The High Window Read Online Free PDF

arc through the air upwards. I moved my jaw out of the way and caught his wrist and pushed it slowly back against his chest, leaning on it. He slid a foot back on the floor and began to breathe hard. It was a slender wrist. My fingers went around it and met.
    We stood there looking into each other’s eyes. He was breathing like a drunk, his mouth open and his lips pulled back. Small round spots of bright red flamed on his cheeks. He tried to jerk his wrist away, but I put so much weight on him that he had to take another short step back to brace himself. Our faces were now only inches apart.
    “How come your old man didn’t leave you some money?” I sneered. “Or did you blow it all?”
    He spoke between his teeth, still trying to jerk loose. “If it’s any of your rotten business and you mean Jasper Murdock, he wasn’t my father. He didn’t like me and he didn’t leave me a cent. My father was a man named Horace Bright who lost his money in the crash and jumped out of his office window.”
    “You milk easy,” I said, “but you give pretty thin milk. I’m sorry for what I said about your wife supporting you. I just wanted to get your goat.”
    I dropped his wrist and stepped back. He still breathed hard and heavily. His eyes on mine were very angry, but he kept his voice down.
    “Well, you got it. If you’re satisfied, I’ll be on my way.”
    “I was doing you a favor,” I said. “A gun toter oughtn’t to insult so easily. Better ditch it.”
    “That’s my business,” he said. “I’m sorry I took a swing at you. It probably wouldn’t have hurt much, if it had connected.”
    “That’s all right.”
    He opened the door and went on out. His steps died along the corridor. Another screwball. I tapped my teeth with a knuckle in time to the sound of his steps as long as I could hear them. Then I went back to the desk, looked at my pad, and lifted the phone.

 
    FOUR
    After the bell had rung three times at the other end of the line a light childish sort of girl’s voice filtered itself through a hank of gum and said: “Good morning. Mr. Morningstar’s office.”
    “Is the old gentleman in?”
    “Who is calling, please?”
    “Marlowe.”
    “Does he know you, Mr. Marlowe?”
    “Ask him if he wants to buy any early American gold coins.”
    “Just a minute, please.”
    There was a pause suitable to an elderly party in an inner office having his attention called to the fact that somebody on the telephone wanted to talk to him. Then the phone clicked and a man spoke. He had a dry voice. You might even call it parched.
    “This is Mr. Morningstar.”
    “I’m told you called Mrs. Murdock in Pasadena, Mr. Morningstar. About a certain coin.”
    “About a certain coin,” he repeated. “Indeed. Well?”
    “My understanding is that you wished to buy the coin in question from the Murdock collection.”
    “Indeed? And who are you, sir?”
    “Philip Marlowe. A private detective. I’m working for Mrs. Murdock.”
    “Indeed,” he said for the third time. He cleared his throat carefully. “And what did you wish to talk to me about, Mr. Marlowe?”
    “About this coin.”
    “But I was informed it was not for sale.”
    “I still want to talk to you about it. In person.”
    “Do you mean she has changed her mind about selling?”
    “No.”
    “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand what you want, Mr. Marlowe. What have we to talk about?” He sounded sly now.
    I took the ace out of my sleeve and played it with a languid grace. “The point is, Mr. Morningstar, that at the time you called up you already knew the coin wasn’t for sale.”
    “Interesting,” he said slowly. “How?”
    “You’re in the business, you couldn’t help knowing. It’s a matter of public record that the Murdock collection cannot be sold during Mrs. Murdock’s lifetime.”
    “Ah,” he said. “Ah.” There was a silence. Then, “At three o’clock,” he said, not sharp, but quick. “I shall be glad to see you here in