He didn't know Harry Jones. He didn't know Joe Brody. He did know Geiger, of course, but claims he didn't know about his racket.
I guess you heard all that."
"Yes."
"You played it smart down there at Realito, brother.
Not trying to cover up.
We keep a file on unidentified bullets nowadays.
Someday you might use that gun again. Then you'd be over a barrel."
"I played it smart," I said, and leered at him.
He knocked his pipe out and stared down at it broodingly.
"What happened to the girl?" he asked, not looking up.
"I don't know.
They didn't hold her.
We made statements, three sets of them, for Wilde, for the Sheriff's office, for the Homicide Bureau.
They turned her loose.
I haven't seen her since. I don't expect to."
"Kind of a nice girl, they say. Wouldn't be one to play dirty games." "Kind of a nice girl," I said. Captain Gregory sighed and rumpled his mousy hair. "There's just one more thing," he said almost gently.
"You look like a nice guy, but you play too rough.
If you really want to help the Sternwood family — leave 'em alone."
"I think you're right, Captain."
"How do you feel?"
"Swell," I said. "I was standing on various pieces of carpet most of the night, being balled out.
Before that I got soaked to the skin and beaten up.
I'm in perfect condition."
"What the hell did you expect, brother?"
"Nothing else."
I stood up and grinned at him and started for the door.
When I had almost reached it he cleared his throat suddenly and said in a harsh voice:
"I'm wasting my breath, huh?
You still think you find Regan."
I turned around and looked him straight in eyes
"No, I don't think I can find Regan.
I'm not even going to try.
Does that suit you?"
He nodded slowly. Then he shrugged.
"I don't know what the hell I even said that for.
Good luck, Marlowe.
Drop around any time."
"Thanks, Captain."
I went down out of the City Hall and got my car from the parking lot and drove home to the Hobart Arms.
I lay down on the bed with my coat off and stared at the ceiling and listened to the traffic sounds on the street outside and watched the sun move slowly across a corner of the ceiling.
I tried to go to sleep, but sleep didn't come.
I got up and took a drink, although it was the wrong time of day, and lay down again.
I still couldn't go to sleep.
My brain ticked like a clock.
I sat up on the side of the bed and stuffed a pipe and said out loud:
"That old buzzard knows something."
The pipe tasted as bitter as lye.
I put it aside and lay down again.
My mind drifted through waves of false memory, in which I seemed to do the same thing over and over again, go to the same places, meet the same people, say the same words to them, over and and over again, and yet each time it seemed real, like something actually happening, and for the first time.
I was driving hard along the highway through the rain, with Silver-Wig in the corner of the car, saying nothing, so that by the time we reached Los Angeles we seemed to be utter strangers again.