Harry Jones didn’t answer. There was labored breathing for a short moment. Then thick silence folded down. Then a chair scraped.
“So long, little man,” said Mr. Canino. Steps, a click, the wedge of light died at my feet, a door opened and closed quietly. The steps faded, leisurely and assured.
I stirred around the edge of the door and pulled it wide and looked into blackness relieved by the dim shine of a window. The corner of a desk glittered faintly. A hunched shape took form in a chair behind it. In the close air there was a heavy clogged smell, almost a perfume. I went across to the corridor door and listened. I heard the distant clang of the elevator.
I found the light switch and light glowed in a dusty glass bowl hanging from the ceiling by three brass chains. Harry Jones looked at me across the desk, his eyes wide open, his face frozen in a tight spasm, the skin bluish. His small dark head was tilted to one side. He sat upright against the back of the chair.
A street-car bell clanged at an almost infinite distance and the sound came buffeted by innumerable walls. A brown half pint of whiskey stood on the desk with the cap off. Harry Jones’ glass glinted against a castor of the desk. The second glass was gone.
I breathed shallowly, from the top of my lungs, and bent above the bottle. Behind the charred smell of the bourbon another odor lurked, faintly, the odor of bitter almonds. Harry Jones dying had vomited on his coat. That made it cyanide.
I walked around him carefully and lifted a phone book from a hook on the wooden frame of the window. I let it fall again, reached the telephone as far as it would go from the little dead man. I dialed information. The voice answered.
“Can you give me the phone number of Apartment 301, 28 Court Street?”
“One moment, please.” The voice came to me borne on the smell of bitter almonds. A silence. “The number is Wentworth 2528. It is listed under Glendower Apartments.”
I thanked the voice and dialed the number. The bell rang three times, then the line opened. A radio blared along the wire and was muted. A burly male voice said: “Hello.”
“Is Agnes there?”
“No Agnes here, buddy. What number you want?”
“Wentworth two-five-two-eight.”
“Right number, wrong gal. Ain’t that a shame?” The voice cackled.
I hung up and reached for the phone book again and looked up the Wentworth Apartments. I dialed the manager’s number. I had a blurred vision of Mr. Canino driving fast through rain to another appointment with death.
“Glendower Apartments. Mr. Schiff speaking.”
“This is Wallis, Police Identification Bureau. Is there a girl named Agnes Lozelle registered in your place?”
“Who did you say you were?”
I told him again.
“If you give me your number, Ill—”
“Cut the comedy,” I said sharply, “I’m in a hurry. Is there or isn’t there?”
“No. There isn’t.” The voice was as stiff as a breadstick.
“Is there a tall blonde with green eyes registered in the flop?”
“Say, this isn’t any flop—”
“Oh, can it, can it!” I rapped at him in a police voice. “You want me to send the vice squad over there and shake the joint down? I know all about Bunker Hill apartment houses, mister. Especially the ones that have phone numbers listed for each apartment.”
“Hey, take it easy, officer. I’ll co-operate. There’s a couple of blondes here, sure. Where isn’t there? I hadn’t noticed their eyes much. Would yours be alone?”
“Alone, or with a little chap about five feet three, a hundred and ten, sharp black eyes, wears a doublebreasted dark gray suit and Irish tweed overcoat, gray hat. My information is Apartment 301, but all I get there is the big razzoo.”
“Oh, she ain’t there. There’s a couple of car salesmen living in three-o-one.”
“Thanks, I’ll drop around.”
“Make it quiet, won’t you? Come to my place, direct?”
“Much obliged, Mr. Schiff.” I hung up.
I wiped sweat off my face. I walked to the far corner of the office and stood with my face to the wall, patted it with a hand. I turned around slowly and looked across at little Harry Jones grimacing in his chair.
“Well, you fooled him, Harry,” I said out loud, in a voice that sounded queer to me. “You lied to him and you drank your cyanide like a little gentleman. You died like a poisoned rat, Harry, but you’re no rat to me.”
I had to search him. It was a nasty job. His pockets yielded nothing about Agnes, nothing that I wanted at all. I didn’t think they would, but I had to be sure. Mr. Canino might be back. Mr. Canino would be the kind of self-confident gentleman who would not mind returning to the scene of his crime.
I put the light out and started to open the door. The phone bell rang jarringly down on the baseboard. I listened to it, my jaw muscles drawn into a knot, aching. Then I shut the door and put the light on again and went across to it.
“Yeah?”
A woman’s voice. Her voice. “Is Harry around?”
“Not for a minute, Agnes.”
She waited a while on that. Then she said slowly: “Who’s talking?”
“Marlowe, the guy that’s trouble to you.”
“Where is he?” sharply.
“I came over to give him two hundred bucks in return for certain information. The offer holds. I have the money. Where are you?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you’d better ask him. Where is he?”
“I can’t ask him. Do you know a man named Canino?”
Her gasp came as clearly as though she had been beside me.
“Do you want the two C’s or not?” I asked.
“I—I want it pretty bad, mister.”
“All right then. Tell me where to bring it.”
“I—I” Her voice trailed off and came back with a panic rush. “Where’s Harry?”
“Got scared and blew. Meet me somewhere—anywhere at all—I have the money.”
“I don’t believe you—about Harry. It’s a trap.”
“Oh stuff. I could have had Harry hauled in long ago. There isn’t anything to make a trap for. Canino got a line on Harry somehow and he blew. I want quiet, you want quiet, Harry wants quiet.” Harry already had it. Nobody could take it away from him. “You don’t think I’d stooge for Eddie Mars, do you, angel?”
“No-o, I guess not. Not that. I’ll meet you in half an hour. Beside Bullocks Wilshire, the east entrance to the parking lot.”
“Right,” I said.