It was a grey April morning in downtown LA. I’d stopped outside my office to relight a stale cigarette butt. A woman was standing on the sidewalk just a few yards away, dressed in a red two-piece, the shade of an irate poinsettia. She was looking at me.
‘You Marlowe?’ she asked.
‘That’s me, lady.’
‘My name’s Marcia Reilly.’
I noticed she was wearing a wedding ring. ‘How can I help you, Mrs Reilly?’
‘Oh, Mr Marlowe,’ she sighed, ‘I’ve lost my little doggie.’
I drew on my cigarette and looked into her anxious face. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you,’ I told her. ‘I’m a Private Investigator, not a dog-catcher.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ she whined, creasing her face as if she were on the verge of tears. ‘This one’s twenty-two carat gold, with diamond eyes. It’s an antique bracelet-charm worth a thousand dollars.’
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