raymondchandler.thehighwindow-第13章

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re　nobody　except　people　named　Smith　and　Jones　sign　the　register　and　where　the　night　clerk　is　half　watchdog　and　half　pander。
　 Out　of　the　apartment　houses　e　women　who　should　be　young　but　have　faces　like　stale　beer；　men　with　pulled…down　hats　and　quick　eyes　that　look　the　street　over　behind　the　cupped　hand　that　shields　the　match　flame；　worn　intellectuals　with　cigarette　coughs　and　no　money　in　the　bank；　fly　cops　with　granite　faces　and　unwavering　eyes；　cokies　and　coke　peddlers；　people　who　look　like　nothing　in　particular　and　know　it；　and　once　in　a　while　even　men　that　actually　go　to　work。　But　they　e　out　early；　when　the　wide　cracked　sidewalks　are　empty　and　still　have　dew　on　them。
　 I　was　earlier　than　four…thirty　getting　over　there；　but　not　much。　I　parked　at　the　end　of　the　street；　where　the　funicular　railway　es　struggling　up　the　yellow　clay　bank　from　Hill　Street；　and　walked　along　Court　Street　to　the　Florence　Apartments。　It　was　dark　brick　in　front；　three　stories；　the　lower　windows　at　sidewalk　level　and　masked　by　rusted　screens　and　dingy　net　curtains。　The　entrance　door　had　a　glass　panel　and　enough　of　the　name　left　to　be　read。　I　opened　it　and　went　down　three　brass　bound　steps　into　a　hallway　you　could　touch　on　both　sides　without　stretching。　Dim　doors　painted　with　numbers　in　dim　paint。　An　alcove　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs　with　a　pay　telephone。　A　sign：　Manager　Apt。　106。　At　the　back　of　the　hallway　a　screen　door　and　in　the　alley　beyond　it　four　tall　battered　garbage　pails　in　a　line；　with　a　dance　of　flies　in　the　sunlit　air　above　them。
　 I　went　up　the　stairs。　The　radio　I　had　heard　over　the　telephone　was　still　blatting　the　baseball　game。　I　read　numbers　and　went　up　front。　Apartment　204　was　on　the　right　side　and　the　baseball　game　was　right　across　the　hall　from　it。　I　knocked；　got　no　answer　and　knocked　louder。　Behind　my　back　three　Dodgers　struck　out　against　a　welter　of　synthetic　crowd　noise。　I　knocked　a　third　time　and　looked　out　of　the　front　hall　window　while　I　felt　in　my　pocket　for　the　key　George　Anson　Phillips　had　given　me。
　 Across　the　street　was　an　Italian　funeral　home；　neat　and　quiet　and　reticent；　white　painted　brick；　flush　with　the　sidewalk。　Pietro　Palermo　Funeral　Parlors。　The　thin　green　script　of　a　neon　sign　lay　across　its　fa？ade；　with　a　chaste　air。　A　tall　man　in　dark　clothes　came　out　of　the　front　door　and　leaned　against　the　white　wall。　He　looked　very　handsome。　He　had　dark　skin　and　a　handsome　head　of　iron…gray　hair　brushed　back　from　his　forehead。　He　got　out　what　looked　at　that　distance　to　be　a　silver　or　platinum　and　black　enamel　cigarette　case；　opened　it　languidly　with　two　long　brown　fingers　and　selected　a　gold…tipped　cigarette。　He　put　the　case　away　and　lit　the　cigarette　with　a　pocket　lighter　that　seemed　to　match　the　case。　He　put　that　away　and　folded　his　arms　and　stared　at　nothing　with　half…closed　eyes。　From　the　tip　of　his　motionless　cigarette　a　thin　wisp　of　smoke　rose　straight　up　past　his　face；　as　thin　and　straight　as　the　smoke　of　a　dying　campfire　at　dawn。
　 Another　batter　struck　out　or　flied　out　behind　my　back　in　the　recreated　ball　game。　I　turned　from　watching　the　tall　Italian；　put　the　key　into　the　door　of　Apartment　204　and　went　in。
　 A　square　room　with　a　brown　carpet；　very　little　furniture　and　that　not　inviting。　The　wall　bed　with　the　usual　distorting　mirror　faced　me　as　I　opened　the　door　and　made　me　look　like　a　two…time　loser　sneaking　home　from　a　reefer　party。　There　was　a　birchwood　easy　chair　with　some　hard　looking　upholstery　beside　it　in　the　form　of　a　davenport。　A　table　before　the　window　held　a　lamp　with　a　shirred　paper　shade。　There　was　a　door　on　either　side　of　the　bed。
　 The　door　to　the　left　led　into　a　small　kitchenette　with　a　brown　woodstone　sink　and　a　three…burner　stove　and　an　old　electric　icebox　that　clicked　and　began　to　throb　in　torment　just　as　I　pushed　the　door　open。　On　the　woodstone　drain　board　stood　the　remains　of　somebody's　breakfast；　mud　at　the　bottom　of　a　cup；　a　burnt　crust　of　bread；　crumbs　on　a　board；　a　yellow　slime　of　melted　butter　down　the　slope　of　a　saucer；　a　smeared　knife　and　a　granite　coffee　pot　that　smelled　like　sacks　in　a　hot　barn。
　 I　went　back　around　the　wall　bed　and　through　the　other　door。　It　gave　on　a　short　hallway　with　an　open　space　for　clothes　and　a　built…in　dresser。　On　the　dresser　was　a　b　and　a　black　brush　with　a　few　blond　hairs　in　its　black　bristles。　Also　a　can　of　talcum；　a　small　flashlight　with　a　cracked　lens；　a　pad　of　writing　paper；　a　bank　pen；　a　bottle　of　ink　on　a　blotter；　cigarettes　and　matches　in　a　glass　ashtray　that　contained　half　a　dozen　stubs。
　 In　the　drawers　of　the　dresser　were　about　what　one　suitcase　would　hold　in　the　way　of　socks　and　underclothes　and　handkerchiefs。　There　was　a　dark　gray　suit　on　a　hanger；　not　new　but　still　good；　and　a　pair　of　rather　dusty　black　brogues　on　the　floor　under　it。
　 I　pushed　the　bathroom　door。　It　opened　about　a　foot　and　then　stuck。　My　nose　twitched　and　I　could　feel　my　lips　stiffen　and　I　smelled　the　harsh　sharp　bitter　smell　from　beyond　the　door。　I　leaned　against　it。　It　gave　a　little；　but　came　back；　as　though　somebody　was　holding　it　against　me。　I　poked　my　head　through　the　opening。
　 The　floor　of　the　bathroom　was　too　short　for　him；　so　his　knees　were　poked　up　and　hung　outwards　slackly　and　his　head　was　pressed　against　the　woodstone　baseboard　at　the　other　end；　not　tilted　up；　but　jammed　tight。　His　brown　suit　was　rumpled　a　little　and　his　dark　glasses　stuck　out　of　his　breast　pocket　at　an　unsafe　angle。　As　if　that　mattered。　His　right　hand　was　thrown　across　his　stomach；　his　left　hand　lay　on　the　floor；　palm　up；　the　fingers　curled　a　little。　There　was　a　blood…caked　bruise　on　the　right　side　of　his　head；　in　the　blond　hair。　His　open　mouth　was　full　of　shiny　crimson　blood。
　 The　door　was　stopped　by　his　leg。　I　pushed　hard　and　edged　around　it　and　got　in。　I　bent　down　to　push　two　fingers　into　the　side　of　his　neck　against　the　big　artery。　No　artery　throbbed　there；　or　even　whispered。　Nothing　at　all。　The　skin　was　icy。　It　couldn't　have　been　icy。　I　just　thought　it　was。　I　straightened　up　and　leaned　my　back　against　the　door　and　made　hard　fists　in　my　pockets　and　smelled　the　cordite　fumes。　The　baseball　game　was　still　going　on；　but　through　two　closed　doors　it　sounded　remote。
　 I　stood　and　looked　down　at　him。　Nothing　in　that；　Marlowe；　nothing　at　all。　Nothing　for　you　here；　nothing。　You　didn't　even　know　him。　Get　out；　get　out　fast。
　 I　pulled　away　from　the　door　and　pulled　it　open　and　went　back　through　the　hall　into　the　living　room。　A　face　in　the　mirror　looked　at　me。　A　strained；　leering　face。　I　turned　away　from　it　quickly　and　took　out　the　flat　key　George　Anson　Phillips　had　given　me　and　rubbed　it　between　my　moist　palms　and　laid　it　down　beside　the　lamp。
　 I　smeared　the　doorknob　opening　the　door　and　the　outside　knob　closing　the　door。　The　Dodgers　were　ahead　seven　to　three；　the　first　half　of　the　eighth。　A　lady　who　sounded　well　on　with　her　drinking　was　singing　Frankie　and　Johnny；　the　roundhouse　version；　in　a　voice　that　even　whiskey　had　failed　to　improve。　A　deep　man's　voice　growled　at　her　to　shut　up　and　she　kept　on　singing　and　there　was　a　hard　quick　movement　across　the　floor　and　a　smack　and　a　yelp　and　she　stopped　singing　and　the　baseball　game　went　right　on。
　 I　put　the　cigarette　in　my　mouth　and　lit　it　and　went　back　down　the　stairs　and　stood　in　the　half　dark　of　the　hall　angle　looking　at　the　little　sign　that　read：　Manager；　Apt。　106。
　 I　was　a　fool　even　to　look　at　it。　I　looked　at　it　for　a　long　minute；　biting　the　cigarette　hard　between　my　teeth。
　 I　turned　and　walked　down　the　hallway　towards　the　back。　A　small　enameled　plate　on　a　door　said：　Manager。　I　knocked　on　the　door。
　
　
　9
　
　 A　chair　was　pushed　back；　feet　shuffled；　the　door　opened。
　 〃You　the　manager？〃
　 〃Yeah。〃　It　was　the　same　voice　I　had　heard　over　the　telephone。　Talking　to　Elisha　Morningstar。
　 He　held　an　empty　smeared　glass　in　his　hand。　It　looked　as　if　somebody　had　been　keeping　goldfish　in　it。　He　was　a　lanky　man　with　carroty　short　hair　growing　down　to　a　point　on　his　forehead。　He　had　a　long　narrow　head　packed　with　shabby　cunning。　Greenish　eyes　stared　under　orange　eyebrows。　His　ears　were　large　and　might　have　flapped　in　a　high　wind。　He　had　a　long　nose　that　would　be　into　things。　The　whole　face　was　a　trained　face；　a　face　that　would