Perchance to Dream

    The Mexican backed out of the room ahead of me and as I reached the hall and stepped away from the door he whistled a punch with his left hand that caught me on the side of the jaw and slammed me back against the wall. It was like being hit by a bowling ball. I banged into the wall, my legs felt rubbery and I slid a little downward, trying to brace against the wall with my back as I slid. There was no expression on the Mexican's face as he stepped in to me and rammed his forearm up under my chin, and pinned me back against the wall. His breath was sour in my face as he came in against me and I saw his eyes suddenly widen as I jammed the muzzle of the Colt into his belly under his rib cage.

    "Back up," I said hoarsely, "your breath is wilting my suit."

    The Mexican stepped back carefully and stood with his hands a little away from his sides, his small eyes still steady on me.

    "Now," I said, "you and I are going to walk down this corridor and into the front hall and out the front door. And you're going to do it backwards."

    He made no motion, he said nothing. I could feel the tension in him, like a trigger waiting to be pulled. I hoped he could feel the same thing in me. Especially because I had a trigger to pull.

    "Move," I said.

    He backed slowly down the corridor, moving through the patches of sunlight where the doors to patients' rooms were open and the light streamed in from the east. Dust motes lazed in the sunlight. At the far end of the corridor there was a door in the right wall. I jerked the gun at it and it opened and we were in the entry hall where I'd waited to see Dr. Bonsentir. The slick-haired man in the white coat was there. He looked at me and made a move with his hand. I shook my head and he froze.

    "You too!" I said. "Both of you face the wall, hands on the wall, spread your legs, back away from the wall so the weight is on your hands."

    They did as they were told. No one spoke. I patted them down. The Mexican had no gun. He'd probably gotten hungry one day and eaten it. I took a Smith and Wesson .38 out from under the other guy's left arm.

    "Anyone pokes his nose through the door," I said, "gets a bullet in it."

    No one moved or spoke. I opened the front door carefully and looked out. The front yard was empty. The two orderlies leaned on the wall. I stepped out the front door and closed it and ran for my car.

CHAPTER 9

    There were 105 people named Simpson in the L. A. phone book, if you counted the guy who spelled it without the P, or the one who spelled it Sympson. Of them, five were women, and three more had only the first initial and thus probably were women. Which left only 97 people for me to run down. If Carmen was with someone whose phone was listed, or with someone in L. A. If his real name was Mr. Simpson. My source was not impeccable.

    I got up from my desk and stared out the window at the heat shimmering up off Hollywood Boulevard. The sun was steady and hot, and the smell of the grill from the coffee shop downstairs went perfectly with the weather. My coat was off and hanging on my chair. My shirt stuck to my back and I had taken off my shoulder holster and hung it on the chair over my coat, handy in case a horde of sanitarium orderlies burst in and tried to stick me in a straitjacket. If I looked left I could stare down Cahuenga toward lower Hollywood, out of the glitter district where big comfortable homes with deep verandas still lined quiet streets. It would be cool inside those homes with their thick walls and their low roofs, some people kept the windows closed and the heat out, others opened them for ventilation and the lace curtains would stir lazily in the hot wind and make a soft whisper. But listen though I might, it didn't whisper where Carmen Sternwood was. I needed a different approach.

    I called Vivian Regan. Her maid said she was resting. I said I'd be there in an hour. I washed my hands and face in the sink. Dried them, put my shoulder holster back on and my coat and went down to get my car. I drove over the Alta Brea Crescent with the top down and the hot wind blew some of the perspiration off my face. But my shirt was still wet under my jacket and my hat band was damp. I was early to the Sternwoods' so I cruised a little in the hills, looking at all the sprinklers on all the lawns. Brown was the normal and permanent color of southern California, it was held at bay by regiments of lawn sprinklers.

    At two I was at the front door of the Sternwood home. The maid opened the door for me and led me through the house to the patio beside the pool where Vivian lay on a pink chaise under a pink and white umbrella, wearing a gleaming white one-piece swim-suit. She had on oversized sunglasses and there was an ice bucket handy with a bottle of champagne in it. Vivian's body was tanned the color of honey and all of it that I could see was smooth and resilient.

    "My God, Marlowe," she said to me. "Take off your coat in this beastly heat."

    "I'm wearing a gun," I said.