The Collected Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  “The opportunity was made to order for her. She had quarreled with Bill and he had gone off to get drunk. She knew her Bill and how drunk he could get and how long he would stay away. She needed time. Time was of the essence. She had to assume that there was time. Otherwise the whole thing flopped. She had to pack her own clothes and take them in her car to Coon Lake and hide them there, because they had to be gone. She had to walk back. She had to murder Crystal Kingsley and dress her in Muriel’s clothes and get her down in the lake. All that took time. As to the murder itself, I imagine she got her drunk or knocked her on the head and drowned her in the bathtub in this cabin. That would be logical and simple too. She was a nurse, she knew how to handle things like bodies. She knew how to swim—we have it from Bill that she was a fine swimmer. And a drowned body will sink. All she had to do was guide it down into the deep water where she wanted it. There is nothing in all this beyond the powers of one woman who could swim. She did it, she dressed in Crystal Kingsley’s clothes, packed what else of hers she wanted, got into Crystal Kingsley’s car and departed. And at San Bernardino she ran into her first snag, Lavery.”

  “Lavery knew her as Muriel Chess. We have no evidence and no reason whatever to assume that he knew her as anything else. He had seen her up here and he was probably on his way up here again when he met her. She wouldn’t want that. All he would find would be a locked-up cabin but he might get talking to Bill and it was part of her plan that Bill should not know positively that she had ever left Little Fawn Lake. So that when, and if, the body was found, he would identify it. So she put her hooks into Lavery at once, and that wouldn’t be too hard. If there is one thing we know for certain about Lavery, it is that he couldn’t keep his hands off the women. The more of them, the better. He would be easy for a smart girl like Mildred Haviland. So she played him and took him away with her. She took him to El Paso and there sent a wire he knew nothing about. Finally she played him back to Bay City. She probably couldn’t help that. He wanted to go home and she couldn’t let him get too far from her. Because Lavery was dangerous to her. Lavery alone could destroy all the indications that Crystal Kingsley had actually left Little Fawn Lake. When the search for Crystal Kingsley eventually began, it had to come to Lavery, and at that moment Lavery’s life wasn’t worth a plugged nickel. His first denials might not be believed, as they were not, but when he opened up with the whole story, that would be believed, because it could be checked. So the search began and immediately Lavery was shot dead in his bathroom, the very night after I went down to talk to him. That’s about all there is to it, except why she went back to the house the next morning. That’s just one of those things that murderers seem to do. She said he had taken her money, but I don’t believe it. I think more likely she got to thinking he had some of his own hidden away, or that she had better edit the job with a cool head and make sure it was all in order and pointing the right way; or perhaps it was just what she said, and to take in the paper and the milk. Anything is possible. She went back and I found her there and she put on an act that left me with both feet in my mouth.”

  Patton said: “Who killed her, son? I gather you don’t like Kingsley for that little job.”

  I looked at Kingsley and said: “You didn’t talk to her on the phone, you said. What about Miss Fromsett? Did she think she was talking to your wife?”

  Kingsley shook his head. “I doubt it. It would be pretty hard to fool her that way. All she said was that she seemed very changed and subdued. I had no suspicion then. I didn’t have any until I got up here. When I walked into this cabin last night, I felt there was something wrong. It was too clean and neat and orderly. Crystal didn’t leave things that way. There would have been clothes all over the bedroom, cigarette stubs all over the house, bottles and glasses all over the kitchen. There would have been unwashed dishes and ants and flies. I thought Bill’s wife might have cleaned up, and then I remembered that Bill’s wife wouldn’t have, not on that particular day. She had been too busy quarreling with Bill and being murdered, or committing suicide, whichever it was. I thought about all this in a confused sort of way, but I don’t claim I actually made anything of it.”

  Patton got up from his chair and went out on the porch. He came back wiping his lips with his tan handkerchief. He sat down again, and eased himself over on his left hip, on account of the hip holster on the other side. He looked thoughtfully at Degarmo. Degarmo stood against the wall, hard and rigid, a stone man. His right hand still hung down at his side, with the fingers curled.

  Patton said: “I still ain’t heard who killed Muriel. Is that part of the show or is that something that still has to be worked out?”

  I said: “Somebody who thought she needed killing, somebody who had loved her and hated her, somebody who was too much of a cop to let her get away with any more murders, but not enough of a cop to pull her in and let the whole story come out. Somebody like Degarmo.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Degarmo straightened away from the wall and smiled bleakly. His right hand made a hard clean movement and was holding a gun. He held it with a lax wrist, so that it pointed down at the floor in front of him. He spoke to me without looking at me.

  “I don’t think you have a gun,” he said. “Patton has a gun but I don’t think he can get it out fast enough to do him any good. Maybe you have a little evidence to go with that last guess. Or wouldn’t that be important enough for you to bother with?”

  “A little evidence,” I said. “Not very much. But it will grow. Somebody stood behind that green curtain in the Granada for more than half an hour and stood as silently as only a cop on a stake-out knows how to stand. Somebody who had a blackjack. Somebody who knew I had been hit with one without looking at the back of my head. You told Shorty, remember? Somebody who knew the dead girl had been hit with one too, although it wouldn’t have showed and he wouldn’t have been likely at that time to have handled the body enough to find out. Somebody who stripped her and raked her body with scratches in the kind of sadistic hate a man like you might feel for a woman who had made a small private hell for him. Somebody who has blood and cuticle under his fingernails right now, plenty enough for a chemist to work on. I bet you won’t let Patton look at the fingernails of your right hand, Degarmo.”

  Degarmo lifted the gun a little and smiled. A wide white smile.

  “And just how did I know where to find her?” he asked.

  “Almore saw her—coming out of, or going into Lavery’s house. That’s what made him so nervous, that’s why he called you when he saw me hanging around. As to how exactly you trailed her to the apartment, I don’t know. I don’t see anything difficult about it. You could have hid out in Almore’s house and followed her, or followed Lavery. All that would be routine work for a copper.”

  Degarmo nodded and stood silent for a moment, thinking. His face was grim, but his metallic blue eyes held a light that was almost amusement. The room was hot and heavy with a disaster that could no longer be mended. He seemed to feel it less than any of us.

  “I want to get out of here,” he said at last. “Not very far maybe, but no hick cop is going to put the arm on me. Any objections?”

  Patton said quietly: “Can’t be done, son. You know I got to take you. None of this ain’t proved, but I can’t just let you walk out.”

  “You have a nice big belly, Patton. I’m a good shot. How do you figure to take me?”

  “I been trying to figure,” Patton said and rumpled his hair under his pushed-back hat. “I ain’t got very far with it. I don’t want no holes in my belly. But I can’t let you make a monkey of me in my own territory either.”

  “Let him go,” I said. “He can’t get out of these mountains. That’s why I brought him up here.”

  Patton said soberly: “Somebody might get hurt taking him. That wouldn’t be right. If it’s anybody, it’s got to be me.”

  Degarmo grinned. “You’re a nice boy, Patton,” he said. “Look, I’ll put the gun back under my arm and we’ll
start from scratch. I’m good enough for that too.”

  He tucked the gun under his arm. He stood with his arms hanging, his chin pushed forward a little, watching. Patton chewed softly, with his pale eyes on Degarmo’s vivid eyes.

  “I’m sitting down,” he complained. “I ain’t as fast as you anyways. I just don’t like to look yellow.” He looked at me sadly. “Why the hell did you have to bring this up here? It ain’t any part of my troubles. Now look at the jam I’m in.” He sounded hurt and confused and rather feeble.

  Degarmo put his head back a little and laughed. While he was still laughing, his right hand jumped for his gun again.

  I didn’t see Patton move at all. The room throbbed with the roar of his frontier Colt.

  Degarmo’s arm shot straight out to one side and the heavy Smith and Wesson was torn out of his hand and thudded against the knotty pine wall behind him. He shook his numbed right hand and looked down at it with wonder in his eyes.

  Patton stood up slowly. He walked slowly across the room and kicked the revolver under a chair. He looked at Degarmo sadly. Degarmo was sucking a little blood off his knuckles.

  “You give me a break,” Patton said sadly. “You hadn’t ought ever to give a man like me a break. I been a shooter more years than you been alive, son.”

  Degarmo nodded to him and straightened his back and started for the door.

  “Don’t do that,” Patton told him calmly.

  Degarmo kept on going. He reached the door and pushed on the screen. He looked back at Patton and his face was very white now.

  “I’m going out of here,” he said. “There’s only one way you can stop me. So long, fatty.”

  Patton didn’t move a muscle.

  Degarmo went out through the door. His feet made heavy sounds on the porch and then on the steps. I went to the front window and looked out. Patton still hadn’t moved. Degarmo came down off the steps and started across the top of the little dam.

  “He’s crossing the dam,” I said. “Has Andy got a gun?”

  “I don’t figure he’d use one if he had,” Patton said calmly. “He don’t know any reason why he should.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said.

  Patton sighed. “He hadn’t ought to have given me a break like that,” he said. “Had me cold. I got to give it back to him. Kind of puny too. Won’t do him a lot of good.”

  “He’s a killer,” I said.

  “He ain’t that kind of killer,” Patton said. “You lock your car?”

  I nodded. “Andy’s coming down to the other end of the dam,” I said. “Degarmo has stopped him. He’s speaking to him.”

  “He’ll take Andy’s car maybe,” Patton said sadly.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said again. I looked back at Kingsley. He had his head in his hands and he was staring at the floor. I turned back to the window. Degarmo was out of sight beyond the rise. Andy was half way across the dam, coming slowly, looking back over his shoulder now and then. The sound of a starting car came distantly. Andy looked up at the cabin, then turned back and started to run back along the dam.

  The sound of the motor died away. When it was quite gone, Patton said: “Well, I guess we better go back to the office and do some telephoning.”

  Kingsley got up suddenly and went out to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a stiff drink and drank it standing. He waved a hand at it and walked heavily out of the room. I heard bed springs creak.

  Patton and I went quietly out of the cabin.

  CHAPTER 41

  Patton had just finished putting his calls through to block the highways when a call came through from the sergeant in charge of the guard detail at Puma Lake dam. We went out and got into Patton’s car and Andy drove very fast along the lake road through the village and along the lake shore back to the big dam at the end. We were waved across the dam where the sergeant was waiting in a jeep beside the headquarters hut.

  The sergeant waved his arm and started the jeep and we followed him a couple of hundred feet along the highway to where a few soldiers stood on the edge of the canyon looking down. Several cars had stopped there and a cluster of people was grouped near the soldiers. The sergeant got out of the jeep and Patton and Andy and I climbed out of the official car and went over by the sergeant.

  “Guy didn’t stop for the sentry,” the sergeant said, and there was bitterness in his voice. “Damn near knocked him off the road. The sentry in the middle of the bridge had to jump fast to get missed. The one at this end had enough. He called the guy to halt. Guy kept going.”

  The sergeant chewed his gum and looked down into the canyon.

  “Orders are to shoot in a case like that,” he said. “The sentry shot.” He pointed down to the grooves in the shoulder at the edge of the drop. “This is where he went off.”

  A hundred feet down in the canyon a small coupe was smashed against the side of a huge granite boulder. It was almost upside down, leaning a little. There were three men down there. They had moved the car enough to lift something out.

  Something that had been a man.

  THE LITTLE SISTER

  CHAPTER 1

  The pebbled glass door panel is lettered in flaked black paint: “Philip Marlowe … Investigations.” It is a reasonably shabby door at the end of a reasonably shabby corridor in the sort of building that was new about the year the all-tile bathroom became the basis of civilization. The door is locked, but next to it is another door with the same legend which is not locked. Come on in—there’s nobody in here but me and a big bluebottle fly. But not if you’re from Manhattan, Kansas.

  It was one of those clear, bright summer mornings we get in the early spring in California before the high fog sets in. The rains are over. The hills are still green and in the valley across the Hollywood hills you can see snow on the high mountains. The fur stores are advertising their annual sales. The call houses that specialize in sixteen-year-old virgins are doing a land-office business. And in Beverly Hills the jacaranda trees are beginning to bloom.

  I had been stalking the bluebottle fly for five minutes, waiting for him to sit down. He didn’t want to sit down. He just wanted to do wing-overs and sing the prologue to Pagliacci. I had the fly swatter poised in midair and I was all set. There was a patch of bright sunlight on the corner of the desk and I knew that sooner or later that was where he was going to light. But when he did, I didn’t even see him at first. The buzzing stopped and there he was. And then the phone rang.

  I reached for it inch by inch with a slow and patient left hand. I lifted the phone slowly and spoke into it softly: “Hold the line a moment, please.”

  I laid the phone down gently on the brown blotter. He was still there, shining and blue-green and full of sin. I took a deep breath and swung. What was left of him sailed halfway across the room and dropped to the carpet. I went over and picked him up by his good wing and dropped him into the wastebasket.

  “Thanks for waiting,” I said into the phone.

  “Is this Mr. Marlowe, the detective?” It was a small, rather hurried, little-girlish voice. I said it was Mr. Marlowe, the detective. “How much do you charge for your services, Mr. Marlowe?”

  “What was it you wanted done?”

  The voice sharpened a little. “I can’t very well tell you that over the phone. It’s—it’s very confidential. Before I’d waste time coming to your office I’d have to have some idea—”

  “Forty bucks a day and expenses. Unless it’s the kind of job that can be done for a flat fee.”

  “That’s far too much,” the little voice said. “Why, it might cost hundreds of dollars and I only get a small salary and—”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Why, I’m in a drugstore. It’s right next to the building where your office is.”

  “You could have saved a nickel. The elevator’s free.”

  “I—I beg your pardon?”

  I said it all over again. “Come on up and let’s have a
look at you,” I added. “If you’re in my kind of trouble, I can give you a pretty good idea—”

  “I have to know something about you,” the small voice said very firmly. “This is a very delicate matter, very personal. I couldn’t talk to just anybody.”

  “If it’s that delicate,” I said, “maybe you need a lady detective.”

  “Goodness, I didn’t know there were any.” Pause. “But I don’t think a lady detective would do at all. You see, Orrin was living in a very tough neighborhood, Mr. Marlowe. At least I thought it was tough. The manager of the rooming house is a most unpleasant person. He smelled of liquor. Do you drink, Mr. Marlowe?”

  “Well, now that you mention it—”

  “I don’t think I’d care to employ a detective that uses liquor in any form. I don’t even approve of tobacco.”

  “Would it be all right if I peeled an orange?”

  I caught the sharp intake of breath at the far end of the line. “You might at least talk like a gentleman,” she said.

  “Better try the University Club,” I told her. “I heard they had a couple left over there, but I’m not sure they’ll let you handle them.” I hung up.

  It was a step in the right direction, but it didn’t go far enough. I ought to have locked the door and hid under the desk.

  CHAPTER 2

  Five minutes later the buzzer sounded on the outer door of the half-office I use for a reception room. I heard the door close again. Then I didn’t hear anything more. The door between me and there was half open. I listened and decided somebody had just looked in at the wrong office and left without entering. Then there was a small knocking on wood. Then the kind of cough you use for the same purpose. I got my feet off the desk, stood up and looked out. There she was. She didn’t have to open her mouth for me to know who she was. And nobody ever looked less like Lady Macbeth. She was a small, neat, rather prissy-looking girl with primly smooth brown hair and rimless glasses. She was wearing a brown tailor-made and from a strap over her shoulder hung one of those awkward-looking square bags that make you think of a Sister of Mercy taking first aid to the wounded. On the smooth brown hair was a hat that had been taken from its mother too young. She had no make-up, no lipstick and no jewelry. The rimless glasses gave her that librarian’s look.