“All right,” I growled. “Don’t believe it. If Eddie is such a nice guy, I’d like to get to talk to him without Canino around. You know what Canino will do—beat my teeth out and then kick me in the stomach for mumbling.”
She put her head back and stood there thoughtful and withdrawn, thinking something out.
“I thought platinum hair was out of style,” I bored on, just to keep sound alive in the room, just to keep from listening.
“It’s a wig, silly. While mine grows out.” She reached up and yanked it off. Her own hair was clipped short all over, like a boy’s. She put the wig back on.
“Who did that to you?”
She looked surprised. “I had it done. Why?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Why, to show Eddie I was willing to do what he wanted me to do—hide out. That he didn’t need to have me guarded. I wouldn’t let him down. I love him.”
“Good grief,” I groaned. “And you have me right here in the room with you.”
She turned a hand over and stared at it. Then abruptly she walked out of the room. She came back with a kitchen knife. She bent and sawed at my rope.
“Canino has the key to the handcuffs,” she breathed. “I can’t do anything about those.”
She stepped back, breathing rapidly. She had cut the rope at every knot.
“You’re a kick,” she said. “Kidding with every breath—the spot you’re in.”
“I thought Eddie wasn’t a killer.”
She turned away quickly and went back to her chair by the lamp and sat down and put her face in her hands. I swung my feet to the floor and stood up. I tottered around, stifflegged. The nerve on the left side of my face was jumping in all its branches. I took a step. I could still walk. I could run, if I had to.
“I guess you mean me to go,” I said.
She nodded without lifting her head.
“You’d better go with me—if you want to keep on living.”
“Don’t waste time. He’ll be back any minute.”
“Light a cigarette for me.”
I stood beside her, touching her knees. She came to her feet with a sudden lurch. Our eyes were only inches apart.
“Hello, Silver-Wig,” I said softly.
She stepped back, around the chair, and swept a package of cigarettes up off the table. She jabbed one loose and pushed it roughly into my mouth. Her hand was shaking. She snapped a small green leather lighter and held it to the cigarette. I drew in the smoke, staring into her lake-blue eyes. While she was still close to me I said:
“A little bird named Harry Jones led me to you. A little bird that used to hop in and out of cocktail bars picking up horse bets for crumbs. Picking up information too. This little bird picked up an idea about Canino. One way and another he and his friends found out where you were. He came to me to sell the information because he knew—how he knew is a long story—that I was working for General Sternwood. I got his information, but Canino got the little bird. He’s a dead little bird now, with his feathers ruffled and his neck limp and a pearl of blood on his beak. Canino killed him. But Eddie Mars wouldn’t do that, would he, Silver-Wig? He never killed anybody. He just hires it done.”
“Get out,” she said harshly. “Get out of here quick.”
Her hand clutched in midair on the green lighter. The fingers strained. The knuckles were as white as snow.
“But Canino doesn’t know I know that,” I said. “About the little bird. All he knows is I’m nosing around.”
Then she laughed. It was almost a racking laugh. It shook her as the wind shakes a tree. I thought there was puzzlement in it, not exactly surprise, but as if a new idea had been added to something already known and it didn’t fit. Then I thought that was too much to get out of a laugh.
“It’s very funny,” she said breathlessly. “Very funny, because, you see—I still love him. Women—” She began to laugh again.
I listened hard, my head throbbing. Just the rain still. “Let’s go,” I said. “Fast.”
She took two steps back and her face set hard. “Get out, you! Get out! You can walk to Realito. You can make it—and you can keep your mouth shut—for an hour or two at least. You owe me that much.”
“Let’s go,” I said. “Got a gun, Silver-Wig?”
“You know I’m not going. You know that. Please, please get out of here quickly.”
I stepped up close to her, almost pressing against her. “You’re going to stay here after turning me loose? Wait for that killer to come back so you can say so sorry? A man who kills like swatting a fly. Not much. You’re going with me, Silver-Wig.”
“No.”
“Suppose,” I said thinly. “Your handsome husband did kill Regan? Or suppose Canino did, without Eddie’s knowing it. Just suppose. How long will you last, after turning me loose?”
“I’m not afraid of Canino. I’m still his boss’s wife.”
“Eddie’s a handful of mush,” I snarled. “Canino would take him with a teaspoon. He’ll take him the way the cat took the canary. A handful of mush. The only time a girl like you goes for a wrong gee is when he’s a handful of mush.”
“Get out!” she almost spit at me.
“Okey.” I turned away from her and moved out through the half-open door into a dark hallway. Then she rushed after me and pushed past to the front door and opened it. She peered out into the wet blackness and listened. She motioned me forward.
“Good-by,” she said under her breath. “Good luck in everything but one thing. Eddie didn’t kill Rusty Regan. You’ll find him alive and well somewhere, when he wants to be found.”
I leaned against her and pressed her against the wall with my body. I pushed my mouth against her face.I talked to her that way.
“There’s no hurry. All this was arranged in advance, rehearsed to the last detail, timed to the split second. Just like a radio program. No hurry at all. Kiss me, Silver-Wig.”
Her face under my mouth was like ice. She put her hands up and took hold of my head and kissed me hard on the lips. Her lips were like ice, too.
I went out through the door and it closed behind me, without sound, and the rain blew in under the porch, not as cold as her lips.
29
The garage next door was dark. I crossed the gravel drive and a patch of sodden lawn. The road ran with small rivulets of water. It gurgled down a ditch on the far side. I had no hat. That must have fallen in the garage. Canino hadn’t bothered to give it back to me. He hadn’t thought I would need it any more. I imagined him driving back jauntily through the rain, alone, having left the gaunt and sulky Art and the probably stolen sedan in a safe place. She loved Eddie Mars and she was hiding to protect him. So he would find her there when he came back, calm beside the light and the untasted drink, and me tied up on the davenport. He would carry her stuff out to the car and go through the house carefully to make sure nothing incriminating was left. He would tell her to go out and wait. She wouldn’t hear a shot. A blackjack is just as effective at short range. He would tell her he had left me tied up and I would get loose after a while. He would think she was that dumb. Nice Mr. Canino.
The raincoat was open in front and I couldn’t button it, being handcuffed. The skirts flapped against my legs like the wings of a large and tired bird. I came to the highway. Cars went by in a wide swirl of water illuminated by headlights. The tearing noise of their tires died swiftly. I found my convertible where I had left it, both tires fixed and mounted, so it could be driven away, if necessary. They thought of everything. I got into it and leaned down sideways under the wheel and fumbled aside the flap of leather that covered the pocket. I got the other gun, stuffed it up under my coat and started back. The world was small, shut in, black. A private world for Canino and me.
Halfway there the headlights nearly caught me. They turned swiftly off the highway and I slid down the bank into the wet ditch and flopped there breathing water. The car hummed by without slowing. I lifted my head, heard the rasp of its tires as it left the road and took the gravel of the driveway. The motor died, the lights died, a door slammed. I didn’t hear the house door shut, but a fringe of light trickled through the clump of trees, as though a shade had been moved aside from a window, or the light had been put on in the hall.
I came back to the soggy grass plot and sloshed across it. The car was between me and the house, the gun was down at my side, pulled as far around as I could get it, without pulling my left arm out by the roots. The car was dark, empty, warm. Water gurgled pleasantly in the radiator. I peered in at the door. The keys hung on the dash. Canino was very sure of himself. I went around the car and walked carefully across the gravel to the window and listened. I couldn’t hear any voices, any sound but the swift bong-bong of the raindrops hitting the metal elbows at the bottom of the rain gutters.
I kept on listening. No loud voices, everything quiet and refined. He would be purring at her and she would be telling him she had let me go and I had promised to let them get away. He wouldn’t believe me, as I wouldn’t believe him. So he wouldn’t be in there long. He would be on his way and take her with him. All I had to do was wait for him to come out.
I couldn’t do it. I shifted the gun to my left hand and leaned down to scoop up a handful of gravel. I tossed it against the screen of the window. It was a feeble effort. Very little of it reached the glass above the screen, but the loose rattle of that little was like a dam bursting.
I ran back to the car and got on the running board behind it. The house had already gone dark. That was all. I dropped quietly on the running board and waited. No soap. Canino was too cagey.
I straightened up and got into the car backwards, fumbled around for the ignition key and turned it. I reached with my foot, but the starter button had to be on the dash. I found it at last, pulled it and the starter ground. The warm motor caught at once. It purred softly, contentedly. I got out of the car again and crouched down by the rear wheels.
I was shivering now but I knew Canino wouldn’t like that last effect. He needed that car badly. A darkened window slid down inch by inch, only some shifting of light on the glass showing it moved. Flame spouted from it abruptly, the blended roar of three swift shots. Glass starred in the coupe. I yelled with agony. The yell went off into a wailing groan. The groan became a wet gurgle, choked with blood. I let the gurgle die sickeningly, one choked gasp. It was nice work. I liked it. Canino liked it very much. I heard him laugh. It was a large booming laugh, not at all like the purr of his speaking voice.
Then silence for a little while, except for the rain and the quietly throbbing motor of the car. Then the house door crawled open, a deeper blackness in the black night. A figure showed in it cautiously, something white around the neck. It was her collar. She came out on the porch stiffly, a wooden woman. I caught the pale shine of her silver wig. Canino came crouched methodically behind her. It was so deadly it was almost funny.
She came down the steps. Now I could see the white stiffness of her face. She started towards the car. A bulwark of defense for Canino, in case I could still spit in his eye. Her voice spoke through the lisp of the rain, saying slowly, without any tone: “I can’t see a thing, Lash. The windows are misted.”
He grunted something and the girl’s body jerked hard, as though he had jammed a gun into her back. She came on again and drew near the lightless car. I could see him behind her now, his hat, a side of his face, the bulk of his shoulder. The girl stopped rigid and screamed. A beautiful thin tearing scream that rocked me like a left hook.
“I can see him!” she screamed. “Through the window. Behind the wheel, Lash!”