Poodle Springs

3

The Fleetwood purred me down to the office of a man named Thorson whose window said he was a realtor and practically everything else except a rabbit fancier.

He was a pleasant-looking baldheaded man who didn't seem to have a care in the world except to keep his pipe lit.

"Offices are hard to find, Mr. Marlowe. If you want one on Canyon Drive, as I assume you do, it will cost you."

"I don't want one on Canyon Drive. I want one on some side street or on Sioux Avenue. I couldn't afford one on the main stem."

I gave him my card and let him look at the photostat of my license.

"I don't know," he said doubtfully. "The police department may not be too happy. This is a resort town and the visitors have to be kept happy. If you handle divorce business, people are not going to like you too well."

"I don't handle divorce business and people very seldom like me at all. As for the cops, I'll explain myself to them, and if they want to run me out of town, my wife won't like it. She has just rented a pretty fancy place in the section out near Romanoff's new place."

He didn't fall out of his chair but he damn well had to steady himself. "You mean Harlan Potter's daughter? I heard she had married some-well the hell with it, what do I mean? You're the man, I take it. I'm sure we can fix you up, Mr. Marlowe. But why do you want it on a side street or on Sioux Avenue? Why not right in the best section?"

"I'm paying with my own money. I don't have a hell of a lot."

"But your wife-"

"Listen good, Thorson. The most I make is a couple of thousand a month-gross. Some months nothing at all. I can't afford a showy layout."

He lit his pipe for about the ninth time. Why the hell do they smoke them if they don't know how?

"Would your wife like that?"

"What my wife likes or dislikes doesn't enter into our business, Thorson. Have you got anything or haven't you? Don't con me. I've been worked on by the orchids of the trade. I can be had, but not by your line."

"Well-"

A brisk-looking young man pushed the door open and came in smiling. "I represent the Poodle Springs Gazette, Mr. Marlowe. I understand-"

"If you did, you wouldn't be here." I stood up. "Sorry, Mr. Thorson, you have too many buttons under your desk. I'll look elsewhere."

I pushed the reporter out of the way and goofed my way out of the open door. If anybody ever closes a door in Poodle Springs, it's a nervous reaction. On the way out I bumped into a big florid man who had four inches and thirty pounds on me.

"I'm Manny Lipshultz," he said. "You're Philip Marlowe. Let's talk."

"I got here about two hours ago," I said. "I'm looking for an office. I don't know anybody named Lipshultz. Would you please let me by?"

"I got something for you maybe. Things get known in this burg. Harlan Potter's son-in-law, huh? That rings a lot of bells."

"Blow."

"Don't be like that. I'm in trouble. I need a good man."

"When I get an office, Mr. Lipshultz, come and see me. Right now I have deep affairs on my mind."

"I may not be alive that long," he said quietly. "Ever hear of the Agony Club? I own it."

I looked back into the office of Senor Thorson. The newshawk and he both had their ears out a foot.

"Not here," I said. "Call me after I talk to the law." I gave him the number.

He gave me a tired smile and moved out of the way. I went back to the Fleetwood and tooled it gracefully to the cop house down the line a little way. I parked in an official slot and went in. A very pretty blonde in a policewoman's uniform was at the desk.

"Damn all," I said. "I thought policewomen were hard-faced. You're a doll."

"We have all kinds," she said sedately. "You're Philip Marlowe, aren't you? I've seen your photo in the L.A. papers. What can we do for you, Mr. Marlowe?"

"I'm checking in. Do I talk to you or to the duty sergeant? And which street could I walk down without being called by name?"

She smiled. Her teeth were even and as white as the snow on top of the mountain behind the Springs. I bet she used one of the nineteen kinds of toothpaste that are better and newer and larger than all the others.

"You'd better talk to Sergeant Whitestone." She opened a swing gate and nodded me toward a closed door. I knocked and opened it and I was looking at a calm-looking man with red hair and the sort of eyes that every police sergeant gets in time. Eyes that have seen too much nastiness and heard too many liars.

"My name's Marlowe. I'm a private eye. I'm going to open up an office here if I can find one and if you let me." I dumped another card on the desk and opened my wallet to let him look at my license.

"Divorce?"

"Never touch it, Sergeant."

"Good. That helps. I can't say I'm enthusiastic, but we could get along, if you leave police business to the police."

"I'd like to, but I've never been able to find out just where to stop."

He scowled. Then he snapped his fingers. He yelled, "Norman!"

The pretty blonde opened the door. "Who is this character?" the sergeant wailed. "Don't tell me. Let me guess."

"I'm afraid so, Sergeant," she said demurely.

"Hell! It's bad enough to have a private eye mousing around. But a private eye who's backed by a couple or three hundred million bucks-that's inhuman."

"I'm not backed by any two hundred million, Sergeant. I'm on my own and I'm a relatively poor man."

"Yeah? You and me both, but I forgot to marry the boss's daughter. Us cops are stupid."

I sat down and lit a cigarette. The blonde went out and closed the door.

"It's no use, is it?" I said. "I can't convince you that I'm just another guy trying to scratch a living. Do you know somebody named Lapshultz who owns a club?"

"Too well. His place is out in the desert, outside our jurisdiction. Every so often the Riverside D.A. has him raided. They say he permits gambling at his joint. I wouldn't know."

He passed his horny hand over his face and made it look like the face of a man who wouldn't know.

"He braced me in front of the office of a real estate man named Thorson. Said he was in trouble."

The sergeant stared at me expressionlessly. "Being in trouble belongs with being a man named Lipshultz. Stay away from him. Some of that trouble might rub off on you."

I stood up. "Thanks, Sergeant. I just wanted to check with you."

"You checked in. I'm looking forward to the day you check out."

I went out and closed the door. The pretty policewoman gave me a nice smile. I stopped at the desk and stared at her for a moment without speaking.

"I guess no cop ever liked a private eye," I said.

"You look all right to me, Mr. Marlowe."

"You look more than all right to me. My wife likes me part of the time too."

She leaned her elbows on the desk and clasped her hands under her chin. "What does she do the rest of the time?"

"She wishes I had ten million dollars. Then we could afford a couple more Fleetwood Cadillacs."

I grinned at her fascinatingly and went out of the cop house and climbed into our lonely Fleetwood. I struck out for the mansion.