CHAPTER 4

    

    Resthaven sprawled in a small canyon that ran laterally off of Coldwater Canyon, just below Mulholland Drive. Some movie magnate had built it once in the late twenties, probably with the first big wad of pre-income tax money that he'd made filming two-reelers in Topanga Canyon. It might have been a ranch if you could picture a ranch built to specification for a Middle European peddler who'd struck it rich. It had a main building made of peeled redwood logs, squared and notched and fitted as snug as wallpaper. There was the bunkhouse, a longer lower echo of the main house, and there were three or four outbuildings which followed the same motif.

    Like most of southern California, the land, if left to its own devices, would have been dry and ugly. But it hadn't been left to its own devices. It had been watered and planted and pruned and fertilized and a profusion of flowering shrubs splashed across the green lawn and flanked the crushed shell driveway that curved up to the main entrance. There was no one in sight. And only a discreet sign burned into a polished square of redwood said RESTHAVEN. I parked under a big old eucalyptus tree that the wind had tortured into a posture of contorted abandon, and crunched across the driveway to ring the bell.

    The bell was soft, a lilting little chime deep somewhere in the house. Out of sight, maybe around the corner, I could hear dimly the sound of a sprinkler clicking in slow cadence as it arched back and forth. There was a trumpet vine curling up around the support pillars on the rustic porch. I waited, listening for footsteps and heard none, and then the door opened and a pale man with thin shoulders and very slick black hair combed straight back stood there.

    "Marlowe," I said. "To see Dr. Bonsentir."

    I handed him my card. The quiet one, name, address, profession. The one with the crossed sabers I saved for impressing other clients. The guy in the white coat ushered me into a hallway that was dark and cool. There were Navaho rugs strewn on the polished wide board floors. Framed on the walls were a variety of important-looking medical documents, some plaques honoring various civic achievements and a head shot of Dr. Bonsentir himself with a lot of uplighting, and some artful air brushing. A small brass plaque under the photograph said OUR FOUNDER, DR. CLAUDE BONSENTIR.

    The servant left me there to admire Dr. Claude and returned in maybe two minutes.

    "This way, sir," he said with the faint hint of an accent, though I couldn't identify it.

    I followed him through a door to the right. We went through a room that was probably a library, with books in shelves along all of the paneled walls and a vast stone fireplace against the far end of the room. There were drapes on all the windows in some sort of turquoise coloration that reached the floor and gathered in an overabundant pile at the baseboard. Beyond the library was an office, smaller than the library but done in the same motif and complete with a slightly scaled-down version of the same fieldstone fireplace on the near end wall where it could share the same chimney shaft. In here the turquoise drapes were drawn and the room was dim. In front of the windows was a desk that could have been a basketball court for midgets. And behind it was Claude Bonsentir.

    He was a dark lean jasper with longish black hair parted in the exact middle of his head. He wore a pencil moustache, and his dark eyes were deeply recessed so that he seemed to be peering out at you from far inside someplace. He was wearing a dark suit with a wide white pinstripe. There was a big gold watch chain draped across his vest, and some sort of key hung from it. He sat with his hands tented before him, elbows on the desk. His nails were manicured and gleamed with recent buffing. He tapped his fingertips gently against his lower lip. On the desk before him, set at precise square to him, was my card. There was nothing else on the desk top except an onyx pen and pencil set. He stared down at my card. I stood in front of his desk. He continued to stare down at my card. I waited.

    Across the room there were two leather chairs with brass studding along the seams, and squarish arms. I went over and got one and dragged it to his desk and sat in it across from him. He raised his eyes slowly and peered out at me from the deep sockets.

    I waited. He gazed.

    I said, "You want to check my teeth?"

    Bonsentir did not smile, nor did his gaze waver.

    "You are a private detective," he said. He had one of those Hollywood elocution voices which has no real accent but sounds nearly British, especially if you haven't heard a real one. He sounded like a guy that recited bad poems on the radio.

    "When I'm not polishing my yacht," I said.

    Bonsentir did some more gazing. I waited. As my eyes got accustomed to the dimness I could see that the walls were ornamented with some sort of Indian metal-work. Turquoise and stones I couldn't recognize set in patterns on a large silver shield. There were six or seven of these around the office. Over the fireplace was a big oil painting of Bonsentir, wearing a white robe and looking profound.

    "I am a serious man, Mr. Marlowe. I have the well-being of many people in my purview. I devote my time to thinking about them. I have no time left over to be amusing."

    "You're doing okay," I said.

    He raised an eyebrow. "You find me amusing," he said.

    "Enthralling," I said. "I was wondering if you could tell me the whereabouts of Carmen Sternwood?"

    Bonsentir leaned back slowly in his chair and opened his mouth wide enough so he could tap his lower teeth with his thumbs. He worked the gaze on me some more. I think it was supposed to make me melt into a puddle on the floor near his desk.

    "Why do you ask?" Bonsentir said.

    "I've been employed to ask," I said.

    "By whom?"

    "By he who employed me," I said.

    "He?"

    "He or she," I said.

    "May I have this person's name?" Bonsentir said.

    "Why?" I said.

    Bonsentir dropped his hands to the desk top and let them lie flat. He leaned forward slightly.

    "You are very annoying, Mr. Marlowe."

    "I've heard that," I said. "I have often resolved to improve."

    Bonsentir kept his new pose.

    "I'm afraid the well-being of my patient requires me to turn aside all unauthorized inquiries, Mr. Marlowe. I greatly respect each patient's right to privacy."

    "She's here then?" I said.

    "I cannot comment on any of your questions, I'm afraid."

    "I heard she wasn't here," I said. "I heard that she's gone and that her sister, Vivian Regan, has asked a hard customer named Eddie Mars to find her."

    "Do you represent Mrs. Regan?"

    "No. I represent her butler."

    "Her butler?" Bonsentir came as close as he probably could to laughing. It made his pencil moustache wiggle slightly. "My dear Mr. Marlowe, I'm very dreadfully afraid that Mrs. Regan's butler has very little standing here."

    "Doctor, there's a couple of ways we can go with this," I said. "You could cooperate by either showing me Carmen Sternwood alive and well, or explaining to me where she is, and helping me find her; or I can come up here with a couple of tough L. A. County deputies and stomp all over your jonquils and interrogate your staff and probably set your patients back five years. Cops are kind of direct sometimes."

    "I assure you, Marlowe, that would be a mistake," Bonsentir said. "I am not without knowledge of my legal rights, and I am not without influence."

    "But you seem to be without Carmen Sternwood," I said.

    "It is time for you to leave, Marlowe."

    Bonsentir pressed a button under the rim of his desk and the door to his office opened and two guys in white came in. One of them was a blond beachboy. His hair almost white, his skin where he bulged out of his white T-shirt, a golden tan. I could have taken him with a swizzle stick.

    The other guy was trouble. He was Mexican, with opaque black eyes that were all Indian and thick black hair that he had pulled back and tied in a pigtail. His arms were unnaturally long and his legs seemed short, and bowed; too small to support the massive upper half of him.

    "My orderlies will show you out now."

    I could see that they would. I stood up.

    "I'm going to find Carmen Sternwood," I said to Bonsentir. "You better hope I find her here."

    "Mr. Marlowe, you are a little man doing a little man's pallid job. Don't waste your time trying to threaten me. It is time now for you to go."

    The two orderlies stood beside me, looking at Bonsentir. I could smell whatever the Mexican had eaten for lunch. I looked at Bonsentir and shrugged and headed for the door. The orderlies followed me out and to my car and stood in the driveway watching me until I was out of sight. When I reached Sunset I headed east toward downtown L. A. Scaring Dr. Bonsentir out of his wits hadn't been too effective. Time to try a different approach.