Cell No. 3 in the felony tank has two bunks, Pullman style, but the tank was not very full and I had the cell to myself.

In the felony tank they treat you pretty well.

You get two blankets, neither dirty nor clean, and a lumpy mattress two inches thick which goes over crisscrossed metal slats.

There is a flush toilet, a washbasin, paper towels and gritty gray soap.

The cell block is clean and doesn't smell of disinfectant.

The trusties do the work.

The supply of trusties is always ample.

 The jail deputies look you over and they have wise eyes.

Unless you are a drunk or a psycho or act like one you get to keep your matches and cigarettes.

Until preliminary you wear your own clothes.

After that you wear the jail denim, no tie, no belt, no shoelaces.

You sit on the bunk and wait.

There is nothing else to do.

 In the drunk tank it is not so good.

No bunk, no chair, no blankets, no nothing.

You lie on the concrete floor.

You sit on the toilet and vomit in your own lap.

That is the depth of misery.

I've seen it.

 Although it was still daylight the lights were on in the ceiling.

Inside the steel door of the cell block was a basket of steel bars around the Judas window.

The lights were controlled from outside the steel door.

They went out at nine p.m.

Nobody came through the door or said anything.

You might be in the middle of a sentence in a newspaper or magazine.

Without any sound of a click or any warning--darkness.

And there you were until the summer dawn with nothing to do but sleep if you could, smoke if you had anything to smoke, and think if you had anything to think about that didn't make you feel worse than not thinking at all.

 In jail a man has no personality.

He is a minor disposal problem and a few entries on reports.

Nobody cares who loves or hates him, what he looks like, what he did with his life.

Nobody reacts to him unless he gives trouble.

Nobody abuses him.

All that is asked of him is that he go quietly to the right cell and remain quiet when he gets there.

There is nothing to fight against, nothing to be mad at.

The jailers are quiet men without animosity or sadism.

All this stuff you read about men yelling and screaming, beating against the bars, running spoons along them, guards rushing in with clubs--all that is for the big house.

A good jail is one of the quietest places in the world.

You could walk through the average cell block at night and look in through the bars and see a huddle of brown blanket, or a head of hair, or a pair of eyes looking at nothing.

You might hear a snore.

Once in a long while you might hear a nightmare.

The life in a jail is in suspension, without purpose or meaning.

In another cell you might see a man who cannot sleep or even try to sleep.

He is sitting on the edge of his bunk doing nothing.

He looks at you or doesn't.

You look at him.

He says nothing and you say nothing.

There is nothing to communicate.

 In the corner of the cell block there may be a second steel door that leads to the show-up box.

One of its walls is wire mesh painted black.

On the back wall are ruled lines for height.

Overhead are floodlights.

You go in there in the morning as a rule, just before the night captain goes off duty.

You stand against the measuring lines and the lights glare at you and there is no light behind the wire mesh.

But plenty of people are out there: cops, detectives, citizens who have been robbed or assaulted or swindled or kicked out of their cars at gun point or conned out of their life savings.

You don't see or hear them.

You hear the voice of the night captain.

You receive him loud and clear.

He puts you through your paces as if you were a performing dog.

He is tired and cynical and competent.

He is the stage manager of a play that has had the longest run in history, but it no longer interests him.

 “All right, you. Stand straight. Pull your belly in.

Pull your chin in.

Keep your shoulders back.

Hold your head level.

Look straight front.

Turn left. Turn right. Face front again and hold your hands out.

Palms up. Palms down. Pull your sleeves back.

No visible scars.

Hair dark brown, some gray.

Eyes brown. Height six feet, one half inch.

Weight about one ninety.

Name, Philip Marlowe. Occupation private detective.

Well, well, nice to see you, Marlowe.

That's all. Next man.”

 Much obliged, Captain. Thanks for the time.

You forgot to have me open my mouth.

I have some nice inlays and one very high-class porcelain jacket crown.

Eighty-seven dollars worth of porcelain jacket crown.

You forgot to look inside my nose too, Captain.

A lot of scar tissue in there for you.

Septum operation and was that guy a butcher!

Two hours of it in those days.

I hear they do it in twenty minutes now.

I got it playing football, Captain, a slight miscalculation in an attempt to block a punt.

I blocked the guy's foot instead--after he kicked the ball.

Fifteen yards penalty, and that's about how much stiff bloody tape they pulled out of my nose an inch at a time the day after the operation.

I'm not bragging, Captain.

I'm just telling you.

It's the little things that count.

 On the third day a deputy unlocked my cell in the middle of the morning.

 “Your lawyer's here.

Kill the butt--and not on the floor.”

 I flushed it down the toilet.

He took me to the conference room.

A tall pale dark-haired man was standing there looking out of the window.

There was a fat brown briefcase on the table.

He turned.

He waited for the door to close.

Then he sat down near his briefcase on the far side of a scarred oak table that came out of the Ark.

Noah bought it secondhand.

The lawyer opened a hammered silver cigarette case and put it in front of him and looked me over.

 “Sit down, Marlowe. Care for a cigarette?

My name is Endicott. Sewell Endicott.

I've been instructed to represent you without cost or expense to you.

I guess you'd like to get out of here, wouldn't you?”

 I sat down and took one of the cigarettes.

He held a lighter for me.

 “Nice to see you again, Mr. Endicott.

We've met before--while you were D.A.”

 He nodded.

“I don't remember, but it's quite possible.”

He smiled faintly.

“That position was not quite in my line.

I guess I don't have enough tiger in me.”

 “Who sent you?”

 “I'm not at liberty to say.

If you accept me as your attorney, the fee will be taken care of.”

 “I guess that means they've got him.”

 He just stared at me.

I puffed at the cigarette.

It was one of those things with filters in them.

It tasted like a high fog strained through cotton wool.

 “If you mean Lennox,” he said, “and of course you do, no--they haven't got him.”

 “Why the mystery, Mr. Endicott?

About who sent you.”

 “My principal wishes to remain anonymous.

That is the privilege of my principal.

Do you accept me?”

 “I don't know,” I said.

“If they haven't got Terry, why are they holding me?

Nobody has asked me anything, nobody has been near me.”

 He frowned and looked down at his long white delicate fingers.

“District Attorney Springer has taken personal charge of this matter.

He may have been too busy to question you yet.

But you are entitled to arraignment and a preliminary hearing.

I can get you out on bail on a habeas corpus proceeding.

You probably know what the law is.”

 “I'm booked on suspicion of murder.”

 He shrugged impatiently.

“That's just a catch-all. You could have been booked in transit to Pittsburgh, or any one of a dozen charges.

What they probably mean is accessory after the fact.

You took Lennox somewhere, didn't you?”

 I didn't answer.

I dropped the tasteless cigarette on the floor and stepped on it.

Endicott shrugged again and frowned.

 “Assume you did then, just for the sake of argument.

To make you an accessory they have to prove intent.

In this case that would mean knowledge that a crime had been committed and that Lennox was a fugitive.

It's bailable in any case.

Of course what you really are is a material witness.

But a man can't be held in prison as a material witness in this state except by court order.

He's not a material witness unless a judge so declares.

But the law enforcement people can always find a way to do what they want to do.”

 “Yeah,” I said.

“A detective named Dayton slugged me.

A homicide captain named Gregorius threw a cup of coffee at me, hit me in the neck hard enough to bust an artery--you can see it's still swollen, and when a call from Police Commissioner Allbright kept him from turning me over to the wrecking crew, he spat in my face.

You're quite right, Mr. Endicott.

The law boys can always do what they want to do.”

 He looked at his wrist watch rather pointedly.

“You want out on bail or don't you?”

 “Thanks. I don't think I do.

A guy out on bail is already half guilty in the public mind.

If he gets off later on, he had a smart lawyer.”

 “That's silly,” he said impatiently.

 “Okay, it's silly.

I'm silly. Otherwise I wouldn't be here.

If you're in touch with Lennox, tell him to quit bothering about me.

I'm not in here for him.

I'm in here for me.

No complaints. It's part of the deal.

I'm in a business where people come to me with troubles.

Big troubles, little troubles, but always troubles they don't want to take to the cops.

How long would they come if any bruiser with a police shield could hold me upside down and drain my guts?”

 “I see your point,” he said slowly.

“But let me correct you on one thing.

I am not in touch with Lennox. I scarcely know him.

I'm an officer of the court, as all lawyers are.

If I knew where Lennox was, I couldn't conceal the information from the District Attorney.

The most I could do would be to agree to surrender him at a specified time and place after I had had an interview with him.”

 “Nobody else would bother to send you here to help me.”

 “Are you calling me a liar?”

He reached down to rub out his cigarette stub on the underside of the table.

 “I seem to remember that you're a Virginian, Mr. Endicott.

In this country we have a sort of historical fixation about Virginians.

We think of them as the flower of southern chivalry and honor.”

 He smiled.

“That was nicely said.

I only wish it was true.

But we're wasting time.

If you had had a grain of sense you'd have told the police you hadn't seen Lennox for a week.

It didn't have to be true.

Under oath you could always have told the real story.

There's no law against lying to the cops.

They expect it.

They feel much happier when you lie to them than when you refuse to talk to them.

That's a direct challenge to their authority.

What do you expect to gain by it?”

 I didn't answer.

I didn't really have an answer.

He stood up and reached for his hat and snapped his cigarette case shut and put it in his pocket.

 “You had to play the big scene,” he said coldly.

“Stand on your rights, talk about the law.

How ingenuous can a man get, Marlowe? A man like you who is supposed to know his way around.

The law isn't justice.

It's a very imperfect mechanism.

If you press exactly the right buttons and are also lucky, justice may show up in the answer.

A mechanism is all the law was ever intended to be.

I guess you're not in any mood to be helped.

So I'll take myself off.

You can reach me if you change your mind.”

 “I'll stick it out for a day or two longer.

If they catch Terry they won't care how he got away.

All they'll care about is the circus they can make of the trial.

The murder of Mr. Harlan Potter's daughter is headline material all over the country.

A crowd-pleaser like Springer could ride himself right into Attorney General on that show, and from there into the governor's chair and from there--”

I stopped talking and let the rest of it float in the air.

 Endicott smiled a slow derisive smile.

“I don't think you know very much about Mr. Harlan Potter,” he said.

 “And if they don't get Lennox, they won't want to know how he got away, Mr. Endicott.

They'll just want to forget the whole thing fast.”

 “Got it all figured out, haven't you, Marlowe?”

 “I've had the time.

All I know about Mr. Harlan Potter is that he is supposed to be worth a hundred million bucks, and that he owns nine or ten newspapers.

How's the publicity going?”

 “The publicity?”

His voice was ice cold saying it.

 “Yeah. Nobody's interviewed me from the press.

I expected to make a big noise in the papers out of this.

Get lots of business.

Private eye goes to jail rather than split on a pal.”

 He walked to the door and turned with his hand on the knob.

“You amuse me, Marlowe.

You're childish in some ways.

True, a hundred million dollars can buy a great deal of publicity.

It can also, my friend, if shrewdly employed, buy a great deal of silence.”

 He opened the door and went out.

Then a deputy came in and took me back to Cell No. 3 in the felony block.

 “Guess you won't be with us long, if you've got Endicott,” he said pleasantly as he locked me in.

I said I hoped he was right.