The Collected Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  He went back to the chair and picked another gold-tipped cigarette from a case and lit it. “Care for one?”

  “No thanks. This bog Richard Harvest—I think he was a mistake. Not good enough for the job.”

  “Not nearly good enough, Marlowe. Not nearly. Just a cheap sadist. That’s what comes of getting out of touch. You lose your judgment. He could have scared Goble silly without laying a finger on him. And then taking him over to your place—what a laugh! What an amateur! And look at him now. No good for anything any more. He’ll be selling pencils. Would you care for a drink?”

  “I’m not on that kind of terms with you, Brandon. Let me finish. In the middle of the night—the night I made contact with Betty Mayfield, and the night you chased Mitchell out of The Glass Room—and did it very nicely, I might add—Betty came over to my room at the Rancho Descansado. One of your properties, I believe. She said Mitchell was dead on a chaise on her porch. She offered me large things to do something about it. I came back over here and there was no man dead on her porch. The next morning the night garage man told me Mitchell had left in his car with nine suitcases. He’d paid his bill and a week in advance to hold his room. The same day his car was found abandoned in Los Peñasquitos Canyon. No suitcases, no Mitchell.”

  Brandon stared hard at me, but said nothing.

  “Why was Betty Mayfield afraid to tell me what she was afraid of? Because she had been convicted of murder in Westfield, North Carolina, and then the verdict was reversed by the judge, who has that power in that state, and used it. But Henry Cumberland, the father of the husband she was accused of murdering, told her he would follow her anywhere she went and see that she had no peace. Now she finds a dead man on her porch. And the cops investigate and her whole story comes out. She’s frightened and confused. She thinks she couldn’t be lucky twice. After all, a jury did convict her.”

  Brandon said softly: “His neck was broken. He fell over the end of my terrace. She couldn’t have broken his neck. Come out here. I’ll show you.”

  We went out on the wide sunny terrace. Brandon marched to the end wall and I looked down over it and I was looking straight down on a chaise on Betty Mayfield’s porch.

  “This wall isn’t very high,” I said. “Not high enough to be safe.”

  “I agree,” Brandon said calmly. “Now suppose he was standing like this”—he stood with his back against the wall, and the top of it didn’t come very much above the middle of his thighs. And Mitchell had been a tall man too—“and he goads Betty into coming over near enough so that he can grab her, and she pushes him off hard, and over he goes. And he just happens to fall in such a way—by pure chance—that his neck snaps. And that’s exactly how her husband died. Do you blame the girl for getting in a panic?”

  “I’m not sure I blame anybody, Brandon. Not even you.”

  He stepped away from the wall and looked out to sea and was silent for a moment. Then he turned.

  “For nothing,” I said, “except that you managed to get rid of Mitchell’s body.”

  “Now, how in hell could I do that?”

  “You’re a fisherman, among other things. I’ll bet that right here in this apartment you have a long strong cord. You’re a powerful man. You could get down to Betty’s porch, you could put that cord under Mitchell’s arms, and you have the strength to lower him to the ground behind the shrubbery. Then, already having his key out of his pocket, you could go to his room and pack up all his stuff, and carry it down to the garage, either in the elevator, or down the fire stairs. That would take three trips. Not too much for you. Then you could drive his car out of the garage. You probably knew the night man was a doper and that he wouldn’t talk, if he knew you knew. This was in the small hours of the night. Of course the garage man lied about the time. Then you could drive the car as near as possible to where Mitchell’s body was, and dump him into it, and drive off to Los Peñasquitos Canyon.”

  Brandon laughed bitterly. “So I am in Los Peñasquitos Canyon with a car and a dead man and nine suitcases. How do I get out of there?”

  “Helicopter.”

  “Who’s going to fly it?”

  “You. They don’t check much on helicopters yet, but they soon will, because they are getting more and more numerous. You could have one brought to you in Los Peñasquitos Canyon, having arranged in advance, and you could have had someone come along to pick up the pilot. A man in your position can do almost anything, Brandon.”

  “And then what?”

  “You loaded Mitchell’s body and his suitcases into the helicopter and flew out to sea and set the helicopter hovering close to the water, and then you could dump the body and the suitcases, and drift on back to wherever the helicopter came from. A nice clean well-organized job.”

  Brandon laughed raucously—too raucously. The laugh had a forced sound.

  “You think I’d actually be idiot enough to do all this for a girl I had only just met?”

  “Uh-uh. Think again, Brandon. You did it for you. You forget Goble. Goble came from Kansas City. Didn’t you?”

  “What if I did?”

  “Nothing. End of the line. But Goble didn’t come out here for the ride. And he wasn’t looking for Mitchell, unless he already knew him, and between them, they figured they had a gold mine. You were the gold mine. But Mitchell got dead and Goble tried to go it alone, and he was a mouse fighting with a tiger. But would you want to explain how Mitchell fell off your terrace? Would you want an investigation of your background? What so obvious as for the police to think you had thrown Mitchell over the wall? And even if they couldn’t prove it, where would you be in Esmeralda from then on?”

  He walked slowly to the far end of the terrace and back. He stood in front of me, his expression completely blank.

  “I could have you killed, Marlowe. But in some strange way in the years I have lived here, I don’t seem to be that kind of guy any more. So you have me licked. I don’t have any defense, except to have you killed. Mitchell was the lowest kind of man, a blackmailer of women. You could be right all along the line, but I wouldn’t regret it. And it’s just possible, believe me, just possible that I too went out on a limb for Betty Mayfield. I don’t expect you to believe it, but it is possible. Now, let’s deal. How much?”

  “How much for what?”

  “For not going to the cops.”

  “I already told you how much. Nothing. I just wanted to know what happened. Was I approximately right?”

  “Dead right, Marlowe. Right on the nose. They may get me for it yet.”

  “Maybe. Well, I’ll take myself out of your hair now. Like I said—I want to get back to Los Angeles. Somebody might offer me a cheap job. I have to live, or do I?”

  “Would you shake hands with me?”

  “No. You hired a gun. That puts you out of the class of people I shake hands with. I might be dead today, if I hadn’t had a hunch.”

  “I didn’t mean him to kill anyone.”

  “You hired him. Goodbye.”

  CHAPTER 27

  I got out of the elevator and Javonen seemed to be waiting for me. “Come into the bar,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

  We went into the bar, which was very quiet at that hour. We sat at a corner table. Javonen said quietly: “You think I’m a bastard, don’t you?”

  “No. You have a job. I have a job. Mine annoyed you. You didn’t trust me. That doesn’t make you a bastard.”

  “I try to protect the hotel. Who do you try to protect?”

  “I never know. Often, when I do know, I don’t know how. I just fumble around and make a nuisance of myself. Often I’m pretty inadequate.”

  “So I heard—from Captain Alessandro. If it’s not too personal, how much do you make on a job like this?”

  “Well, this was a little out of the usual line, Major. As a matter of fact, I didn’t make anything.”

  “The hotel will pay you five thousand dollars—for protecting its interests.”

  “The hote
l, meaning Mr. Clark Brandon.”

  “I suppose. He’s the boss.”

  “It has a sweet sound—five thousand dollars. A very sweet sound. I’ll listen to it on my way back to Los Angeles.” I stood up.

  “Where do I send the check, Marlowe?”

  “The Police Relief Fund could be glad to have it. Cops don’t make much money. When they get in trouble they have to borrow from the Fund. Yes, I think the Police Relief Fund would be very grateful to you.”

  “But not you?”

  “You were a major in the CIC. You must have had a lot of chances to graft. But you’re still working. I guess I’ll be on my way.”

  “Listen, Marlowe. You’re being a damn fool. I want to tell you—”

  “Tell yourself, Javonen. You have a captive audience. And good luck.”

  I walked out of the bar and got into my car. I drove to the Descansado and picked up my stuff and stopped at the office to pay my bill. Jack and Lucille were in their usual positions. Lucille smiled at me.

  Jack said: “No bill, Mr. Marlowe. I’ve been instructed. And we offer you our apologies for last night. But they’re not worth much, are they?”

  “How much would the bill be?”

  “Not much. Twelve-fifty maybe.”

  I put the money on the counter. Jack looked at it and frowned. “I said there was no bill, Mr. Marlowe.”

  “Why not? I occupied the room.”

  “Mr. Brandon—”

  “Some people never learn, do they? Nice to have known you both. I’d like a receipt for this. It’s deductible.”

  CHAPTER 28

  I didn’t do more than ninety back to Los Angeles. Well, perhaps I hit a hundred for a few seconds now and then. Back on Yucca Avenue I stuck the Olds in the garage and poked at the mailbox. Nothing, as usual. I climbed the long flight of redwood steps and unlocked my door. Everything was the same. The room was stuffy and dull and impersonal as it always was. I opened a couple of windows and mixed a drink in the kitchen. I sat down on the couch and stared at the wall. Wherever I went, whatever I did, this was what I would come back to. A blank wall in a meaningless room in a meaningless house.

  I put the drink down on a side table without touching it. Alcohol was no cure for this. Nothing was any cure but the hard inner heart that asked for nothing from anyone.

  The telephone started to ring. I picked it up and said emptily: “Marlowe speaking.”

  “Is this Mr. Philip Marlowe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Paris has been trying to reach you Mr. Marlowe. I’ll call you back in a little while.”

  I put the phone down slowly and I think my hand shook a little. Driving too fast, or not enough sleep.

  The call came through in fifteen minutes: “The party calling you from Paris is on the line, sir. If you have any difficulty, please flash your operator.”

  “This is Linda. Linda Loring. You remember me, don’t you, darling?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “How are you?”

  “Tired—as usual. Just came off a very trying sort of case. How are you?”

  “Lonely. Lonely for you. I’ve tried to forget you. I haven’t been able to. We made beautiful love together.”

  “That was a year and a half ago. And for one night. What am I supposed to say?”

  “I’ve been faithful to you. I don’t know why. The world is full of men. But I’ve been faithful to you.”

  “I haven’t been faithful to you, Linda. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I didn’t know you expected me to be faithful.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t. I’m just trying to say that I love you. I’m asking you to marry me. You said it wouldn’t last six months. But why not give it a chance? Who knows—it might last forever. I’m begging you. What does a woman have to do to get the man she wants?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know how she knows she wants him. We live in different worlds. You’re a rich woman, used to being pampered. I’m a tired hack with a doubtful future. Your father would probably see to it that I didn’t even have that.”

  “You’re not afraid of my father. You’re not afraid of anyone. You’re just afraid of marriage. My father knows a man when he sees one. Please, please, please. I’m at the Ritz. I’ll send you a plane ticket at once.”

  I laughed. “You’ll send me a plane ticket? What sort of guy do you think I am? I’ll send you a plane ticket. And that will give you time to change your mind.”

  “But, darling, I don’t need you to send me a plane ticket. I have—”

  “Sure. You have the money for five hundred plane tickets. But this one will be my plane ticket. Take it, or don’t come.”

  “I’ll come, darling. I’ll come. Hold me in your arms. Hold me close in your arms. I don’t want to own you. Nobody ever will. I just want to love you.”

  “I’ll be here. I always am.”

  “Hold me in your arms.”

  The phone clicked, there was a buzzing sound, and then the line went dead.

  I reached for my drink. I looked around the empty room—which was no longer empty. There was a voice in it, and a tall slim lovely woman. There was a dark hair on the pillow in the bedroom. There was that soft gentle perfume of a woman who presses herself tight against you, whose lips are soft and yielding, whose eyes are half blind.

  The telephone rang again. I said: “Yes?”

  “This is Clyde Umney, the lawyer. I don’t seem to have had any sort of satisfactory report from you. I’m not paying you to amuse yourself. I want an accurate and complete account of your activities at once. I demand to know in full detail exactly what you have been doing since you returned to Esmeralda.”

  “Having a little quiet fun—at my own expense.”

  His voice rose to a sharp cackle. “I demand a full report from you at once. Otherwise I’ll see that you get bounced off your license.”

  “I have a suggestion for you, Mr. Umney. Why don’t you go kiss a duck?”

  There were sounds of strangled fury as I hung up on him. Almost immediately the telephone started to ring again.

  I hardly heard it. The air was full of music.

  BLACKMAILERS DON’T SHOOT

  CHAPTER 1

  The man in the powder-blue suit—which wasn’t powder-blue under the lights of the Club Bolivar—was tall, with wide-set gray eyes, a thin nose, a jaw of stone. He had a rather sensitive mouth. His hair was crisp and black, ever so faintly touched with gray, as by an almost diffident hand. His clothes fitted him as though they had a soul of their own, not just a doubtful past. His name happened to be Mallory.

  He held a cigarette between the strong, precise fingers of one hand. He put the other hand flat on the white tablecloth, and said:

  “The letters will cost you ten grand, Miss Farr. That’s not too much.”

  He looked at the girl opposite him very briefly; then he looked across empty tables towards the heart-shaped space of floor where the dancers prowled under shifting colored lights.

  They crowded the customers around the dance-floor so closely that the perspiring waiters had to balance themselves like tightrope walkers to get between the tables. But near where Mallory sat were only four people.

  A slim, dark woman was drinking a highball across the table from a man whose fat red neck glistened with damp bristles. The woman stared into her glass morosely, and fiddled with a big silver flask in her lap. Farther along two bored, frowning men smoked long thin cigars, without speaking to each other.

  Mallory said thoughtfully: “Ten grand does it nicely, Miss Farr.”

  Rhonda Farr was very beautiful. She was wearing, for this occasion, all black, except a collar of white fur, light as thistledown, on her evening wrap. Except also a white wig which, meant to disguise her, made her look very girlish. Her eyes were cornflower blue, and she had the sort of skin an old rake dreams of.

  She said nastily, without raising her head: “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why is it ridiculous?” M
allory asked, looking mildly surprised and rather annoyed.

  Rhonda Farr lifted her face and gave him a look as hard as marble. Then she picked a cigarette out of a silver case that lay open on the table, and fitted it into a long slim holder, also black. She went on:

  “The love letters of a screen star? Not so much anymore. The public has stopped being a sweet old lady in long lace panties.”

  A light danced contemptuously in her purplish-blue eyes. Mallory gave her a hard look.

  “But you came here to talk about them quick enough,” he said, “with a man you never heard of.”

  She waved the cigarette holder, and said: “I must have been nuts.”

  Mallory smiled with his eyes, without moving his lips.

  “No, Miss Farr. You had a damn good reason. Want me to tell you what it is?”

  Rhonda Farr looked at him angrily. Then she looked away, almost appeared to forget him. She held up her hand, the one with the cigarette holder, looked at it, posing. It was a beautiful hand, without a ring. Beautiful hands are as rare as jacaranda-trees in bloom, in a city where pretty faces are as common as runs in dollar stockings.

  She turned her head and glanced at the stiff-eyed woman, beyond her towards the mob around the dance-floor. The orchestra went on being saccharine and monotonous.

  “I loathe these dives,” she said thinly. “They look as if they only existed after dark, like ghouls. The people are dissipated without grace, sinful without irony.” She lowered her hand to the white cloth. “Oh yes, the letters, what makes them so dangerous, blackmailer?”

  Mallory laughed. He had a ringing laugh with a hard quality in it, a grating sound. “You’re good,” he said. “The letters are not so much perhaps. Just sexy tripe. The memoirs of a schoolgirl who’s been seduced and can’t stop talking about it.”

  “That’s lousy,” Rhonda Farr said in a voice like iced velvet.

  “It’s the man they’re written to that makes them important,” Mallory said coldly. “A racketeer, a gambler, a fast-money boy. And all that goes with it. A guy you couldn’t be seen talking to—and stay in the cream.”