There was a sharp-angled glossy bag at her feet.
She was smoking and a glass of amber fluid was tall and pale at her elbow.
I moved my head a little, carefully.
It hurt, but not more than I expected.
I was trussed like a turkey ready for the oven.
Handcuffs held my wrists behind me and a rope went from them to my ankles and then over the end of the brown davenport on which I was sprawled.
The rope dropped out of sight over the davenport.
I moved enough to make sure it was tied down.
I stopped these furtive movements and opened my eyes again and said:
"Hello."
The woman withdrew her gaze from some distant mountain peak. Her small firm chin turned slowly.
Her eyes were the blue of mountain lakes.
Overhead the rain still pounded, with a remote sound, as if it was somebody else's rain.
"How do you feel?" It was a smooth silvery voice that matched her hair.
It had a tiny tinkle in it, like bells in a doll's house.
I thought that was silly as soon as I thought of it.
"Great," I said. "Somebody built a filling station on my jaw."
"What did you expect, Mr. Marlowe — orchids?"
"Just a plain pine box," I said. "Don't bother with bronze or silver handles. And don't scatter my ashes over the blue Pacific.
I like the worms better.
Did you know that worms are of both sexes and that any worm can love any other worm?"
"You're a little light-headed," she said, with a grave stare.
"Would you mind moving this light?"
She got up and went behind the davenport.
The light went off.
The dimness was a benison.
"I don't think you're so dangerous," she said.
She was tall rather than short, but no bean-pole.
She was slim, but not a dried crust.
She went back to her chair.
"So you know my name."
"You slept well. They had plenty of time to go through your pockets.
They did everything but embalm you.
So you're a detective."
"Is that all they have on me?"
She was silent.
Smoke floated dimly from the cigarette.
She moved it in the air.
Her hand was small and had shape, not the usual bony garden tool you see on women nowadays.
"What time is it?" I asked. She looked sideways at her wrist, beyond the spiral of smoke, at the edge of the grave luster of the lamplight.
"Ten-seventeen.
You have a date?"
"I wouldn't be surprised.
Is this the house next to Art Huck's garage?"
"Yes."
"What are the boys doing — digging a grave?"
"They had to go somewhere."
"You mean they left you here alone?"
Her head turned slowly again. She smiled.
"You don't look dangerous."