Raymond Chandler - Philip Marlowe 08 - Poodle Springs Read online

  Poodle Springs

  Raymond Chandler

  MARLOWE IS BACK - IN A CLASSIC THRILLER NO CHANDLER AFICIONADO WILL BE ABLE TO RESIST...

  When Raymond Chandler died in 1959, he left behind an unfinished Philip Marlowe novel. Now, thirty years later, POODLE SPRINGS has become a complete work, thanks to the inspired writing of Robert B Parker, the foremost contemporary exponent of the Chandler style.

  As the novel opens, Marlowe is married and bored. Naturally enough, he starts up a detective agency, and within hours he has alienated solid citizens, tangled with the cops and been hired by a local gangster to find a gambler who's skipped out on a debt.

  And this is only the beginning. Before Marlowe brings in his man, he discovers another side of POODLE SPRINGS - a dark and dangerous place, where desperation makes men and women lead secret lives - and, if that fails, the only alternative is murder...

  First published 1959

  1

  Linda stopped the Fleetwood convertible in front of the house without turning into the driveway. She leaned back and looked at the house and then looked at me.

  "It's a new section of the Springs, darling. I rented the house for the season. It's a bit on the chi-chi side, but so is Poodle Springs."

  "The pool is too small," I said. "And no springboard."

  "I've permission from the owner to put one in. I hope you will like the house, darling. There are only two bedrooms, but the master bedroom has a Hollywood bed that looks as big as a tennis court."

  "That's nice. If we don't get on together, we can be distant."

  "The bathroom is out of this world--out of any world.

  The adjoining dressing room has ankle-deep pink carpeting, wall to wall. It has every kind of cosmetic you ever heard of on three plate-glass shelves. The toilet--if you'll excuse my being earthy--is all alone in an annex with a door and the toilet cover has a large rose on it in relief. And every room in the house looks out on a patio or the pool."

  "I can hardly wait to take three or four baths. And then go to bed."

  "It's only eleven o'clock in the morning," she said demurely.

  "I'll wait until eleven-thirty."

  "Darling, at Acapulco--"

  "Acapulco was fine. But we only had the cosmetics you brought with you and the bed was just a bed, not a pasture, and other people were allowed to dunk in the swimming pool and the bathroom didn't have any carpet at all."

  "Darling, you can be a bastard. Let's go in. I'm paying twelve hundred dollars a month for this dive. I want you to like it."

  "I'll love it. Twelve hundred a month is more than I make being a detective. It'll be the first time I've been kept. Can I wear a sarong and paint my little toenails?"

  "Damn you, Marlowe, it's not my fault that I'm rich. And if I have the damn money I'm going to spend it. And if you are around some of it is bound to rub off on you. You'll just have to put up with that."

  "Yes, darling." I kissed her. "I'll get a pet monkey and after a while you won't be able to tell us apart."

  "You can't have a monkey in Poodle Springs. You have to have a poodle. I have a beauty coming. Black as coal and very talented. He's had piano lessons. Perhaps he can play the Hammond organ in the house."

  "We got a Hammond organ? Now that's something I've always dreamed of doing without."

  "Shut up! I'm beginning to think I should have married the Comte de Vaugirard. He was rather sweet, except that he used perfume."

  "Can I take the poodle to work? I could have a small electric organ, one of the babies you can play if you have an ear like a corn-beef sandwich. The poodle could play it while the clients lie to me. What's the poodle's name?"

  "Inky."

  "A big brain worked on that one."

  "Don't be nasty or I won't--you know."

  "Oh, yes you will. You can hardly wait."

  She backed the Fleetwood and turned it into the driveway. "Never mind the garage door. Augustino will put the car away, but you don't really have to in this dry desert climate."

  "Oh yeah, the house boy, butler, cook and comforter of sad hearts. Nice kid. I like him. But there's something wrong here. We can't get along on just one Fleetwood. I have to have one to drive to the office."

  "Goddamn you! I'll get my white whip out if you're not polite. It has steel inserts in the lash."

  "The typical American wife," I said and went around the car to help her out. She fell into my arms. She smelled divine. I kissed her again. A man turning off a sprinkler in front of the next house grinned and waved.

  "That's Mister Tomlinson," she said between my teeth. "He's a broker."

  "Broker, stoker, what do I care?" I went on kissing her.

  We had been married just three weeks and four days.

  2

  It was a very handsome house except that it stank decorator. The front wall was plate glass with butterflies imprisoned in it. Linda said it came from Japan. The floor of the hall was carpeted with blue vinyl with a geometric design in gold. There was a den off of this. It contained plenty of furniture, also four enormous brass candle holders and the finest inlaid desk I had ever seen. Off the den was a guest bath, which Linda called a lavatory. A year and a half in Europe had taught her to speak English. The guest bath had a shower and a dressing table and a four-by-three mirror over it. The hi-fi system had speakers in every room. Augustine had turned it on softly. He appeared in the door, smiling and bowing. He was a nice-looking lad, part Hawaiian and part Japanese. Linda had picked him up when we made a short trip to Maui before going to Acapulco. It's wonderful what you can pick up if you have eight or ten million dollars.

  There was an interior patio with a large palm tree and some tropical shrubs, and a number of rough stones picked up on the high desert for nothing, but $250 apiece to the customer. The bathroom which Linda had not overstated had a door to the patio and this had a door to the pool and to the interior patio and the outside patio. The living room carpet was pale grey, and the Hammond organ had been built out into a bar at the end opposite the keyboard. That nearly threw me. Also in the living room were couches matching the carpet and contrasting easy chairs and an enormous cowled indoor fireplace six feet away from the wall. There was a Chinese chest that looked very genuine and on the wall three embossed Chinese dragons. One wall was entirely of glass, the others of brick in colors to go with the carpet up to about five feet, and glass above that.

  The bathroom had a sunken bath and sliding-door closets big enough to hold all the clothes twelve debutantes could want to buy.

  Four people could have slept comfortably in the Hollywood bed in the main bedroom. It had a pale blue carpet and you could read yourself to sleep by the light of lamps mounted on Japanese statuettes.

  We went on to the guest room. It had matching single, not twin, beds, an adjoining bath with the same enormous mirror over the dressing table, and the same four or five hundred dollars' worth of cosmetics and perfumes and God knows what on the three plate-glass shelves.

  That left the kitchen. It had a bar at its entrance, a wall closet with twenty kinds of cocktail, highball and wine glasses, beyond that a top-burner stove without an oven or broiler, two electric ovens and an electric broiler against another wall, also an enormous refrigerator and a deep freeze. The breakfast table had a pebbled glass top and wide comfortable chairs on three sides and a built-in couch on the fourth side. I turned on the cowl ventilator. It had a wide slow sweep that was almost silent.

  "It's too rich for me," I said. "Let's get divorced."

  "You dog! It's nothing to what we'll have when we build
a house. There are things here that are a bit too gaudy but you can't say the house is bare."

  "Where is the poodle going to sleep, in the guest bed or with us? And what color pajamas does he like?"

  "Stop it!"

  "I'm going to have to dust my office after this. I'd feel inferior if I didn't."

  "You're not going to have any office, stupid. What do you suppose I married you for?"

  "Come into the bedroom again."

  "Blast you, we have to unpack."

  "I bet Tino is doing it right now. There's a boy who looks like he could take hold. I must ask him if he minds my calling him Tino."

  "Maybe he can unpack. But he won't know where I want my things. I'm fussy."

  "Let's have a fight about the closets, who gets which. Then we could wrestle a bit, and then--"

  "We could have a shower and a swim and an early lunch. I'm starving."

  "You have an early lunch. I'll go downtown and look for an office. There must be some business in Poodle Springs. There's a lot of money here and I might grab off an occasional nickel."

  "I hate you. I don't know why I married you. But you were so insistent."

  I grabbed her and held her close. I browsed on her eyebrows and her lashes, which were long and tickly. I passed on to her nose and cheeks, and then her mouth. At first it was just a mouth, then it was a darting tongue, then it was a long sigh, and two people as close as two people can get.

  "I settled a million dollars on you to do with as you like," she whispered.

  "A nice kind gesture. But you know I wouldn't touch it."

  "What are we to do, Phil?"

  "We have to ride it out. It's not always going to be easy. But I am not going to be Mr. Loring."

  "I'll never change you, will I?"

  "Do you really want to make a purring pussycat out of me?"

  "No. I didn't marry you because I had a lot of money and you had hardly any. I married you because I love you and one of the things I love you for is that you don't give a damn for anybody--sometimes not even for me. I don't want to make you cheap, darling. I just want to try to make you happy."

  "I want to make you happy. But I don't know how. I'm not holding enough cards. I'm a poor man married to a rich wife. I don't know how to behave. I'm only sure of one thing--shabby office or not, that's where I became what I am. That's where I will be what I will be."

  There was a slight murmur and Augustino appeared in the open doorway bowing, with a deprecating smile on his elegant puss.

  "At what time would Madame prefer luncheon?"

  "May I call you Tino," I asked him. "Only because it's easier."

  "But certainly, sir."

  "Thank you. And Mrs. Marlowe is not Madame. She is Mrs. Marlowe."

  "I am very sorry, sir."

  "Nothing to be sorry about. Some ladies like it. But my wife bears my name. She would like her lunch. I have to go out on business."

  "Very good, sir. I'll prepare Mrs. Marlowe's lunch at once."

  "Tino, there is one other thing. Mrs. Marlowe and I are in love. That shows itself in various ways. None of the ways are to be noticed by you."

  "I know my position, sir."

  "Your position is that you are helping us to live comfortably. We are grateful to you for that. Maybe more grateful than you know. Technically you are a servant. Actually you are a friend. There seems to be a protocol about these things. I have to respect protocol just as you do. But underneath we are just a couple of guys."

  He smiled radiantly. "I think I shall be very happy here, Mr. Marlowe."

  You couldn't say how or when he disappeared. He just wasn't there. Linda rolled over on her back and lifted her toes and stared at them.

  "What do I say now! I wish the hell I knew. Do you like my toes?"

  "They are the most adorable set of toes I have ever seen. And there seems to be a full set of them."

  "Get away from me, you horror. My toes are adorable."

  "May I borrow the Fleetwood for a little while? Tomorrow I'll fly to L. A. and pick up my Olds."

  "Darling, does it have to be this way? It seems so unnecessary."

  "For me there isn't any other way," I said.

  3

  The Fleetwood purred me down to the office of a man named Thorson whose window said he was a realtor and practically everything else except a rabbit fancier.

  He was a pleasant-looking baldheaded man who didn't seem to have a care in the world except to keep his pipe lit.

  "Offices are hard to find, Mr. Marlowe. If you want one on Canyon Drive, as I assume you do, it will cost you."

  "I don't want one on Canyon Drive. I want one on some side street or on Sioux Avenue. I couldn't afford one on the main stem."

  I gave him my card and let him look at the photostat of my license.

  "I don't know," he said doubtfully. "The police department may not be too happy. This is a resort town and the visitors have to be kept happy. If you handle divorce business, people are not going to like you too well."

  "I don't handle divorce business and people very seldom like me at all. As for the cops, I'll explain myself to them, and if they want to run me out of town, my wife won't like it. She has just rented a pretty fancy place in the section out near Romanoff's new place."

  He didn't fall out of his chair but he damn well had to steady himself. "You mean Harlan Potter's daughter? I heard she had married some--well the hell with it, what do I mean? You're the man, I take it. I'm sure we can fix you up, Mr. Marlowe. But why do you want it on a side street or on Sioux Avenue? Why not right in the best section?"

  "I'm paying with my own money. I don't have a hell of a lot."

  "But your wife--"

  "Listen good, Thorson. The most I make is a couple of thousand a month--gross. Some months nothing at all. I can't afford a showy layout."

  He lit his pipe for about the ninth time. Why the hell do they smoke them if they don't know how?

  "Would your wife like that?"

  "What my wife likes or dislikes doesn't enter into our business, Thorson. Have you got anything or haven't you? Don't con me. I've been worked on by the orchids of the trade. I can be had, but not by your line."

  "Well--"

  A brisk-looking young man pushed the door open and came in smiling. "I represent the Poodle Springs Gazette, Mr. Marlowe. I understand--"

  "If you did, you wouldn't be here." I stood up. "Sorry, Mr. Thorson, you have too many buttons under your desk. I'll look elsewhere."

  I pushed the reporter out of the way and goofed my way out of the open door. If anybody ever closes a door in Poodle Springs, it's a nervous reaction. On the way out I bumped into a big florid man who had four inches and thirty pounds on me.

  "I'm Manny Lipshultz," he said. "You're Philip Marlowe. Let's talk."

  "I got here about two hours ago," I said. "I'm looking for an office. I don't know anybody named Lipshultz. Would you please let me by?"

  "I got something for you maybe. Things get known in this burg. Harlan Potter's son-in-law, huh? That rings a lot of bells."

  "Blow."

  "Don't be like that. I'm in trouble. I need a good man."

  "When I get an office, Mr. Lipshultz, come and see me. Right now I have deep affairs on my mind."

  "I may not be alive that long," he said quietly. "Ever hear of the Agony Club? I own it."

  I looked back into the office of Senor Thorson. The newshawk and he both had their ears out a foot.

  "Not here," I said. "Call me after I talk to the law." I gave him the number.

  He gave me a tired smile and moved out of the way. I went back to the Fleetwood and tooled it gracefully to the cop house down the line a little way. I parked in an official slot and went in. A very pretty blonde in a policewoman's uniform was at the desk.

  "Damn all," I said. "I thought policewomen were hard-faced. You're a doll."

  "We have all kinds," she said sedately. "You'
re Philip Marlowe, aren't you? I've seen your photo in the L. A. papers. What can we do for you, Mr. Marlowe?"

  "I'm checking in. Do I talk to you or to the duty sergeant? And which street could I walk down without being called by name?"

  She smiled. Her teeth were even and as white as the snow on top of the mountain behind the Springs. I bet she used one of the nineteen kinds of toothpaste that are better and newer and larger than all the others.

  "You'd better talk to Sergeant Whitestone." She opened a swing gate and nodded me toward a closed door. I knocked and opened it and I was looking at a calm-looking man with red hair and the sort of eyes that every police sergeant gets in time. Eyes that have seen too much nastiness and heard too many liars.

  "My name's Marlowe. I'm a private eye. I'm going to open up an office here if I can find one and if you let me." I dumped another card on the desk and opened my wallet to let him look at my license.

  "Divorce?"

  "Never touch it, Sergeant."

  "Good. That helps. I can't say I'm enthusiastic, but we could get along, if you leave police business to the police."

  "I'd like to, but I've never been able to find out just where to stop."

  He scowled. Then he snapped his fingers. He yelled, "Norman!"

  The pretty blonde opened the door. "Who is this character?" the sergeant wailed. "Don't tell me. Let me guess."

  "I'm afraid so, Sergeant," she said demurely.

  "Hell! It's bad enough to have a private eye mousing around. But a private eye who's backed by a couple or three hundred million bucks--that's inhuman."

  "I'm not backed by any two hundred million, Sergeant. I'm on my own and I'm a relatively poor man."

  "Yeah? You and me both, but I forgot to marry the boss's daughter. Us cops are stupid."

  I sat down and lit a cigarette. The blonde went out and closed the door.

  "It's no use, is it?" I said. "I can't convince you that I'm just another guy trying to scratch a living. Do you know somebody named Lapshultz who owns a club?"

  "Too well. His place is out in the desert, outside our jurisdiction. Every so often the Riverside D. A. has him raided. They say he permits gambling at his joint. I wouldn't know."