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s； far from new。 The fireplace was in the middle of the left wall； bookshelves opposite and on both sides of it； not built in。 Two davenports angled across the corners of the room and there was one gold chair； one pink chair； one brown chair； one brown and gold jacquard chair with footstool。
Yellow pajama legs were on the footstool； bare ankles； feet in dark green morocco leather slippers。 My eyes ran up from the feet； slowly； carefully。 A dark green figured silk robe； tied with a tasseled belt。 Open above the belt showing a monogram on the pocket of the pajamas。 A handkerchief neat in the pocket； two stiff points of white linen。 A yellow neck； the face turned sideways； pointed at a mirror on the wall。 I walked around and looked in the mirror。 The face leered all right。
The left arm and hand lay between a knee and the side of the chair； the right arm hung outside the chair； the ends of the fingers touching the rug。 Touching also the butt of a small revolver； about 。32 caliber； a belly gun； with practically no barrel。 The right side of the face was against the back of the chair； but the right shoulder was dark brown with blood and there was some on the right sleeve。 Also on the chair。 A lot of it on the chair。
I didn't think his head had taken that position naturally。 Some sensitive soul had not liked the right side of it。
I lifted my foot and gently pushed the footstool sideways a few inches。 The heels of the slippers moved reluctantly over the jacquard surface； not with it。 The man was as stiff as a board。 So I reached down and touched his ankle。 Ice was never half as cold。
On a table at his right elbow was half of a dead drink； an ashtray full of butts and ash。 Three of the butts had lipstick on them。 Bright Chinese red lipstick。 What a blond would use。
There was another ashtray beside another chair。 Matches in it and a lot of ash； but no stubs。
On the air of the room a rather heavy perfume struggled with the smell of death； and lost。 Although defeated； it was still there。
I poked through the rest of the house； putting lights on and off。 Two bedrooms； one furnished in light wood； one in red maple。 The light one seemed to be a spare。 A nice bathroom with tan and mulberry tiling and a stall shower with a glass door。 The kitchen was small。 There were a lot of bottles on the sink。 Lots of bottles； lots of glass； lots of fingerprints； lots of evidence。 Or not； as the case may be。
I went back to the living room and stood in the middle of the floor breathing with my mouth as far as possible and wondering what the score would be when I turned this one in。 Turn this one in and report that I was the fellow who had found Morningstar and run away。 The score would be low； very low。 Marlowe； three murders。 Marlowe practically kneedeep in dead men。 And no reasonable； logical； friendly account of himself whatsoever。 But that wasn't the worst of it。 The minute I opened up I would cease to be a free agent。 I would be through with doing whatever it was I was doing and with finding out whatever it was I was finding out。
Carl Moss might be willing to protect Merle with the mantle of Aesculapius； up to a point。 Or he might think it would do her more good in the long run to get it all off her chest； whatever it was。
I wandered back to the jacquard chair and set my teeth and grabbed enough of his hair to pull the head away from the chair back。 The bullet had gone in at the temple。 The set…up could be for suicide。 But people like Louis Vannier do not mit suicide。 A blackmailer； even a scared blackmailer； has a sense of power； and loves it。
I let the head go back where it wanted to go and leaned down to scrub my hand on the nap of the rug。 Leaning down I saw the corner of a picture frame under the lower shelf of the table at Vannier's elbow。 I went around and reached for it with a handkerchief。
The glass was cracked across。 It had fallen off the wall。 I could see the small nail。 I could make a guess how it had happened。 Somebody standing at Vannier's right； even leaning over him； somebody he knew and had no fear of； had suddenly pulled a gun and shot him in the right temple。 And then； startled by the blood or the recoil of the shot； the killer had jumped back against the wall and knocked the picture down。 It had landed on a corner and jumped under the table。 And the killer had been too careful to touch it； or too scared。
I looked at it。 It was a small picture； not interesting at all。 A guy in doublet and hose； with lace at his sleeve ends； and one of those round puffy velvet hats with a feather； leaning far out of a window and apparently calling out to somebody downstairs。 Downstairs not being in the picture。 It was a color reproduction of something that had never been needed in the first place。
I looked around the room。 There were other pictures； a couple of rather nice water colors； some engravingsvery old…fashioned this year； engravings； or are they？ Half a dozen in all。 Well； perhaps the guy liked the picture； so what？ A man leaning out of a high window。 A long time ago。
I looked at Vannier。 He wouldn't help me at all。 A man leaning out of a high window； a long time ago。
The touch of the idea at first was so light that I almost missed it and passed on。 A touch of a feather； hardly that。 The touch of a snowflake。 A high window； a man leaning outa long time ago。
It snapped in place。 It was so hot it sizzled。 Out of a high window a long time agoeight years agoa man leaningtoo fara man fallingto his death。 A man named Horace Bright。
〃Mr。 Vannier；〃 I said with a little touch of admiration； 〃you played that rather neatly。〃
I turned the picture over。 On the back dates and amounts of money were written。 Dates over almost eight years； amounts mostly of 500； a few 750's； two for 1000。 There was a running total in small figures。 It was 11；100。 Mr。 Vannier had not received the latest payment。 He had been dead when it arrived。 It was not a lot of money； spread over eight years。 Mr。 Vannier's customer had bargained hard。
The cardboard back was fastened into the frame with steel victrola needles。 Two of them had fallen out。 I worked the cardboard loose and tore it a little getting it loose。 There was a white envelope between the back and the picture。 Sealed； blank。 I tore it open。 It contained two square photographs and a negative。 The photos were just the same。 They showed a man leaning far out of a window with his mouth open yelling。 His hands were on the brick edges of the window frame。 There was a woman's face behind his shoulder。
He was a thinnish dark…haired man。 His face was not very clear； nor the face of the woman behind him。 He was leaning out of a window and yelling or calling out。
There I was holding the photograph and looking at it。 And so far as I could see it didn't mean a thing。 I knew it had to。 I just didn't know why。 But I kept on looking at it。 And in a little while something was wrong。 It was a very small thing； but it was vital。 The position of the man's hands； lined against the corner of the wall where it was cut out to make the window frame。 The hands were not holding anything； they were not touching anything。 It was the inside of his wrists that