It was close to eleven when I put my car away and walked around to the front of the Hobart Arms. The plate-glass door was put on the lock at ten, so I had to get my keys out. Inside, in the square barren lobby, a man put a green evening paper down beside a potted palm and flicked a cigarette butt into the tub the palm grew in. He stood up and waved his hat at me and said: "The boss wants to talk to you. You sure keep your friends waiting, pal."

I stood still and looked at his flattened nose and club steak ear.

"What about?"

"What do you care? Just keep your nose clean and everything will be jake." His hand hovered near the upper buttonhole of his open coat.

"I smell of policemen," I said. "I'm too tired to talk, too tired to eat, too tired to think. But if you think I'm not too tired to take orders from Eddie Mars -- try getting your gat out before I shoot your good ear off."

"Nuts. You ain't got no gun." He stared at me levelly. His dark wiry brows closed in together and his mouth made a downward curve.

"I did. I'm damned if I know why. I guess it was just complicated enough without you."

He laughed dryly. "Did you -- or did you?"

"So you're tough tonight," Eddie Mars' voice said.

"Listen hard and you'll hear my teeth chattering."

"Cops over there -- you know where. You keep me out of it?"

"Big, fast, tough and full of prickles. What can I do for you?"

"Why should I?"

He waved his left hand. "Okey. You win. I wasn't told to blast anybody. You'll hear from him."

"I'm nice to be nice to, soldier. I'm not nice not to be nice to."

"Too late will be too soon," I said, and turned slowly as he passed me on his way to the door. He opened it and went out without looking back. I grinned at my own foolishness, went along to the elevator and upstairs to the apartment. I took Carmen's little gun out of my pocket and laughed at it. Then I cleaned it thoroughly, oiled it, wrapped it in a piece of canton flannel and locked it up. I made myself a drink and was drinking it when the phone rang. I sat down beside the table on which it stood.

"That was then," I told him. "I'm not always naked."

"No. Is that an answer, soldier?"

"Be seeing you then." The phone clicked and I sat holding it with a savage patience. Then I dialed the Sternwoods' number and heard it ring four or five times and then the butler's suave voice saying: "General Sternwood's residence."

"If that's on the level, someday I may be able to do you a favor."

I cut in on him with a sudden change of mind. "No. You give her the message. Tell her I have the pictures, all of them, and that everything is all right."

"Yes, I believe so. Would you --"

He laughed again. "You're looking for Rusty Regan, aren't you?"

"Is Mrs. Regan home?"

"If you were, I could give you an idea. Drop in and see me down at the beach. Any time. Glad to see you."

"Read it in the paper tomorrow -- maybe."

"Thanks, soldier. Who gunned him?"

"Yes, Mr. Marlowe. I remember, of course."

"Hang up and let me go to bed."

"Somebody you never heard of gunned him. Let it go at that."

"Maybe."

"This is Marlowe. Remember me? I met you about a hundred years ago -- or was it yesterday?"

"Do you get everything you want?"

"I want to know now."

"A lot of people seem to think I am, but I'm not."

"Yes… yes…" The voice seemed to shake a little. "You have the pictures -- all of them -- and everything is all right… Yes, sir. I may say -- thank you very much, sir."

I read all three of the morning papers over my eggs and bacon the next morning. Their accounts of the affair came as close to the truth as newspaper stories usually come -- as close as Mars is to Saturn. None of the three connected Owen Taylor, driver of the Lido Pier Suicide Car, with the Laurel Canyon Exotic Bungalow Slaying. None of them mentioned the Sternwoods, Bernie Ohls or me. Owen Taylor was "chauffeur to a wealthy family." Captain Cronjager of the Hollywood Division got all the credit for solving the two slayings in his district, which were supposed to arise out of a dispute over the proceeds from a wire service maintained by one Geiger in the back of the bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard. Brody had shot Geiger and Carol Lundgren had shot Brody in revenge. Police were holding Carol Lundgren in custody. He had confessed. He had a bad record -- probably in high school. Police were also holding one Agnes Lozelle, Geiger's secretary, as a material witness.

The phone rang back in five minutes. I had finished my drink and it made me feel as if I could eat the dinner I had forgotten all about; I went out leaving the telephone ringing. It was ringing when I came back. It rang at intervals until half-past twelve. At that time I put my lights out and opened the windows up and muffled the phone bell with a piece of paper and went to bed. I had a bellyful of the Sternwood family.

It was a nice write-up. It gave the impression that Geiger had been killed the night before, that Brody had been killed about an hour later, and that Captain Cronjager had solved both murders while lighting a cigarette. The suicide of Taylor made Page One of Section II. There was a photo of the sedan on the deck of the power lighter, with the license plate blacked out, and something covered with a cloth lying on the deck beside the running board. Owen Taylor had been despondent and in poor health. His family lived in Dubuque, and his body would be shipped there. There would be no inquest.