The Annotated Big Sleep

by Raymond Chandler

  Sir Galahad by George Frederic Watts, as engraved by Henry W. Peckwell

  All that said, and despite the volume of Chandler commentary pursuing this tantalizing theme, Galahad in Depression-era Southern California simply makes no sense: in such a context he’d be more like that wonderfully mad wannabe knight Don Quixote, mistaking windmills for giants, the wrong men for lords and the wrong women for ladies, and lost in the dreams of romance. That Marlowe does not suffer from such delusions is key to his character: he knows, sadly but wisely, that the world will not live up to such a strict code of honor and decency. However much he might wish he were in that kind of a story, he knows that he is not—and it is the interplay between these competing impulses that defines his character. As Chandler said, “there must be idealism, but there must also be contempt.” Marlowe makes the move with the knight, and then he moves it back.

  16. From kittenish to predatory.

  17. highballs: Tall glasses of diluted liquor, usually (as here) a species of whiskey, on ice.

  18. It’s tempting to speculate what talismanic insult sends Marlowe over the edge. It must be worse than “son of a bitch,” which he’s called elsewhere (four times) with no reticence on Chandler’s part in spelling it out. But any specifics offered by the editors (and we do have our theories) would only lessen the impact of an epithet supplied by the reader’s own imagination—which may have been Chandler’s desired effect in the first place.

  19. Inside the outsider’s apartment, we get a brief, titillating glimpse of Marlowe’s past. There won’t be very much more throughout the novels. (See note 11 on this page and the “Philip Marlowe, Escapee” text box on this page.) Chandler once said that he didn’t care about his detective’s private life, and so it goes for the hero archetype. Who were Gilgamesh, Odysseus, Beowulf—or Galahad, for that matter—when they were at home?

  20. This really isn’t a game for knights. No knight strikes a lady, or for that matter threatens to throw her into the hallway naked. Marlowe has now both slapped and pushed Carmen around and “cracked” Agnes on the head twice.

  21. “Dog”-house versus jungle cat: the evolution from kitten is complete.

  22. Resisting temptation takes its toll: our hero’s suppressed sexual instincts erupt here as he, too, gives vent to his animal side.

  Steph Cha’s 2013 homage to the Marlowe novels, Follow Her Home, provides an ironic twist on this scene: When protagonist Juniper Song returns to her apartment, which has been broken into, the violator has made her bed. She then throws “the covers to the floor and [tears] the sheets apart, savagely.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It was raining again the next morning,1 a slanting gray rain like a swung curtain of crystal beads. I got up feeling sluggish and tired and stood looking out of the windows, with a dark harsh taste of Sternwoods still in my mouth. I was as empty of life as a scarecrow’s pockets.2 I went out to the kitchenette and drank two cups of black coffee. You can have a hangover from other things than alcohol. I had one from women. Women made me sick.3

  I shaved and showered and dressed and got my raincoat out and went downstairs and looked out of the front door. Across the street, a hundred feet up, a gray Plymouth sedan was parked. It was the same one that had tried to trail me around the day before, the same one that I had asked Eddie Mars about. There might be a cop in it, if a cop had that much time on his hands and wanted to waste it following me around. Or it might be a smoothie in the detective business trying to get a noseful of somebody else’s case in order to chisel a way into it. Or it might be the Bishop of Bermuda disapproving of my night life.

  I went out back and got my convertible from the garage and drove it around front past the gray Plymouth. There was a small man in it, alone. He started up after me. He worked better in the rain. He stayed close enough so that I couldn’t make a short block and leave that before he entered it, and he stayed back far enough so that other cars were between us most of the time. I drove down to the boulevard and parked in the lot next to my building and came out of there with my raincoat collar up and my hat brim low and the raindrops tapping icily at my face in between. The Plymouth was across the way at a fireplug. I walked down to the intersection and crossed with the green light and walked back, close to the edge of the sidewalk and the parked cars. The Plymouth hadn’t moved. Nobody got out of it. I reached it and jerked open the door on the curb side.

  A small bright-eyed man was pressed back into the corner behind the wheel. I stood and looked in at him, the rain thumping my back. His eyes blinked behind the swirling smoke of a cigarette. His hands tapped restlessly on the thin wheel.

  I said: “Can’t you make your mind up?”

  He swallowed and the cigarette bobbed between his lips. “I don’t think I know you,” he said, in a tight little voice.

  “Marlowe’s the name. The guy you’ve been trying to follow around for a couple of days.”

  “I ain’t following anybody, doc.”

  “This jalopy is.4 Maybe you can’t control it. Have it your own way. I’m now going to eat breakfast in the coffee shop across the street, orange juice, bacon and eggs, toast, honey, three or four cups of coffee and a toothpick. I am then going up to my office, which is on the seventh floor of the building right opposite you. If you have anything that’s worrying you beyond endurance, drop up and chew it over. I’ll only be oiling my machine gun.”5

  I left him blinking and walked away. Twenty minutes later I was airing the scrubwoman’s Soirée d’Amour6 out of my office and opening up a thick rough envelope addressed in a fine old-fashioned pointed handwriting. The envelope contained a brief formal note and a large mauve check for five hundred dollars, payable to Philip Marlowe and signed, Guy de Brisay Sternwood,7 by Vincent Norris. That made it a nice morning. I was making out a bank slip when the buzzer told me somebody had entered my two by four reception room. It was the little man from the Plymouth.

  “Fine,” I said. “Come in and shed your coat.”

  He slid past me carefully as I held the door, as carefully as though he feared I might plant a kick in his minute buttocks. We sat down and faced each other across the desk. He was a very small man, not more than five feet three and would hardly weigh as much as a butcher’s thumb.8 He had tight brilliant eyes that wanted to look hard, and looked as hard as oysters on the half shell.9 He wore a double-breasted dark gray suit that was too wide in the shoulders and had too much lapel. Over this, open, an Irish tweed coat with some badly worn spots. A lot of foulard tie10 bulged out and was rainspotted above his crossed lapels.

  “Maybe you know me,” he said. “I’m Harry Jones.”11

  I said I didn’t know him. I pushed a flat tin of cigarettes at him. His small neat fingers speared one like a trout taking the fly. He lit it with the desk lighter and waved his hand.

  “I been around,” he said. “Know the boys and such. Used to do a little liquor-running down from Hueneme Point.12 A tough racket, brother. Riding the scout car13 with a gun in your lap and a wad on your hip that would choke a coal chute. Plenty of times we paid off four sets of law before we hit Beverly Hills. A tough racket.”

  “Terrible,” I said.

  He leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling from the small tight corner of his small tight mouth.

  “Maybe you don’t believe me,” he said.

  “Maybe I don’t,” I said. “And maybe I do. And then again maybe I haven’t bothered to make my mind up. Just what is the build-up supposed to do to me?”

  “Nothing,” he said tartly.

  “You’ve been following me around for a couple of days,” I said. “Like a fellow trying to pick up a girl and lacking the last inch of nerve. Maybe you’re selling insurance. Maybe you knew a fellow called Joe Brody. That’s a lot of maybes, but I have a lot on hand in my business.”

  His eyes bulged and his lower lip almost fell in his lap. “Chris
t, how’d you know that?” he snapped.

  “I’m psychic. Shake your business up and pour it. I haven’t got all day.”

  The brightness of his eyes almost disappeared between the suddenly narrowed lids. There was silence. The rain pounded down on the flat tarred roof over the Mansion House lobby below my windows. His eyes opened a little, shined again, and his voice was full of thought.

  “I was trying to get a line on you, sure,” he said. “I’ve got something to sell—cheap, for a couple of C notes.14 How’d you tie me to Joe?”

  I opened a letter and read it. It offered me a six months’ correspondence course in fingerprinting at a special professional discount. I dropped it into the waste basket and looked at the little man again. “Don’t mind me. I was just guessing. You’re not a cop. You don’t belong to Eddie Mars’ outfit. I asked him last night. I couldn’t think of anybody else but Joe Brody’s friends who would be that much interested in me.”

  “Jesus,” he said and licked his lower lip. His face had turned white as paper when I mentioned Eddie Mars. His mouth drooped open and his cigarette hung to the corner of it by some magic, as if it had grown there. “Aw, you’re kidding me,” he said at last, with the sort of smile the operating room sees.

  “All right. I’m kidding you.” I opened another letter. This one wanted to send me a daily newsletter from Washington, all inside stuff, straight from the cookhouse. “I suppose Agnes is loose,” I added.

  “Yeah. She sent me. You interested?”

  “Well—she’s a blonde.”

  “Nuts. You made a crack when you were up there that night—the night Joe got squibbed off. Something about Brody must have known something good about the Sternwoods or he wouldn’t have taken the chance on that picture he sent them.”

  “Uh-huh. So he had? What was it?”

  “That’s what the two hundred bucks pays for.”

  I dropped some more fan mail into the basket and lit myself a fresh cigarette.

  “We gotta get out of town,” he said. “Agnes is a nice girl. You can’t hold that stuff on her. It’s not so easy for a dame to get by these days.”

  “She’s too big for you,” I said. “She’ll roll on you and smother you.”

  “That’s kind of a dirty crack, brother,” he said with something that was near enough to dignity to make me stare at him.

  I said: “You’re right. I’ve been meeting the wrong kind of people lately. Let’s cut out the gabble and get down to cases. What have you got for the money?”

  “Would you pay for it?”

  “If it does what?”

  “If it helps you find Rusty Regan.”

  “I’m not looking for Rusty Regan.”15

  “Says you. Want to hear it or not?”

  “Go ahead and chirp. I’ll pay for anything I use. Two C notes buys a lot of information in my circle.”

  “Eddie Mars had Regan bumped off,” he said calmly, and leaned back as if he had just been made a vice-president.

  I waved a hand in the direction of the door. “I wouldn’t even argue with you,” I said. “I wouldn’t waste the oxygen. On your way, small size.”

  He leaned across the desk, white lines at the corners of his mouth. He snubbed his cigarette out carefully, over and over again, without looking at it. From behind a communicating door came the sound of a typewriter clacking monotonously to the bell, to the shift, line after line.

  “I’m not kidding,” he said.

  “Beat it. Don’t bother me. I have work to do.”

  “No you don’t,” he said sharply. “I ain’t that easy. I came here to speak my piece and I’m speaking it. I knew Rusty myself. Not well, well enough to say ‘How’s a boy?’ and he’d answer me or he wouldn’t, according to how he felt. A nice guy though. I always liked him. He was sweet on a singer named Mona Grant. Then she changed her name to Mars. Rusty got sore and married a rich dame that hung around the joints like she couldn’t sleep well at home. You know all about her, tall, dark, enough looks for a Derby winner, but the type would put a lot of pressure on a guy. High-strung. Rusty wouldn’t get along with her. But Jesus, he’d get along with her old man’s dough, wouldn’t he? That’s what you think. This Regan was a cockeyed sort of buzzard. He had long-range eyes. He was looking over into the next valley all the time. He wasn’t scarcely around where he was. I don’t think he gave a damn about dough. And coming from me, brother, that’s a compliment.”

  The little man wasn’t so dumb after all. A three for a quarter grifter16 wouldn’t even think such thoughts, much less know how to express them.17

  I said: “So he ran away.”

  “He started to run away, maybe. With this girl Mona. She wasn’t living with Eddie Mars, didn’t like his rackets. Especially the side lines, like blackmail, bent cars, hideouts for hot boys from the east, and so on. The talk was Regan told Eddie one night, right out in the open, that if he ever messed Mona up in any criminal rap, he’d be around to see him.”

  “Most of this is on the record, Harry,” I said. “You can’t expect money for that.”

  “I’m coming to what isn’t. So Regan blew. I used to see him every afternoon in Vardi’s drinking Irish whiskey and staring at the wall. He don’t talk much any more. He’d give me a bet now and then, which was what I was there for, to pick up bets for Puss Walgreen.”

  “I thought he was in the insurance business.”18

  “That’s what it says on the door. I guess he’d sell you insurance at that, if you tramped on him. Well, about the middle of September I don’t see Regan any more. I don’t notice it right away. You know how it is. A guy’s there and you see him and then he ain’t there and you don’t not see him until something makes you think of it. What makes me think about it is I hear a guy say laughing that Eddie Mars’ woman lammed out with Rusty Regan and Mars is acting like he was best man, instead of being sore. So I tell Joe Brody and Joe was smart.”

  “Like hell he was,” I said.

  “Not copper smart, but still smart. He’s out for the dough. He gets to figuring could he get a line somehow on the two lovebirds he could maybe collect twice—once from Eddie Mars and once from Regan’s wife. Joe knew the family a little.”

  “Five grand worth,” I said. “He nicked them for that a while back.”

  “Yeah?” Harry Jones looked mildly surprised. “Agnes ought to of told me that. There’s a frail for you. Always holding out. Well, Joe and me watch the papers and we don’t see anything, so we know old Sternwood has a blanket on it. Then one day I see Lash Canino in Vardi’s. Know him?”

  I shook my head.

  “There’s a boy that is tough like some guys think they are tough.19 He does a job for Eddie Mars when Mars needs him—trouble-shooting. He’d bump a guy off between drinks. When Mars don’t need him he don’t go near him. And he don’t stay in L.A. Well it might be something and it might not. Maybe they got a line on Regan and Mars has just been sitting back with a smile on his puss, waiting for the chance. Then again it might be something else entirely. Anyway I tell Joe and Joe gets on Canino’s tail. He can tail. Me, I’m no good at it. I’m giving that one away. No charge. And Joe tails Canino out to the Sternwood place and Canino parks outside the estate and a car come up beside him with a girl in it. They talk for a while and Joe thinks the girl passes something over, like maybe dough. The girl beats it. It’s Regan’s wife. Okey, she knows Canino and Canino knows Mars. So Joe figures Canino knows something about Regan and is trying to squeeze a little on the side for himself. Canino blows and Joe loses him. End of Act One.”

  “What does this Canino look like?”

  “Short, heavy set, brown hair, brown eyes, and always wears brown clothes and a brown hat. Even wears a brown suede raincoat. Drives a brown coupe. Everything brown for Mr. Canino.”20

  “Let’s have Act Two,” I said.

  “Without some dou
gh that’s all.”

  “I don’t see two hundred bucks in it. Mrs. Regan married an ex-bootlegger out of the joints. She’d know other people of his sort. She knows Eddie Mars well. If she thought anything had happened to Regan, Eddie would be the very man she’d go to, and Canino might be the man Eddie would pick to handle the assignment. Is that all you have?”