Murder, My Sweet Page #3

from a friend in a holdup.

- I'm buying them back.

- Where and when?

The arrangements specify that I drive

to a secluded canyon above the beach...

Wait a minute.

You drive to a nice, dark petting spot,

hiding me in the backseat...

- to buy back jewelry for a lady...

- I didn't say that.

...and what you get will be a package

you won't be allowed to open at all.

There's nothing to prevent them

from double-crossing you.

I certainly couldn't do anything to stop it.

Every move's planned. They aren't figuring

on roughing you up if you play ball.

But they wouldn't like you being twins.

One of us might get hurt.

I'm afraid I can't do anything

for you, Mr. Marriott.

But I'll take your $100

and tag along for the ride.

I carry the shopping money, too,

and I do the driving.

We were watched.

I didn't see anything.

I felt it in my stomach.

I was a toad on a wet rock.

A snake was looking

at the back of my neck.

- There should be some white posts soon.

- Pull your head in.

A path there goes down into the hollow

where we're to wait.

Check:
White posts.

You sit tight.

I'll go down and have a look-see.

Looks like a tryout

to see if you obey orders.

I caught the blackjack right behind my ear.

A black pool opened up at my feet.

I dived in. It had no bottom.

I felt pretty good... like an amputated leg.

Are you all right? What happened?

He was doubled up on his face...

in that bag-of-old-clothes position

that always means the same thing:

He had been killed by an amateur...

or by somebody who wanted it

to look like an amateur job.

Nobody else would hit a man

that many times with a sap.

The oftener you go over it,

the sillier it sounds.

You know nothing about Marriott, how

much money he had, or what it was for.

Trusting soul, wasn't he?

Letting you carry the payoff.

Sorry I don't have it.

After I beat Marriott's brains out...

and just before I hit myself on the back

of the head, I hid it under a bush.

Supposing a jewel outfit got the idea

of using a detective as a utility man...

for contacts and payoffs.

Suppose they ran out of uses for him.

They might try

to hang a murder around his neck.

Great.

Now I'm a finger for a heist mob.

Also I'm Jack the Ripper.

Look, I try to be helpful.

I get up off the nice cold ground

and walk five miles to a phone...

right after having my head treated.

I lead you to the body instead of

letting you find it next Christmas.

I tell you all I know, four times!

It sounds screwy. All right, it is screwy.

Sometimes I'm not smart,

but it's all I know.

I'm tired of listening to your bum guesses.

Either book me or let me go home.

Getting personal,

I don't like looking at you, either.

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