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Chapter 4 Purissima Canyon




 

Iwas back in my office at about four-thirty when the phone rang. A cool voice said 'Philip Marlowe? The private detective?'

I said yes, maybe. The voice introduced itself: 'My name's Lindsay Marriott. I live at 4212 Cabrillo Street. I'd be very happy if you could come and discuss something with me this evening.'

'I'll be there,' I said. I needed a job. 'What time?'

He said seven, so I watched the sunlight dancing on my desk until almost seven, had a word or two with Nulty on the phone when he rang to see if I had any new ideas — I hadn't — and then I went out to Cabrillo Street. It was dark by the time I got there. Cabrillo Street was a dozen or so houses hanging onto the side of a mountain by the beach, with the Pacific Ocean crashing in below them. There were two hundred and eighty steps up from the street to Marriott's house, so I had to sit down for a few minutes at the top and try to start breathing quietly again before I knocked on the door.

It opened silently and I was looking at a tall man with fair hair, wearing a white suit with a blue flower in its buttonhole.

'Yes?' he said.

'It's exactly seven and here I am,' I answered.

'And you are . . . ?' He'd forgotten all about me.

'Philip Marlowe,' I said. 'Same as I was this afternoon.' I didn't think I liked this guy.

'Ah yes. Quite right.' He stepped back and said coldly 'Come in.'

The carpet was so thick it almost swallowed my shoes on the way through to the living-room, where Marriott arranged him­self on a yellow sofa and lit a French cigarette. I lit a Camel and waited.

'I asked you to come because I have to pay some money to two men tonight and I thought I should have someone with me,' he said eventually. 'You carry a gun?'

'Sometimes,' I said. 'But I don't often shoot people. Blackmail, is it?'

'Certainly not. I'm simply buying something and I'll be carrying a lot of money. Since I don't know these men, I thought

'But they know you, do they?'

'I -I don't know. I'm doing this for a friend, you see.'

'How much money - and what for?' I asked. I didn't like his smile. He was lying to me. 'Why don't you just tell me the whole story, Mr Marriott? If I'm going to hold your hand tonight, I think I should know why.'

He didn't like that, but in the end I got the full story. Three men had stolen a valuable diamond ring from his friend without a name a few nights before, when she was coming home from a restaurant in the city, and now they were selling it back for eight thousand dollars. He had spoken to one of the men on the phone two or three times, to help his friend, and now he was waiting for another call, to tell him where to meet them tonight with the money.

'So why did you only call me this afternoon, Mr Marriott? That worries me. And why did you choose me? Who told you about me?'

He laughed. 'No one told me about you. I picked your name from the phone book. And I only decided to take someone with me this afternoon -I hadn't thought of it before.'

'So what's the plan?' I asked. 'Do I hide in the back of the car? And what do I do if these guys pull out a gun and shoot you or knock you on the head, take your eight thousand and run? Nothing I could do would stop them. These guys are robbers, Marriott. They're hard. I think I should walk away from this job, Marriott. But I'm stupid, so I won't. I'll come with you, but I'll drive the car and I'll carry the money. And you do the hiding in the back of the car. OK?'

He shook his head and looked unhappy but in the end he agreed. Then the phone rang. Marriott's face went white as he took the call. He listened. I could hear a voice talking at the other end, but I couldn't hear the words.

'Purissima Canyon? ... I know it . . . Right.' He put the phone down. 'You ready, Marlowe? Let's go.'

I had never heard of Purissima Canyon, but Marriott said it was quite near and that we had to be there in twelve minutes. He gave me an envelope with all that money in it. I stuck it in my pocket and we left.

Fog had come in from the ocean now, so I drove Marriott's big foreign car quite slowly. We found Purissima Canyon without difficulty. It was a quiet, lonely place in the hills behind the city. No houses, no lights. It was as dark as a midnight church. I stopped at the end of the dirt road and switched off the engine.

'Stay there,' I whispered to Marriott, hidden in the back of the car. 'Your friends may be waiting off the road here. I'll take a look.'

I got out and walked along a small path down the hill. I stopped suddenly and stood in the dark, listening. Not a sound. I turned to go back to the car. Still nothing.

'No one here,' I whispered into the back of the car. 'Could be a trick.'

He didn't answer. There was a quick movement just behind my head, and afterwards, I thought I may have heard the sound of the stick in the air before it hit my head. Maybe you always think that - afterwards.

I opened my eyes and looked up at the stars. I was lying on my back. I felt sick. All I could hear was insects in the night. I stood up carefully. My hat was. still on my head. I took it off and felt underneath it — a bit soft and painful on one side, but still

working well enough. Good old head, I'd had it a long time and I could still use it, well, a little at least. I turned to look for the car, but it was gone. The envelope with the eight thousand dollars was gone too.

I started to walk slowly back along the dark road. Suddenly, I

saw the dark shape of the car in front of me, round a corner. It

was silent, lightless, all the doors shut. I went up to it, lit a match

and looked inside while the match was burning. Empty. No

Marriott, no blood, no bodies, nothing. Suddenly, I heard the

sound of a car's engine. I didn't jump more than three feet in the

aid. Lights cut through the darkness, coming down the road

towards me. The lights stopped for a minute just round the next

corner, then they came on down the road. I hid behind

Marriott's car. The lights came on down the hill and stopped

right in front of Marriott's car. There was a laugh, a girl's laugh, a

strange sound in that place. Then a girl's voice said: 'All right. I

can see your feet. Come out with your hands nice and empty.

I've got a gun on your ankles.'

I came up slowly, hands up, and looked straight at the light shining in my face.

'OK, don't move. Who are you? Is that your car?' the voice asked, but she sounded a bit frightened, like me.' 'Why did you stop up the road there?' I asked. 'So you ask the questions, huh?' she said. 'Well, I was looking at a man.'

'Tall, with fair hair?'

'Not any more,' she said quietly. 'Might have had fair hair -once.'

I didn't say anything for a moment. Then I said: 'All right, let's go and look at him. I'm a private investigator. Marlowe's the name. Philip Marlowe. My card's in my wallet. Shall I get it out and show you?'

'No. You just walk in front of me and we'llgo andtake a look at what's left of your friend.'

I turned away from the light and went on up the dusty road, round the corner. The girl with the gun was right behind me.

 

Chapter 5 'Don't Call Me Annie'

 

She shone her light on the body. His fair hair was dark with blood now and more of it ran from the corner of his mouth. He wasn't pretty to look at. I went through his pockets but there was nothing very interesting. Just coins and keys, a small knife, someone's business card, that sort of thing. I put the business card in my pocket - might be useful later. The girl watched.

'You shouldn't do that,' she said. Then: 'Somebody must have hated him, to do that to him.'

'Somebody, yeah, but it wasn't me. So who was it?'

'I didn't think it was you,' she replied.

'Could have been you, couldn't it? I don't know. What are you doing out here alone at this time of night? And what's your name?'

'My name's Riordan. Anne. And don't call me Annie. I just go out for a drive sometimes at night. I like these hills at night; they're peaceful. Well, usually they are. I saw a light down here and thought it was odd. So I came down to see.'

'You do take some chances, Miss Riordan. A young lady out in these hills alone at night, going down a dark valley to investigate.'

'I had a gun. And what happened to your head?' She was shining her light right at me now. 'You don't look too good, Mr Marlowe. I think I should get you out of here.'

'I'd be grateful if you'd drive me to my car. It's at Cabrillo Street, near the beach. He lived there.' I pointed down at Marriott's body.

'Sure. But shouldn't someone stay with him? And shouldn't we call the police?' she asked.

'No,' I said. 'Not yet. I'd like time to think about this first.'

So we got into her little car and she drove me out of there. My head hurt.

We didn't talk. Then she said: 'You need a drink. Come back to my place and clean yourself up, have a drink and call the police from there. It's just over on West 25th, 819.'

'Thanks,' I said, 'but I should get back to my car.' I didn't want her mixed up in this thing.

So she drove me back to the bottom of the steps up to Marriott's house, where I had left my car. I got out, said thanks and gave her my card. Then, I went over to the West Los Angeles police station on my own, feeling cold and sick.

It was an hour and a half later. They had taken Marriott's body away and I had told my story three times to a man named Randall. The back of my head was hurting. I sat there looking at the cigarette between my fingers and felt about eighty years old. Randall said coldly: 'Your story sounds silly, Marlowe.' We went through the whole thing again, detail by detail and Randall came up with some ideas about the murder which I didn't like. They weren't right — I told him. He didn't like that either, but in the end he let me go home. The fog had com­pletely cleared now. I wanted a drink badly but the bars were all closed. I drove home fast.

I got up at nine the next morning, drank three cups of black coffee and read the morning papers. There was a short piece about Moose Malloy, but nothing about Lindsay Marriott. I was just leaving when the phone rang. It was Nulty and he sounded annoyed.

'Marlowe? What're you doing on Malloy?' Nothing. I've got a headache. You mean you haven't got him yet?'

He hung up without answering. I drove over to my office, opened the outside door and went in. Anne Riordan looked up from the magazine she was reading and smiled at me. In daylight, her hair was a rich red colour, she had grey eyes, a small cheeky nose and a wide mouth. She had a nice smile. It was a face I thought I would like. Pretty, but not beautiful.

I opened the inside door and she followed me through into my office, sat down and took one of my cigarettes.

'You probably didn't think you'd see me again so soon. How's your head?'

Til live.'

'Were the police nice to you?'

'Same as usual. I left you out of my story. Don't know why.'

'Because they might be nasty to me and because I might be useful to you. Do you want to know who Marriott's friend was - the lady who lost her valuable ring?'

I froze. I hadn't said anything to her about the ring Marriott was trying to get back for his friend.

'I didn't say anything about a ring last night,' I said slowly. 'So you'd better tell me what you know and how you know it.'

'My father was a police officer. He's dead now. But it was easy for me to find out that Randall is investigating the Marriott murder and I went over to see him. He told me. Then I went over to the best jeweller's shop in town and asked the manager there. I told him I was a writer wanting to do a piece about famous and expensive diamonds. He told me the name of that diamond and who it belongs to. Easy, you see. It belongs to a very rich lady in Bay City, a Mrs Grayle. She's much younger
than her husband and is very beautiful — she sometimes runs around town with other men, like Lindsay Marriott. I found out that last bit from a friend in one of the newspapers. He gave me a photo of Mrs Grayle, too. Look.' She pushed a photograph of a young woman across my desk. I looked at it. Beautiful, about thirty years old - Mrs Grayle had it all.

'So I called Mrs Grayle and said I was your secretary. She'll see you this afternoon - she wants to get her diamond ring back, and she might want you to help her do that.'

'You have been busy, haven't you?' I said. She looked serious and hurt. Yes, I could certainly get to like that face a lot, I thought. I smiled at her. 'Listen, Anne. Killing Marriott was a stupid mistake. I don't think this gang meant to murder him at
all. They wanted the money for the ring, that's all, and I guess it's all right if I try to help Mrs Grayle get the ring back, now that the gang have got their money for it.'

She nodded. 'You're wonderful,' she said softly, 'but you're crazy.'

The word hung in the air as she got up, went very quickly to the door and out.

I sat and thought about things. Then I took out that business card I had taken from Marriott's pocket last night and looked at it. Plain and expensive-looking, with the name 'Jules Amthor' on it, and under that, the word 'Psychiatrist'. No address. Just a Stillwood Heights phone number. There was something about Mr Amthor and his card, found in a dead man's pocket, that wasn't quite right. Could be interesting, I thought, so I picked up the phone and tried the Stillwood Heights number.

 


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