a low-swung jaguar swept around the hill in front of me and slowed down so as not to bathe me in the granite dust from the half mile of neglected paving at the entrance to idle valley, it seemed they wanted it left that way to discourage the sunday drivers spoiled by drifting along on superhighways. i caught a glimpse of a bright scarf and a pair of sun goggles. a hand waved at me casually, neighbor to neighbor. then the dust slid across the road and added itself to the white film already well spread over the scrub and the sunbaked grass. then i was around the outcrop and the paving started up in proper shape and everything was smooth and cared for. live oaks clustered towards the road, as if they were curious to see who went by, and sparrows with rosy heads hopped about pecking at things only a sparrow would think worth pecking at. then there were a few cottonwoods but no eucalyptus. then a thick growth of carolina poplars screening a white house. then a girl walking a horse along the shoulder of the road. she had levis on and a loud shirt and she was chewing on a twig. the horse looked hot but not lathered and the girl was crooning to him gently. beyond a fieldstone wall a gardener was guiding a power lawnmower over a huge undulating lawn that ended far back in the portico of a williamsburg colonial mansion, the large de luxe size. somewhere someone was playing left-handed exercises on a grand piano. then all this wheeled away and the glisten of the lake showed hot and bright and i began to watch numbers on gateposts. i had seen the wades' house only once and in the dark. it wasn't as big as it had looked by night. the driveway was full of cars, so i parked on the side of the road and walked in. a mexican butler in a white coat opened the door for me. he was a slender neat goodlooking mexican and his coat fitted him elegantly and he looked like a mexican who was getting fifty a week and not killing himself with hard work. he said: 'buenas tardes, se.or," and grinned as if he had put one over. "su nombre de usted, por favor?" "marlowe," i said, "and who are you trying to upstage, candy? we talked on the phone, remember?" he grinned and i went in. it was the same old cocktail party, everybody talking too loud, nobody listening, everybody hanging on for dear life to a mug of the juice, eyes very bright, cheeks flushed or pale and sweaty according to the amount of alcohol consumed and the capacity of the individual to handle it. then eileen wade materialized beside me in a pale blue something which did her no harm. she had a glass in her hand but it didn't look as if it was more than a prop. "i'm so glad you could come," she said gravely. "roger wants to see you in his study. he hates cocktail parties. he's working." "with this racket going on?" "it never seems to bother him, candy will get you a drink—or if you'd rather go to the bar—" "i'll do that," i said. "sorry about the other night." she smiled. "i think you apologized already. it was nothing." "the hell it was nothing." she kept the smile long enough to nod and turn and walk away. i spotted the bar over in the corner by some very large french windows. it was one of those things you push around. i was halfway across the room, trying not to bump anybody, when a voice said: "oh, mr. marlowe." i turned and saw mrs. loring on a couch beside a prissy-looking man in rimless cheaters with a smear on his chin that might have been a goatee. she had a drink in her hand and looked bored. he sat still with his arms folded and scowled. i went over there. she smiled at me and gave me her hand. "this is my husband, dr. loring. mr. philip marlowe, edward." the guy with the goatee gave me a brief look and a still briefer nod. he didn't move otherwise. he seemed to be saving his energy for better things. "edward is very tired," linda loring said. "edward is always very tired." "doctors often are," i said. "can i get you a drink, mrs. loring? or you, doctor?" "she's had enough," the man said without looking at either of us. "i don't drink. the more i see of people who do, the more glad i am that i don't." "come back, little sheba," mrs. loring said dreamily. etc swung around and did a take. i got away from there and made it to the bar. in the company of her husband linda loring seemed like a different person. there was an edge to her voice and a'sneer in her expression which she hadn't used on me even when she was angry. candy was behind the bar. he asked me what i would drink. "nothing right now, thanks. mr. wade wants to see me," "es muy occupado, se.or. very busy." i didn't think i was going to like candy. when i just looked at him he added: "but i go see. de pronto, se.or." he threaded his way delicately through the mob and was back in no time at all. "okay, chum, let's go," he said cheerfully. i followed him across the room the long way of the house. he opened a door, i went through, he shut it behind me, and a lot of the noise was dimmed. it was a corner room, big and cool and quiet, with french windows and roses outside and an airconditioner set in a window to one side. i could see the lake, and i could see wade lying flat out on a long blond leather couch. a big bleached wood desk had a typewriter on it and there was a pile of yellow paper beside the typewriter. "good of you to come, marlowe," he said lazily. "park yourself. did you have a drink or two?" "not yet." i sat down and looked at him. he still looked a bit pale and pinched. "how's the work going?" "fine, except that i get tired too quick. pity a four-day drunk is so painful to get over. i often do my best work after one. in my racket it's so easy to tighten up and get all stiff and wooden. then the stuff is no good. when it's good it comes easy. anything you have read or heard to the contrary is a lot of mishmash?' "depends who the writer is, maybe," i said. "it didn't come easy to flaubert, and his stuff is good." "okay," wade said, sitting up. "so you have read flaubert, so that makes you an intellectual, a critic, a savant of the literary world." he rubbed his forehead. "i'm on the wagon and i hate it. i hate everybody with a drink in his hand. i've got to go out there and smile at those creeps, every damn one of them knows i'm an alcoholic. so they wonder what i'm running away from. some freudian bastard has made that a commonplace. every ten-year-old kid knows it by now. if i had a ten-year-old kid, which god forbid, the brat would be asking me, 'what are you running away from when you get drunk, daddy?" "the way i got it, all this was rather recent," i said. "it's got worse, but i was always a hard man with a bottle. when you're young and in hard condition you can absorb a lot of punishment. when you are pushing forty you don't snap back the same way." i leaned back and lit a cigarette. "what did you want to see me about?" 'what do you think i'm running away from, marlowe?" "no idea. i don't have enough information, besides, everybody is running away from something." "not everybody gets drunk. what are you running away from? your youth or a guilty conscience or the knowledge that you're a small time operator in a small time business?" "i get it," i said. "you need somebody to insult. fire away, chum. when it begins to hurt i'll let you know." he grinned and rumpled his thick curly hair. he speared his chest with a forefinger. "you're looking right at a small time operator in a small time business, marlowe. all writers are punks and i am one of the punkest. i've written twelve best sellers, and if i ever finish that stack of magoozium on the desk there i may possibly have written thirteen. and not a damn one of them worth the powder to blow it to hell. i have a lovely home in a highly restricted residential neighborhood that belongs to a highly restricted multimillionaire. i have a lovely wife who loves me and a lovely publisher who loves me and i love me the best of all. i'm an egotistical son of a bitch, a literary prostitute or pimp — choose your own word—and an all-round heel. so what can you do for me?" "well, what?" "why don't you get sore?" "nothing to get sore about. i'm just listening to you hate yourself. it's boring but it doesn't hurt my feelings." he laughed roughly. "i like you," he said, "let's have a drink." "not in here, chum. not you and me alone. i don't care to watch you take the first one. nobody can stop you and i don't guess anyone would try. but i don't have to help." he stood up. "we don't have to drink in here. let's go outside and glance at a choice selection of the sort of people you get to know when you make enough lousy money to live where they live," "look," i said. "shove it. knock it off. they're no different from anybody else." "yeah," he said tightly, "but they ought to be. if they're not, what use are they? they're the dass of the county and they're no better than a bunch of truckdrivers full of cheap whiskey. not as good." "knock it off," i said again. "you want to get boiled, get boiled. but don't take it out on a crowd that can get boiled without having to lie up with dr. verringer or get loose in the head and throw their wives down the stairs." "yeah," he said, and he was suddenly calm and thoughtful. "you pass the test, chum. how about coming to live here for a while? you could do me a lot of good just being here." "i don't see how." "but i do. just by being here. would a thousand a month interest you? i'm dangerous when i'm drunk. i don't want to be dangerous and i don't want to be drunk " "i couldn't stop you." "try it for three months. i'd finish the damn book and then go far off for a while. lie up some place in the swiss mountains and get clean." "the book, huh? do you have to have the money?" "no. i just have to finish something i started. if i don't i'm through. i'm asking you as a friend. you did more than that for lennox." i stood up and walked over close to him and gave him a hard stare. "i got lennox killed, mister. i got him killed." "phooey. don't go soft on me, marlowe." he put the edge of his hand against his throat. "i'm up to here in the soft babies." "soft?" i asked. "or just kind?" he stepped back and stumbled against the edge of the couch, but didn't lose his balance. "the hell with you," he said smoothly. "no deal. i don't blame you, of course. there's something i want to know, that i have to know. you don't know what it is and i'm not sure i know myself. all i'm positive of is that there is something, and i have to know it." "about who? your wife?" he moved his lips one over the other. "i think it's about me," he said. "let's go get that drink." he walked to the door and threw it open and we went out. if he had been trying to make me uncomfortable, he had done a first dass job.