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Her clock ran down, her voice faded, she was going to sleep. Her mouth twitched. Ghosts of words came out, in bits and pieces.
“Poor holy man. Sap …”
“What holy man sap?” I asked.
Crumley leaned forward in the doorway.
Constance, deep under, drowning, gave answer:
“. . . priest. Poor crock. Dumped on. Studio barging in. Blood in the baptistry. Bodies, my God, bodies everywhere. Poor sap …”
“St. Sebastian’s? That poor sap?”
“Sure, sure. Poor him. Poor everyone,” murmured Constance. “Poor Arby, that sad stupid genius. Poor Sloane. Poor wife. Emily Sloane. What was it she said that night? Going to live forever. Boy! What a surprise to wake up nowhere. Poor Emily. Poor Hollyhock House. Poor me.”
“Poor what was that again?”
“Hol …” Constance’s voice slurred … “ly … ock … House …. ”
And she slept.
“Hollyhock House? No film by that name,” I murmured.
“No,” said Crumley, moving into the room. “Not a film. Here.”
He reached under the night table and pulled the telephone directory out and turned the pages. He ran his finger down and read aloud:
“Hollyhock House Sanitarium. That’s half a block over and half a block north of St. Sebastian’s Catholic church, yes?”
Crumley leaned close to her ear.
“Constance,” he said. “Hollyhock House. Who’s there?”
Constance moaned, covered her eyes, and turned away. To the wall she addressed some few final words about a night a long time ago.
“. . . going to live forever … little did she know … poor everyone … poor Arby … poor priest … poor sap …”
Crumley arose, muttering. “Hell. Damn. Sure. Hollyhock House. A stone’s throw from—”
“St. Sebastian’s,” I finished. “Why,” I added, “do I have this feeling you’ll be taking me there?”
59
“You,” Crumley said to me at breakfast, “look like death warmed over. You,” he pointed his buttered toast at Constance, “look like Justice without Mercy.”
“What do I look like?” asked Henry.
“Can’t see you.”
“Figures,” said the blind man.
“Clothes off,” said Constance, dazed, like someone reading from an idiot board. “Time for a swim. My place!”
We drove to Constance’s place.
Fritz telephoned.
“Have you got the middle for my film,” he cried, “or was it the beginning? Now we need a redo of the Sermon on the Mount!”
