Raymond Chandler: Poodle Springs

Down the hall farther were two guest rooms, and two baths. The guest rooms and one of the bathrooms looked sterilely unused. I looked at my watch. Time was up. I went down the stairs, closed the front door behind me, made sure it had locked, strolled down the walk, got into my Olds and was driving away well within the speed limit when I passed Muffy barely peeping over the dashboard of her enormous black Chrysler coming around the curve in the opposite direction. She paid me no attention, having all she could do to pilot the Chrysler.

My office over the gas station wasn't air conditioned. When I opened the door it was like walking into a pizza oven. But it didn't smell as good. I left the door open and went over and turned on the oscillating fan I'd brought from L.A. when I closed my office in the Cahuenga building. The hot air moved the sweat around on my face, as I sat at my desk and looked at the checkbook. Not much for committing a felony punishable by one to five in Soledad.

The checkbook was Valentine's, not joint, just Lester A. Valentine and the address imprinted on the checks. He showed a current balance of $7,754.66. I went through the ledger part of the book. It dated back to the previous November 8. There were entries for photographic equipment, for some men's clothing, quite a number for cash, dues at the Racquet Club, a monthly bill from Melvin's at the Poodle Springs Hotel and Resort Center, and a parking ticket made out to Parking Clerk, City of Los Angeles, and the ticket number. It was the only thing in the checkbook that didn't connect him to Poodle Springs. I decided it was a clue. I copied down the check number and the ticket number and put the checkbook in my desk and locked the drawer and got out the bottle of Scotch that I kept in my desk in case I was bitten by a Gila monster. I poured myself a small snort and sipped it and thought about why a guy would go off and leave behind him a checkbook carrying a balance of more than $7,500.

I finished my drink and poured another one. There were no Gila monsters in sight, but you never knew.

We had our first open house of the winter season, or Linda did. I tried to stay out of the way. And failed. At 5:30 when the first guests arrived I was there wearing a white jacket that Linda loved and I didn't. As people came in Linda acted as if they were more welcome than a cool shower in August. I knew for a fact she despised at least one in three. My average was higher and it grew as the night wore on.

There were probably two hundred people. Tino tended bar, beautiful in a tuxedo that fit him the way clothes only fit Asian houseboys. The caterer's people moved balletically among the throngs, bearing silver trays of champagne and edible doodads. I leaned on the bar, nursing a Scotch.

"So you're the new hubby," a woman said to me.

"I prefer 'current heartthrob'" I said.

"Of course you do," the woman said. "My name's Mousy Fairchild. Linda and I have known each other for nearly ever, for a couple of very young women."

The thing I noticed first about her was that she smelled of rain-washed flowers, and the second that her pale violet silk gown clung to her like the skin clings to a grape. Her hair was blonder than God had ever intended, and her skin was darkly and evenly tanned which made her perfect teeth seem even whiter when she smiled. Her lips were touched with the same color as her dress and the lower lip was quite full and looked as if it was designed to be nibbled on.

"Would you like something besides the fizzy grape juice?" I said.

"Oh, you are a dear. Yes, I'll have a vodka martini on the rocks with a twist," she said. "Shaken first."

I looked at Tino. He was already mixing the martini. Tino was a boy who wasted no time not listening.

"Be a dear," Mousy said, "make it a double."

Tino smiled as if never had he enjoyed such a pleasure and added more vodka to the shaker.

"Do you have a cigarette?" she said.

I produced a pack and shook one loose.

"My God," she said. "A Camel? If I smoke that I may faint."

She took it and leaned toward me while I held a match for her. When it was lit she stayed leaning toward me and sucked in the smoke while she looked at me from her half-lowered eyes, while the smoke drifted between us.

"Beautiful," I said. "I've practiced that look for hours in my mirror and I can't seem to get it like that."

"Bastard," she said, and straightened up. "If I faint will you blow into my mouth?"

"No," I said. I treated myself to one of my cigarettes.

"Well," Mousy said, "you are different. Did you know Linda's first husband?"

"Yes."

"Boring man. Took himself so unutterably seriously. Do you take yourself seriously?"

"Thursdays," I said, "when I go for my pedicure."

Mousy smiled and took a significant guzzle of her martini. She reached out with her left hand and squeezed my arm.

"My," she said, "don't we have biceps."

I let that slide. All the answers I could think of sounded a little silly, including yes and no .

"Do detectives have fights, Mr. Marlowe?" she said.

"Sometimes," I said. "Usually we put the criminal in his place with a well-polished phrase."

"Are you carrying a gun?"

I shook my head. "I didn't know you'd be here," I said.

A leathery specimen with short grey hair came over and put a hand on her elbow. Her smile was all light and no heat as she turned toward him.

"Mr. Marlowe," she said, "this is my husband, Morton Fairchild."

Morton nodded at me without interest.

"Pleased," he said, and steered his wife away from the bar and toward the dance floor.

"I don't think that man liked me," I said to Tino.

"It is not that, Mr. Marlowe," Tino said. "I do not think that he wishes his wife to be near both a man and a bar."

"You don't miss much, do you, Tino?"

"No, Mr. Marlowe, only those things I am supposed to miss."

Linda appeared with a guest.

"Darling," she said, "I'd love to have you meet Cord Havoc. Cord, this is my husband, Philip Marlowe."

"By God, Marlowe, I'm glad to meet you," Havoc said. He put out a big square hand. I shook it firmly. I knew who he was all right. I'd seen him in three or four bad movies. He was a dreamboat, six feet tall, even features, a strong jaw, pale blue eyes set wide apart. His teeth were perfectly even. His clothes fit him the way Tino's tux fitted him.

"I'm damned glad, Marlowe, that this little girl has finally found the right guy. Broke my heart and a lot of others when she did, but damn it's good to see her happy."

I smiled at him becomingly. While I was smiling he held his glass out toward Tino without even looking at him and Tino filled it with bourbon. Havoc took a good third of it at a swallow.

"Cord's new picture will be opening next week," Linda said.

"Gangster show," Havoc said, and took in another third of his drink. "Probably seem pretty tame to you, Marlowe."

"Sure would," I said. "Normally this time of the afternoon I strangle an alligator."

Havoc put his head back and laughed loudly. Then he finished his drink.

"Atta boy, Phil." He held his now empty glass out and Tino hit it again. "You can thank me, boy. All the time before she met you I was looking out for her." He laughed again, with the tossing head movement that he'd used before.

"Cord, you know you weren't looking out for me," Linda said. "You were attempting to get me into bed."

Cord's muzzle was in his drink. He took it out and gave me a little elbow and said, "Can you blame me, Phil?"

As he spoke his eyes swept the room. He was not a boy who wanted to miss a chance. Before I had a chance to say whether I blamed him, he spotted someone.

"Hey, Manny," he shouted and burst off across the dining room toward a weasly-looking little bald guy with a deep tan and an open shirt, with the collar carefully out over the lapels of his cream and plaid camel jacket.