The Collected Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The wound is contact, typically suicidal, with a good deal of distention from gas pressure. The eyes are exophthalmic from the same cause. I don’t think there will be any prints on the outside of the gun. It’s been bled on too freely.”

  “Could it be homicide if the guy was asleep or passed out drunk?” Ohls asked him.

  “Of course, but there’s no indication of it. The gun’s a Webley Hammerless. Typically, this gun takes a very stiff pull to cock it, but a very light pull to discharge it. The recoil explains the position of the gun. I see nothing against suicide so far. I expect a high figure on alcoholic concentration. If it’s high enough—” the man stopped and shrugged meaningly—“I might be inclined to doubt suicide.”

  “Thanks. Somebody call the coroner?”

  The man nodded and went away. Ohls yawned and looked at his watch. Then he looked at me.

  “You want to blow?”

  “Sure, if you’ll let me. I thought I was a suspect.”

  “We might oblige you later on. Stick around where you can be found, that’s all. You were a dick once, you know how they go. Some you got to work fast before the evidence gets away from you. This one is just the opposite. If it was a homicide, who wanted him dead? His wife? She wasn’t here. You? Fine, you had the house to yourself and knew where the gun was. A perfect setup. Everything but a motive, and we might perhaps give some weight to your experience. I figure if you wanted to kill a guy, you could maybe do it a little less obviously.”

  “Thanks, Bernie. I could at that.”

  “The help wasn’t here. They’re out. So it must have been somebody that just happened to drop by. That somebody had to know where Wade’s gun was, had to find him drunk enough to be asleep or passed out, and had to pull the trigger when that speedboat was making enough noise to drown the shot, and had to get away before you came back into the house. That I don’t buy on any knowledge I have now. The only person who had the means and opportunity was the one guy who wouldn’t have used them—for the simple reason he was the one guy who had them.”

  I stood up to go. “Okay, Bernie. I’ll be home all evening.”

  “There’s just one thing,” Ohls said musingly. “This man Wade was a big time writer. Lots of dough, lots of reputation. I don’t go for his sort of crap myself. You might find nicer people than his characters in a whorehouse. That’s a matter of taste and none of my business as a cop. With all this money he had a beautiful home in one of the best places to live in in the country. He had a beautiful wife, lots of friends, and no troubles at all. What I want to know is what made all that so tough that he had to pull a trigger? Sure as hell something did. If you know, you better get ready to lay it on the line. See you.”

  I went to the door. The man on the door looked back at Ohls, got the sign, and let me out. I got into my car and had to edge over on the lawn to get around the various official cars that jammed the driveway. At the gate another deputy looked me over but didn’t say anything. I slipped my dark glasses on and drove back towards the main highway. The road was empty and peaceful. The afternoon sun beat down on the manicured lawns and the large roomy expensive houses behind them.

  A man not unknown to the world had died in a pool of blood in a house in Idle Valley, but the lazy quiet had not been disturbed. So far as the newspapers were concerned it might have happened in Tibet.

  At a turn of the road the walls of two estates came down to the shoulder and a dark green Sheriff’s car was parked there. A deputy got out and held up his hand. I stopped. He came to the window.

  “May I see your driver’s license, please?”

  I took out my wallet and handed it to him open.

  “Just the license, please. I’m not allowed to touch your wallet.”

  I took it out and gave it to him. “What’s the trouble?”

  He glanced into my car and handed me back my license.

  “No trouble,” he said. “Just a routine check. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  He waved me on and went back to the parked car. Just like a cop. They never tell you why they are doing anything. That way you don’t find out they don’t know themselves.

  I drove home, bought myself a couple of cold drinks, went out to dinner, came back, opened the windows and my shirt and waited for something to happen. I waited a long time. It was nine o’clock when Bernie Ohls called up and told me to come in and not stop on the way to pick any flowers.

  CHAPTER 38

  They had Candy in a hard chair against the wall of the Sheriff’s anteroom. He hated me with his eyes as I went by him into the big square room where Sheriff Petersen held court in the middle of a collection of testimonials from a grateful public to his twenty years of faithful public service. The walls were loaded with photographs of horses and Sheriff Petersen made a personal appearance in every photograph. The corners of his carved desk were horses’ heads. His inkwell was a mounted polished horse’s hoof and his pens were planted in the mate to it filled with white sand. A gold plate on each of these said something or other about a date. In the middle of a spotless desk blotter lay a bag of Bull Durham and a pack of brown cigarette papers. Petersen rolled his own. He could roll one with one hand on horseback and often did, especially when leading a parade on a big white horse with a Mexican saddle loaded with beautiful Mexican silverwork. On horseback he wore a flat-crowned Mexican sombrero. He rode beautifully and his horse always knew exactly when to be quiet, when to act up so that the Sheriff with his calm inscrutable smile could bring the horse back under control with one hand. The Sheriff had a good act. He had a handsome hawklike profile, getting a little saggy under the chin by now, but he knew how to hold his head so it wouldn’t show too much. He put a lot of hard work into having his picture taken. He was in his middle fifties and his father, a Dane, had left him a lot of money. The Sheriff didn’t look like a Dane, because his hair was dark and his skin was brown and he had the impassive poise of a cigar store Indian and about the same kind of brains. But nobody had ever called him a crook. There had been crooks in his department and they had fooled him as well as they had fooled the public, but none of the crookedness rubbed off on Sheriff Petersen. He just went right on getting elected without even trying, riding white horses at the head of parades, and questioning suspects in front of cameras. That’s what the captions said. As a matter of fact he never questioned anybody. He wouldn’t have known how. He just sat at his desk looking sternly at the suspect, showing his profile to the camera. The flash bulbs would go off, the camera men would thank the Sheriff deferentially, the suspect would be removed not having opened his mouth, and the Sheriff would go home to his ranch in the San Fernando Valley. There he could always be reached. If you couldn’t reach him in person, you could talk to one of his horses.

  Once in a while, come election time, some misguided politician would try to get Sheriff Petersen’s job, and would be apt to call him things like The Guy With The Built-In Profile or The Ham That Smokes Itself, but it didn’t get him anywhere. Sheriff Petersen just went right on getting re-elected, a living testimonial to the fact that you can hold an important public office forever in our country with no qualifications for it but a clean nose, a photogenic face, and a closed mouth. If on top of that you look good on a horse, you are unbeatable.

  As Ohls and I went in, Sheriff Petersen was standing behind his desk and the camera boys were filing out by another door. The Sheriff had his white Stetson on. He was rolling a cigarette. He was all set to go home. He looked at me sternly.

  “Who’s this?” he asked in a rich baritone voice.

  “Name’s Philip Marlowe, Chief,” Ohls said. “Only person in the house when Wade shot himself. You want a picture?”

  The Sheriff studied me. “I don’t think so,” he said, and turned to a big tired-looking man with iron-gray hair. “If you need me, I’ll be at the ranch, Captain Hernandez.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Petersen lit his ciga
rette with a kitchen match. He lit it on his thumbnail. No lighters for Sheriff Petersen. He was strictly a roll-your-own-and-light-’em-with-one-hand type.

  He said goodnight and went out. A deadpan character with hard black eyes went with him, his personal bodyguard. The door closed. When he was gone Captain Hernandez moved to the desk and sat in the Sheriff’s enormous chair and a stenotype operator in the corner moved his stand out from the wall to get elbow room. Ohls sat at the end of the desk and looked amused.

  “All right, Marlowe,” Hernandez said briskly. “Let’s have it.”

  “How come I don’t get my photo taken?”

  “You heard what the Sheriff said.”

  “Yeah, but why?” I whined.

  Ohls laughed. “You know damn well why.”

  “You mean on account of I’m tall, dark, and handsome and somebody might look at me?”

  “Cut it,” Hernandez said coldly. “Let’s get on with your statement. Start from the beginning.”

  I gave it to them from the beginning: my interview with Howard Spencer, my meeting with Eileen Wade, her asking me to find Roger, my finding him, her asking me to the house, what Wade asked me to do and how I found him passed out near the hibiscus bushes and the rest of it. The stenotype operator took it down. Nobody interrupted me. All of it was true. The truth and nothing but the truth. But not quite all the truth. What I left out was my business.

  “Nice,” Hernandez said at the end. “But not quite complete.” This was a cool competent dangerous guy, this Hernandez. Somebody in the Sheriff’s office had to be. “The night Wade shot off the gun in his bedroom you went into Mrs. Wade’s room and were in there for some time with the door shut. What were you doing in there?”

  “She called me in and asked me how he was.”

  “Why shut the door?”

  “Wade was half asleep and I didn’t want to make any noise. Also the houseboy was hanging around with his ear out. Also she asked me to shut the door. I didn’t realize it was going to be important.”

  “How long were you in there?”

  “I don’t know. Three minutes maybe.”

  “I suggest you were in there a couple of hours,” Hernandez said coldly. “Do I make myself clear?”

  I looked at Ohls. Ohls didn’t look at anything. He was chewing on an unlighted cigarette as usual.

  “You are misinformed, Captain.”

  “We’ll see. After you left the room you went downstairs to the study and spent the night on the couch. Perhaps I should say the rest of the night.”

  “It was ten minutes to eleven when he called me at home. It was long past two o’clock when I went into the study for the last time that night. Call it the rest of the night if you like.”

  “Get the houseboy in here,” Hernandez said.

  Ohls went out and came back with Candy. They put Candy in a chair. Hernandez asked him a few questions to establish who he was and so on. Then he said: “All right, Candy—we’ll call you that for convenience—after you helped Marlowe put Roger Wade to bed, what happened?”

  I knew what was coming more or less. Candy told his story in a quiet savage voice with very little accent. It seemed as if he could turn that on and off at will. His story was that he had hung around downstairs in case he was wanted again, part of the time in the kitchen where he got himself some food, part of the time in the living room. While in the living room sitting in a chair near the front door he had seen Eileen Wade standing in the door of her room and he had seen her take her clothes off. He had seen her put a robe on with nothing under it and he had seen me go into her room and I shut the door and stayed in there a long time, a couple of hours he thought. He had gone up the stairs and listened. He had heard the bedsprings making sounds. He had heard whispering. He made his meaning very obvious. When he had finished he gave me a corrosive look and his mouth was twisted tight with hatred.

  “Take him out,” Hernandez said.

  “Just a minute,” I said. “I want to question him.”

  “I ask the questions here,” Hernandez said sharply.

  “You don’t know how, Captain. You weren’t there. He’s lying and he knows it and I know it.”

  Hernandez leaned back and picked up one of the Sheriff’s pens. He bent the handle of the pen. It was long and pointed and made of stiffened horsehair. When he let go of the point it sprang back.

  “Shoot,” he said at last.

  I faced Candy. “Where were you when you saw Mrs. Wade take her clothes off?”

  “I was sitting down in a chair near the front door,” he said in a surly tone.

  “Between the front door and the two facing davenports?”

  “What I said.”

  “Where was Mrs. Wade?”

  “Just inside the door of her room. The door was open.”

  “What light was there in the living room?”

  “One lamp. Tall lamp what they call a bridge lamp.”

  “What light was on the balcony?”

  “No light. Light in her bedroom.”

  “What kind of light in her bedroom?”

  “Not much light. Night table lamp, maybe.”

  “Not a ceiling light?”

  “No.”

  “After she took her clothes off—standing just inside the door of her room, you said—she put on a robe. What kind of robe?”

  “Blue robe. Long thing like a house coat. She tie it with a sash.”

  “So if you hadn’t actually seen her take her clothes off you wouldn’t know what she had on under the robe?”

  He shrugged. He looked vaguely worried. “Sí. That’s right. But I see her take her clothes off.”

  “You’re a liar. There isn’t any place in the living room from which you could see her take her clothes off right bang in her doorway, much less inside her room. She would have to come out to the edge of the balcony. If she had done that she would have seen you.”

  He just glared at me. I turned to Ohls. “You’ve seen the house. Captain Hernandez hasn’t—or has he?”

  Ohls shook his head slightly. Hernandez frowned and said nothing.

  “There is no spot in that living room, Captain Hernandez, from which he could see even the top of Mrs. Wade’s head—even if he was standing up—and he says he was sitting down—provided she was as far back as her own doorway or inside it. I’m four inches taller than he is and I could only see the top foot of an open door when I was standing just inside the front door of the house. She would have to come out to the edge of the balcony for him to see what he says he saw. Why would she do that? Why would she undress in her doorway even? There’s no sense to it.”

  Hernandez just looked at me. Then he looked at Candy. “How about the time element?” he asked softly, speaking to me.

  “That’s his word against mine. I’m talking about what can be proved.”

  Hernandez spit Spanish at Candy too fast for me to understand. Candy just stared at him sulkily.

  “Take him out,” Hernandez said.

  Ohls jerked a thumb and opened the door. Candy went out. Hernandez brought out a box of cigarettes, stuck one on his lip, and lit it with a gold lighter.

  Ohls came back into the room. Hernandez said calmly: “I just told him that if there was an inquest and he told that story on the stand, he’d find himself doing a one-to-three up in Q for perjury. Didn’t seem to impress him much. It’s obvious what’s eating him. An old-fashioned case of hot pants. If he’d been around and we had any reason to suspect murder, he’d make a pretty good pigeon—except that he would have used a knife. I got the impression earlier that he felt pretty bad about Wade’s death. Any questions you want to ask, Ohls?”

  Ohls shook his head. Hernandez looked at me and said: “Come back in the morning and sign your statement. We’ll have it typed out by then. We ought to have a P.M. report by ten o’clock, preliminary anyway. Anything you don’t like about this setup, Marlowe?”

  “Would you mind rephrasing the question? The way you put it suggests there
might be something I do like about it.”

  “Okay,” he said wearily. “Take off. I’m going home.”

  I stood up.

  “Of course I never did believe that stuff Candy pulled on us,” he said. “Just used it for a corkscrew. No hard feelings, I hope.”

  “No feelings at all, Captain. No feelings at all.”

  They watched me go out and didn’t say goodnight. I walked down the long corridor to the Hill Street entrance and got into my car and drove home.

  No feelings at all was exactly right. I was as hollow and empty as the spaces between the stars. When I got home I mixed a stiff one and stood by the open window in the living room and sipped it and listened to the groundswell of the traffic on Laurel Canyon Boulevard and looked at the glare of the big angry city hanging over the shoulder of the hills through which the boulevard had been cut. Far off the banshee wail of police or fire sirens rose and fell, never for very long completely silent. Twenty-four hours a day somebody is running, somebody else is trying to catch him. Out there in the night of a thousand crimes people were dying, being maimed, cut by flying glass, crushed against steering wheels or under heavy tires. People were being beaten, robbed, strangled, raped, and murdered. People were hungry, sick; bored, desperate with loneliness or remorse or fear, angry, cruel, feverish, shaken by sobs. A city no worse than others, a city rich and vigorous and full of pride, a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness.

  It all depends on where you sit and what your own private score is. I didn’t have one. I didn’t care.

  I finished the drink and went to bed.

  CHAPTER 39

  The inquest was a flop. The coroner sailed into it before the medical evidence was complete, for fear the publicity would die on him. He needn’t have worried. The death of a writer—even a loud writer—is not news for long, and that summer there was too much to compete. A king abdicated and another was assassinated. In one week three large passenger planes crashed. The head man of a big wire service was shot to pieces in Chicago in his own automobile. Twenty-four convicts were burned to death in a prison fire. The Coroner of Los Angeles County was out of luck. He was missing the good things in life.