Chapter 3 king of yellow pants

George Miller was working the night shift at the Carlton Hotel as auditor.He was a short, lean man with a deep, soft voice like that of a singer of love songs.He lowered his voice and spoke into the telephone switchboard microphone, but his eyes were sharp and angry: "I'm very sorry, there will be no next time. I will send someone up immediately." He took off his headset, dropped it on the switch, and walked quickly from behind the glass screen toward the foyer.It was one o'clock at night, and the Carlton Hotel was two-thirds occupied.The hall under the three shallow steps was dimly lit, and the doorman on night duty had already finished cleaning.The place was deserted—the furniture stood dimly in the empty space, and the floor was richly carpeted.From a distance came the faint sound of a radio.Miller walked down the steps and walked quickly towards the source of the sound. Through the arch, he saw a man stretched out on a light green couch, lying comfortably. The cushions in the entire hotel seemed to be put down on this sofa.He was lying on his side, his eyes blurred, listening to the music on the radio two yards away.

Miller yelled, "Hey, you! Are you the hotel's private detective, or the hotel's private cat?" Steve Grace looked back slowly at Miller.This is a slender black-haired man, about 28 years old, with quiet deep-set eyes and a very gentle mouth.He held out a thumb to the radio and said with a smile, "It's Kim Leopardi, George. Listen to that trumpet. It's as graceful as an angel's wings, boy." "Excellent! Hurry up and get him out of the corridor!" Steve Grace looked at him in surprise, "What—again? I thought I'd fucked these guys." He stood up, at least a foot taller than Miller.

"Hmph, that's not what the tenant of 816 said. 816 said he and his two assistants were out in the hallway, and he was wearing yellow satin trousers, with a trombone in his hand, and had an impromptu session with his two buddies. The jazz recital is coming. A whore from 811, who Quinlan checked in, came out to help them out. Go check it out, Steve, this time it's got to be sorted out." Steve smiled coldly and said, "Leopati doesn't belong here at all. Can I use ether? Or just use my baton?" He walked out along the light green carpet, through the archway and the lobby to the elevators, only one of which was lit and still in use.He closed the door and took the elevator to the eighth floor. As soon as the elevator stopped, he walked into the corridor.

The noise hit him like a gust of wind.Echoes filled the walls, and half a dozen doors were opened, staring angrily at them from the tenants in their dressing gowns. "Okay, everyone," Steve said hastily, "This is definitely the last time, go back and rest." He rounded the corner, the frantic music shaking him almost to the ground.Three men stood side by side against a wall by a door from which light streamed.The trombone player in the middle was six feet tall, strong and elegant looking, with a thin beard.His face was flushed and his eyes glistened under the influence of alcohol.He was wearing yellow satin shorts with his initials brightly embroidered on the left leg—nothing else.Bare skin is tan.

The two assistants who were with him were wearing pajamas, and they looked like the handsome young men who were often seen playing in bands. They had already drunk too much, but they were not so drunk.One nervously played the clarinet, the other growled on the tenor saxophone. The girl swaggering in front of them walks and sprints, her hands arched, her eyebrows raised high, her fingers bent backwards, her crimson nails almost touching her arms—she It looks like a magpie posing.The blond girl swayed to and fro to the music, her voice raspy and rhythmless, as out of tune as her eyebrows, as sharp as her nails.She was wearing black pajamas with a long purple belt around her waist and high-heeled slippers on her feet.

Steve Grace stopped stiffly and made a sharp downward motion. "Put it up!" he snapped. "Put it up and be quiet. Put it all away and go back. The show's over, go—go now." Kim Leopardi took the tuba off her mouth and yelled, "Give this private eye a good show!" The three drunks blew a staccato note that made the walls vibrate.The girl laughed maniacally and kicked, her slipper hitting Steve's chest.He caught the slipper in the air, jumped at the girl, and grabbed her wrist. "Very powerful, huh?" He grinned, "I'll arrest you first."

"Catch him!" Leopardi yelled. "Hit him hard! Kick him in the neck!" Steve picked the girl up in a jerk, tucked her under his arms, and ran.He grabbed her as if he just had an extra package in his hand, but she tried to kick his feet.He laughed and glanced around the lit side of the room.Underneath the wardrobe lay a pair of men's brown brogues.He ran to the second door with the lights on, squeezed in, kicked the door shut, turned around and turned the key on the door to lock the door.Immediately, a fist hit the door, but he ignored it. He pushed the girl down the short hallway and didn't let go until he passed the bathroom.She staggered away from him, leaning her back against the wardrobe, panting heavily, her eyes full of anger.A lock of sweat-soaked blond hair fell in front of one of her eyes.She shook her head desperately and clenched her teeth.

"Do you want to be kicked out, miss?" "Go to hell!" she spat. "Kim's my friend, understand? You'd better leave me alone, detective." "Are you touring with the gang?" She spat at him again. "How did you know they were going to live here?" The other girl was sprawled on the bed, her head against the wall, her black hair scattered over her pale face.There was a rip in the pant leg of her pajamas.She lay powerlessly on the bed, moaning. Steve said sharply, "Oh, oh, the pajama-ripping show. It's all fucked up here, miss, fucked up. Listen to me, you little bastards, get on your bed and get some sleep." Tomorrow morning, or get the hell out of here now! Choose yourself!"

The dark-haired girl moaned again."Get out of my room, you bloody bastard!" said the blond girl. She reached back, grabbed a small mirror and threw it towards her.Steve dodges, and the mirror slams against the wall, falling to the floor intact.The brunette girl turned over on the bed and said wearily, "Stop making trouble, I'm not feeling well." She lay there with her eyes closed, her eyelids quivering constantly. The blond girl writhed across the room to a table by the window, poured herself half a glass of whiskey in a water glass, and gulped it down before Steve had time to stop her.She was choked violently, the cup loosened, her hands and feet went limp, and she fell to the ground.

Steve said displeasedly, "This thing knocks you down, miss." She curled up shaking her head, gagged, and lifted her dark red nails to wipe her mouth.She tried to stand up, her legs slipped under her body, she fell sideways, and immediately fell asleep. Steve sighed and walked over to close the window.He turned the dark-haired girl over, laying her body flat on the bed, then pulled the quilt from under her and placed a pillow under her head.He lifted the blond girl off the floor again and threw her on the bed, tucking both girls' covers up to their chins.He opened the transom, turned off the ceiling lights, opened the door and went out, and locked the door from the outside with the universal key on the chain.

"Hotel business," he said softly, "pooh." At the moment, the corridor is empty.There was another room with the door open and a light on, room number 815, and the two girls lived next door to them.A low-pitched tuba sounded from the room—but not quiet enough for 1:25 a.m. Steve Grace entered the room, pushed the door open with his shoulder, and walked straight to the bathroom.Kim Leopardi was alone in the room. The conductor is now sprawled in an easy chair, with a dirty goblet by his hand.He swings a full circle of light in the air as he plays the tuba. Steve lit a cigarette, exhaled a puff of smoke, and stared at Leopati behind the smoke with a weird look—part adoration, part contempt. He said softly, "The show's over, yellow trousers. You've got a great trumpet and a tuba too. But we don't need it. I told you once. Stop it and put that thing away .” Leopati smiled evilly at him and blew notes that sounded like demonic laughter. "Fuck you," he sneered, "Leopardi can do whatever he wants, whenever and wherever he wants. No one dares to get in his way yet, you bastard. Get out of here." Steve shrugged and approached the tall, dark man.He said patiently, "Put down the trombone, big man. Everybody's asleep, they're not like you. You're a big guy in the band, but you're just a rich guy elsewhere, And the reputation is stink, all the way to Miami, and back from Miami. It's my job, if you blow that thing again, I'll put it around your neck." Leopardi put down the tuba and took a swig from the wine glass at his elbow.His eyes gleamed viciously, and he raised the tuba to his mouth again, took a deep breath and blew hard, the sound shook the walls.Then he stood up suddenly and quickly and slammed the tuba down on Steve's head. "I've never liked private investigators," he said coldly. "They smell like public toilets." Steve took a small step back and shook his head.With a squinting glance, he took a step forward and punched Leopati.The blow seemed light, but Leopati staggered all the way across the room, sprawled onto the floor at the foot of the bed, his right arm hanging over an open suitcase. For a moment neither of them moved.Then Steve kicked the tuba away and stubbed out the cigarette in the glass ashtray.His black eyes were blank, but he still grinned, showing his white teeth. "If you want trouble," he said, "I come from the place where trouble is made." Leopardi smiled, weakly and a little nervously.His left hand protruded from the trunk, holding a gun in it.With his thumb on the safety, he held the gun firmly pointed at him. "Create some trouble with this guy," he said, and pulled the trigger. In the closed room, the gunshots sounded deafening.The mirror on the wardrobe was shot and glass splattered everywhere.A silver lens cut Steve's cheek like a razor blade, and blood trickled from his skin like thin threads. He swooped down, his right shoulder colliding with Leopati's bare chest, and his left hand slammed the gun out of Jin's hand, and it slid under the bed.He flipped nimbly to the right again and stood up on his knees. He snapped in a gruff voice, "You got the wrong guy, man." He threw himself on Leopati, dragging him by the hair with all his might.Leopardi screamed and punched him twice on the jaw, and Steve grinned and continued to twist the bandleader's long, silky black hair with his left hand.He turned with his left hand, Leopati's head turned with him, and his third punch landed on Steve's shoulder.Steve grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard, and the conductor wailed and fell to his knees.Steve pulled him up by the hair again, let go of his wrist, and punched him three vicious short punches in the stomach.He let go of his hair just as the fourth punch was about to land on his own wrist. Leopardi's eyes darkened, she fell to her knees, and began to vomit. Steve went into the bathroom and came out with a towel. He tossed the towel to Leopardi, yanked the open suitcase onto the bed, and started throwing things into it. Leopardi wiped her face and stood up, still retching.He staggered, clutching the end of the wardrobe for support, his face pale as paper. Steve Grace said, "Put on your clothes, Leopardi, or you'd better go out naked. It's all the same to me." Leopardi stumbled into the bathroom, leaning on the wall like a blind man. Miller was standing quietly behind the desk when the elevator doors opened.He was pale and panic-stricken, with a neatly trimmed black mustache like a stain on his upper lip.Leopati came out of the elevator first, with a scarf around his neck, a light coat slung over his arm, and a hat on one side.He walked over stiffly, his body leaning forward slightly, his eyes were empty.His face was pale green and pale. Steve Grace followed him out of the elevator with his suitcase, and Carl, the night doorman, came out last with two other suitcases and two black leather musical instrument cases.Steve went to the table and snapped, "Bring Mr. Leopati's bill—if there's one, he's checking out." Miller glared at him across the marble tabletop, "I—I don't think Steve—" "Well, I don't think so." Leopardi smiled strangely and walked out of the swing door with brass edges that the doorman opened for him.There were two night taxis waiting in line outside the door. One taxi responded and drove under the canopy, and the doorman put Leopati's luggage inside.Leopardi stuck his head out of the open window when he got into the car, and said slowly and in a low voice, "I feel sorry for you, detective, and I mean it." Steve Grace stepped back, watching him blankly.The taxi drove down the street, rounded the corner and disappeared.Steve whirled on his heels, pulled a quarter from his wallet, and tossed and caught it in the air.He put the coin into the hand of the night doorman. "Kim gave it to you," he said, "keep it for your grandchildren." He returned to the hotel, walked into the elevator without looking at Miller, took the elevator to the eighth floor, walked down the corridor, and opened Leopati's room with the universal key.After he entered, he locked the door again, pulled the bed away from the wall, walked behind the bed, picked up a . 32 automatic pistol from the floor, and put it in his pocket.Then he looked carefully on the ground for the fired shell casing. He found it next to the trash can and picked it up, but he was still bent - staring inside the trash can.His mouth clenched, he picked up the cartridge and casually dropped it into his pocket.Then he reached into the trash can and pulled out a torn piece of paper with a scrap of newspaper clipping stuck to it.Then he took the trash can, pushed the bed back against the wall, and dumped the contents of the trash can on top. From a pile of matches and scraps of paper he found some scraps of paper with newspaper clippings on them.He took the paper to the table and sat down.After a few minutes he put the scraps of paper together like a jigsaw puzzle, at which point the text from the magazine could be seen cut and paste. Have ten thousand bucks ready on Tuesday night, Leopardi.The day after your opening at Sharot.Otherwise, stop acting. —her brother. Steve Grace snorted.He put the scraps of paper in a hotel envelope, put them in his inner breast pocket, and lit a cigarette. “The guy has a lot of guts,” he said. “I admire that about him — and how well he plays the trumpet.” He locked the door, stood in the now silent corridor and listened for a while, then walked to the two girls' room.He knocked lightly on the door, then pressed his ear to the door.A stool creaked, and footsteps came towards the door. "What's the matter?" The girl's voice was calm, fully awake.Not the blonde girl's voice. "I'm a hotel detective, can I have a word with you?" "You're talking to me!" "I don't want to say it through the door, miss." "You have the general key of the hotel, come in by yourself." The footsteps went away.He opened the door with the master key, walked in gently, and closed the door.A desk lamp with a pleated shade cast a dim light, illuminating the room where the blonde girl was snoring loudly on the bed, her lustrous blonde hair clutched in one hand.The dark-haired girl sat in a chair by the window, her ankles crossed at right angles like a man's, staring blankly at Steve. He approached her, pointed to the long slit on the leg of her pajamas and said softly, "You're not sick, you're not drunk, this slit was torn a long time ago. What the hell? Are you here to extort money?" The girl looked at her calmly, smoking a cigarette without saying a word. "He's checked out," Steve said. "You can forget about that, miss." His eyes were hawk-like, his black eyes fixed on her face. "Oh, you hotel detectives make me sick!" said the girl in a sudden rage.She stood up abruptly, walked past him, walked into the bathroom, and locked the door. Steve shrugged his shoulders and felt the pulse of the girl sleeping on the bed—the throbbing pulse was very slow, which was the pulse of someone who had been drinking. "Poor whore," he whispered. He saw a large purple tote bag on the closet, and picked it up and put it back in his spare time.His face hardened again.The handbag made a loud noise on the glass table top, as if there was a piece of lead in it.He opened it quickly and put one hand inside.His fingers found the cold metal gun, and he opened the handbag to look inside. He saw a small .25 automatic pistol.A white slip of paper caught his eye, and he clipped it out and held it up to the light—it was a receipt with his name and address on it.He stuffed the note into his pocket and zipped his handbag shut.He was standing by the window when the girl came out of the bathroom. "Why the hell are you still haunted?" she snapped. "You know what happens to hotel detectives who get into a girl's room with a skeleton key?" Steve said lazily, "Yeah, they're going to get in trouble and maybe get shot." The girl's face froze, but she squinted at the purple handbag.Steve looked at her. "Did you know Leopati when you were in San Francisco?" he asked. Go's band—a bad band." The girl bit her lip, walked past him, and sat down by the window again.Her face was pale and her expression was stiff. She said dumbly: "Browson knows him. The one on the bed is Brosen." "You know he's staying here tonight?" "What does it matter to you?" "I didn't expect him to come and live here," Steve said. "It's a quiet place, so I can't imagine anyone coming here to blackmail him." "Go and think somewhere else, I'm going to sleep." Steve said, "Good night, honey—lock the door." Standing behind the reception desk is a man with thinning blond hair, a thin build, and a thin face, flicking his slender fingers on the marble top.Miller was still standing behind the desk, still looking pale and frightened.The thin man was wearing a dark gray suit with a scarf around his collar.He looked as if he had just woken up.His sea green eyes slowly turned to Steve as he came out of the elevator, waiting for him to walk over to the desk and drop a ring of keys on it. Steve said, "Here's Leopardi's key, George. The mirror in his room is shattered, and his dinner is on the carpet—mostly Scotch." He turned to the thin man. . "I hear you want to see me, Mr. Peters?" "What's going on, Grace?" The thin man's voice was tight, as if he was about to hear someone else's lie. "Leopati and his two assistants lived on the eighth floor, the rest of the band lived on the fifth floor, and the group on the fifth floor slept peacefully. The two girls managed to live next door to Leopati Well, they were obviously whores. They managed to hook him up again, and they were making noise in the hallway, enjoying the orgy. I had to be tough to stop them." "You've got blood on your cheek," said Peters coldly. "Wipe it off." Steve wiped his cheek with a handkerchief, the thin blood has dried. "I took the girls back to the room," he said, "the two assistants are very sensible and have already hidden, but Leopati thought the guests wanted to hear him play the tuba, and I threatened to take that thing It was around his neck and he hit me with a tuba. I punched him empty-handed and he pulled out a gun and shot me. The gun is here." He took the .32 automatic out of his pocket and set it on the table, along with the spent cartridges. "So I just beat him up and kicked him out," he added. Peters patted the marble table, "Your smoothness and sophistication are really vividly reflected." Steve stared at him. "He shot me," he repeated softly. "A gun, this one, and I'm afraid of bullets. He missed me, but what if he did?" ?I love the way my belly looks now - just one belly button." Peters' tawny eyebrows frowned, and he said very politely: "We pay you as a night clerk here, because we don't like the name hotel detective. But neither the night clerk nor the hotel detective dared to disagree." Discussed with me to turn guests away. Never, Mr. Grace." Steve said, "That guy shot at me, man. It was a gun, you know? I'm gonna have to be dumb for not saying a word, am I?" He paled a little. Peters said: "One more thing you have to think about. The majority owner of the hotel is Mr. Horsey Walters, and the Sharot Club - where Kim Leopardi will play from Wednesday —is also one of Walters' properties. That's why Leopardi is kind enough to take care of our hotel business, Mr. Grace. Can you think about it, is there anything else I want to say to you? " "Yes, I was fired," Steve said gloomily. "Exactly, Mr. Grace. Good night, Mr. Grace." The thin, blond man walked to the elevator, and the night doorman led him up. Steve looks at Miller. "Big Walters, isn't he?" he said softly. "A vicious, shrewd fellow, who has the audacity to think that this poor hotel and the Charlotte Club have the same sort of guests. It was Peters who wrote to let Leo Did Patty come to live here?" "I think so, Steve." Miller's voice was low and melancholy. "Then why didn't he arrange for him to live in a suite on the top floor, with a separate balcony where he can dance, for 28 yuan a day? Why did he live in a mid-priced floor? Why did Quinlan let these two girls live so close to him ?” Miller tugged at his black mustache. "Probably because he couldn't bear to spend money—like he was cheap when he bought whiskey. As for the girls, I don't know." Steve slapped the reception desk, "Well, I'm fired because I don't want a drunk to turn the eighth floor into a brothel and shooting range. Crazy! Well, I'm going to miss this place because of it .” "I'll miss you too, Steve," Miller said softly, "but not for the next week. I'm taking a week off starting tomorrow. My brother has a cabin." "I didn't even know you had a brother," Steve said absently, his hands opening and clenching on the marble table. "He doesn't come into town very much, he's big, he's a former boxer." Steve nodded and straightened himself at the counter. "Well, that's what I'll do tonight," he said. "I've got to lie down and get some rest. Put the gun away, George." He grinned coldly and walked away.He went down the steps into the dimly lit hall and across the room to the radio.He patted the pillows on the light green sofa to snap them back into shape, and then he pulled out of his pocket the note he'd pulled out of the brunette girl's purple handbag.This is an invoice for a week's rent of a house, addressed to a lady named Marilyn Drome, at Room 211, Richland Apartments, 118 Cotter Street.He stuffed the note back into his wallet, stood up and stared at the quiet radio, "Steve, I think you've got another job to do," he said under his breath, "There's a hint of conspiracy in this. " He went into a closet-like phone booth in the corner of the room, put a nickel in it, and called an all-night radio station.It took him four times to get through to the night announcer. "Can you play Kim Leopardi again?" "There are still many songs ordered by others that have not been played, and this song has been played twice. What is your name?" "Steve Grace, night clerk at the Carlton Hotel." "Oh, a sober guy who's still working. All right, dude, what you want." Steve went back to the couch, turned on the radio, and lay back against the couch, hands folded behind his head. Ten minutes later, Kim Leopardi's penetrating, beautiful trumpet sound came softly from the radio, the lows as soft as a whisper, and the E after the high-pitched C unbelievable. It went on for a long time. "Gee," Steve murmurs as the music draws to a close, "a guy who can play the trumpet like this—maybe I was rough with him just now." Cotter Street is an old part of town, spanning the entire Bunker Hill.Here lived Italians, thugs, and those who called themselves artists.Here, you'll find everything from impoverished ex-Greenwich villagers to criminals on the run, from call girls who could be anyone's lover at night to county handouts who spend their days with emaciated The landlady scolded each other.The landlady's old, stately houses had turbine-decorated porches, carved floors, and huge curved staircases of white oak, mahogany, and Circassian walnut. Bunker Hill used to be a nice place.When catching up with the good old days, a weird rope railway was built here, called "Angel Wings", and these rope railways are still preserved, winding up and down the loess slope from Hill Street with.It was already afternoon when Steve took the cable car to the top of the mountain, and he was the only passenger on the cable car.He walks in the sun—tall, broad-shouldered, and elongated, in a well-tailored blue suit. He turned west on Cotter Street and began to read the numbers.The number he was looking for was only two numbers away from the corner of the street, and the red brick building across the street was a funeral home with a gold sign that read "Paolo Peruzzi Funeral Home." A dark-skinned Italian dressed in A coat with a rounded hem, standing in front of the curtained door of the red brick building, smoking a cigar, waiting for customers to come to the door. 118 Curt Street is a three-storey timber structure apartment.Its glass doors were covered tightly by a dirty grid curtain, the carpet in the hallway was only 18 inches wide, the gray house number was unclear, and there was a staircase in the middle of the hallway.Brass railings glowed in the dark hallway. Steve Grace walked up the stairs, then turned back quietly.Miss Marilyn Drome's room 211 is in front of the apartment on the right hand side.He knocked lightly on the wooden door, waited a while, and knocked again.There was no movement behind the quiet door, no sound in the corridor.Someone was coughing incessantly in a door behind the hallway. Standing in the dimly lit hallway, Steve Grace couldn't figure out why he had come.Miss Drome had a gun; Leopardi had received a ransom note and tore it up and thrown it away; about an hour after he had told Miss Drome that Leopati had left Carlton , she also checked out.although-- He took out a leather keychain and studied the lock on the door. It seemed that the lock key could be picked.He picked the lock, pushed the bolt, and walked softly into the room and closed the door, but the little thing he had used to pick the lock would not lock the door. The two front windows had shutters, so the room was very dark.The air is filled with the smell of powder.The room had lightly painted furniture and a double pull-out bed, pulled down and neatly made.There were magazines on a stool by the window, a glass ashtray full of cigarette butts, a half-drunk pint of whiskey, and glasses.Two pillows were used as cushions, still sunken in the middle. There is a set of makeup utensils on the dressing table, which looks of average grade, a comb with black hair, a set of tools for trimming nails, and a lot of spilled powder. There is nothing in the bathroom.The wardrobe behind the bed held a lot of clothes and two suitcases, and the shoes were all the same size. Steve stood by the bed, pinched his chin and said softly and anxiously: "Browson, the blonde girl lying on the bed, doesn't live here, only the black-haired girl named Marilyn in ripped pants lives here .” He went back to the dresser, pulled the drawers out, and in the bottom drawer, under the wallpaper, he found a box of . 25 copper-nickel automatic pistol rounds.He fiddled with the cigarette butts in the ashtray and found that there were lipstick marks on them.He squeezed his chin again, and then waved his hand in the air, like a boatman holding an oar. "It's all useless work," he said softly. "You're wasting your time, Steve." He walked toward the door, reached for the handle, and turned back to the bed, lifting the bunk up by the corners. Miss Marilyn Drome was in it. She was lying on her side on the floor, her long legs crossed in a scissors shape, as if she was running.One slipper was on the foot, the other was gone.The top of the stocking showed garters and skin, and something with blue roses on a pink background.She was wearing a dirty square-neck short-sleeved dress with a purple bruise around the neck. Her face was a deep rosy color, her eyes had a dull gleam of lifelessness, and her mouth was opened so wide that her face seemed to be shortened.Her body was as cold as ice, but still soft.She was dead for at least two to three hours, no more than six hours at the most. Beside her was a purple handbag, its mouth as wide open as her mouth.There are some things that have been taken out of the bag scattered on the ground, and Steve has not touched them. There are neither guns nor papers. He put the bed down again to cover her, and went looking around the apartment, wiping down everything he'd touched—and many he couldn't remember whether he had touched or not. He put his ear on the door and listened to the sound outside the door before going out.The corridor was still empty, and the man behind the door on the opposite side of the corridor was still coughing.Steve walked down the stairs, checked the mailbox, and walked down the ground floor hallway to the door. Behind the door there was a chair that creaked all the time.He knocked on the door, and a woman answered in a shrill voice.Steve grabbed the handkerchief, opened the door and walked in. In the middle of the room was a woman rocking in an old Boston rocking chair, looking boneless.She looked slack and tired.She had a dusty complexion, coarse hair, and gray cotton stockings—a Bunker Hill landlady in general.She watched Steve with her goldfish eyes with interest. "Are you the manager?" The woman stopped shaking and shrieked at the top of her voice, "Hey, Jack! There's a guest!" When the words stopped, she started shaking again. There was a bang from behind the half-open door—the sound of the refrigerator door being shut, and a very tall man came out with a bottle of beer in his hand.他的脸像面团一样，一簇头发长在光秃秃的头顶上，脖子和下巴都十分粗壮，一双猪猡一样的褐色眼睛很是无神。他该刮刮胡子了——昨天就该刮了——无领敞开的衬衫里露出了他毛茸茸的胸膛。他猩红色的吊裤带上缀着很大的镀金扣子。 他把啤酒递给女人，她推开他的手，不痛快地说：“我都要累死了，都快失去知觉了。” 男人说道：“是啊，累得连自己走廊没打扫干净都没知觉了。” 女人吼道：“我打扫得干干净净了。”她如饥似渴地吮着啤酒。 斯蒂夫看着男人说道：“你是经理吗？” “是我，杰克·斯托亚诺夫，脱光了之后有286磅重，而且非常强壮。” 斯蒂夫说：“211的房客是谁？” 高大的男人稍微弯腰向前靠了靠，弹了弹他的吊裤带。他的眼神没有变化，巨大的下巴上的皮肤可能收紧了一些。“一个女人。”他说。 “只有她自己吗？” “继续啊——再盘问我啊。”高大的男人说。他伸手从一张污渍斑斑的木桌边缘上拿起了一支雪茄，雪茄燃烧得很不均匀，而且味道闻起来就好像有人把擦鞋垫给点着了。他把雪茄用力地往嘴里一塞，好像他的嘴不情愿接受这根雪茄似的。 “我正在问你啊。”斯蒂夫说。 “到厨房去问吧。”大个子慢条斯理地说。 他转身推开门，斯蒂夫从他身边走了进去。 身材高大的男人一脚把门踹上，把摇椅的吱吱呀呀声关在了门外。他打开冰箱，拿出两罐啤酒，把它们打开，递了一罐给斯蒂夫。 “侦探？” 斯蒂夫喝了些啤酒，把啤酒放在水槽边，从钱包里掏出了一张崭新的名片——他今天早上新印的业务名片——递给了他。 高大的男人读了后，把它放到水槽里，又拿起来看了看。“又是那些人当中的一个，”他含着酒抱怨道，“这次她又惹了什么祸？” 斯蒂夫耸耸肩说：“我猜跟平常没什么两样，表演撕睡衣吧。只不过这回有点儿麻烦。” “怎么会？你在处理这件事吗，嗯？这可真是件轻松简单的好差事。”他说。 斯蒂夫快速地点头，高大的男人从嘴里吐出了一口烟雾，“尽管去查吧，”他说。 “你不怕给这里惹来麻烦吗？” 高大的男人痛快地笑笑，“你疯了，老兄，”他用令人愉快的语气说，“你是个私家侦探，所以你不会声张的。好啊，就到外面去偷偷地调查吧。如果真有什么麻烦事的话——那对我来说根本就不算什么。你就尽情地查吧，想查哪间查哪间。警察们才不会为难杰克·斯托亚诺夫呢。” 斯蒂夫一言不发地盯着他，高大的男人又热烈地说了几句，好像更感兴趣了。“此外，”他继续说道，一边挥舞着雪茄，“我这个人非常心软，我从来拒绝不了女人，也不会为难她们。”他喝光了啤酒，把易拉罐丢到水槽下的一个垃圾筐里，然后将一只手伸到面前，大拇指慢慢地倚着相邻的两根手指转动，“除非她们有什么特殊情况。”他补充道。 斯蒂夫轻轻地说：“你也有一双大手，可能是你干的。” “嗯？”他那双眼皮厚厚的棕色小眼睛眼神沉了下来，盯着他，斯蒂夫说，“好吧，你应该是清白的。但是有那么一双大手，警察查来查去还是会查到你头上来的。” 高大的男人往他的左边挪了挪，从水槽边移开。他的右手放松地垂在身体一侧。他的嘴咬得紧紧的，雪茄都快碰到了他的脖子。 “搞什么鬼，嗯？”他吼道，“你这是在陷害我吗，小子？这什么情况——” “住嘴，”斯蒂夫慢吞吞地说，“她被人掐死了。现在就在楼上，被压在她的床下，我想应该是今天早晨吧，是一双大手干的——就像你这样的大手。” 高大的男人以令人赞叹的手法从臀部里掏出了枪。枪出现得如此之快，好像手枪是从他手上长出来的，一直没离开过他的手。 斯蒂夫对着枪皱了皱眉头，没有动。高大的男人仔细打量着他，说，“你挺厉害的，”他说，“我在这个圈子里混得够久了，一眼就能看出来一个人是什么货色。你非常强硬，老弟。但你可没有子弹厉害。赶紧把事情说清楚。” “我敲了她的门，没人来开门。门锁很容易就被撬开了，我进了房间。因为床铺被拉下来了，我差点没发现她，她之前曾经坐在床上看杂志。没有挣扎的迹象，直到我走之前我才把床铺抬了起来——她就躺在下面。绝对是死了，斯托亚诺夫先生。把手枪拿开吧，警察们不会为难你的，你刚刚说过。” 高大的男人低声说：“也许会，也许不会。他们也不会让我开心。我有时候会碰到浑球，大部分都是荷兰人。你说了一些关于我的手的事，先生。” 斯蒂夫摇摇头，“那没什么的，”他说，“她的脖子上有指甲印。你的指甲都被你咬得干干净净的，你是清白的。” 高大的男人没有看向自己的手指。他脸色非常苍白，下嘴唇下面的黑胡茬上都出了汗。当厨房门外的客厅的门外的走廊里传来敲门声时，他还那样身体前倾，一动不动。摇椅吱吱呀呀的叫声停了下来，女人又尖声叫道：“嘿，杰克！有客人！” 大块头歪了歪头，“即使这房子着火了，这个老女人也不会动动她的屁股。”他粗声粗气地说。 他朝门边走去，出去之后锁上了身后的门。 斯蒂夫迅速地扫视了一下这个厨房。水槽上面有一扇又小又高的窗户，下面有一个用来放垃圾桶和袋子的活板门。这里没有其他的门了。他伸手拿起了斯托亚诺夫留在滴水板上的名片，把它放回了口袋。然后他从左胸口袋里掏出了一把侦探专用的短管手枪——他把手枪枪口朝下地插在枪套里。 他刚把枪拿出来，墙外就传来了枪声——声音有些模糊，但仍然很大——枪声一连串响了四下。 斯蒂夫后退两步，伸直了腿踹到厨房的门上，门纹丝未动，倒是他自己被震得屁股和脑袋发疼。他咒骂着退到了房间的尽头，冲过去用左肩撞门。这次门终于打开了，他冲进了客厅，那个面如土色的女人仍然坐在她的摇椅上，身子向前探，她的头歪向一边，一绺灰褐色的头发垂在她瘦骨嶙峋的前额上。 “枪走火了，嗯？”她愚蠢地说道，“听起来好像很近，一定就在巷子里。” 斯蒂夫飞跑过房间，猛地把外门拉开，冲进了走廊里。 那个高大的男人还站着，沿着走廊又朝着通往巷子的玻璃门走了十几步。他的手抓在墙上，枪在他的脚下，他的左膝一软，跪了下来。 一扇门突然打开了，一个面容冷酷的女人探出头来，立刻就把门甩上，门后的收音机声突然被开得震天响。 高大的男人站了起来，但裤子里的腿却在剧烈地颤抖。他两只膝盖都跪了下去，手里抓着枪开始向玻璃门那儿爬。接着，突然之间他的脸贴着地面倒下，即使是这样了他还用脸蹭着走廊上窄窄的地毯继续往前爬。 然后他停止向前爬，再也不动了。他的身体瘫软下来，握着枪的手松开了，枪从手里滚了出来。 斯蒂夫撞开玻璃门冲到箱子里。一辆灰色轿车已经飞快地开到了巷子尽头。他停下来，稳住自己，举起枪来，但轿车已经飞快地转过街角消失了。 巷子对面的另外一个男人从巷子对面的公寓里探出头来。斯蒂夫往前跑，对后面的人指了指前方。他一边往前跑一边把枪塞回了口袋里，然后在墙壁边减速转到了人行道上，慢慢变成走步，最后停了下来。 在半个街区外，一个男人刚停好车走出来，穿过人行道进入了一个快餐店里。斯蒂夫看着他走进去，然后正正帽子，沿着墙壁也朝快餐厅走去。 他进去之后坐在柜台边，点了杯咖啡。一会儿之后警笛响了起来。 斯蒂夫喝完了咖啡，又另外点了一杯喝了下去。他点了支烟，沿着长长的山坡向下走到第五街，穿过了整座邦克山，回到山脚下的天使之翼，把他的敞篷车从停车场开出来。 他向西朝他今天早上才登记的小旅馆开去，把福尔蒙特甩在了身后。 沙罗特夜总会的楼面经理比尔·多克里正歪着身子靠在还没亮灯的餐厅入口的墙上打着哈欠。这会儿还没什么生意，喝鸡尾酒有些晚了，吃晚饭又有些早，而对于夜总会真正的生意——高级赌博来说，更是早得有些过头。 多克里长了一张英俊的脸，他身穿一套深蓝色的晚礼服，别了一朵紫红色的康乃馨。漆黑油亮的头发下面盖着的额头有两英寸长，五官虽有些粗重，但是俊美的棕色眼睛炯炯有神。睫毛又长又翘，他垂下眼睛时，长长的睫毛就会遮住眼睛，那些爱找麻烦的醉鬼们总是会弄错，时不时地就有人朝他拳头相向。 穿着制服的门卫打开了大厅入口的门，斯蒂夫走了进来。 多克里嘴里说了一句，“嗬，哟。”他用手指轻轻敲了一下牙齿，身子前移，慢慢地走过大厅去迎接客人。斯蒂夫就站在门里，他的眼睛打量着大厅入口处乳白色的玻璃高墙，柔和的灯光从玻璃墙后照进来。玻璃墙上刻着帆船、丛林里的野兽、暹罗宝塔还有尤卡坦神庙等图案。门的边框上镶了铬，就好像相框一样。沙罗特夜总会的一切看起来都十分有格调，左边酒吧里的交谈声也不显嘈杂。隐隐约约盖过人声传来的西班牙音乐更是犹如雕刻的扇子一样优雅。 多克里走上前来，整个人向前靠了一英寸，“有什么我能帮到您的吗？” “金·莱奥帕蒂在吗？” 多克里又往后靠了回去，他看起来兴趣大减，“那个乐队指挥吗？他明天晚上才开始表演。” “我以为他可能会在这里——排练或者是干点别的。” "Are you his friend?" “我认识他，我不是来找工作的，也不是唱片宣传人员——如果你指的是这个的话。” 多克里蹬了蹬脚跟，他是个音痴，所以莱奥帕蒂对他来说跟一袋花生没什么两样。他半带微笑，“他刚才还在酒吧里。”他用岩石一样的下巴指了指，斯蒂夫·格雷斯走进了酒吧。 里面大概坐满了三分之一，这里温暖舒适，灯光恰如其分。小型的西班牙管弦乐队站在拱门处表演，小声地弹奏着充满魅力的旋律，听起来更像是一种回忆。里面没有舞池，一个长长的吧台边上摆着一排舒适的椅子，里面还有一些组合起来的小圆桌，摆放的距离不会太近。屋里的三面墙边都摆着凳子，服务员就像飞蛾一样在桌子间穿行。 斯蒂夫·格雷斯看见远处的一个角落里，莱奥帕蒂和一个女孩在一起。他的两边各有一张空桌子。那女孩真是貌若天仙。 她看起来很高，她的头发像是尘埃中灌木丛燃烧的颜色。以一种诙谐的角度看，她戴着一顶黑色天鹅绒双角贝雷帽，帽子上点缀着两只用长长的银色别针别上的圆点布料做成的蝴蝶。她穿着深紫红色的羊毛连衣裙，披在她肩上的蓝色狐狸毛披肩至少有两英寸宽。她烟蓝色的眼睛很大很漂亮。她戴着手套的左手慢慢地转动着桌上小小的玻璃杯。 莱奥帕蒂面对着她，向前倾着身子说话。他的肩膀在宽松的奶油色运动外套下显得十分巨大，垂在棕色脖子上的头发很显眼。当斯蒂夫走过去的时候，他正对着桌子对面的可人儿笑，这笑声里带着自信，又有几分讽刺的意味。 斯蒂夫停了下来，然后又向后面一张桌子走去。这个举动引起了莱奥帕蒂的注意，他回过头来，看起来目瞪口呆气鼓鼓的样子。他的身体也像机械玩具一样慢慢地转了过来。 莱奥帕蒂把两只线条优美的手放在了桌上，两只手边各有一个威士忌酒杯。他笑了起来，推开椅子站了起来，用一根手指摸了摸自己整齐的胡须，动作带着一种戏剧化的优雅。然后他拖着嗓子，字字清晰地说：“你这个狗娘养的！” 旁边一张桌子上的男人转过头来，满脸怒容。一个正准备走过来的服务员半途中停了下来，然后又退到了别的桌子边上。女孩看了一眼斯蒂夫·格雷斯，然后向后靠在墙边椅子的靠垫上，舔舔没戴手套的右手手指，顺了顺栗色的眉毛。 斯蒂夫静静地站着。他的脸颊突然红了起来，他轻轻地说：“昨天晚上你落了点东西在旅馆，我想你应该处理一下这个东西，给你。” 他从口袋里拿出了一张叠起来的纸递了过去，莱奥帕蒂仍是笑着接过来，打开来看了看。这是一张上面拼贴着白色碎纸片的黄纸。莱奥帕蒂把纸揉成一团，扔到了脚边。 他朝斯蒂夫走了一步，大声地又重复了一遍：“你这个狗娘养的！” 刚才看过来的隔壁桌男人猛地站了起来，转过身来一字一句地说道：“我不喜欢别人在我妻子面前说这种话。” 莱奥帕蒂看都不看他一眼，说：“你跟你的老婆见鬼去吧。” 男人的脸涨成了猪肝红色，跟他一起的女人站起身来抓起包和大衣就走了，男人犹豫了一会儿之后也跟上了她。这下所有人都看过来了，那个刚才退到另一张桌子旁的服务员穿过走廊走进了大厅，他的脚步很急。 莱奥帕蒂又向前迈了一大步，一拳打在了斯蒂夫·格雷斯的下巴上。斯蒂夫被打得侧过了身，退后一步把手放在另一张桌子上，打翻了一个玻璃杯。他回过头去朝桌边的情侣道歉。莱奥帕蒂迅速跳过去，从后面一拳打在了他的耳朵上。 多克里从门厅里走进来，像掰开香蕉皮一样分开了两个服务员，张着嘴朝酒吧里走去。 斯蒂夫喘着气躲开了，他转过来粗着嗓子说：“等等，你这个傻瓜——这还不是全部——还有——” 莱奥帕蒂迅速握起了拳头，狠狠地一拳砸在了他的嘴上。鲜血从斯蒂夫的嘴唇上渗了出来，沿着他的嘴角留下来，在下巴上闪着光。红发女郎伸手拿起包，苍白的脸上满是怒气，开始从她的桌子后面站起来。 莱奥帕蒂突然脚后跟一转走开了。多克里伸出一只手来拦他，莱奥帕蒂把他的手甩到一边，继续走出了酒吧。 身材高挑的红发女郎又把包放回了桌上，她的手帕掉到了地上。她安静地看着斯蒂夫，轻声说，“在你的血滴到衬衫上之前，赶紧把它擦了吧。”她的声音温柔低哑，有些发颤。 多克里一脸严肃地走过来，抓住了斯蒂夫的手臂用力向外扯，“够了，你！我们走！” 斯蒂夫仍稳稳地站着，盯着女孩。他用手帕擦了擦自己的嘴，露出一丝微笑。多克里不能撼动他半分，于是放下了他的手，向两个服务员打了个手势。这两个服务员站到斯蒂夫身后，但没有碰他。 斯蒂夫小心地摸了摸自己的嘴，看着手帕上的血渍。他转身向身后桌子上的人说：“我感到十分抱歉，刚才我失去了平衡。” 那个酒杯被他推翻的女孩正拿着一条印花餐巾纸擦拭着身上的裙子，她抬起头来朝他一笑，说：“那又不是你的错。” 后面的两个服务员突然抓住了斯蒂夫的手臂，多克里朝他们摇摇头示意他们走开。多克里紧巴巴地说：“你打了他？” "No." “你说了什么让他打你的话？” "nor." 坐在角落那张桌子的女郎弯下腰去捡掉在地上的手帕，动作很慢。等她终于捡起了手帕，又回到了角落的桌子后坐下，然后冷冷地说： “事实就是如此，比尔。这只不过是金又一种好心对待他的支持者的方式而已。” 多克里说了句“嗯？”然后转动了一下他粗硬脖子上的脑袋，目光回到斯蒂夫身上，朝他咧嘴一笑。 斯蒂夫严肃地说：“他狠狠地打了我三拳，一拳是从后面偷袭的，我都没有反击。你看起来挺强势的，看看你能不能做到像我这样克制。” 多克里用眼睛打量着他，他冷静地说：“你赢了，我做不到……滚开吧！”他厉声对两个服务员说，他们走开了。多克里闻了闻衣服上的康乃馨，轻轻地说：“我们这里可不允许喧哗闹事。”然后他又朝女郎笑了笑，走开了，路上时不时地跟桌边的客人打招呼，最后走出了大厅门口。 斯蒂夫轻轻地拍拍自己的嘴唇，把手帕放回口袋里，站在那儿看着地上寻找东西。 红发女郎冷静地说：“我想你想找的东西在我手上——在我的手帕里。你为什么不坐下呢？” 斯蒂夫对服务员说：“我要可乐，里面加点儿苦艾酒。” “白兰地里加苏打水。请少放一点白兰地。”服务员欠了欠身子，走开了。女郎被逗乐了似的说：“可乐里面加点苦艾酒？这就是我喜欢好莱坞的原因，你总能见到这么多神经兮兮的人。” 斯蒂夫直勾勾地盯着她的眼睛，轻声说：“我很少喝酒，一杯啤酒都能让我醉得东倒西歪。” “我一个字都不信。你认识金很长时间了吗？” “我昨天晚上才遇到他。跟他有点合不来。” “我有点看出来了。”她笑了起来，她的笑声也低沉动听。 “小姐，把那张纸给我吧。” “噢，又是一个没有耐心的男人，时间还多的是呢。”那条裹着黄色纸团的手帕被她戴着手套的手紧紧地攥着，她右手的中指拨弄着眉毛，“你不是拍电影的吧，对不对？” “见鬼，当然不是。” “我也不是，我太高了。那些帅哥儿得踩着高跷才能够到我的胸部。” 服务员把饮料放在他们的面前，用纸巾在空中做了一个优雅的姿势，转身离开了。 斯蒂夫又固执地轻轻说了一遍：“小姐，把纸条给我。” “我不喜欢别人叫我'小姐'，听起来就像警察一样。” "I don't know your name." “我也不知道你的名字呀，你是在哪里遇到莱奥帕蒂的？”斯蒂夫叹了叹气。小型西班牙管弦乐团现在演奏的是忧伤的曲调，周围的人声已经盖过了音乐声。 斯蒂夫歪着头听着音乐，他说：“E大调降了半个调，效果不错。” 女郎新奇地盯着他，“我都没注意到呢，”她说，“我的歌唱得挺好的，但你还没回答我的问题。” 他慢吞吞地说：“昨天晚上我还是卡尔顿旅馆的私家侦探，他们称呼我为夜班职员，但我其实就是旅馆侦探。莱奥帕蒂住在那里，他的恶作剧有点过了头。我把他赶了出来，然后就被辞退了。” 女郎说：“噢，我有点儿明白了。他当时在称王称霸，而你在——如果我猜得没错的话——履行一个私家侦探的职责。” “差不多就是那样，现在能请你——” “你还没告诉我你的名字呢。” 他拿出钱包，从里面拿出一张崭新的名片，从桌子上递了过去。在她读着名片的时候，还一边啜着自己的饮料。 “名字不错，”她慢慢地说，“但这个地址可不怎么样，'私家侦探'这个称号就更不好了。应该在左下角印上小小的'侦查'二字。” “它们已经够小了，”斯蒂夫咧嘴一笑，“现在能请你——” 她突然间把手伸过去，把纸团丢到了他手里。 “我还没看过——我当然也是想看一看的。如果你觉得可以信任我的话，我希望”——他又看了一眼名片，然后补充道——“斯蒂夫，是的，你的办公室应该位于日落大道80区那儿的一栋乔治亚风格的建筑或者非常现代化的大楼里，是类似于套房的地方。而且你的衣着应该再时髦一些，实际上必须得非常时髦，斯蒂夫。在这个城市里，不引人注目就是一个莫大的失败。” 她朝他笑笑，他深陷的黑眼睛亮了起来。她把名片收进了包里，拉拉身上的狐毛披肩，一下把饮料喝下去半杯。“我得走了。”她向服务员招手，然后买了单。服务员离开了，她站了起来。 斯蒂夫厉声说：“坐下。” 她惊讶地看着他，然后又靠墙坐了下来，一直看着他。斯蒂夫身子探过桌子问道：“你对莱奥帕蒂的了解有多少？” “我们两个断断续续交往了好几年，但这跟你没什么关系。看在上帝的面上，别对我这样趾高气扬的，我讨厌傲慢的男人。我曾经给他唱歌，但时间不长。你不可能只为莱奥帕蒂一个人唱歌——如果你明白我意思的话。” “你刚才在跟他喝酒。” 她轻轻点点头，又耸耸肩，“他明天晚上开始会在这里表演。他想说服我再给他唱歌。我拒绝了，但我可能不得不那样做，反正就只是唱一两个星期而已。沙罗特夜总会的老板手里也掌控着我的合约——他还是我工作的电台的大股东。” “大人物沃尔特斯，”斯蒂夫说，“他们说他心狠手辣，但是很有原则。我从没见过他，倒是希望有机会能见识一下，毕竟我只是个找工作的人。就这样吧。” 他把身子收回来，扔掉了纸团，“你的名字是——” “朵洛蕾丝·奇奥萨。” 斯蒂夫若有所思地重复着这个名字，“我喜欢这个名字，我也喜欢你的歌。我听了很多，你不像大多数高价歌手那样喜欢卖弄歌技。”他的眼里闪着光。 女郎在桌面上摊开纸条细读，面无表情，然后轻轻地说：“是谁把它撕碎的？” “我猜是莱奥帕蒂，这些碎片是我昨晚在他的垃圾篓里找到的。他走之后，我把它们拼了起来。这家伙要不是真的胆子够大——就是经常接到这种纸条，都已经习以为常了。” “或者他以为这只是个恶作剧。”她越过桌子平静地看着他，然后把纸叠起来还给了他。 “也许吧，如果他是传言中的那种家伙——有人会出手的，而幕后黑手绝不止是要把他弄垮。” 朵洛蕾丝·奇奥萨说：“他就是你听说过的那种人。” “所以一个女人要接近他并不难——对吧——一个带枪的女人？” 她继续盯着他，“当然不难，如果你问我的话，每个人都会给她鼓掌的。如果我是你的话，我就会只把这些事都忘记。如果他需要保护——沃尔特斯能为他提供比警察更周密的保护。如果他不需要——谁在乎呢？我就不在乎，我非常确定我不在乎。” “奇奥萨小姐，你有些冷酷——在某些方面。” 她没有搭话。她的脸有些发白，看起来不止是严肃。 斯蒂夫喝完了饮料，推开椅子后伸手拿起帽子，他站起身来，“谢谢你请我喝东西，奇奥萨小姐，现在我已经认识你了，我以后会更加期待听到您的演唱。” “你突然间怎么变得这么一本正经。”她说。 他咧嘴一笑，“再见。” “再见，斯蒂夫，祝你好运——在侦探业里。如果我听说了什么——” 他转身穿梭在桌子间，走出了酒吧。 在这凉爽的秋夜里，好莱坞和洛杉矶的灯光都在对他眨眼。探照灯的光束射向晴朗的夜空，好像在寻找轰炸机。 斯蒂夫把他的敞篷车从停车场里开出来，沿着日落大道向东开去。他在日落大道和费尔法克斯的交界处的路边停下来，买了一份晚报，仔细地翻阅着上面的信息。报纸里没有关于柯特街118号的报道。 他又继续向前开，在他现住的旅馆旁的一个小咖啡厅里吃了晚饭，去电影院看了场电影。当他看完电影出来之后，他买了一份《特里比恩家庭报》——一份晨报。他们两个人都上报了。 警方认为可能是杰克·斯托亚诺夫掐死了那女孩，但她没有受到其他的攻击。上面没有她的照片，但有一张看起来像是经过警方处理的斯托亚诺夫的照片。警察正在寻找一位在斯托亚诺夫被枪杀前和他谈过话的男人。几个目击者称他身材高大，穿着一套深色西装。这就是警方得到的所有描述——或者是愿意提供的描述。 斯蒂夫苦涩地笑笑，在咖啡店里喝了一杯睡前咖啡，然后上楼回到了自己的房间，这时离11点还差几分钟。他刚一打开门就听到电话铃声响了起来。 他关上门，站在黑暗中回忆电话的位置。然后他轻手轻脚地向前直走，坐到了安乐椅上，伸手把放在一张小桌子下面的架子里的电话拿了出来。他把话筒凑到耳边说：“你好。” “是斯蒂夫吗？”这是一个沙哑动听的声音，低沉，有些颤抖，话音里带着一丝紧张。 “是的，我是斯蒂夫。我能听出来你是谁。” 电话那头传来了一阵虚弱的干笑，“不愧是个侦探啊，看来我会成为你的第一单生意。你能马上到我家来一趟吗？我家在伦弗鲁街242号——北街，这里没有南街——离喷泉街只有一个街区。算是一个别墅区，我的房子在最后一排。” 斯蒂夫说：“好的，当然，怎么了？” 电话那头传来一阵沉默，旅馆外的街道上传来汽车的喇叭声，一辆汽车转过街角上坡时，白色的车灯扫过了天花板。那个低沉的声音极其缓慢地说：“是莱奥帕蒂，我没办法摆脱他。他——他晕倒在我的房里了。”然后她发出了一阵与她声音特别不同的刺耳的笑声。 斯蒂夫把电话抓得紧紧的，手都有些疼了，他的牙齿在黑暗中打颤。他用一种木然而冷淡的声音平静地说：“好的，你得给我20块钱。” “没问题，请尽快来。” 他挂断了电话，坐在黑漆漆的房里，觉得呼吸有些困难。他把帽子又戴到了头上，然后狠狠往前一拉，大笑道：“见鬼，”他说，“居然是那种女人。” 从严格意义上来说伦弗鲁街242并不算是别墅区，而是一排交叉错落着的木屋，一共有六栋，门口都是一个朝向，这种格局让任何一家都不能在前门那儿窥探对方的隐私。最后面有一堵砖墙，砖墙外是一座教堂。银色的月光洒在平整的草坪上。 门前有两个台阶，两边都挂着灯笼，窥孔上面有一个铁花格。他敲了门之后，一个女孩的脸探了出来，这个女孩长着鹅蛋脸，嘴形就像丘比特的弓，弯弯的眉毛粗细不均，眼睛就像两颗新鲜的闪着光的栗子。 斯蒂夫把烟扔到地上，用脚踩上去，“奇奥萨小姐在等我，我是斯蒂夫·格雷斯”。 “奇奥萨小姐已经休息了。先生。”女孩傲慢地撇撇嘴说道。 “省省吧，小姐，你听到我说的了，她在等我。” 铁花格门砰地关上了，他等着，皱着眉头看了看街边沐浴在月光