Howard Spencer called me on the following Friday morning. He was at the Ritz-Beverly and suggested I drop over for a drink in the bar. "Better make it in your room," I said. "Very well, if you prefer it. Room 828. I've just talked to Eileen Wade. She seems quite resigned. She has read the script Roger left and says she thinks it can be finished off very easily. It will be a good deal shorter than his other books, but that is balanced by the publicity value. I guess you think we publishers are a pretty callous bunch. Eileen will be home all afternoon. Naturally she wants to see me and I want to see her." "I'll be over in half an hour, Mr. Spencer." He had a nice roomy suite on the west side of the hotel. The living room had tall windows opening on a narrow iron-railed balcony. The furniture was upholstered in some candy-striped material and that with the heavily flowered design of the carpet gave it an old-fashioned air, except that everything you could put a drink down on had a plate glass top and there were nineteen ash trays spotted around. A hotel room is a pretty sharp indication of the manners of the guests. The-Ritz-Beverly wasn't expecting them to have any. Spencer shook hands. "Sit down," he said. "What will you drink?" "Anything or nothing. I don't have to have a drink." "I fancy a glass of Amontillado. California is poor drinking country in the summer. In New York you can handle four times as much for one half the hangover." "I'll take a rye whiskey sour." He went to the phone and ordered. Then he sat down on one of the candy-striped chairs and took off his rimless glasses to polish them on a handkerchief. He put them back on, adjusted them carefully, and looked at me. "I take it you have something on your mind. That's why you wanted to see me up here rather than in the bar." "I'll drive you out to Idle Valley. I'd like to see Mrs. Wade too." He looked a little uncomfortable. "I'm not sure that she wants to see you," he said. "I know she doesn't. I can get in on your ticket." "That would not be very diplomatic of me, would it?" "She tell you she didn't want to see me?" "Not exactly, not in so many words." He cleared his throat. "I get the impression that she blames you for Roger's death." "Yeah. She said that right out — to the deputy who came the afternoon he died. She probably said it to the Sheriff's homicide lieutenant that investigated the death. She didn't say it to the Coroner, however." He leaned back and scratched the inside of his hand with a finger, slowly. It was just a sort of doodling gesture. "What good would it do for you to see her, Marlowe? It was a pretty dreadful experience for her. I imagine her whole life had been pretty dreadful for some time. Why make her live it over? Do you expect to convince her that you didn't miss out a little?" "She told the deputy I killed him." "She couldn't have meant that literally. Otherwise—" The door buzzer rang. He got up to go to the door and open it. The room service waiter came in with the drinks and put them down with as much flourish as if he was serving a seven course dinner. Spencer signed the check and gave him four bits. The guy went away. Spencer picked up his glass of sherry and walked away as if he didn't want to hand me my drink. I let it stay where it was. "Otherwise what?" I asked him. "Otherwise she would have said something to the Coroner, wouldn't she?" He frowned at me. "I think we are talking nonsense. Just what did you want to see me about?" "You wanted to see me." "Only," he said coldy, "because when I talked to you from New York you said I was jumping to conclusions. That implied to me that you had something to explain. Well, what is it?" "I'd like to explain it in front of Mrs. Wade." "I don't care for the idea. I think you had better make your own arrangements. I have a great regard for Eileen Wade. As a businessman I'd like to salvage Roger's work if it can be done. If Eileen feels about you as you suggest, I can't be the means of getting you into her house. Be reasonable." "That's all right," I said. "............