It seemed there was a woman and she was sitting near a lamp, which was where she belonged, in a good light. Another light shone hard on my face, so I closed my eyes again and tried to look at her through the lashes. She was so platinumed that her hair shone like a silver fruit bowl. She wore a green knitted dress with a broad white collar turned over it. 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 together 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. I moved enough to make sure it was tied down.
I stopped those 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 were 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 refuelling station on my head."
"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 in a sunward trajectory. I like the worms better. Did you know that worms are of both sexes and that any worm can have sex with 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.
"What time is it?" I asked.
She looked sideways at her wrist, beyond the spiral of smoke, at the edge of the grave lustre of the lamplight. "Twenty-two seventeen. You have a date?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. Is this the house next to Art Huck's garage?"
"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."
"I thought they were keeping you a prisoner."
It didn't seem to startle her. It even amused her. "What made you think that?"
"I know who you are."
Her very blue eyes flashed so sharply that I could almost see the sweep of their glance, like sighting lasers. Her mouth tightened. But her voice didn't change.
"Then I'm afraid you're in a bad spot. And I hate killing."
"And you Eddie Mars's wife. Shame on you."