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desk top. I had the office bottle of rye out and was having myself a midday bracer while I let my feet dangle. I was pretty sure Carmen was missing from Bonsentir's sanitarium. And I was very sure that everyone I talked with knew it, and didn't want me to find her. What I couldn't figure was why. Bonsentir might want to cover up some incompetence and I figured a guy like Bonsentir had a lot of things under the covers up there that he might not want the cops to start looking into. But why would Vivian cover it up? And what kind of clout did Bonsentir have that a good cop like Gregory would walk away from it and tell me to do the same? It was one thing to buy off the local health inspector. Or the local precinct captain, for that matter, but when a downtown cop like Gregory said it was locked up, that meant real juice and a lot of it way up the line.
        It meant that people whom Gregory would call "Sir" were on the payroll, and how much would that cost? How could Bonsentir have that kind of money? It made me tired to think about it, so I bought myself a second drink. Maybe it wasn't money. A guy like Bonsentir would know where there were bodies buried. That was how he flourished. I knew doctors like Bonsentir with the smooth faces and the radio voices. They had big sanitariums off somewhere, out of sight, where wealthy people could store their embarrassments: the dipsomaniac nephew, the nymphomaniac sister, the aging mother who liked to show her underwear, the eccentric brother-in-law who kept stealing things from Woolworth's. The wives of movie stars went to sanitariums like Resthaven, the sons of politicians went there. They were quiet.
        Dr. Bonsentir had needles and pills and he used them. No one complained at Resthaven. Everyone smiled their gooney smiles and wandered about like sleepwalkers, and if they dreamed, who knew it, and who cared what they dreamed? Ah yes, good Doctor Bonsentir, I know you well.
        I knew Dr. Bonsentir so well that I thought it best to toast him, so I poured out a last small splash of rye into the water glass I was using and sipped it in his honor. While I was doing this I heard the door to my outer office open and close. There was silence then as if someone were standing out there trying to make up his mind. Or maybe as if someone were admiring my collection of ten-year-old National Geographies. Then the door opened and in came Vivian Sternwood in a polka-dot dress, big blue dots on a white background. Her hat and gloves were white and her big purse was the color of her dots.
        "Care for a drink?" I said. "I was just toasting that great healer, Claude Bonsentir."
        "You're drunk," she said.
        "Probably not," I said. "But it's not to say I won't be."
        I got up and went to the sink in the corner and got the other water glass I kept for company. I rinsed it, brought it back and poured a finger of rye into each glass.
        I handed a glass to Vivian and while we stood I raised mine.
        "I give you the Hippocrates of the quick needle, Dr. Bonsentir."
        Vivian's eyes were bright with anger, but she drank a little rye.
        "Are you going to ask me to sit down, Marlowe?"
        "Certainly," I said. "Have a chair. Maybe we can have another toast, seated is okay, to the elusive Carmen Sternwood, whom no one seems able to find but everybody says isn't missing."
        "I know my sister is missing, Mr. Marlowe. I don't need some piece of drunken sarcasm from the likes of you." "Who do you need it from," I said, "if not from me?"
        "What I need from you is understanding. You must have some idea of what it is like to try and protect Carmen?"
        "I have an idea what it's like to try to protect the rest of the world from Carmen," I said.
        Vivian's face was dramatically hurt.
        "I was hoping for better from you, Marlowe. I was hoping that the something that sparked between us before hasn't gone away