In a building like that there will always be a few guys making real money, but they don’t look it. They fit into the shabby background, which is protective coloring for them. Shyster lawyers who are partners in a bail-bond racket on the side (only about two per cent of all forfeited bail bonds are ever collected). Abortionists posing as anything you like that explains their furnishings. Dope pushers posing as urologists, dermatologists, or any branch of medicine in which the treatment can be frequent, and the regular use of local anesthetics is normal.
Dr. Lester Vukanich had a small and ill-furnished waiting room in which there were a dozen people, all uncomfortable. They looked like anybody else. They had no signs on them. Anyway you can’t tell a doper well under control from a vegetarian bookkeeper. I had to wait three quarters of an hour. The patients went in through two doors. An active ear, nose, and throat man can handle four sufferers at once, if he has enough room.
Finally I got in. I got to sit in a brown leather chair beside a table covered with a white towel on which was a set of tools. A sterilizing cabinet bubbled against the wall. Dr. Vukanich came in briskly with his white smock and his round mirror strapped to his forehead. He sat down in front of me on a stool.
“A sinus headache, is it? Very severe?” He looked at a folder the nurse had given him.
I said it was awful. Blinding. Especially when I first got up in the morning. He nodded sagely.
“Characteristic,” he said, and fitted a glass cap over a thing that looked like a fountain pen.
He pushed it into my mouth. “Close the lips but not the teeth, please.” While he said it he reached out and switched off the light. There was no window. A ventilating fan purred somewhere.
Dr. Vukanich withdrew his glass tube and put the lights back up. He looked at me carefully.
“No congestion at all, Mr. Marlowe. If you have a headache, it is not from a sinus condition. I’d hazard a guess that you never had sinus trouble in your life. You had a septum operation sometime in the past, I see.”
“Yes, Doctor. Got a kick playing football.”
He nodded. “There is a slight shelf of bone which should have been cut away. Hardly enough to interfere with breathing, however.”
He leaned back on the stool and held his knee. “Just what did you expect me to do for you?” he asked. He was a thin-faced man with an uninteresting pallor. He looked like a tubercular white rat.
“I wanted to talk to you about a friend of mine. He’s in bad shape. He’s a writer. Plenty of dough, but bad nerves. Needs help. He lives on the sauce for days on end. He needs that little extra something. His own doctor won’t co-operate any more.”
“Exactly what do you mean by co-operate?” Dr. Vukanich asked.
“All the guy needs is an occasional shot to calm him down. I thought maybe we could work something out. The money would be solid.”
“Sorry, Mr. Marlowe. It is not my sort of problem.” He stood up. “Rather a crude approach, if I may say so. Your friend may consult me, if he chooses. But he’d better have something wrong with him that requires treatment. That will be ten dollars, Mr. Marlowe.”
“Come off it, Doc. You’re on the list.”
Dr. Vukanich leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. He was giving me time. He blew smoke and looked at it. I gave him one of my cards to look at instead. He looked at it.
“What list would that be?” he inquired.
“The barred-window boys. I figure you might know my friend already. His name’s Wade. I figure you might have him stashed away somewhere in a little white room. The guy is missing from home.”
“You are an ass,” Dr. Vukanich told me. “I don’t go in for penny ante stuff like four-day liquor cures. They cure nothing in any case. I have no little white rooms and I am not acquainted with the friend you mention—even if he exists. That will be ten dollars—cash-right now. Or would you rather I called the police and make a complaint that you solicited me for narcotics?”
“That would be dandy,” I said. “Let’s.”
“Get out of here, you cheap grifter.”
I stood up off the chair. “I guess I made a mistake, Doctor. The last time the guy broke parole he holed up with a doctor whose name began with V. It was strictly an undercover operation. They fetched him late at night and brought him back the same way when he was over the jumps. Didn’t even wait long enough to see him go in the house. So when he hops the coop again and don’t come back for quite a piece, naturally we check over our files for a lead. We come up with three doctors whose names begin with V.”
“Interesting,” he said with a bleak smile. He was still giving me time. “What is the basis of your selection?”
I stared at him. His right hand was moving softly up and down the upper part of his left arm on the inside of it. His face was covered with a light sweat.
“Sorry, Doctor. We operate very confidential.”
“Excuse me a moment. I have another patient that—”
He left the rest of it hanging in the air and went out. While he was gone a nurse poked her head through the doorway, looked at me briefly and withdrew.
Then Dr. Vukanich came back in strolling happily. He was smiling and relaxed. His eyes were bright.
“What? Are you still here?” He looked very surprised or pretended to. “I thought our little visit had been brought to an end.”
“I’m leaving. I thought you wanted me to wait.”
He chuckled. “You know something, Mr. Marlowe? We live in extraordinary times. For a mere five hundred dollars I could have you put in the hospital with several broken bones. Comical, isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” I said. “Shoot yourself in the vein, don’t you, Doc? Boy, do you brighten up!”
I started out. “Hasta luego, amigo,” he chirped. “Don’t forget my ten bucks. Pay the nurse.”
He moved to an intercom and was speaking into it as I left. In the waiting room the same twelve people or twelve just like them were being uncomfortable. The nurse was right on the job.
“That will be ten dollars, please, Mr. Marlowe. This office requires immediate cash payment.”
I stepped among the crowded feet to the door. She bounded out of her chair and ran around the desk. I pulled the door open.
“What happens when you don’t get it?” I asked her.
“You’ll find out what happens,” she said angrily.
“Sure. You’re just doing your job. So am I. Take a gander at the card I left and you’ll see what my job is.”
I went on out. The waiting patients looked at me with disapproving eyes. That was no way to treat Doctor.
EIGHTEEN
Dr. Amos Varley was a very different proposition. He had a big old house in a big old garden with big old oak trees shading it. It was a massive frame structure with elaborate scrollwork along the overhang of the porches and the white porch railings had turned and fluted uprights like the legs of an old-fashioned grand piano. A few frail elderly people sat in long chairs on the porches with rugs tucked around them.
The entrance doors were double and had stained-glass panels. The hall inside was wide and cool and the parquetry floor was polished and without a single rug. Altadena is a hot place in summer. It is pushed back against the hills and the breeze jumps clear over it. Eighty years ago people knew how to build houses for this climate.
A nurse in crisp white took my card and after a wait Dr. Amos Varley condescended to see me. He was a big bald-headed guy with a cheery smile. His long white coat was spotless, he walked noiselessly on crepe rubber soles.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Marlowe?” He had a rich soft voice to soothe the pain and comfort the anxious heart. Doctor is here, there is nothing to worry about, everything will be fine. He had that bedside manner, thick, honeyed layers of it. He was wonderful—and he was as tough as armor plate.
“Doctor, I am looking for a man named Wade, a well-to-do alcoholic who has disappeared from his home. His past history suggests that he is holed up in
some discreet joint that can handle him with skill. My only lead is a reference to a Dr. V. You’re my third Dr. V. and I’m getting discouraged.”
He smiled benignly. “Only your third, Mr. Marlowe? Surely there must be a hundred doctors in and around the Los Angeles area whose names begin with V.”
“Sure, but not many of them would have rooms with barred windows. I noticed a few upstairs here, on the side of the house.”
“Old people,” Dr. Varley said sadly, but it was a rich full sadness. “Lonely old people, depressed and unhappy old people, Mr. Marlowe. Sometimes—” He made an expressive gesture with his hand, a curving motion outwards, a pause, then a gentle falling, like a dead leaf fluttering to the ground. “I don’t treat alcoholics here,” he added precisely. “Now if you will excuse me—”
“Sorry, Doctor. You just happened to be on our list. Probably a mistake. Something about a run-in with the narcotics people a couple of years ago.”
“Is that so?” He looked puzzled, then the light broke. “Ah, yes, an assistant I was unwise enough to employ. For a very short time. He abused my confidence badly. Yes, indeed.”
“Not the way I heard it,” I said. “I guess I heard it wrong.”
“And how did you hear it, Mr. Marlowe?” He was still giving me the full treatment with his smile and his mellow tones.
“That you had to turn in your narcotic prescription book.”
That got to him a little. He didn’t quite scowl but he peeled off a few layers of the charm. His blue eyes had a chilly glint. “And the source of this fantastic information?”
“A large detective agency that has facilities for building files on that sort of thing.”
“A collection of cheap blackmailers, no doubt.”
“Not cheap, Doctor. Their base rate is a hundred dollars a day. It’s run by a former colonel of miltary police. No nickel grabber, Doctor. He rates way up.”
“I shall give him a piece of my mind,” Dr. Varley said with cool distaste. “His name?” The sun had set in Dr. Varley’s manner. It was getting to be a chilly evening.
“Confidential, Doctor. But don’t give it a thought. All in the day’s work. Name of Wade doesn’t ring a bell at all, huh?”
“I believe you know your way out, Mr. Marlowe.”
The door of a small elevator opened behind him. A nurse pushed a wheel chair out. The chair contained what was left of a broken old man. His eyes were closed, his skin had a bluish tinge. He was well wrapped up. The nurse wheeled him silently across the polished floor and out of a side door. Dr. Varley said softly:
“Old people. Sick old people. Lonely old people. Do not come back, Mr. Marlowe. You might annoy me. When annoyed I can be rather unpleasant. I might even say very unpleasant.”
“Okay by me, Doctor. Thanks for the time. Nice little dying-in home you got here.”
“What was that?” He took a step towards me and peeled off the remaining layers of honey. The soft lines of his face set themselves into hard ridges.
“What’s the matter?’ I asked him. “I can see my man wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t look for anybody here that wasn’t too frail to fight back. Sick old people. Lonely old people. You said it yourself, Doctor. Unwanted old people, but with money and hungry heirs. Most of them probably judged incompetent by the court.”
“I am getting annoyed,” Dr. Varley said.
“Light food, light sedation, firm treatment. Put them out in the sun, put them back in the bed. Bar some of the windows in case there’s a little spunk left. They love you, Doctor, one and all. They die holding your hand and seeing the sadness in your eyes. It’s genuine too.”
“It certainly is,” he said in a low throaty growl. His hands were fists now. I ought to knock it off. But he had begun to nauseate me.
“Sure it is,” I said. “Nobody likes to lose a good paying customer. Especially one you don’t even have to please.”
“Somebody has to do it,” he said. “Somebody has to care for these sad old people, Mr. Marlowe.”
“Somebody has to clean out cesspools. Come to think of it that’s a clean honest job. So long, Dr. Varley. When my job makes me feel dirty I’ll think of you. It will cheer me up no end.”
“You filthy louse,” Dr. Varley said between his wide white teeth. “I ought to break your back. Mine is an honorable branch of an honorable profession.”
“Yeah.” I looked at him wearily. “I know it is. Only it smells of death.”
He didn’t slug me, so I walked away from him and out. I looked back from the wide double doors. He hadn’t moved. He had a job to do, putting back the layers of honey.
NINETEEN
I drove back to Hollywood feeling like a short length of chewed string. It was too early to eat, and too hot. I turned on the fan in my office. It didn’t make the air any cooler, just a little more lively. Outside on the boulevard the traffic brawled endlessly. Inside my head thoughts stuck together like flies on flypaper.
Three shots, three misses. All I had been doing was seeing too many doctors.
I called the Wade home. A Mexican sort of accent answered and said that Mrs. Wade was not at home. I asked for Mr. Wade. The voice said Mr. Wade was not home either. I left my name. He seemed to catch it without any trouble. He said he was the houseboy.
I called George Peters at The Carne Organization. Maybe he knew some more doctors. He wasn’t in. I left a phony name and a right telephone number. An hour crawled by like a sick cockroach. I was a grain of sand on the desert of oblivion. I was a two-gun cowpoke fresh out of bullets. Three shots, three misses. I hate it when they come in threes. You call on Mr. A. Nothing. You call on Mr. B. Nothing. You call on Mr. C. More of the same. A week later you find out it should have been Mr. D. Only you didn’t know he existed and by the time you found out, the client had changed his mind and killed the investigation.
Drs. Vukanich and Varley were scratched. Varley had it too rich to fool with hooch cases. Vukanich was a punk, a highwire performer who hit the main line in his own office. The help must know. At least some of the patients must know. All it took to finish him was one sorehead and one telephone call. Wade wouldn’t have gone within blocks of him, drunk or sober. He might not be the brightest guy in the world—plenty of successful people are far from mental giants—but he couldn’t be dumb enough to fool with Vukanich.
The only possible was Dr. Verringer. He had the space and the seclusion. He probably had the patience. But Sepulveda Canyon was a long way from Idle Valley. Where was the point of contact, how did they know each other, and if Verringer owned that property and had a buyer for it, he was halfway to being pretty well heeled. That gave me an idea. I called a man I knew in a title company to find out the status of the property. No answer. The title company had closed for the day.
I closed for the day too, and drove over to La Cienaga to Rudy’s Bar-B-Q, gave my name to the master of ceremonies, and waited for the big moment on a bar stool with a whiskey sour in front of me and Marek Weber’s waltz music in my ears. After a while I got in past the velvet rope and ate one of Rudy’s “world-famous” Salisbury steaks, which is hamburger on a slab of burnt wood, ringed with browned-over mashed potato, supported by fried onion rings and one of those mixed up salads which men will eat with complete docility in restaurants, although they would probably start yelling if their wives tried to feed them one at home.
After that I drove home. As I opened the front door the phone started to ring.
“This is Eileen Wade, Mr. Marlowe. You wanted me to call you.”
“Just to find out if anything had happened at your end. I have been seeing doctors all day and have made no friends.”
“No, I’m sorry. He still hasn’t showed up. I can’t help being rather anxious. Then you have nothing to tell me, I suppose.” Her voice was low and dispirited.
“It’s a big crowded county, Mrs. Wade.”
“It will be four whole days tonight.”
“Sure, but that’s not too long.”
&
nbsp; “For me it is.” She was silent for a while. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, trying to remember something,” she went on. “There must be something, some kind of hint or memory. Roger talks a great deal about all sorts of things.”
“Does the name Verringer mean anything to you, Mrs. Wade?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Should it?”
“You mentioned that Mr. Wade was brought home one time by a tall young man dressed in a cowboy outfit. Would you recognize this tall young man if you saw him again, Mrs. Wade?”
“I suppose I might,” she said hesitantly, “if the conditions were the same. But I only caught the merest glimpse of him. Was his name Verringer?”
“No, Mrs. Wade. Verringer is a heavily built, middle-aged man who runs, or more accurately has run, some kind of guest ranch in Sepulveda Canyon. He has a dressed up fancy boy named Earl working for him. And Verringer calls himself a doctor.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said warmly. “Don’t you feel that you’re on the right track?”
“I could be wetter than a drowned kitten. I’ll call you when I know. I just wanted to make sure Roger hadn’t come home and that you hadn’t recalled anything definite.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t been of much help to you,” she said sadly. “Please call me at any time, no matter how late it is.”
I said I would do that and we hung up. I took a gun and a three-cell flashlight with me this time. The gun was a tough little short-barreled .32 with flat-point cartridges. Dr. Verringer’s boy Earl might have other toys than brass knuckles. If he had, he was plenty goofy enough to play with them.