Nothing happened for a week except that I went about my business which just then didn't happen to be very much business.

One morning George Peters of The Carne Organization called me up and told me he had happened to be down Sepulveda Canyon way and had looked in on Dr. Verringer's place just out of curiosity.

But Dr. Verringer was no longer there.

Half a dozen teams of surveyors were mapping the tract for a subdivision.

Those he spoke to had never even heard of Dr. Verringer.

 “The poor sucker got closed out on a trust deed,” Peters said.

“I checked. They gave him a grand for a quitclaim just to save time and expense, and now somebody is going to make a million bucks clear, out of cutting the place up for residential property.

That's the difference between crime and business.

For business you gotta have capital.

Sometimes I think it's the only difference.”

 “A properly cynical remark,” I said, “but big time crime takes capital too.”

 “And where does it come from, chum?

Not from guys that hold up liquor stores.

So long.

See you soon.”

 It was ten minutes to eleven on a Thursday night when Wade called me up.

His voice was thick, almost gurgling, but I recognized it somehow.

And I could hear short hard rapid breathing over the telephone.

 “I'm in bad shape, Marlowe. Very bad.

I'm slipping my anchor.

Could you make it out here in a hurry?”

 “Sure--but let me talk to Mrs. Wade a minute.”

 He didn't answer.

There was a crashing sound, then a dead silence, then in a short while a kind of banging around.

I yelled something into the phone without getting any answer.

Time passed.

Finally the light click of the receiver being replaced and the buzz of an open line.

 In five minutes I was on the way.

I made it in slightly over half an hour and I still don't know how.

I went over the pass on wings and hit Ventura Boulevard with the light against me and made a left turn anyhow and dodged between trucks and generally made a damn fool of myself.

I went through Encino at close to sixty with a spotlight on the outer edge of the parked cars so that it would freeze anyone with a notion to step out suddenly.

I had the kind of luck you only get when you don't care.

No cops, no sirens, no red flashers.

Just visions of what might be happening in the Wade residence and not very pleasant visions.

She was alone in the house with a drunken maniac, she was lying at the bottom of the stairs with her neck broken, she was behind a locked door and somebody was howling outside and trying to break it in, she was running down a moonlit road barefoot and a big buck Negro with a meat cleaver was chasing her.

 It wasn't like that at all.

When I swung the Olds into their driveway lights were on all over the house and she was standing in the open doorway with a cigarette in her mouth.

I got out and walked over the flagstones to her.

She had slacks on and a shirt with an open collar.

She looked at me calmly.

If there was any excitement around there I had brought it with me.

 The first thing I said was as loony as the rest of my behavior.

“I thought you didn't smoke.”

 “What? No, I don't usually.”

She took the cigarette out and looked at it and dropped it and stepped on it.

“Once in a long while.

He called Dr. Verringer.”

 It was a remote placid voice, a voice heard at night over water.

Completely relaxed.

 “He couldn't,” I said.

“Dr. Verringer doesn't live there any more. He called me.”

 “Oh really? I just heard him telephoning and asking someone to come in a hurry.

I thought it must be Dr. Verringer.”

 “Where is he now?”

 “He fell down,” she said.

“He must have tipped the chair too far back.

He's done it before.

He cut his head on something.

There's a little blood, not much.”

 “Well, that's fine,” I said.

“We wouldn't want a whole lot of blood.

Where is he now, I asked you.”

 She looked at me solemnly.

Then she pointed.

“Out there somewhere.

By the edge of the road or in the bushes along the fence.”

 I leaned forward and peered at her.

“Chrissake, didn't you look?”

I decided by this time that she was in shock.

Then I looked back across the lawn.

I didn't see anything but there was heavy shadow near the fence.

 “No, I didn't look,” she said quite calmly.

“You find him. I've had all of it I can take.

I've had more than I can take.

You find him.”

 She turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door open.

She didn't walk very far.

About a yard inside the door she just crumpled to the floor and lay there.

I scooped her up and spread her out on one of the two big davenports that faced each other across a long blond cocktail table.

I felt her pulse.

It didn't seem very weak or unsteady.

Her eyes were closed and the lids were blue.

I left her there and went back out.

 He was there all right, just as she had said.

He was lying on his side in the shadow of the hibiscus.

He had a fast thumping pulse and his breathing was unnatural.

Something on the back of his head was sticky.

I spoke to him and shook him a little.

I slapped his face a couple of times.

He mumbled but didn't come to.

I dragged him up into a sitting position and dragged one of his arms over my shoulder and heaved him up with my back turned to him and grabbed for a leg.

I lost.

He was as heavy as a block of cement.

We both sat down on the grass and I took a short breather and tried again.

Finally I got him hoisted into a fireman's lift position and plowed across the lawn in the direction of the open front door.

It seemed about the same distance as a round trip to Siam.

The two steps of the porch were ten feet high.

I staggered over to the couch and went down on my knees and rolled him off.

When I straightened up again my spine felt as if it had cracked in at least three places.

 Eileen Wade wasn't there any more.

I had the room to myself.

I was too bushed at the moment to care where anybody was.

I sat down and looked at him and waited for some breath.

Then I looked at his head.

It was smeared with blood.

His hair was sticky with it.

It didn't look very bad but you never know with a head wound.

 Then Eileen Wade was standing beside me, quietly looking down at him with that same remote expression.

 “I'm sorry I fainted,” she said.

“I don't know why.”

 “I guess we'd better call a doctor.”

 “I telephoned Dr. Loring.

He is my doctor, you know.

He didn't want to come.”

 “Try somebody else then.”

 “Oh he's coming,” she said.

“He didn't want to.

But he's coming as soon as he can manage.”

 “Where's Candy?”

 “This is his day off. Thursday.

The cook and Candy have Thursdays off.

It's the usual thing around here.

Can you get him up to bed?”

 “Not without help.

Better get a rug or blanket.

It's a warm night, but cases like this get pneumonia very easily.”

 She said she would get a rug.

I thought it was damn nice of her.

But I wasn't thinking very intelligently.

I was too bushed from carrying him.

 We spread a steamer rug over him and in fifteen minutes Dr. Loring came, complete with starched collar and rimless cheaters and the expression of a man who has been asked to clean up after the dog got sick.

 He examined Wade's head.

“A superficial cut and bruise,” he said.

“No chance of concussion.

I should say his breath would indicate his condition rather obviously.”

 He reached for his hat.

He picked up his bag.

 “Keep him warm,” he said.

“You might bathe his head gently and get rid of the blood.

He'll sleep it off.”

 “I can't get him upstairs alone, Doctor,” I said.

 “Then leave him where he is.”

He looked at me without interest.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Wade.

As you know I don't treat alcoholics.

Even if I did, your husband would not be one of my patients.

I'm sure you understand that.”

 “Nobody's asking you to treat him,” I said.

“I'm asking for some help to get him into his bedroom so that I can undress him.”

 “And just who are you?”

Dr. Loring asked me freezingly.

 “My name's Marlowe.

I was here a week ago.

Your wife introduced me.”

 “Interesting,” he said.

“In what connection do you know my wife?”

 “What the hell does that matter? All I want is--”

 “I'm not interested in what you want,” he cut in on me.

He turned to Eileen, nodded briefly, and started out.

I got between him and the door and put my back to it.

 “Just a minute, Doc. Must be a long time since you glanced at that little piece of prose called the Hippocratic Oath.

This man called me on the phone and I live some way off.

He sounded bad and I broke every traffic law in the state getting over here.

I found him lying on the ground and I carried him in here and believe me he isn't any bunch of feathers.

The houseboy is away and there's nobody here to help me upstairs with Wade.

How does it look to you?”

 “Get out of my way,” he said between his teeth.

“Or I shall call the sheriff's substation and have them send over a deputy.

As a professional man--”

 “As a professional man you're a handful of flea dirt,” I said, and moved out of his way.

 He turned red--slowly but distinctly.

He choked on his own bile.

Then he opened the door and went out.

He shut it carefully.

As he pulled it shut he looked in at me.

It was as nasty a look as I ever got and on as nasty a face as I ever saw.

 When I turned away from the door Eileen was smiling.

 “What's funny?”

I snarled.

 “You. You don't care what you say to people, do you?

Don't you know who Dr. Loring is?”

 “Yeah--and I know what he is.”

 She glanced at her wrist watch.

“Candy ought to be home by now,” she said.

“I'll go see. He has a room behind the garage.”

 She went out through an archway and I sat down and looked at Wade.

The great big writer man went on snoring.

His face was sweaty but I left the rug over him.

In a minute or two Eileen came back and she had Candy with her.