CHAPTER 18

    

    When I got to the Hobart Arms, I noticed the black Buick was parked across the street. The motor was off this time, and it seemed to be empty. I parked a couple of spaces past it and walked back toward my building along Franklin. As I went up the steps a figure detached from the shadow of the shrubs and pointed a gun at me. Another figure appeared behind me.

    "Hold it right there, pally," a voice said. It was a flat voice with very little in it that was human. A flashlight beam hit me in the eyes.

    I held it right there. Behind me I felt the press of a gun barrel against my spine, in the small of my back. I could hear its owner's breath in my ear. Feel it on my neck. There was no one on the street, nobody in sight.

    "Got a message for you, pally," the flat voice said. He was out of sight behind the brightness of the flashlight.

    "Who's your voice coach?" I said. "You sound like a bad movie."

    "Don't look for Carmen Sternwood anymore," the flat voice said. "Don't pay any attention to Randolph Simpson. Don't go near Dr. Bonsentir."

    "Okay if I eat a pitted prune now and then?" I said.

    The voice went on as if it were a recording.

    "This is the only warning you'll get. You don't behave and the next one will be fatal."

    "Anything else?" I said.

    "Yeah," the voice said, "one other thing."

    From behind the blinding light a fist appeared. I caught the glint of brass knuckles for a moment before they exploded against my jaw. I staggered back against the gunman behind me. Bright lights exploded in front of my eyes. I kicked the flat voice in the general area of the stomach and heard him gasp and then something erupted against the side of my head and the lights coalesced into a brilliant starburst and then blackness into which I slid as peacefully as a drunken seal.

    I was drifting through a black sea and above me in the light I could see Carmen and Vivian dancing with a man I didn't know while Claude Bonsentir played the violin. I tried to swim upward toward them but the sea was thick and cold and I wasn't making any progress.

    

***

    

    When I woke up it was raining. I was on my back with an iron ache in my head and the rain coming down steadily in my face, bright as it passed through the light from the double glass doors to my building. The pain in my head rang like an anvil when I moved. I closed my eyes and lay perfectly still. Okay, Marlowe, you're a tough guy. You can get up. Just roll over on your side. I tried it and felt my stomach heave. I held still until it passed. Attaboy, Marlowe, halfway there. Now get your eyes open. Good boy. Now get to one knee. Nothing to it, you've been sapped before. I stayed there balanced on one knee while the rainy night swirled around me and slowly came to a halt. I got my feet under me and stood. The world moved in a circle again and I swayed with it until it settled back down. Easy.

    There was a soft angry swelling behind my ear, and a gash on my jawline that felt as if it had bled and scabbed over. I felt my pockets. Nothing was missing. The gun was still under my arm where it had stayed dry while I was getting socked and sapped. Good thing I hadn't gotten it out. It would be all wet now.

    I got the key in the lock after a couple of tries and opened the doors and went in. Upstairs I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like I had been dragged in by a cat and rejected. I got some ice from the refrigerator and put it in a facecloth and held it against the bruise on the back of my head. When I took the facecloth away there was a little blood on it. All my teeth seemed to be in the right place and still anchored.

    I sat in a chair near the window and looked out at the rain and let the ice rest against the back of my head. There was no sign on the street below of the black Buick.

    The fact that someone, probably Simpson, didn't want me looking into this case wasn't a news flash. I knew that before. Now I knew how much they didn't want me.

    

***

    

    Finally I reached the phone over and called Bernie Ohls at home.

    "You know what time it is?" he said when he answered.

    "I need the owner of a black Buick sedan, late model, California tags." I gave him the number.

    "Sure, Marlowe. I was reading my kid a story, but hell, I'll go right down and open up the hall of records and look this up personal and hand-carry it right over to you."

    "Couple of guys driving that thing roughed me up, told me to stay away from the Carmen Sternwood case."

    "Gee, I hope it didn't spoil your good looks, Marlowe."

    "I figure it's Simpson, but maybe the license plates will tell me something."

    "And maybe they won't," Ohls said. "I'll call you in the morning."

    "You got an ID yet on the corpse off Beverly Glen?"

    "Tentative," Ohls said. "Neighborhood dog showed up with the hand. Proud as hell, wagging his tail. His owner nearly croaked. Assuming it goes with the other parts of the body, the victim is a B-picture actress named Lola Monforte. Last known address was a flop on Melrose, but she hasn't been there in several months."

    "That's it?"

    "That's all so far," Ohls said. "Us coppers just have to plod along, you know. We ain't geniuses like you private-license boys. I figure you'll have it all solved for us by the time I get you this car registration."

    "Any connection to Bonsentir? Or Simpson?"

    "Don't know," Ohls said. "Hard to find out."

    Ohls hung up. Outside the rain came down in a light steady drizzle. Not hard enough to wash gullies in the canyons where people built expensive houses on sand and runoff. Just enough to keep the reservoirs from drying up and to help the lawns a little. I opened the window. The damp mysterious smell of a wet night came in.

    The ache in my head had dulled. My collar was soaked from the ice pack and I dropped the nearly melted cubes on the rug. It was after ten on a rainy night in the city of the angels. No one knocked on the door. No one called. No one was interested in my travel plans. No one seemed much concerned about my health.

    I called Vivian Regan. The phone rang a long time before the horsefaced maid answered. She was sorry but Mrs. Regan had taken a sleeping pill and gone to bed. Was there a message? No message. I hung up the phone and went back to staring at the misting rain which drifted down as silently as snow.