Read Online Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler - Free Book Online Page B
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)
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More silence. Even the crickets were silent. Then a beam of light cut the darkness low down, parallel to the ground and only a few inches above it. The beam swept, and there was no way I could get my ankles out of it quickly enough. The beam stopped on my feet. Silence. The beam came up and raked the top of the hood again.
Then a laugh. It was a girl's laugh. Strained, taut as a mandolin wire. A strange sound in that place. The white beam shot under the car again and settled on my feet.
The voice said, not quite shrilly: "All right, you. Come out of there with your hands up and very damned empty. You're covered."
I didn't move.
The light wavered a little, as though the hand that held it wavered. It swept slowly along the hood once more. The voice stabbed at me again.
"Listen, stranger. I'm holding a ten shot automatic. I can shoot straight. Both your feet are vulnerable. What do you bid?"
"Put it up--or I'll blow it out of your hand!" I snarled. My voice sounded like somebody tearing slats off a chicken coop.
"Oh--a hardboiled gentleman." There was a quaver in the voice, a nice little quaver. Then it hardened again. "Coming out? I'll count three. Look at the odds I'm giving you--twelve fat cylinders, maybe sixteen. But your feet will hurt. And ankle bones take years and years to get well and sometimes they never do really--"
I straightened up slowly and looked into the beam of the flashlight.
"I talk too much when I'm scared too," I said.
"Don't--don't move another inch! Who are you?"
I moved around the front of the car towards her. When I was six feet from the slim dark figure behind the flash I stopped. The flash glared at me steadily.
"You stay right there," the girl snapped angrily, after I had stopped. "Who are you?"
"Let's see your gun."
She held it forward into the light. It was pointed at my stomach. It was a little gun, it looked like a small Colt vest pocket automatic.
"Oh, that," I said. "That toy. It doesn't either hold ten shots. It holds six. It's just a little gun, a butterfly gun. They shoot butterflies with them. Shame on you for telling a deliberate lie like that."
"Are you crazy?"
"Me? I've been sapped by a holdup man. I might be a little goofy."
"Is that--is that your car?"
"Who are you?"
"What were you looking at back there with your spotlight?"
"I get it. You ask the answers. He-man stuff. I was looking at a man."
"Does he have blond hair in waves?"
"Not now," she said quietly. "He might have had--once."
That jarred me. Somehow I hadn't expected it. "I didn't see him," I said lamely. "I was following the tire marks with a flashlight down the hill. Is he badly hurt?" I went another step towards her. The little gun jumped at me and the flash held steady.
"Take it easy," she said quietly. "Very easy. Your friend is dead."
I didn't say anything for a moment. Then I said: "All right, let's go look at him."
"Let's stand right here and not move and you tell me who you are and what happened." The voice was crisp. It was not afraid. It meant what it said.
"Marlowe. Philip Marlowe. An investigator. Private."
"That's who you are--if it's true. Prove it."
"I'm going to take my wallet out."
"I don't think so. Just leave your hands where they happen to be. We'll skip the proof for the time being. What's your story?"
"This man may not be dead."
"He's dead all right. With his brains on his face. The story, mister. Make it fast."
"As I said--he may not be dead. We'll go look at him." I moved one foot forward.
"Move and I'll drill you!" she snapped.
I moved the other foot forward. The flash jumped about a little. I think she took a step back.
"You take some awful chances, mister," she said quietly. "All right, go on ahead and I'll follow. You look like a sick man. If it hadn't been for that--"
"You'd have shot me. I've been sapped. It always makes me a little dark under the eyes."
"A nice sense of humor--like a morgue attendant," she almost wailed.
I turned away from the light and
Then a laugh. It was a girl's laugh. Strained, taut as a mandolin wire. A strange sound in that place. The white beam shot under the car again and settled on my feet.
The voice said, not quite shrilly: "All right, you. Come out of there with your hands up and very damned empty. You're covered."
I didn't move.
The light wavered a little, as though the hand that held it wavered. It swept slowly along the hood once more. The voice stabbed at me again.
"Listen, stranger. I'm holding a ten shot automatic. I can shoot straight. Both your feet are vulnerable. What do you bid?"
"Put it up--or I'll blow it out of your hand!" I snarled. My voice sounded like somebody tearing slats off a chicken coop.
"Oh--a hardboiled gentleman." There was a quaver in the voice, a nice little quaver. Then it hardened again. "Coming out? I'll count three. Look at the odds I'm giving you--twelve fat cylinders, maybe sixteen. But your feet will hurt. And ankle bones take years and years to get well and sometimes they never do really--"
I straightened up slowly and looked into the beam of the flashlight.
"I talk too much when I'm scared too," I said.
"Don't--don't move another inch! Who are you?"
I moved around the front of the car towards her. When I was six feet from the slim dark figure behind the flash I stopped. The flash glared at me steadily.
"You stay right there," the girl snapped angrily, after I had stopped. "Who are you?"
"Let's see your gun."
She held it forward into the light. It was pointed at my stomach. It was a little gun, it looked like a small Colt vest pocket automatic.
"Oh, that," I said. "That toy. It doesn't either hold ten shots. It holds six. It's just a little gun, a butterfly gun. They shoot butterflies with them. Shame on you for telling a deliberate lie like that."
"Are you crazy?"
"Me? I've been sapped by a holdup man. I might be a little goofy."
"Is that--is that your car?"
"Who are you?"
"What were you looking at back there with your spotlight?"
"I get it. You ask the answers. He-man stuff. I was looking at a man."
"Does he have blond hair in waves?"
"Not now," she said quietly. "He might have had--once."
That jarred me. Somehow I hadn't expected it. "I didn't see him," I said lamely. "I was following the tire marks with a flashlight down the hill. Is he badly hurt?" I went another step towards her. The little gun jumped at me and the flash held steady.
"Take it easy," she said quietly. "Very easy. Your friend is dead."
I didn't say anything for a moment. Then I said: "All right, let's go look at him."
"Let's stand right here and not move and you tell me who you are and what happened." The voice was crisp. It was not afraid. It meant what it said.
"Marlowe. Philip Marlowe. An investigator. Private."
"That's who you are--if it's true. Prove it."
"I'm going to take my wallet out."
"I don't think so. Just leave your hands where they happen to be. We'll skip the proof for the time being. What's your story?"
"This man may not be dead."
"He's dead all right. With his brains on his face. The story, mister. Make it fast."
"As I said--he may not be dead. We'll go look at him." I moved one foot forward.
"Move and I'll drill you!" she snapped.
I moved the other foot forward. The flash jumped about a little. I think she took a step back.
"You take some awful chances, mister," she said quietly. "All right, go on ahead and I'll follow. You look like a sick man. If it hadn't been for that--"
"You'd have shot me. I've been sapped. It always makes me a little dark under the eyes."
"A nice sense of humor--like a morgue attendant," she almost wailed.
I turned away from the light and
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