"Why would you do this, darling? Work for this man Lipshultz?"

"It's my profession," I said.

"Even though you don't need the money?"

I sighed. "You don't need the money. I do. I don't have any put aside."

"But a man like Lipshultz?"

"In my business you don't get all well-bred upper-class people who have good manners and live in safe neighborhoods," I said. "In my kind of work Lipshultz is well above average."

"Then why not get into another business?" Linda said.

"I like my work," I said.

"I'm sure Daddy would…"

I cut her off. "Sure he could, and I could get a grey flannel suit and be the boss's son-in-law, except I'm kind of old to be the boss's son-in-law."

Linda looked away.

"Look," I said, "Mrs. Marlowe. I'm just a lug. There are things I can do. I can shoot, I can keep my word, I can walk into dark narrow places. So I do them. I find work that fits what I do, and who I am. Manny Lipshultz is in trouble, he can pay, he's not hiring me to do something illegal, or even immoral. He's in trouble and he needs help and that's what I do and he's got money and I need some. Would you be happier if I took Mrs. Valentine's money to help her husband welch on his debt?"

"I'd rather we stopped talking about this and went in and had dinner and then retired to our room and…" She shrugged her shoulders in a way that didn't mean I don't know.

"You're very demanding, Mrs. Marlowe."

"Yes," she said, "I am."

We went in and left the glasses where they were. What the hell. Tino would pick them up. Didn't want the help getting bored.

8

There were 55 Valentines in the L.A. phone book. One was a Lester and one was a Leslie. Lester lived in Encino and was a Division Manager for Pacific Bell; Leslie had a place on Hope Street and was a retail florist. I called information. They hadn't any other Les Valentines listed.

I had no office in L.A. anymore. I had to make the calls from a phone booth on the corner of Cahuenga and Hollywood Boulevard across from the old office. I called a local modeling agency and the Chamber of Commerce in San Benedict. They were both civil to me, which is a high average in L.A.

It was January and cool in L.A. Across the valley, the highest peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains were snowcapped. In Hollywood people pretended it was winter and wore furs along the boulevard, and producers wore argyle sweaters under tweed jackets on their way to lunch at Musso and Frank's. I was clean-shaven, smelling of bay rum and back in town for the first time in a month. Fast, tough, and on a case.

I got in the Olds, went south a block to Sunset and then headed west.

The Triton Modeling Agency was in a courtyard off of Westwood Boulevard, just north of Olympic. The center of the courtyard was covered with white pebbles divided into squares with redwood planking. In each square a small palm tree grew in single file down the center of the yard. There were maybe ten commercial establishments in the complex, a rare-book shop, a store selling Mexican jewelry, a leather store, a lawyer. I walked along the low-canopied porch that fronted the entries until I came to Triton. I rang the little brass bell and opened the door. It was a plush, carpeted silver office. Walls and ceiling done in silver paint, the reception desk silver plastic, and behind the desk a blonde with long thighs and flawless nylons. She wore a scarlet dress of some loose knit material, and as I entered she was reapplying scarlet color to her lips. She kept carefully at it while I stood in front of her desk.

"Yippie I oh chi yea," I said.

She finished her last touch and closed her compact mirror and looked at me.

"Yes, Cowboy?"

"I'm easily excited," I said.

"How nice for you," she said.

"Married, too," I said.

"How nice for you," she said.

"Thanks. My name is Marlowe. I called about one of your models, Sondra Lee?"

"Ah, the detective." She looked me over the way a fish examines a worm. "Well, you've certainly got the shoulders for it," she said.

"Can you tell me how to get in touch with Miss Lee?" I said.

"Sure," the blonde said. "I called her. She said you can come see her at her place."

The blonde handed me a piece of paper with an address on it.

"It's off Beverly Glen," the blonde said. "Near the top."

I thanked her and turned to leave.

"If the marriage doesn't work…" she said.

I turned, gave her the gunman's salute with my thumb and forefinger, and left.

I picked up Beverly Glen off of Wilshire. North of Sunset it started to climb. The foliage pressed in close on it and the hills rose on either side waiting for the first heavy rain to wash the houses that rode their flanks down into the roadway. Sondra Lee's place would be one of the first to go. Its back end rested on two 15-foot lally columns that stood on concrete footings in the hillside. The driveway curved around the house and stopped to form a circle in front. There was no yard but the area in front of the house was full of flowering shrubs, and hummingbirds danced and spiraled over them as I pulled the car to a stop near the front door.

A Mexican woman answered my ring. Miss Lee was in the solarium. I followed her through the overdone bungalow into a glass addition that leaned against the front side of the house. A door at one end opened out onto the pool. It was closed now against the bite of a Hollywood winter, and Miss Lee was reclining indoors, on a leather-covered fainting couch, wearing a very small two-piece black bathing suit and tanning in the rays of the afternoon sun as it came filtering through the glass roof. There was a bar across the end nearest the house, and a couple of canvas chairs sitting about.

The woman on the couch had been on so many magazine covers that I felt I knew her. Her hair was jet black, and her eyes were black, and her skin was pale even after tanning. She looked like you could disappear forever into one of her sighs.

"Miss Lee," I said, "I'm Philip Marlowe."

"Of course, Mr. Marlowe. I've been expecting you. Will you have a drink?"

I said I would.

She smiled slowly and nodded toward the bar.

"Please help yourself, I really need to get another fifteen minutes of sun," she said. She had a way of dragging out every word so that she spoke very slowly, and you were obliged to hang on her words. I made a tall Scotch at the bar, adding ice from the silver bucket and watching the moisture bead up on the glass in the warm room.

I took my drink and sat in one of the canvas chairs where she could see me. I tried not to stare at her.

"I saw your photograph yesterday, hanging in the hallway of a man's home," I said. "He is a photographer and you had posed for him."

"Oh? What is his name?" she said.

"Valentine," I said. "Les Valentine."

She reached to the table beside her and took a long pull on a glass half full of what looked like water but probably wasn't.

"Valentine," she said. "What was his first name?"

"Les, that's how he signed the photograph, in gold, down in the right-hand corner."

"Les," she said. She shook her head slowly and nibbled a little more from her glass.

"I don't know any Les," she said.

"You get photographed so much," I said. "It must be hard to remember."

She shook her head and buried her muzzle in the glass again. When she came up for air she said, "No. I only let a few people photograph me. I would know if anyone took my picture."

She shifted slightly as if in keeping with the slow slide of the sun in the western sky, her nearly still body absorbing all it could get like some kind of gorgeous lizard. She emptied her glass and held it out toward me.

"Be a darling," she said, "and freshen my glass."