’s see the exhibits, Marlowe.” I emptied my pockets and put the catch on his desk: the three notes and Geiger’s card to General Sternwood, Carmen’s photos, and the blue notebook with the code list of names and addresses. I had already given Geiger’s keys to Ohls.
Wilde looked at what I gave him, puffing gently at his cigar. Ohls lit one of his own toy cigars and blew smoke peacefully at the ceiling. Cronjager leaned on the desk and looked at what I had given Wilde.
Wilde tapped the three notes signed by Carmen and said: “I guess these were just a come-on. If General Sternwood paid them, it would be through fear of something worse. Then Geiger would have tightened the screws. Do you know what he was afraid of?” He was looking at me.
I shook my head.
“Have you told your story complete in all relevant details?”
“I left out a couple of personal matters. I intend to keep on leaving them out, Mr. Wilde.”
Cronjager said: “Hah!” and snorted with deep feeling.
“Why?” Wilde asked quietly.
“Because my client is entitled to that protection, short of anything but a Grand Jury. I have a license to operate as a private detective. I suppose that word ‘private’ has some meaning. The Hollywood Division has two murders on its hands, both solved. They have both killers. They have the motive, the instrument in each case. The blackmail angle has got to be suppressed, as far as the names of the parties are concerned.”
“Why?” Wilde asked again.
“That’s okey,” Cronjager said dryly. “We’re glad to stooge for a shamus of his standing.”
I said: “I’ll show you.” I got up and went back out of the house to my car and got the book from Geiger’s store out of it. The uniformed police driver was standing beside Ohls’ car. The boy was inside it, leaning back sideways in the corner.
“Has he said anything?” I asked.
“He made a suggestion,” the copper said and spat. “I’m letting it ride.”
I went back into the house, put the book on Wilde’s desk and opened up the wrappings. Cronjager was using a telephone on the end of the desk. He hung up and sat down as I came in.
Wilde looked through the book, wooden-faced, closed it and pushed it towards Cronjager. Cronjager opened it, looked at a page or two, shut it quickly. A couple of red spots the size of half dollars showed on his cheekbones.
I said: “Look at the stamped dates on the front endpaper.”
Cronjager opened the book again and looked at them. “Well?”