Farewell my lovely PRL4.doc

Introduction

'Where do you think I've been these last eight years?' He looked quite pleased with himself. 'Prison. Malloy's the name. Moose Malloy. The Great Bend bank job - that was me. On my own, too. Forty thousand dollars.'

If anyone could rob a bank on his own, it's Moose Malloy. He's as hard as stone and as big as a bus. Now he's out of prison, and he wants two things: to know who gave his name to the police eight years ago, and to find his girlfriend.

Moose means trouble, and it's the sort of trouble a private detective should stay away from. So of course Philip Marlowe runs straight into it: trouble with the police, trouble with women, trouble with almost every criminal in California . . . And trouble with murder. Even when he tries to walk away from it, this sort of trouble just follows him around ...

Raymond Chandler is one of the greatest modern detective writers. He turned the American crime story into a kind of art.

He was born in 1888 in Chicago, Illinois, but was brought up and educated in England. He worked as a reporter in London before returning, in 1912, to the USA. After fighting in France during World War I, he lived and worked in California. He lost his job in 1932. Then he started to write crime stories for maga­zines. His first book, The Big Sleep (1939), was about a private detective, Philip Marlowe. It was a great success, and he wrote about Marlowe in many other books, including Farewell, My Lovely (1940), The High Window (1942), The Lady in the Lake (1944) and The Long Goodbye (1953). Many of his books have been made into successful films.

Raymond Chandler died in 1959.

Chapter 1    Moose Malloy

It was a warm day, almost the end of March. I was over on Main Street, looking up at the sign of a second floor nightclub called Florian's. There was a man near me looking up at the sign too, his eyes dreamy and a little shiny with tears, as if he was thinking of other people, other times he'd known there. He was a big man, but not much taller than six and a half feet and not much wider than a bus. His hands hung at his sides; in one of them was a forgotten cigar, smoking between his enormous fingers.

Passers-by were looking at him. He was interesting to look at, too, with his old gangster hat, worn, wool jacket with little white footballs on it for buttons, a brown shirt, yellow tie, grey trousers and snakeskin shoes with white bits over the toes. A bright yel­low handkerchief, the same colour as his tie, was stuck in the top pocket of his jacket. Main Street isn't the quietest dressed street in the world, but even there you couldn't miss him. He was like a spider on a bowl of pink ice-cream.

He stood completely still, then slowly smiled and moved towards the door at the bottom of the steps up to the club. He went in and the door closed behind him. A couple of seconds later, it burst open again, outwards. Something flew out fast and landed between two cars on the street. A young black man in a purple suit with a little white flower in his buttonhole, stood up slowly, making a sad sound like a lonely cat, shook himself and walked painfully away down the street.

Silence. Traffic started again. It was none of my business at all, so I walked over to the door to take a look inside. A hand as big as an armchair, reached out of the darkness of the door and took hold of my shoulder, squeezing hard. The hand picked me up and pulled me in through the door, up a step or two. A large face looked at me and a quiet voice said: 'Blacks in here now, huh? Just threw one out. You see me throw him out?'

He let go of my shoulder. It wasn't broken but I couldn't feel my arm. I kept quiet; there was talking and laughter from upstairs. The voice went on quietly and angrily: 'Velma used to work here. My little Velma. Haven't seen her for eight years. And now this is a black place, huh?' He took hold of my shoulder again, wanting an answer.

I said yes, it was, but my voice sounded broken and weak. He lifted me up a few more steps and I tried to shake myself free. I wasn't wearing a gun, but the big man could probably just take it away from me and eat it, so it wouldn't have helped.

'Go up and see,' I said, trying to keep the pain out of my voice.

He let go of me again, and looked at me with his sad, grey eyes. 'Yeah. Good idea. Let's you and me go on up and have a drink or two.'

'They won't serve you. I told you it's for blacks only up there,' I said, but he didn't seem to hear me.

'Haven't seen Velma in eight years. Eight long years since we said goodbye, and she hasn't written for six. Don't know why. She used to work here. Let's go on up now, huh?'

So we went up the stairs to the club. He let me walk, but my shoulder still hurt and the back of my neck was wet.

♦

The talking and laughter stopped dead when we walked in. The silence was cold and heavy, like a stone. Eyes looked at us, heads turned. A big, thick-necked black, with a flattened face, slowly stood up straight near the bar, getting ready to throw us out. He came towards us. My big friend waited for him silently and didn't move when the black put his hand on the front of my friend's brown shirt and said: 'No whites in here, brother. Sorry. This place's for blacks only.'

'Where's Velma?' That's all he said.

The big black man nearly laughed. 'Velma? No Velma here, white boy. She's not in the business any more, maybe.'

'Velma used to work here,' the big man said. He spoke as if he was dreaming. 'And take your dirty hand off my shirt.'

That annoyed the black. People didn't speak like that to him, not in his job, throwing drunks out of the club. He took his hand off the shirt and then suddenly pulled back his arm and hit the big man hard on the side of the face. He was very good at hitting people hard, but this time it was a mistake. The big man didn't even move. He just stood there. Then he shook himself and took the black man by the throat. He picked him up with one hand, turned him in the air, put his other enormous hand against the black man's back and threw him right across the room. He went over a table and landed with a crash against the wall. The whole room shook. The black man didn't move - he just lay there in the corner.

The big man turned to me. 'Some guys,' he said, 'are stupid. Now let's get that drink.'

We went over to the bar. In ones and twos, like shadows, the other customers were moving towards the door, getting out of there fast.

'Beer,' the big man said to the white-eyed barman. 'What's yours?'

'Beer,' I said. We had beers. I turned and looked at the room. It was empty now, except for the big black man moving painfully out of the corner on his hands and knees, suddenly old and out of a job. The big man turned and looked too, but didn't seem to see him.

You know where my Velma is?' he asked the barman.

'Beautiful redhead, she was. Sometimes sang here, too. We were going to get married when they sent me away.'

'Sent you away?' I asked. Stupid question.

'Where d'you think I've been these last eight years?' He looked quite pleased with himself. 'Prison. Malloy's my name. Moose Malloy. The Great Bend bank job - that was me. On my own, too. Forty thousand dollars.'

'You spending it now?' I asked, just trying to be polite.

He looked at me sharply. I was lucky - just at that moment, there was a noise behind us. It was the big, hurt black man going through another door at the other end of the room.

'Where does that door go to?' Moose Malloy asked the frightened barman.

'Boss's office, sir.'

'Maybe the boss knows where my little Velma is,' said Malloy, and crossed the room to the door. It was locked but he shook it open with one hand, went through and shut it behind him. There was silence for a minute or two. I drank my beer and the barman watched me.

Then suddenly, there was a short, hard sound from behind the door. The barman froze, mouth open, eyes white in the dark. I started moving towards the door, but it opened with a bang before I got there. Moose Malloy came through and stopped dead, a strange smile on his face. He was holding a gun.

He came across to the bar. 'Your boss didn't know where Velma is either. Tried to tell me — with this.' He waved the gun at us wildly. Then he started towards the door and we heard his steps going down fast to the street.

I went through the other door, to the boss's office. The big black man wasn't there any more, but the boss was. He was in a tall chair behind a desk, with his head bent right back over the back of the chair and his nose pointing up at the ceiling. His neck was broken. It had been a bad idea to pull that gun out when he was talking to Moose Malloy. There was a telephone      on the desk, so I called the police. By the time they arrived, the      barman had gone and I had the whole place to myself.

Chapter 2    The Right Kind of Bottle             

A detective named Nulty took the investigation. I went with him to the 77th Street police station and we talked in a small, uncomfortable room which smelled of cheap cigars. Nulty's shirt was old and his jacket was worn. He looked poor enough to be honest, but he didn't look as if he'd be able to face Moose Malloy and win.

He picked up my business card from the table and read it.

'Philip Marlowe, Private Investigator. One of those guys, huh?
So what were you doing while this Moose Malloy was breaking
the black guy's neck?'              I

'I was in the bar. And he hadn't promised me he was going to break anybody's neck.'

'OK, funny guy. Just tell me the story straight.' Nulty didn't like my jokes.

So I told him about Moose Malloy: the size of the man, what he was wearing, why he was there and what happened in that nightclub bar. 'But I don't think he went in there to kill any­body,' I finished. 'Not dressed like that. He just went there to try to find his girl, this Velma who used to work at Florian's when it was still a white place.'

The phone rang on his desk. He picked it up and listened, wrote something on a piece of paper and put it down again.

'That was Information. They've got all the details on Malloy, 1 and a photo.'

'I think you should start looking for the girl. Malloy's going to be looking for her, so if you find her, you'll find him. Try Velma, Nulty, that's my advice.'

'You try her,' he said.

I laughed and started for the door.

'Hey, wait a minute, Marlowe.' I stopped and looked back at him. 'I mean, if you're not too busy, maybe you've got time to have a look for the girl. I'd remember your help, too. You PI's always need a friend down here among us boys, and I wouldn't forget it. Not ever.'

It was true. I wasn't at all busy. I hadn't had any real business for about a month. Even this job would make a change from doing nothing. No money in it, but a friend inside the police station might be useful one day.

That's how, when I'd eaten some lunch and bought a bottle of good whisky, I found myself driving north again on Main Street, following an idea that was playing around in my head.

♦

Florian's was closed, of course. I parked round the corner and went into a small hotel that was on the opposite side of the street from the club. A man with a very old tie, pinned in the middle with a large green stone, was sleeping peacefully behind the desk. He opened one eye and saw the bottle of good whisky standing on the counter right in front of his nose. He was suddenly awake. He studied the bottle carefully and he studied me. He looked satisfied.

'You want information, brother, you've come to the right place with the right kind of bottle.' He took two small glasses out from under his desk, filled them both and drank one straight down.

'Yes, sir. Certainly is the correct bottle.' He refilled his glass. 'Now, how can I be of help to you, brother. There's not a hole in the road round here that I don't know by its first name.'

I told him what had happened at Florian's that morning. He looked at me without much surprise and just shook his head.

'What happened to the guy who owned Florian's about six or eight years ago?' I asked him.

'Mike Florian? Dead, brother. Went to meet Our Maker five, maybe six years ago. Drank a bit too much, they said. Left a wife named Jessie.'

'What happened to her?'

'Don't rightly know, brother. Try the phone book.'

Clever guy, that. Why hadn't I thought of the phone book? He pushed the book across the desk to me and I looked. There was a Jessie Florian who lived at 1644 West 54th Place. I wrote down the address, shook hands with the man behind the desk, put the bottle back in the pocket of my jacket and went out to my car. Finding Malloy looked so easy now. Too easy.

Chapter 3    'Always Yours'

1644 West 54th Place was a dry-looking brown house with some dry-looking brown grass in front of it. Some half- washed clothes hung stiffly on a line to one side of the house. The bell didn't work so I knocked. A fat woman with a red face came to the door, blowing her nose. Her hair was grey and lifeless.

'Mrs Jessie Florian? Wife of Mike Florian?' I asked.

Her eyes opened in surprise. 'Why?' she asked. 'Mike's been dead five years now. Who d'you say you were?'

'I'm a detective,' I said. 'I'd like some information.'

She stared at me for a long minute, then pulled the door open and turned back into the house. The front room was untidy and dirty. The only good piece of furniture was a handsome radio, playing dance music quietly in one corner. It looked new.

The woman sat down and I did too. I sat on an empty whisky bottle in the back corner of the chair. I wasn't too comfortable sitting on an empty bottle, so I pulled it out and put it on the floor by my chair.

'I'm trying to find a redhead, used to work at your husband's place over on Main Street,' I said. 'Singer, named Velma. I don't know her last name. I thought you might be able to help me.'

I brought out my nearly-full bottle of whisky and put it on the arm of my chair. Her eyes fixed immediately on the bottle in a greedy stare. I was right - a little whisky was going to help me again here. She got up, went out to the kitchen and came back with two dirty glasses. I poured her enough whisky to make her fly. She took it hungrily and put it down her throat like medi­cine. I poured her another. Her eyes were brighter already.

'Man, this stuff dies painlessly with me,' she said. 'Now, let me think. A redhead, you say? Yeah. Maybe I can help you. I've got an idea.'

She got up with some difficulty and went out towards the back part of the house. The radio went on playing a love song to me. There were crashing noises from the room at the back — a chair had fallen over. I got up and walked quietly over. I looked round the edge of the open door. She was standing in front of a large open box, full of old books and pictures and envelopes. She took one envelope, fatter than the others, and quickly hid it down one side of the box. Then she picked up some others, shut the box and started back to the front room. I was sitting listening to the music by the time she got there.

She gave me a bright smile and handed me the old envelopes. Then she took the whisky bottle and went back to nurse it in her chair. I opened the envelopes one by one and looked through the old, shiny black-and-white photographs of singers and dancers and old-time jokers that were in them. One or two of them might have had red hair; you couldn't tell from the photographs.

'Why am I looking at these?' I asked her. She was having some trouble pouring the whisky into the glass now.

'Looking for Velma, you said. Could be one of those girls.' She was playing games with me, laughing at me while she finished my whisky.

I stood up, walked across the room and into the back room where the box was. There was an angry shout behind me. I reached down the side of the box, pulled out the fatter envelope and went back into the front room. She was standing in the middle of the floor, her eyes angry and dangerous.

'Sit down,' I said. 'You aren't playing games with Moose Malloy now. It's not that easy this time.'

'Moose? What about Moose?' The name had frightened her.

'He's out of prison and looking for his girl . . . with a gun.

He's already killed one guy who didn't want to tell him where Velma is.'

She went white, lifted the bottle to her mouth and poured the rest of the whisky straight down her throat. A lovely old woman. I liked being with her.

I opened the envelope in my hand and took out an old picture of a pretty girl in a funny hat with hair that might have been red. It was signed 'Always yours - Velma Valento.'

I held it up in front of the old woman.

'Why hide it?' I asked. 'Why is it different from the others? Where is she?'

I put the photograph back into the envelope and put the envelope into my pocket.

'She's dead. She was a good girl, Velma was. But she's dead. Now get out of here. I'm old and I'm sick. Get out.'

She suddenly lifted the empty bottle and threw it at me. It went off into a corner and banged against a wall. Then she sat down in her chair, closed her eyes and went to sleep. The radio was still playing in the corner. I went out to my car and drove
back to the 77th Street police station, to Nulty's smelly little office.             

♦

Nutty was sitting there looking at a police photograph of Moose      Malloy. I told him about my visit to the hotel on Main Street and to Mrs Florian with my bottle of whisky. I told him about the     i dirty house and the new sixty-dollar radio in the front room      there. And I showed him the photograph of Velma Valento.

'Nice,' he said. 'But what's happened to her?'             

'Dead. That's what the Florian woman said. But then why did she hide the photo? I think she's afraid of Moose. I think she's afraid that Moose thinks she's the person who told the police about his bank job and got him put away in prison for eight
years. Somebody told them. Maybe he knows who it was. Maybe he wants to find that person. But it's your job to find out what's happening here,' I said. 'I'm going home.'

'Hey! You aren't leaving me in this mess, are you?' he asked.      'What's the hurry?'

'No hurry at all,' I said, 'but there's nothing more I can do.' I

walked to the door and out. Nulty didn't even say goodbye.

Chapter 4    Purissima Canyon

I was back in my office at about four-thirty when the phone rang. A cool voice said 'Philip Marlowe? The private detective?'

I said yes, maybe. The voice introduced itself: 'My name's Lindsay Marriott. I live at 4212 Cabrillo Street. I'd be very happy if you could come and discuss something with me this evening.'

'I'll be there,' I said. I needed a job. 'What time?'

He said seven, so I watched the sunlight dancing on my desk until almost seven, had a word or two with Nulty on the phone when he rang to see if I had any new ideas — I hadn't — and then I went out to Cabrillo Street. It was dark by the time I got there. Cabrillo Street was a dozen or so houses hanging onto the side of a mountain by the beach, with the Pacific Ocean crashing in below them. There were two hundred and eighty steps up from the street to Marriott's house, so I had to sit down for a few minutes at the top and try to start breathing quietly again before I knocked on the door.

It opened silently and I was looking at a tall man with fair hair, wearing a white suit with a blue flower in its buttonhole.

'Yes?' he said.

'It's exactly seven and here I am,' I answered.

'And you are . . . ?' He'd forgotten all about me.

'Philip Marlowe,' I said. 'Same as I was this afternoon.' I didn't think I liked this guy.

'Ah yes. Quite right.' He stepped back and said coldly 'Come in.'

The carpet was so thick it almost swallowed my shoes on the way through to the living-room, where Marriott arranged him­self on a yellow sofa and lit a French cigarette. I lit a Camel and w...