The car in that garage don't jibe with foul play, although there's a reason to suspect foul play.
It jibes with something else I'll tell you about in a minute."
I said: "That jibes with Eddie Mars' wife being on the missing list."
He looked annoyed.
"Yeah.
We investigate the tenants and find she's living there.
Left about the time Regan did, within two days anyway. A guy who sounds a bit like Regan had been seen with her, but we don't get a positive identification.
It's goddamned funny in this police racket how an old woman can look out of a window and see a guy running and pick him out of a line-up six months later, but we can show hotel help a clear photo and they just can't be sure."
"That's one of the qualifications for good hotel help," I said.
"Yeah.
Eddie Mars and his wife didn't live together, but they were friendly, Eddie says.
Here's some of the possibilities.
First off Regan carried fifteen grand, packed it in his clothes all the time. Real money, they tell me.
Not just a top card and a bunch of hay.
That's a lot of jack but this Regan might be the boy to have it around so he could take it out and look at it when somebody was looking at him.
Then again maybe he wouldn't give a damn.
His wife says he never made a nickel off of old man Sternwood except room and board and a Packard 120 his wife gave him.
Tie that for an ex-legger in the rich gravy."
"It beats me," I said.
"Well, here we are with a guy who ducks out and has fifteen grand in his pants and folks know it.
Well, that's money.
I might duck out myself, if I had fifteen grand, and me with two kids in high school.
So the first thought is somebody rolls him for it and rolls him too hard, so they have to take him out in the desert and plant him among the cactuses.
But I don't like that too well.
Regan carried a gat and had plenty of experience using it, and not just in a greasy-faced liquor mob.
I understand he commanded a whole brigade in the Irish troubles back in 1922 or whenever it was.
A guy like that wouldn't be white meat to a heister.
Then, his car being in that garage makes whoever rolled him know he was sweet on Eddie Mars' wife, which he was, I guess, but it ain't something every poolroom bum would know."
"Got a photo?" I asked.
"Him, not her.
That's funny too.
There's a lot of funny angles to this case.
Here." He pushed a shiny print across the desk and I looked at an Irish face that was more sad than merry and more reserved than brash.
Not the face of a tough guy and not the face of a man who could be pushed around much by anybody.
Straight dark brows with strong bone under them. A forehead wide rather than high, a mat of dark clustering hair, a thin short nose, a wide mouth.
A chin that had strong lines but was small for the mouth.
A face that looked a little taut, the face of a man who would move fast and play for keeps.
I passed the print back.
I would know that face, if I saw it.
Captain Gregory knocked his pipe out and refilled it and tamped the tobacco down with his thumb.
He lit it, blew smoke and began to talk again.
"Well, there could be people who would know he was sweet on Eddie Mars' frau.
Besides Eddie himself. For a wonder he knew it.
But he don't seem to give a damn.
We checked him pretty thoroughly around that time.
Of course Eddie wouldn't have knocked him off out of jealousy.
The set-up would point to him too obvious."
"It depends how smart he is," I said. "He might try the double bluff."
Captain Gregory shook his head.
"If he's smart enough to get by in his racket, he's too smart for that.