Read Online Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler - Free Book Online
Authors: Raymond Chandler
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Mystery Fiction, Hard-Boiled, California, Los Angeles (Calif.), Los Angeles, Private investigators - California - Los Angeles, Marlowe, Philip (Fictitious Character)
Ads: Link
a grayness which was neither darkness nor light. I went over to it and put a foot on the running board beside the driver's seat.
"Looks like a tryout," I said under my breath, but loud enough for Marriott to hear me from the back of the car. "Just to see if you obey orders."
There was a vague movement behind but he didn't answer. I went on trying to see something besides bushes.
Whoever it was had a nice easy shot at the back of my head. Afterwards I thought I might have heard the swish of a sap. Maybe you always think that--afterwards.
10
"Four minutes," the voice said. "Five, possibly six. They must have moved quick and quiet. He didn't even let out a yell."
I opened my eyes and looked fuzzily at a cold star. I was lying on my back. I felt sick.
The voice said: "It could have been a little longer. Maybe even eight minutes altogether. They must have been in the brush, right where the car stopped. The guy scared easily. They must have thrown a small light in his face and he passed out--just from panic. The pansy."
There was silence. I got up on one knee. Pains shot from the back of my head clear to my ankles.
"Then one of them got into the car," the voice said, "and waited for you to come back. The others hid again. They must have figured he would be afraid to come alone. Or something in his voice made them suspicious, when they talked to him on the phone."
I balanced myself woozily on the flat of my hands, listening.
"Yeah, that was about how it was," the voice said.
It was my voice. I was talking to myself, coming out of it. I was trying to figure the thing out subconsciously.
"Shut up, you dimwit," I said, and stopped talking to myself.
Far off the purl of motors, nearer the chirp of crickets, the peculiar long drawn ee-ee-ee of tree frogs. I didn't think I was going to like those sounds any more.
I lifted a hand off the ground and tried to shake the sticky sage ooze off it, then rubbed it on the side of my coat. Nice work, for a hundred dollars. The hand jumped at the inside pocket of the overcoat. No manila envelope, naturally. The hand jumped inside my own suit coat. My wallet was still there. I wondered if my hundred was still in it. Probably not. Something felt heavy against my left ribs. The gun in the shoulder holster.
That was a nice touch. They left me my gun. A nice touch of something or other--like closing a man's eyes after you knife him.
I felt the back of my head. My hat was still on. I took it off, not without discomfort and felt the head underneath. Good old head, I'd had it a long time. It was a little soft now, a little pulpy, and more than a little tender. But a pretty light sapping at that. The hat had helped. I could still use the head. I could use it another year anyway.
I put my right hand back on the ground and took the left off and swivelled it around until I could see my watch. The illuminated dial showed 10.56, as nearly as I could focus on it.
The call had come at 10.08. Marriott had talked maybe two minutes. Another four had got us out of the house. Time passes very slowly when you are actually doing something. I mean, you can go through a lot of movements in very few minutes. Is that what I mean? What the hell do I care what I mean? Okey, better men than me have meant less. Okey, what I mean is, that would be 10.15, say. The place was about twelve minutes away. 10.27. I get out, walk down in the hollow, spend at the most eight minutes fooling around and come on back up to get my head treated. 10.35. Give me a minute to fall down and hit the ground with my face. The reason I hit it with my face, I got my chin scraped. It hurts. It feels scraped. That way I know it's scraped. No, I can't see it. I don't have to see it. It's my chin and I know whether it's scraped or not. Maybe you want to make something of it. Okey, shut up and let me think. What with? . . .
The watch showed 10.56 p.m. That meant I had been out for twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes' sleep. Just a nice doze. In
"Looks like a tryout," I said under my breath, but loud enough for Marriott to hear me from the back of the car. "Just to see if you obey orders."
There was a vague movement behind but he didn't answer. I went on trying to see something besides bushes.
Whoever it was had a nice easy shot at the back of my head. Afterwards I thought I might have heard the swish of a sap. Maybe you always think that--afterwards.
10
"Four minutes," the voice said. "Five, possibly six. They must have moved quick and quiet. He didn't even let out a yell."
I opened my eyes and looked fuzzily at a cold star. I was lying on my back. I felt sick.
The voice said: "It could have been a little longer. Maybe even eight minutes altogether. They must have been in the brush, right where the car stopped. The guy scared easily. They must have thrown a small light in his face and he passed out--just from panic. The pansy."
There was silence. I got up on one knee. Pains shot from the back of my head clear to my ankles.
"Then one of them got into the car," the voice said, "and waited for you to come back. The others hid again. They must have figured he would be afraid to come alone. Or something in his voice made them suspicious, when they talked to him on the phone."
I balanced myself woozily on the flat of my hands, listening.
"Yeah, that was about how it was," the voice said.
It was my voice. I was talking to myself, coming out of it. I was trying to figure the thing out subconsciously.
"Shut up, you dimwit," I said, and stopped talking to myself.
Far off the purl of motors, nearer the chirp of crickets, the peculiar long drawn ee-ee-ee of tree frogs. I didn't think I was going to like those sounds any more.
I lifted a hand off the ground and tried to shake the sticky sage ooze off it, then rubbed it on the side of my coat. Nice work, for a hundred dollars. The hand jumped at the inside pocket of the overcoat. No manila envelope, naturally. The hand jumped inside my own suit coat. My wallet was still there. I wondered if my hundred was still in it. Probably not. Something felt heavy against my left ribs. The gun in the shoulder holster.
That was a nice touch. They left me my gun. A nice touch of something or other--like closing a man's eyes after you knife him.
I felt the back of my head. My hat was still on. I took it off, not without discomfort and felt the head underneath. Good old head, I'd had it a long time. It was a little soft now, a little pulpy, and more than a little tender. But a pretty light sapping at that. The hat had helped. I could still use the head. I could use it another year anyway.
I put my right hand back on the ground and took the left off and swivelled it around until I could see my watch. The illuminated dial showed 10.56, as nearly as I could focus on it.
The call had come at 10.08. Marriott had talked maybe two minutes. Another four had got us out of the house. Time passes very slowly when you are actually doing something. I mean, you can go through a lot of movements in very few minutes. Is that what I mean? What the hell do I care what I mean? Okey, better men than me have meant less. Okey, what I mean is, that would be 10.15, say. The place was about twelve minutes away. 10.27. I get out, walk down in the hollow, spend at the most eight minutes fooling around and come on back up to get my head treated. 10.35. Give me a minute to fall down and hit the ground with my face. The reason I hit it with my face, I got my chin scraped. It hurts. It feels scraped. That way I know it's scraped. No, I can't see it. I don't have to see it. It's my chin and I know whether it's scraped or not. Maybe you want to make something of it. Okey, shut up and let me think. What with? . . .
The watch showed 10.56 p.m. That meant I had been out for twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes' sleep. Just a nice doze. In
Similar Books
