The Collected Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  I figured he had just changed a diaper.

  I got into my own car and looked at my watch before starting up. It was almost five.

  The Scotch, as good enough Scotch will, stayed with me all the way back to Hollywood. I took the red lights as they came.

  “There’s a nice little girl,” I told myself out loud, in the car, “for a guy that’s interested in a nice little girl.” Nobody said anything. “But I’m not,” I said. Nobody said anything to that either. “Ten o’clock at the Belvedere Club,” I said. Somebody said: “Phooey.”

  It sounded like my voice.

  It was a quarter to six when I reached my office again. The building was very quiet. The typewriter beyond the party wall was stilled. I lit a pipe and sat down to wait.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Indian smelled. He smelled clear across the little reception room when the buzzer sounded and I opened the door between to see who it was. He stood just inside the corridor door looking as if he had been cast in bronze. He was a big man from the waist up and he had a big chest. He looked like a bum.

  He wore a brown suit of which the coat was too small for his shoulders and his trousers were probably a little tight at the waist. His hat was at least two sizes too small and had been perspired in freely by somebody it fitted better than it fitted him. He wore it about where a house wears a wind vane. His collar had the snug fit of a horse-collar and was of about the same shade of dirty brown. A tie dangled outside his buttoned jacket, a black tie which had been tied with a pair of pliers in a knot the size of a pea. Around his bare and magnificent throat, above the dirty collar, he wore a wide piece of black ribbon, like an old woman trying to freshen up her neck.

  He had a big flat face and a highbridged fleshy nose that looked as hard as the prow of a cruiser. He had lidless eyes, drooping jowls, the shoulders of a blacksmith and the short and apparently awkward legs of a chimpanzee. I found out later that they were only short.

  If he had been cleaned up a little and dressed in a white nightgown, he would have looked like a very wicked Roman senator.

  His smell was the earthy smell of primitive man, and not the slimy dirt of cities.

  “Huh,” he said. “Come quick. Come now.”

  I backed into my office and wiggled my finger at him and he followed me making as much noise as a fly makes walking on the wall. I sat down behind my desk and squeaked my swivel chair professionally and pointed to the customer’s chair on the other side. He didn’t sit down. His small black eyes were hostile.

  “Come where?” I said.

  “Huh. Me Second Planting. Me Hollywood Indian.”

  “Have a chair, Mr. Planting.”

  He snorted and his nostrils got very wide. They had been wide enough for mouseholes to start with.

  “Name Second Planting. Name no Mister Planting.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  He lifted his voice and began to intone in a deep-chested sonorous boom. “He say come quick. Great white father say come quick. He say me bring you in fiery chariot. He say—”

  “Yeah. Cut out the pig Latin,” I said. “I’m no schoolmarm at the snake dances.”

  “Nuts,” the Indian said.

  We sneered at each other across the desk for a moment. He sneered better than I did. Then he removed his hat with massive disgust and turned it upside down. He rolled a finger around under the sweatband. That turned the sweatband up into view, and it had not been misnamed. He removed a paper clip from the edge and threw a fold of tissue paper on the desk. He pointed at it angrily, with a well-chewed fingernail. His lank hair had a shelf around it, high up, from the too-tight hat.

  I unfolded the piece of tissue paper and found a card inside. The card was no news to me. There had been three exactly like it in the mouthpieces of three Russian-appearing cigarettes.

  I played with my pipe, stared at the Indian and tried to ride him with my stare. He looked as nervous as a brick wall.

  “Okey, what does he want?”

  “He want you come quick. Come now. Come in fiery—”

  “Nuts,” I said.

  The Indian liked that. He closed his mouth slowly and winked an eye solemnly and then almost grinned.

  “Also it will cost him a hundred bucks as a retainer,” I added, trying to look as if that was a nickel.

  “Huh?” Suspicious again. Stick to basic English.

  “Hundred dollars,” I said. “Iron men. Fish. Bucks to the number of one hundred. Me no money, me no come. Savvy?” I began to count a hundred with both hands.

  “Huh. Big shot,” the Indian sneered.

  He worked under his greasy hatband and threw another fold of tissue paper on the desk. I took it and unwound it. It contained a brand new hundred dollar bill.

  The Indian put his hat back on his head without bothering to tuck the hatband back in place. It looked only slightly more comic that way. I sat staring at the hundred dollar bill, with my mouth open.

  “Psychic is right,” I said at last. “A guy that smart I’m afraid of.”

  “Not got all day,” the Indian remarked, conversationally.

  I opened my desk and took out a Colt .38 automatic of the type known as Super Match. I hadn’t worn it to visit Mrs. Lewin Lockridge Grayle. I stripped my coat off and strapped the leather harness on and tucked the automatic down inside it and strapped the lower strap and put my coat back on again.

  This meant as much to the Indian as if I had scratched my neck.

  “Gottum car,” he said. “Big car.”

  “I don’t like big cars any more,” I said. “I gottum own car.”

  “You come my car,” the Indian said threateningly.

  “I come your car,” I said.

  I locked the desk and office up, switched the buzzer off and went out, leaving the reception room door unlocked as usual.

  We went along the hall and down in the elevator. The Indian smelled. Even the elevator operator noticed it.

  CHAPTER 21

  The car was a dark blue seven-passenger sedan, a Packard of the latest model, custom-built. It was the kind of car you wear your rope pearls in. It was parked by a fire-hydrant and a dark foreign-looking chauffeur with a face of carved wood was behind the wheel. The interior was upholstered in quilted gray chenille. The Indian put me in the back. Sitting there alone I felt like a high-class corpse, laid out by an undertaker with a lot of good taste.

  The Indian got in beside the chauffeur and the car turned in the middle of the block and a cop across the street said: “Hey,” weakly, as if he didn’t mean it, and then bent down quickly to tie his shoe.

  We went west, dropped over to Sunset and slid fast and noiseless along that. The Indian sat motionless beside the chauffeur. An occasional whiff of his personality drifted back to me. The driver looked as if he was half asleep but he passed the fast boys in the convertible sedans as though they were being towed. They turned on all the green lights for him. Some drivers are like that. He never missed one.

  We curved through the bright mile or two of the Strip, past the antique shops with famous screen names on them, past the windows full of point lace and ancient pewter, past the gleaming new nightclubs with famous chefs and equally famous gambling rooms, run by polished graduates of the Purple Gang, past the Georgian-Colonial vogue, now old hat, past the handsome modernistic buildings in which the Hollywood flesh-peddlers never stop talking money, past a drive-in lunch which somehow didn’t belong, even though the girls wore white silk blouses and drum majorettes’ shakos and nothing below the hips but glazed kid Hessian boots. Past all this and down a wide smooth curve to the bridle path of Beverly Hills and lights to the south, all colors of the spectrum and crystal clear in an evening without fog, past the shadowed mansions up on the hills to the north, past Beverly Hills altogether and up into the twisting foothill boulevard and the sudden cool dusk and the drift of wind from the sea.

  It had been a warm afternoon, but the heat was gone. We whipped past a distant cluster of lighted b
uildings and an endless series of lighted mansions, not too close to the road. We dipped down to skirt a huge green polo field with another equally huge practice field beside it, soared again to the top of a hill and swung mountainward up a steep hillroad of clean concrete that passed orange groves, some rich man’s pet because this is not orange country, and then little by little the lighted windows of the millionaires’ homes were gone and the road narrowed and this was Stillwood Heights.

  The smell of sage drifted up from a canyon and made me think of a dead man and a moonless sky. Straggly stucco houses were molded flat to the side of the hill, like bas-reliefs. Then there were no more houses, just the still dark foothills with an early star or two above them, and the concrete ribbon of road and a sheer drop on one side into a tangle of scrub oak and manzanita where sometimes you can hear the call of the quails if you stop and keep still and wait. On the other side of the road was a raw clay bank at the edge of which a few unbeatable wild flowers hung on like naughty children that won’t go to bed.

  Then the road twisted into a hairpin turn and the big tires scratched over loose stones, and the car tore less soundlessly up a long driveway lined with the wild geraniums. At the top of this, faintly lighted, lonely as a lighthouse, stood an eyrie, an eagle’s nest, an angular building of stucco and glass brick, raw and modernistic and yet not ugly and altogether a swell place for a psychic consultant to hang out his shingle. Nobody would be able to hear any screams.

  The car turned beside the house and a light flicked on over a black door set into the heavy wall. The Indian climbed out grunting and opened the rear door of the car. The chauffeur lit a cigarette with an electric lighter and a harsh smell of tobacco came back to me softly in the evening. I got out.

  We went over to the black door. It opened of itself, slowly, almost with menace. Beyond it a narrow hallway probed back into the house. Light glowed from the glass brick walls.

  The Indian growled. “Huh. You go in, big shot.”

  “After you, Mr. Planting.”

  He scowled and went in and the door closed after us as silently and mysteriously as it had opened. At the end of the narrow hallway we squeezed into a little elevator and the Indian closed the door and pressed a button. We rose softly, without sound. Such smelling as the Indian had done before was a mooncast shadow to what he was doing now.

  The elevator stopped, the door opened. There was light and I stepped out into a turret room where the day was still trying to be remembered. There were windows all around it. Far off the sea flickered. Darkness prowled slowly on the hills. There were paneled walls where there were no windows, and rugs on the floor with the soft colors of old Persians, and there was a reception desk that looked as if it had been made of carvings stolen from an ancient church. And behind the desk a woman sat and smiled at me, a dry tight withered smile that would turn to powder if you touched it.

  She had sleek coiled hair and a dark, thin, wasted Asiatic face. There were heavy colored stones in her ears and heavy rings on her fingers, including a moonstone and an emerald in a silver setting that may have been a real emerald but somehow managed to look as phony as a dime store slave bracelet. And her hands were dry and dark and not young and not fit for rings.

  She spoke. The voice was familiar. “Ah, Meester Marlowe, so ver-ry good of you to come. Amthor he weel be so ver-ry pleased.”

  I laid the hundred dollar bill the Indian had given me down on the desk. I looked behind me. The Indian had gone down again in the elevator.

  “Sorry. It was a nice thought, but I can’t take this.”

  “Amthor he—he weesh to employ you, is it not?” She smiled again. Her lips rustled like tissue paper.

  “I’d have to find out what the job is first.”

  She nodded and got up slowly from behind the desk. She swished before me in a tight dress that fitted her like a mermaid’s skin and showed that she had a good figure if you like them four sizes bigger below the waist.

  “I weel conduct you,” she said.

  She pressed a button in the paneling and a door slid open noiselessly. There was a milky glow beyond it. I looked back at her smile before I went through. It was older than Egypt now. The door slid silently shut behind me.

  There was nobody in the room.

  It was octagonal, draped in black velvet from floor to ceiling, with a high remote black ceiling that may have been of velvet too. In the middle of a coal black lustreless rug stood an octagonal white table, just large enough for two pairs of elbows and in the middle of it a milk white globe on a black stand. The light came from this. How, I couldn’t see. On either side of the table there was a white octagonal stool which was a smaller edition of the table. Over against one wall there was one more such stool. There were no windows. There was nothing else in the room, nothing at all. On the walls there was not even a light fixture. If there were other doors, I didn’t see them. I looked back at the one by which I had come in. I couldn’t see that either.

  I stood there for perhaps fifteen seconds with the faint obscure feeling of being watched. There was probably a peephole somewhere, but I couldn’t spot it. I gave up trying. I listened to my breath. The room was so still that I could hear it going through my nose, softly, like little curtains rustling.

  Then an invisible door on the far side of the room slid open and a man stepped through and the door closed behind him. The man walked straight to the table with his head down and sat on one of the octagonal stools and made a sweeping motion with one of the most beautiful hands I have ever seen.

  “Please be seated. Opposite me. Do not smoke and do not fidget. Try to relax, completely. Now how may I serve you?”

  I sat down, got a cigarette into my mouth and rolled it along my lips without lighting it. I looked him over. He was thin, tall and straight as a steel rod. He had the palest finest white hair I ever saw. It could have been strained through silk gauze. His skin was as fresh as a rose petal. He might have been thirty-five or sixty-five. He was ageless. His hair was brushed straight back from as good a profile as Barrymore ever had. His eyebrows were coal black, like the walls and ceiling and floor. His eyes were deep, far too deep. They were the depthless drugged eyes of the somnambulist. They were like a well I read about once. It was nine hundred years old, in an old castle. You could drop a stone into it and wait. You could listen and wait and then you would give up waiting and laugh and then just as you were ready to turn away a faint, minute splash would come back up to you from the bottom of that well, so tiny, so remote that you could hardly believe a well like that possible.

  His eyes were deep like that. And they were also eyes without expression, without soul, eyes that could watch lions tear a man to pieces and never change, that could watch a man impaled and screaming in the hot sun with his eyelids cut off.

  He wore a double-breasted black business suit that had been cut by an artist. He stared vaguely at my fingers.

  “Please do not fidget,” he said. “It breaks the waves, disturbs my concentration.”

  “It makes the ice melt, the butter run and the cat squawk,” I said.

  He smiled the faintest smile in the world. “You didn’t come here to be impertinent, I’m sure.”

  “You seem to forget why I did come. By the way, I gave that hundred dollar bill back to your secretary. I came, as you may recall, about some cigarettes. Russian cigarettes filled with marihuana. With your card rolled in the hollow mouthpieces.”

  “You wish to find out why that happened?”

  “Yeah. I ought to be paying you the hundred dollars.”

  “That will not be necessary. The answer is simple. There are things I do not know. This is one of them.”

  For a moment I almost believed him. His face was as smooth as an angel’s wing.

  “Then why send me a hundred dollars—and a tough Indian that stinks—and a car? By the way, does the Indian have to stink? If he’s working for you, couldn’t you sort of get him to take a bath?”

  “He is a natural medium.
They are rare—like diamonds, and like diamonds, are sometimes found in dirty places. I understand you are a private detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you are a very stupid person. You look stupid. You are in a stupid business. And you came here on a stupid mission.”

  “I get it,” I said. “I’m stupid. It sank in after a while.”

  “And I think I need not detain you any longer.”

  “You’re not detaining me,” I said. “I’m detaining you. I want to know why those cards were in those cigarettes.”

  He shrugged the smallest shrug that could be shrugged. “My cards are available to anybody. I do not give my friends marihuana cigarettes. Your question remains stupid.”

  “I wonder if this would brighten it up any. The cigarettes were in a cheap Chinese or Japanese case of imitation tortoiseshell. Ever see anything like that?”

  “No. Not that I recall.”

  “I can brighten it up a little more. The case was in the pocket of a man named Lindsay Marriott. Ever hear of him?”

  He thought. “Yes. I tried at one time to treat him for camera shyness. He was trying to get into pictures. It was a waste of time. Pictures did not want him.”

  “I can guess that,” I said. “He would photograph like Isadora Duncan. I’ve still got the big one left. Why did you send me the C-note?”

  “My dear Mr. Marlowe,” he said coldly, “I am no fool. I am in a very sensitive profession. I am a quack. That is to say I do things which the doctors in their small frightened selfish guild cannot accomplish. I am in danger at all times—from people like you. I merely wish to estimate the danger before dealing with it.”

  “Pretty trivial in my case, huh?”

  “It hardly exists,” he said politely and made a peculiar motion with his left hand which made my eyes jump at it. Then he put it down very slowly on the white table and looked at it. Then he raised his depthless eyes again and folded his arms.