Captain Gregory of the Missing' Persons Bureau laid my card down on his wide flat desk and arranged it so that its edges exactly paralleled the edges of the desk. He studied it with his head on one side, grunted, swung around in his swivel chair and looked out of his window at the barred top floor of the Hall of Justice half a block away. He was a burly man with tired eyes and the slow deliberate movements of a night watchman. His voice was toneless, flat and uninterested. "Private dick, eh?" he said, not looking at me at all, but looking out of his window. Smoke wisped from the blackened bowl of a briar that hung on his eye tooth. "What can I do for you?" "I'm working for General Guy Sternwood, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood." Captain Gregory blew a little smoke from the corner of his mouth without removing the pipe. "On what?" "Not exactly on what you're working on, but I'm interested. I thought you could help me." "Help you on what?" "General Sternwood's a rich man," I said. "He's an old friend of the D.A.'s father. If he wants to hire a full-time boy to run errands for him, that's no reflection on the police. It's just a luxury he is able to afford himself." "What makes you think I'm doing anything for him?" I didn't answer that. He swung around slowly and heavily in his swivel chair and put his large feet flat on the bare linoleum that covered his floor. His office had the musty smell of years of routine. He stared at me bleakly. "I don't want to waste your time, Captain," I said and pushed my chair back--about four inches. He didn't move. He kept on staring at me out of his washed-out tired eyes. "You know the D.A.?" "I've met him. I worked for him once. I know Bernie Ohls, his chief investigator, pretty well." Captain Gregory reached for a phone and mumbled into it: "Get me Ohls at the D.A.'s office." He sat holding the phone down on its cradle. Moments passed. Smoke drifted from his pipe. His eyes were heavy and motionless like his hand. The bell tinkled and he reached for my card with his left hand. "Ohls?. . . Al Gregory at headquarters. A guy named Philip Marlowe is in my office. His card says he's a private investigator.
He wants information from me. . . . Yeah? What does he look like? . . . Okey, thanks." He dropped the phone and took his pipe out of his mouth and tamped the tobacco with the brass cap of a heavy pencil. He did it carefully and solemnly, as if that was as important as anything he would have to do that day. He leaned back and stared at me some more. "What you want?" "An idea of what progress you're making, if any." He thought that over. "Regan?" he asked finally. "Sure." "Know him?" "I never saw him. I hear he's a good-looking Irishman in his late thirties, that he was once in the liquor racket, that he married General Sternwood's older daughter and that they didn't click. I'm told he disappeared about a month back." "Sternwood oughta think himself lucky instead of hiring private talent to beat around in the tall grass." "The General took a big fancy to him. Such things happen. The old man is crippled and lonely. Regan used to sit around with him and keep him company." "What you think you can do that we can't do?" "Nothing at all, in so far as finding Regan goes. But there's a rather mysterious blackmail angle. I want to make sure Regan isn't involved. Knowing where he is or isn't might help." "Brother, I'd like to help you, but I don't know where he is. He pulled down the curtain and that's that." "Pretty hard to do against your organization, isn't it, Captain?" "Yeah--but it can be done--for a while." He touched a bell button on the side of his desk. A middle-aged woman put her head in at a side door. "Get me the file on Terence Regan, Abba." The door closed. Captain Gregory and I looked at each other in some more heavy silence. The door opened again and the woman put a tabbed green file on his desk. Captain Gregory nodded her out, put a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses on his veined nose and turned the papers in the file over slowly. I rolled a cigarette around in my fingers. "He blew on the 16th of September," he said. "The only thing important about that is it was the chauffeur's day off and nobody saw Regan take his car out. It was late afternoon, though. We found the car four days later in a garage belonging to a ritzy bungalow court place near the Sunset Towers. A garage man reported it to the stolen car detail, said it didn't belong there. The place is called the Casa de Oro. There's an angle to that I'll tell you about in a minute. We couldn't find out anything about who put the car in there. We print the car but don't find any prints that are on file anywhere. The car in that garage don't jibe with foul play, although there's a reason to suspect foul play. It jibes with something else I'll tell you about in a minute." I said: "That jibes with Eddie Mars' wife being on the missing list." He looked annoyed. "Yeah. We investigate the tenants and find she's living there. Left about the time Regan did, within two days anyway. A guy who sounds a bit like Regan had been seen with her, but we don't get a positive identification. It's goddamned funny in this police racket how an old woman can look out of a window and see a guy running and pick him out of a line-up six months later, but we can show hotel help a clear photo and they just can't be sure." "That's one of the qualifications for good hotel help," I said. "Yeah. Eddie Mars and his wife didn't live together, but they were friendly, Eddie says. Here's some of the possibilities. Fir............