segment	text	analysis	rephrasing
0	0	"It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.
The main hallway of the Sternwood place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armor rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn't have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the vizor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn't seem to be really trying.
There were French doors at the back of the hall, beyond them a wide sweep of emerald grass to a white garage, in front of which a slim dark young chauffeur in shiny black leggings was dusting a maroon Packard convertible. Beyond the garage were some decorative trees trimmed as carefully as poodle dogs. Beyond them a large greenhouse with a domed roof. Then more trees and beyond everything the solid, uneven, comfortable line of the foothills.
On the east side of the hall a free staircase, tile-paved, rose to a gallery with a wrought-iron railing and another piece of stained-glass romance. Large hard chairs with rounded red plush seats were backed into the vacant spaces of the wall round about. They didn't look as if anybody had ever sat in them. In the middle of the west wall there was a big empty fireplace with a brass screen in four hinged panels, and over the fireplace a marble mantel with cupids at the corners. Above the mantel there was a large oil portrait, and above the portrait two bullet-torn or moth-eaten cavalry pennants crossed in a glass frame. The portrait was a stiffly posed job of an officer in full regimentals of about the time of the Mexican war. The officer had a neat black imperial, black mustachios, hot hard coal-black eyes, and the general look of a man it would pay to get along with. I thought this might be General Sternwood's grandfather. It could hardly be the General himself, even though I had heard he was pretty far gone in years to have a couple of daughters still in the dangerous twenties.
I was still staring at the hot black eyes when a door opened far back under the stairs. It wasn't the butler coming back. It was a girl.
She was twenty or so, small and delicately put together, but she looked durable. She wore pale blue slacks and they looked well on her. She walked as if she were floating. Her hair was a fine tawny wave cut much shorter than the current fashion of pageboy tresses curled in at the bottom. Her eyes were slate-gray, and had almost no expression when they looked at me. She came over near me and smiled with her mouth and she had little sharp predatory teeth, as white as fresh orange pith and as shiny as porcelain. They glistened between her thin too taut lips. Her face lacked color and didn't look too healthy.
Tall, aren't you? she said.
I didn't mean to be.
Her eyes rounded. She was puzzled. She was thinking. I could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother to her.
Handsome too, she said. And I bet you know it.
I grunted.
What's your name?
Reilly, I said. Doghouse Reilly."	"Summary: The protagonist arrives at the Sternwood place, describes the surroundings, and encounters a girl named Carmen who engages in conversation with him.
Narrative arc: Introduction of characters and setting
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of a place
Active character: The protagonist, Carmen
Quoted character: General Sternwood
Fuzzy time: Mid October
Fuzzy place: Sternwood place
Diegetic time: A few hours"	I arrived at the Sternwood place in mid October, when the last of the wild geese had flown from the lagoons and the grey hills beyond them were purple. I came in a big roadster with a driver who was usually drunk and always sleepy. He drove me up over the ridge that marks the northern boundary of the estate, where General Sternwood has his little private shooting preserve; and he told me how the old gentleman once went after a big black bear single-handed with a 12-bore shotgun and got him too. The story was one of those family legends that are never true; but it made me laugh because I had known General Sternwood for twenty years and knew how he hated to kill anything except game birds. As we came down into the valley on the east side of the ridge I saw a man and a girl working near the stables. The man was a short thickset fellow with very red hair, and the girl was tall and slim, with rather hard dark eyes and a lot of black hair that looked as if it had been cut with a hatchet. She wore a pair of khaki shorts and stockings and a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up and showing her brown arms. She had taken off her shoes and stockings for some reason or other, and she was sitting on the grass with her bare legs crossed and beating a pair of tennis rackets together to clean them. They both stood up as the car stopped and the chauffeur began to fumble with the luggage. The girl stared at me insolently, and the man took off his cap and said something to her in Spanish that I didn't catch. Then he came forward and held out his hand. 'You must be Mr. Halliday,' he said. 'I am Riggs, the head gardener. This is Señorita Carmen Murietta.' I nodded to each of them, noticing that Carmen's eyes were taking an inventory of my clothes and body. She seemed to approve of what she found; I hoped it wasn't my money she was admiring. Riggs told me that Miss Murietta had come over from Mexico to help in the house for a few months, and he hoped I wouldn't find her services unsatisfactory. 'I'm sure we'll get on all right,' I said. 'By the way, does General Sternwood know about Miss Murietta?' Riggs laughed. 'I should say not!' he exclaimed. 'He doesn't even know I exist half the time.' He turned away abruptly to open the rear door of the car. 'Señorita,' he said in Spanish, 'you will show Mr. Halliday his room. You can take him through the house and explain how things work. After dinner you can give him a tour of the grounds. But he is tired from the journey, so don't keep him too long.' Carmen smiled at him. It was a lovely smile, full of white teeth and brown eyes, but there was something spiteful in it, like the cat that eats the bird. 
1	1	"That's a funny name. She bit her lip and turned her head a little and looked at me along her eyes. Then she lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theater curtain. I was to get to know that trick. That was supposed to make me roll over on my back with all four paws in the air.
Are you a prizefighter? she asked, when I didn't.
Not exactly. I'm a sleuth.
A—a— She tossed her head angrily, and the rich color of it glistened in the rather dim light of the big hall. You're making fun of me.
Uh-uh.
What?
Get on with you, I said. You heard me.
You didn't say anything. You're just a big tease. She put a thumb up and bit it. It was a curiously shaped thumb, thin and narrow like an extra finger, with no curve in the first joint. She bit it and sucked it slowly, turning it around in her mouth like a baby with a comforter.
You're awfully tall, she said. Then she giggled with secret merriment. Then she turned her body slowly and lithely, without lifting her feet. Her hands dropped limp at her sides. She tilted herself towards me on her toes. She fell straight back into my arms. I had to catch her or let her crack her head on the tessellated floor. I caught her under her arms and she went rubber-legged on me instantly. I had to hold her close to hold her up. When her head was against my chest she screwed it around and giggled at me.
You're cute, she giggled. I'm cute too.
I didn't say anything. So the butler chose that convenient moment to come back through the French doors and see me holding her.
It didn't seem to bother him. He was a tall, thin, silver man, sixty or close to it or a little past it. He had blue eyes as remote as eyes could be. His skin was smooth and bright and he moved like a man with very sound muscles. He walked slowly across the floor towards us and the girl jerked away from me. She flashed across the room to the foot of the stairs and went up them like a deer. She was gone before I could draw a long breath and let it out.
The butler said tonelessly: ""The General will see you now, Mr. Marlowe.""
I pushed my lower jaw up off my chest and nodded at him. ""Who was that?""
Miss Carmen Sternwood, sir.
You ought to wean her. She looks old enough.
He looked at me with grave politeness and repeated what he had said.
[2]
We went out at the French doors and along a smooth red-flagged path that skirted the far side of the lawn from the garage. The boyish-looking chauffeur had a big black and chromium sedan out now and was dusting that. The path took us along to the side of the greenhouse and the butler opened a door for me and stood aside. It opened into a sort of vestibule that was about as warm as a slow oven. He came in after me, shut the outer door, opened an inner door and we went through that. Then it was really hot. The air was thick, wet, steamy and larded with the cloying smell of tropical orchids in bloom. The glass walls and roof were heavily misted and big drops of moisture splashed down on the plants. The light had an unreal greenish color, like light filtered through an aquarium tank. The plants filled the place, a forest of them, with nasty meaty leaves and stalks like the newly washed fingers of dead men. They smelled as overpowering as boiling alcohol under a blanket."	"Summary: The narrator is having a conversation with a woman named Carmen, who flirts with him. They are interrupted by the butler, who informs the narrator that he will see General Sternwood. The narrator leaves with the butler and enters a greenhouse filled with tropical plants.
Trope: Flirtatious woman, mysterious setting
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Literary movement: Hard-boiled literature
Active character: Narrator, Carmen, butler
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Fuzzy place: Big hall, greenhouse
Diegetic time: A few hours"	“Why, yes,” she said. “Do you think so?” She leaned a little nearer and spoke in her softest voice. “I do.” Her eyes were full of mischief, and I thought: So this is the kind of woman that gets men into trouble. The door opened suddenly and a tall, bald man in a green butler’s uniform came in carrying a salver. He had been listening outside. He looked at Carmen and his face was as cold as an ice-cube. He put the salver on the table and said to me: “Mr. Marlowe will see General Sternwood, madam.” And without waiting for an answer he went out through the other door. Carmen laughed. “Well, I’ll go and tell my father. He’s not exactly General Sternwood any more, though once upon a time he was quite a big shot in the States. They sent him out here when they got tired of him. But he still likes people to call him General. He always was silly about being called General.” She stood up and smiled at me. “You can come with me if you like, Mr. Marlowe. It won’t take long.” We walked back along the big hall, Carmen swinging her hips in the way women have which is meant to be provocative, and I followed her through another door into a greenhouse. There was a faint smell of damp earth and rotting leaves in the hot air. The floor was covered with sand. Tall palm-trees grew in tubs, and there was a liana vine running along the ceiling. A great hothouse plant with broad flat leaves shut off half the light from a table by the window. On it was a gold-mounted hypodermic syringe, three empty ampoules, and a glass flask containing a quantity of white powder. Carmen sat down in one of two cane chairs and lit a cigarette. She said: “I suppose you’re wondering what you’ve let yourself in for. Well, you’ll find out soon enough. You ought to get a good salary, but don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. Dad’s very sick these days, and he hasn’t much time to play around. But you might be able to get some fun out of my sister. God knows she needs it. She’s as bored as hell. She doesn’t know how to do anything except drink and take dope. Poor kid! All she wants is a man who’ll make her feel like a woman. That’s what she’s trying to get out of me, only she’s too dumb to know it. But I’m no use to her. I’m just a pal, a sort of big sister. She hates me because I won’t give her stuff.” She blew a smoke-ring and watched it float away towards the leaves. “She’s a nice kid in a way. But you’ve got to be careful of her. She’s a real man-killer.” 
2	2	"The butler did his best to get me through without being smacked in the face by the sodden leaves, and after a while we came to a clearing in the middle of the jungle, under the domed roof. Here, in a space of hexagonal flags, an old red Turkish rug was laid down and on the rug was a wheel chair, and in the wheel chair an old and obviously dying man watched us come with black eyes from which all fire had died long ago, but which still had the coal-black directness of the eyes in the portrait that hung above the mantel in the hall. The rest of his face was a leaden mask, with the bloodless lips and the sharp nose and the sunken temples and the outward-turning earlobes of approaching dissolution. His long narrow body was wrapped—in that heat—in a traveling rug and a faded red bathrobe. His thin claw like hands were folded loosely on the rug, purple-nailed. A few locks of dry white hair clung to his scalp, like wild flowers fighting for life on a bare rock.
The butler stood in front of him and said: ""This is Mr. Marlowe, General.""
The old man didn't move or speak, or even nod. He just looked at me lifelessly. The butler pushed a damp wicker chair against the backs of my legs and I sat down. He took my hat with a deft scoop.
Then the old man dragged his voice up from the bottom of a well and said: ""Brandy, Norris. How do you like your brandy, sir?""
Any way at all, I said.
The butler went away among the abominable plants. The General spoke again, slowly, using his strength as carefully as an out-of-work showgirl uses her last good pair of stockings.
I used to like mine with champagne. The champagne as cold as Valley Forge and about a third of a glass of brandy beneath it. You may take your coat off, sir. It's too hot in here for a man with blood in his veins.
I stood up and peeled off my coat and got a handkerchief out and mopped my face and neck and the backs of my wrists. St. Louis in August had nothing on that place. I sat down again and I felt automatically for a cigarette and then stopped. The old man caught the gesture and smiled faintly.
You may smoke, sir. I like the smell of tobacco.
I lit the cigarette and blew a lungful at him and he sniffed at it like a terrier at a rathole. The faint smile pulled at the shadowed comers of his mouth.
A nice state of affairs when a man has to indulge his vices by proxy, he said dryly. You are looking at a very dull survival of a rather gaudy life, a cripple paralyzed in both legs and with only half of his lower belly. There's very little that I can eat and my sleep is so close to waking that it is hardly worth the name. I seem to exist largely on heat, like a newborn spider, and the orchids are an excuse for the heat. Do you like orchids?
Not particularly, I said.
The General half-closed his eyes. ""They are nasty things. Their flesh is too much like the flesh of men. And their perfume has the rotten sweetness of a prostitute.""
I stared at him with my mouth open. The soft wet heat was like a pall around us. The old man nodded, as if his neck was afraid of the weight of his head. Then the butler came pushing back through the jungle with a teawagon, mixed me a brandy and soda, swathed the copper ice bucket with a damp napkin, and went away softly among the orchids. A door opened and shut behind the jungle.
I sipped the drink. The old man licked his lips watching me, over and over again, drawing one lip slowly across the other with a funereal absorption, like an undertaker dry-washing his hands.
Tell me about yourself, Mr. Marlowe. I suppose I have a right to ask?
Sure, but there's very little to tell. I'm thirty-three years old, went to college once and can still speak English if there's any demand for it. There isn't much in my trade. I worked for Mr. Wilde, the District Attorney, as an investigator once. His chief investigator, a man named Bernie Ohls, called me and told me you wanted to see me. I'm unmarried because I don't like policemen's wives.
And a little bit of a cynic, the old man smiled. You didn't like working for Wilde?"	"Summary: The narrator meets an old man who is dying and they have a conversation about their lives and the heat in the room.
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, the old man, the butler
Fuzzy place: A clearing in the middle of a jungle
Diegetic time: A few hours"	But I was a hero, and the old man was dying. He had a strange face, with deep wrinkles, but no beard. It was the face of a sculptor, or an old god. He asked me to sit down beside him, and for a long time we were silent together. Then he said: “I have known many races in my time; not as you know them, but when they were strong. They were like gods. Now they are dust. But there is one race which shall endure forever. You belong to it.” I looked at his white hair, and his thin hands, and laughed. “I am twenty years old,” I said. “You are very young.” And then, after a pause, “You must be tired. Rest.” So I lay down on a mat, and thought about everything that had happened. And as I lay, I could hear the moths beating against the windows, and the voices of the people passing in the street outside. The room was very still, but hotter than the heart of the sun. And yet it was a little cooler than it had been. For some reason, I felt very happy. After a while I woke up, because the old man was speaking. “A moment ago,” he said, “this room was full of light. Now it is dark. A moment ago, this room was hot. Now it is cold. 
3	3	"I was fired. For insubordination. I test very high on insubordination, General.
I always did myself, sir. I'm glad to hear it. What do you know about my family?
I'm told you are a widower and have two young daughters, both pretty and both wild. One of them has been married three times, the last time to an ex-bootlegger who went in the trade by the name of Rusty Regan. That's all I heard, General.
Did any of it strike you as peculiar?
The Rusty Regan part, maybe. But I always got along with bootleggers myself.
He smiled his faint economical smile. ""It seems I do too. I'm very fond of Rusty. A big curly-headed Irishman from Clonmel, with sad eyes and a smile as wide as Wilshire Boulevard. The first time I saw him I thought he might be what you are probably thinking he was, an adventurer who happened to get himself wrapped up in some velvet.""
You must have liked him, I said. You learned to talk the language.
He put his thin bloodless hands under the edge of the rug. I put my cigarette stub out and finished my drink.
He was the breath of life to me—while he lasted. He spent hours with me, sweating like a pig, drinking brandy by the quart and telling me stories of the Irish revolution. He had been an officer in the I.R.A. He wasn't even legally in the United States. It was a ridiculous marriage of course, and it probably didn't last a month, as a marriage. I'm telling you the family secrets, Mr. Marlowe.
They're still secrets, I said. What happened to him?
The old man looked at me woodenly. ""He went away, a month ago. Abruptly, without a word to anyone. Without saying good-by to me. That hurt a little, but he had been raised in a rough school. I'1l hear from him one of these days. Meantime I am being blackmailed again.""
I said: ""Again?""
He brought his hands from under the rug with a brown envelope in them. ""I should have been very sorry for anybody who tried to blackmail me while Rusty was around. A few months before he came—that is to say about nine or ten months ago—I paid a man named Joe Brody five thousand dollars to let my younger daughter Carmen alone.""
Ah, I said.
He moved his thin white eyebrows. ""That means what?""
Nothing, I said.
He went on staring at me, half frowning. Then he said: ""Take this envelope and examine it. And help yourself to the brandy.""
I took the envelope off his knees and sat down with it again. I wiped off the palms of my hands and turned it around. It was addressed to General Guy Sternwood, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood, California. The address was in ink, in the slanted printing engineers use. The envelope was slit. I opened it up and took out a brown card and three slips of stiff paper. The card was of thin brown linen, printed in gold: ""Mr. Arthur Gwynn Geiger."" No address. Very small in the lower left-hand corner: ""Rare Books and De Luxe Editions."" I turned the card over. More of the slanted printing on the back. ""Dear Sir: In spite of the legal uncollectibility of the enclosed, which frankly represent gambling debts, I assume you might wish them honored. Respectfully, A. G. Geiger.""
I looked at the slips of stiffish white paper. They were promissory notes filled out in ink, dated on several dates early in the month before, September. ""On Demand I promise to pay to Arthur Gwynn Geiger or Order the sum of One Thousand Dollars ($1000.00) without interest. Value Received. Carmen Sternwood.""
The written part was in a sprawling moronic handwriting with a lot of fat curlicues and circles for dots. I mixed myself another drink and sipped it and put the exhibit aside.
Your conclusions? the General asked.
I haven't any yet. Who is this Arthur Gwynn Geiger?
I haven't the faintest idea.
What does Carmen say?
I haven't asked her. I don't intend to. If I did, she would suck her thumb and look coy."	"Summary: The narrator discusses a family member who married an ex-bootlegger and disappeared, while also mentioning a blackmail incident involving the General's daughter.
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, General Sternwood, Rusty Regan, Carmen Sternwood
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"I was in the shadows when the General arrived, and I caught the scent of him before I saw his face: a kind of ineffable old-world perfume. He's been a pretty hot-headed young man in his time,"" he said, ""but, believe me or not, as soon as ever he sets eyes on you he begins to look like an old patriarch. Only with more white in his hair."""" But it isn't his hair that has gone white,"" said Rusty Regan. She laughed suddenly and her hand slipped from mine. You didn't tell me she was a beauty,"" said the General. ""But that doesn't matter. A girl is always a girl. What a lovely creature!"""" Carmen turned her head, laughing again, and looked at us both. Then she turned back to the General. Well,"" she said, ""that's nice of you to say so. I'm glad my father sent for me."""" It was a queer moment. I had a vision of all the people who had sat in this room and talked about Carmen Sternwood; I could see them clearly, but they were very far away. They were dead. There was only this living girl with a lovely face and a lovely voice, and the General leaning forward with his mouth open, saying something stupid, and Rusty Regan looking at me out of the corner of her eye and smiling. We played bridge for two hours without any interruption whatever from any quarter. I don't know how many tricks Carmen made good, but she never opened her lips except to speak across the table. Her cards were always dealt to her by Rusty Regan, and after each deal Rusty would slip an extra card under Carmen's hand. The General watched this process with approval. Good kid,"" he murmured every now and then. ""Very good kid. Takes it well."""" At ten o'clock the General sighed. Well, ladies, I must be off to bed."" He stood up and held out his hand to Carmen. """"Good night, child."""" Thank you for coming."" He stooped and kissed her cheek. """"You're a great comfort to your father."""" And, turning to Rusty, he said: """"Come along, daughter dear."""" As they disappeared through the doorway I heard the General murmur: """"That's a nice little thing your husband's got there, Rusty."""" About half past ten we were sitting in the same places, smoking cigarettes. The lights had been turned down low. Carmen leaned back in her chair, staring into the fire. I thought she looked tired. She was holding her cigarette between two fingers of her left hand, and twisting it gently round and round. When I spoke she started. Oh, yes,"" she said. ""I remember."" What do you mean?"" I said. She turned her head and looked at me. I think she was surprised to find me there. """"When I was fifteen I tried to commit suicide."""" She twisted her cigarette round and round. It's true."" Why did you?"" "
4	4	"I said: ""I met her in the hall. She did that to me. Then she tried to sit in my lap.""
Nothing changed in his expression. His clasped hands rested peacefully on the edge of the rug, and the heat, which made me feel like a New England boiled dinner, didn't seem to make him even warm.
Do I have to be polite? I asked. Or can I just be natural?
I haven't noticed that you suffer from many inhibitions, Mr. Marlowe.
Do the two girls run around together?
I think not. I think they go their separate and slightly divergent roads to perdition. Vivian is spoiled, exacting, smart and quite ruthless. Carmen is a child who likes to pull wings off flies. Neither of them has any more moral sense than a cat. Neither have I. No Sternwood ever had. Proceed.
They're well educated, I suppose. They know what they're doing.
Vivian went to good schools of the snob type and to college. Carmen went to half a dozen schools of greater and greater liberality, and ended up where she started. I presume they both had, and still have, all the usual vices. If I sound a little sinister as a parent, Mr. Marlowe, it is because my hold on life is too slight to include any Victorian hypocrisy. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, then opened them again suddenly. I need not add that a man who indulges in parenthood for the first time at the age of fifty-four deserves all he gets.
I sipped my drink and nodded. The pulse in his lean gray throat throbbed visibly and yet so slowly that it was hardly a pulse at all. An old man two thirds dead and still determined to believe he could take it.
Your conclusions? he snapped suddenly.
I'd pay him.
Why?
It's a question of a little money against a lot of annoyance. There has to be something behind it. But nobody's going to break your heart, if it hasn't been done already. And it would take an awful lot of chiselers an awful lot of time to rob you of enough so that you'd even notice it.
I have pride, sir, he said coldly.
Somebody's counting on that. It's the easiest way to fool them. That or the police. Geiger can collect on these notes, unless you can show fraud. Instead of that he makes you a present of them and admits they are gambling debts, which gives you a defense, even if he had kept the notes. If he's a crook, he knows his onions, and if he's an honest man doing a little loan business on the side, he ought to have his money. Who was this Joe Brody you paid the five thousand dollars to?
Some kind of gambler. I hardly recall. Norris would know. My butler.
Your daughters have money in their own right, General?
Vivian has, but not a great deal. Carmen is still a minor under her mother's will. I give them both generous allowances.
I said: ""I can take this Geiger off your back, General, if that's what you want. Whoever he is and whatever he has. It may cost you a little money, besides what you pay me. And of course it won't get you anything. Sugaring them never does. You're already listed on their book of nice names.""
I see. He shrugged his wide sharp shoulders in the faded red bathrobe. A moment ago you said pay him. Now you say it won't get me anything.
I mean it might be cheaper and easier to stand for a certain amount of squeeze. That's all.
I'm afraid I'm rather an impatient man, Mr. Marlowe. What are your charges?
I get twenty-five a day and expenses—when I'm lucky.
I see. It seems reasonable enough for removing morbid growths from people's backs. Quite a delicate operation. You realize that, I hope. You'll make your operation as little of a shock to the patient as possible? There might be several of them, Mr. Marlowe."	"Summary: The narrator is speaking with a General about two girls and their potential involvement in something. The General is not very interested in the conversation.
Narrative arc: Conversational
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, the General
Diegetic time: A few hours"	O General me disse:  Porque no voes amansar a mo de uma d'ellas? O que me d o amor de uma, d o amor de duas. Mas se queres, traz as duas aqui para a minha tenda e deixe-me ver quem so estas duas formosas donzelas... Deixo-vos ahi. E entrou na sua tenda, fechando-a depois com um bofetada do basto. E eu fui para os dois meus amigos que ali estavam, e contei-lhes a resposta do General e o modo por que elle mandra a sua ordem. Elle respondeu-me:  Diz-lhe que as duas damas te esperam em tua tenda.  Para que? perguntou Athanais.  Pois no sabes? E contou Athanais como eu lhe tinha exposto tudo o que o General dissera, e que elle quizia conosco v. Muitas vezes se me ouve dizer que este Rei  muito bo, mas hoje no sei que Rei seja. Talvez o Rei dos Judeus, que sacrificava as suas filhas aos infernos. Este Rei tambem diz que tem vontade de nos ver. E bem merece ter-nos visto, porque nunca viu tanta gente como esta que tens aqui. Queira Deus que no faa mal a ninguem! Uma vez, na nossa terra, quando um Rei foi a visitar um conde, mataram-lhe todos os filhos; e depois o Rei ordenou que lhes cortassem a cabea e lhas mettesse no colo da barba. No quererias tu ser esse Rei? Podes ir dizer-lhe que estamos aqui e que estaremos sempre aqui, e que no temos necessidade de mais nada, porque ns somos felizes. Depois acalmar-se-o-heis, e acabareis por dar-vos com elle. E tanto Athanais me falou assim que eu escrevi uma carta ao General e dei-lha ao rapazinho, que era um menino da mesma aldeia da minha madrinha, e que vinha comigo. N'aquella carta dizia eu que o desejado sinal estava acima das nossas foras humanas, e que as duas senhoras estavam comigo e que ellas lhe dariam conta do que fora dito pelo Athanais, e que elles lhe diriam que as duas damas tinham ido j antigamente ao Cortejo, e que elles eram peregrinos e que nada tinham que fazer com elles. Depois de haverem lido a carta, Athanais e a velha Sibila foram sahir da minha tenda, e o Athanais, que ainda estava muito excitado, olhou-me e disse-me:  E agora, que fazemos? Eu respondi-lhe que isso era negocio do General e que por ora deviamos ficar quietos. 
5	5	"I finished my second drink and wiped my lips and my face. The heat didn't get any less hot with the brandy in me. The General blinked at me and plucked at the edge of his rug.
Can I make a deal with this guy, if I think he's within hooting distance of being on the level?
Yes. The matter is now in your hands. I never do things by halves.
I'll take him out, I said. He'll think a bridge fell on him.
I'm sure you will. And now I must excuse myself. I am tired. He reached out and touched the bell on the arm of his chair. The cord was plugged into a black cable that wound along the side of the deep dark green boxes in which the orchids grew and festered. He closed his eyes, opened them again in a brief bright stare, and settled back among his cushions. The lids dropped again and he didn't pay any more attention to me.
I stood up and lifted my coat off the back of the damp wicker chair and went off with it among the orchids, opened the two doors and stood outside in the brisk October air getting myself some oxygen. The chauffeur over by the garage had gone away. The butler came along the red path with smooth light steps and his back as straight as an ironing board. I shrugged into my coat and watched him come.
He stopped about two feet from me and said gravely: ""Mrs. Regan would like to see you before you leave, sir. And in the matter of money the General has instructed me to give you a check for whatever seems desirable.""
Instructed you how?
He looked puzzled, then he smiled. ""Ah, I see, sir. You are, of course, a detective. By the way he rang his bell.""
You write his checks?
I have that privilege.
That ought to save you from a pauper's grave. No money now, thanks. What does Mrs. Regan want to see me about?
His blue eyes gave me a smooth level look. ""She has a misconception of the purpose of your visit, sir.""
Who told her anything about my visit?
Her windows command the greenhouse. She saw us go in. I was obliged to tell her who you were.
I don't like that, I said.
His blue eyes frosted. ""Are you attempting to tell me my duties, sir?""
No. But I'm having a lot of fun trying to guess what they are.
We stared at each other for a moment. He gave me a blue glare and turned away.
[3]
This room was too big, the ceiling was too high, the doors were too tall, and the white carpet that went from wall to wall looked like a fresh fall of snow at Lake Arrowhead. There were full-length mirrors and crystal doodads all over the place. The ivory furniture had chromium on it, and the enormous ivory drapes lay tumbled on the white carpet a yard from the windows. The white made the ivory look dirty and the ivory made the white look bled out. The windows stared towards the darkening foothills. It was going to rain soon. There was pressure in the air already.
I sat down on the edge of a deep soft chair and looked at Mrs. Regan. She was worth a stare. She was trouble. She was stretched out on a modernistic chaise-longue with her slippers off, so I stared at her legs in the sheerest silk stockings. They seemed to be arranged to stare at. They were visible to the knee and one of them well beyond. The knees were dimpled, not bony and sharp. The calves were beautiful, the ankles long and slim and with enough melodic line for a tone poem. She was tall and rangy and strong-looking. Her head was against an ivory satin cushion. Her hair was black and wiry and parted in the middle and she had the hot black eyes of the portrait in the hall. She had a good mouth and a good chin. There was a sulky droop to her lips and the lower lip was full.
She had a drink. She took a swallow from it and gave me a cool level stare over the rim of the glass."	"Summary: The narrator finishes his drink and prepares to leave, discussing a deal with the General. The narrator then exits the greenhouse and meets with the butler who informs him that Mrs. Regan wants to see him before he leaves.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, the General, the butler, Mrs. Regan
Fuzzy place: The greenhouse, the white carpeted room
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Then I finished the drink, and got up to go. He said he had something he wanted to say to me before I left, and that was what he had been waiting for all evening. “You know that deal we were talking about?” he said. “I have decided to go through with it.” I nodded. I could hardly speak. “If you will be ready to sign the agreement tomorrow morning,” he went on, “the money will be paid into your account at the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris, and the transfer of the property made over to you. I am going away now, but if you come back to-morrow night about the same hour as tonight I will be here, and we can sign then.” “Thank you,” I said. “I shall be here.” “Good-night,” he said, and held out his hand. I took it, and we parted. I went back through the greenhouse, and came out again on to the white carpeted room. The General was standing there, looking out of the window; when he heard my footsteps he turned round. “Ah!” he said, “you are not leaving already?” “No,” I answered; “but Mrs. Regan wants to see me before I go.” “Of course,” he said. “It is fortunate you happened to run against her. She asked me only half an hour ago whether you were still here, and I thought she might send for you later on. But I expect she has a lot to say to you. You mustn’t stay long.” He spoke quite simply, but I felt sure that he was afraid of our meeting lasting longer than he expected. I went upstairs and knocked at the door of Mrs. Regan’s room. I heard her voice from inside calling, “Come in,” and I opened the door and went in. 
6	6	"So you're a private detective, she said. I didn't know they really existed, except in books. Or else they were greasy little men snooping around hotels.
There was nothing in that for me, so I let it drift with the current. She put her glass down on the flat arm of the chaise-longue and flashed an emerald and touched her hair. She said slowly: ""How did you like Dad?""
I liked him, I said.
He liked Rusty. I suppose you know who Rusty is?
Uh-huh.
Rusty was earthy and vulgar at times, but he was very real. And he was a lot of fun for Dad. Rusty shouldn't have gone off like that. Dad feels very badly about it, although he won't say so. Or did he?
He said something about it.
You're not much of a gusher, are you, Mr. Marlowe? But he wants to find him, doesn't he?
I stared at her politely through a pause. ""Yes and no,"" I said.
That's hardly an answer. Do you think you can find him?
I didn't say I was going to try. Why not try the Missing Persons Bureau? They have the organization. It's not a one-man job.
Oh, Dad wouldn't hear of the police being brought into it. She looked at me smoothly across her glass again, emptied it, and rang a bell. A maid came into the room by a side door. She was a middle-aged woman with a long yellow gentle face, a long nose, no chin, large wet eyes. She looked like a nice old horse that had been turned out to pasture after long service. Mrs. Regan waved the empty glass at her and she mixed another drink and handed it to her and left the room, without a word, without a glance in my direction.
When the door shut Mrs. Regan said: ""Well, how will you go about it then?""
How and when did he skip out?
Didn't Dad tell you?
I grinned at her with my head on one side. She flushed. Her hot black eyes looked mad. ""I don't see what there is to be cagey about,"" she snapped. ""And I don't like your manners.""
I'm not crazy about yours, I said. I didn't ask to see you. You sent for me. I don't mind your ritzing me or drinking your lunch out of a Scotch bottle. I don't mind your showing me your legs. They're very swell legs and it's a pleasure to make their acquaintance. I don't mind if you don't like my manners. They're pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter evenings. But don't waste your time trying to cross-examine me.
She slammed her glass down so hard that it slopped over on an ivory cushion. She swung her legs to the floor and stood up with her eyes sparking fire and her nostrils wide. Her mouth was open and her bright teeth glared at me. Her knuckles were white.
People don't talk like that to me, she said thickly.
I sat there and grinned at her. Very slowly she closed her mouth and looked down at the spilled liquor. She sat down on the edge of the chaise-longue and cupped her chin in one hand.
My God, you big dark handsome brute! I ought to throw a Buick at you.
I snicked a match on my thumbnail and for once it lit. I puffed smoke into the air and waited.
I loathe masterful men, she said. I simply loathe them.
Just what is it you're afraid of, Mrs. Regan?""
Her eyes whitened. Then they darkened until they seemed to be all pupil. Her nostrils looked pinched.
That wasn't what he wanted with you at all, she said in a strained voice that still had shreds of anger clinging to me. About Rusty. Was it?
Better ask him.
She flared up again. ""Get out! Damn you, get out!""
I stood up. ""Sit down!"" she snapped. I sat down. I flicked a finger at my palm and waited.
Please, she said. Please. You could find Rusty—if Dad wanted you to.
That didn't work either. I nodded and asked: ""When did he go?"""	"Summary: The narrator is speaking with a woman named Mrs. Regan about finding someone named Rusty.
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: The narrator, Mrs. Regan
Fuzzy place: Mrs. Regan's room
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"When the time came for her to be put to bed, she was still talking about him, and asked me to come into her room when I had done my work. She sat up in bed, and talked on with such strange intensity that at first I could not understand what it all meant. Then I saw that she was really afraid of something or somebody; and I felt sure that she must be thinking about Rusty. """"I am glad you have come,"""" she said. """"I'm so glad you have come, because I want you to help me."""" Help you?"" Yes; I've got to go away from here to-morrow morning, and I'm afraid."""" Afraid!"" Yes; I'm afraid."" Of what?"" Of a great many things. But most of all I'm afraid of what may happen to you if I go away."""" Why should you be afraid of that?"" Because of what happened last time. And besides that, there is something wrong with this house; it isn't right. It's been growing worse ever since he went away. You can feel it, can't you?"""" No; but then I'm only a man, you know."" That doesn't matter. You'd notice it if you stayed long enough. Well, now listen to me; the sooner you find Rusty, the better it will be for you. "
7	7	"One afternoon a month back. He just drove away in his car without saying a word. They found the car in a private garage somewhere.
They?
She got cunning. Her whole body seemed to go lax. Then she smiled at me winningly. ""He didn't tell you then."" Her voice was almost gleeful, as if she had outsmarted me. Maybe she had.
He told me about Mr. Regan, yes. That's not what he wanted to see me about. Is that what you've been trying to get me to say?
I'm sure I don't care what you say.
I stood up again. ""Then I'll be running along."" She didn't speak. I went over to the tall white door I had come in at. When I looked back She had her lip between her teeth and was worrying it like a puppy at the fringe of a rug.
I went out, down the tile staircase to the hall, and the butler drifted out of somewhere with my hat in his hand. I put it on while he opened the door for me.
You made a mistake, I said. Mrs. Regan didn't want to see me.
He inclined his silver head and said politely; ""I'm sorry, sir. I make many mistakes."" He closed the door against my back.
I stood on the step breathing my cigarette smoke and looking down a succession of terraces with flowerbeds and trimmed trees to the high iron fence with gilt spears that hemmed in the estate. A winding driveway dropped down between retaining walls to the open iron gates. Beyond the fence the hill sloped for several miles. On this lower level faint and far off I could just barely see some of the old wooden derricks of the oilfield from which the Sternwoods had made their money. Most of the field was public park now, cleaned up and donated to the city by General Sternwood. But a little of it was still producing in groups of wells pumping five or six barrels a day. The Sternwoods, having moved up the hill, could no longer smell the stale sump water or the oil, but they could still look out of their front windows and see what had made them rich. If they wanted to. I didn't suppose they would want to.
I walked down a brick path from terrace to terrace, followed along inside the fence and so out of the gates to where I had left my car under a pepper tree on the street. Thunder was crackling in the foothills now and the sky above them was purple-black. It was going to rain hard. The air had the damp foretaste of rain. I put the top up on my convertible before I started downtown.
She had lovely legs. I would say that for her. They were a couple of pretty smooth citizens, she and her father. He was probably just trying me out; the job he had given me was a lawyer's job. Even if Mr. Arthur Gwynn Geiger, Rare Books and De Luxe Editions, turned out to be a blackmailer, it was still a lawyer's job. Unless there was a lot more to it than met the eye. At a casual glance I thought I might have a lot of fun finding out.
I drove down to the Hollywood public library and did a little superficial research in a stuffy volume called Famous First Editions. Half an hour of it made me need my lunch.
[4]"	"Summary: The narrator is leaving a house and reflecting on his encounter with Mrs. Regan, who is the wife of Mr. Regan. He realizes that she had been trying to trick him into saying something specific. As he leaves, he notices her preoccupation and exits through the tall white door. He meets the butler in the hallway who apologizes for Mrs. Regan not wanting to see him. The narrator then leaves the estate and drives downtown.
Narrative arc: Reflective
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, Mrs. Regan
Fuzzy time: Afternoon
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Private garage, terraces, retaining walls, public park, oilfield, street
Diegetic time: A few hours"	But it was not the last time that I saw her. And now, in a little while, as I went through the hall toward the tall white door which opened upon the terraces and the gardens, I heard her voice once more. She had been standing by the great fireplace, with her hands folded behind her back, and when she turned to look at me she said: “I have told you before, Mr. Cressler, that this house is like a palace in Sparta.” I walked across the room and stood for a moment beside her. Then I smiled and nodded my head. And then I said: “And you are like Helen of Troy.” That was all. But what she wanted me to say was: “And you are like Helen of Troy, Mrs. Regan!” And she had watched me closely as I spoke, waiting for me to say those words. But I did not say them; and it was only a few minutes later, as I drove away from that place, that I knew what it was that she had been trying to make me say. The drive through the private garage led into a deep tunnel, at the end of which was a locked door. At the entrance to the garage stood the chauffeur, waiting for me, and he took me to the door and unlocked it. We came out upon the street. A moment later we were driving along the terraces, passing through the gates, and down the long driveway lined on each side with trees. Ahead of us stretched the road that led over the hills and down into the valley. It was nearly four o’clock, and the sun was bright and clear. To the right of the road ran a wide stretch of level ground, broken here and there by small groves of trees or by clumps of shrubbery. Beyond these and farther off were other hills, and beyond the hills lay the sea. After we had passed these groves and come to a point where the road curved sharply to the left, we came to another gate, and here again the chauffeur stopped the car and locked the gate after us. Then he said: “There's no one about now, sir. You won't see anyone until you get to town.” He drove on for half a mile, and then pulled up again beside the road. This time he got out of the car and came around and opened the door for me. “Good-bye, sir,” he said, “and I hope you'll be able to come again soon.” “Good-bye, Johnson,” I said, smiling. “I suppose you know,” he said, “that Mrs. Regan didn't want to see me.” “Why, yes,” I replied. “She told me so herself. But that's all right. No harm done.” “Yes, sir,” he said, smiling at me. “No harm done.” 
8	8	"A. G. Geiger's place was a store frontage on the north side of the boulevard near Las Palmas. The entrance door was set far back in the middle and there was a copper trim on the windows, which were backed with Chinese screens, so I couldn't see into the store. There was a lot of oriental junk in the windows. I didn't know whether it was any good, not being a collector of antiques, except unpaid bills. The entrance door was plate glass, but I couldn't see much through that either, because the store was very dim. A building entrance adjoined it on one side and on the other was a glittering credit jewelry establishment. The jeweler stood in his entrance, teetering on his heels and looking bored, a tall handsome white-haired Jew in lean dark clothes, with about nine carats of diamond on his right hand. A faint knowing smile curved his lips when I turned into Geiger's store. I let the door close softly behind me and walked on a thick blue rug that paved the floor from wall to wall. There were blue leather easy chairs with smoke stands beside them. A few sets of tooled leather bindings were set out on narrow polished tables, between book ends. There were more tooled bindings in glass cases on the walls. Nice-looking merchandise, the kind a rich promoter would buy by the yard and have somebody paste his bookplate in. At the back there was a grained wood partition with a door in the middle of it, shut. In the corner made by the partition and one wall a woman sat behind a small desk with a carved wooden lantern on it.
She got up slowly and swayed towards me in a tight black dress that didn't reflect any light. She had long thighs and she walked with a certain something I hadn't often seen in bookstores. She was an ash blonde with greenish eyes, beaded lashes, hair waved smoothly back from ears in which large jet buttons glittered. Her fingernails were silvered. In spite of her get-up she looked as if she would have a hall bedroom accent.
She approached me with enough sex appeal to stampede a business men's lunch and tilted her head to finger a stray, but not very stray, tendril of softly glowing hair. Her smile was tentative, but could be persuaded to be nice.
Was it something? she inquired.
I had my horn-rimmed sunglasses on. I put my voice high and let a bird twitter in it. ""Would you happen to have a Ben Hur 1860?""
She didn't say: ""Huh?"" but she wanted to. She smiled bleakly. ""A first edition?""
Third, I said. The one with the erratum on page 116.
I'm afraid not—at the moment.
How about a Chevalier Audubon 1840—the full set, of course?
Er—not at the moment, she purred harshly. Her smile was now hanging by its teeth and eyebrows and wondering what it would hit when it dropped.
You do sell books? I said in my polite falsetto.
She looked me over. No smile now. Eyes medium to hard. Pose very straight and stiff. She waved silver fingernails at the glassed-in shelves. ""What do they look like—grapefruit?"" she inquired tartly.
Oh, that sort of thing hardly interests me, you know. Probably has duplicate sets of steel engravings, tuppence colored and a penny plain. The usual vulgarity. No. I'm sorry. No.
I see. She tried to jack the smile back up on her face. She was as sore as an alderman with the mumps. Perhaps Mr. Geiger—but he's not in at the moment. Her eyes studied me carefully. She knew as much about rare books as I knew about handling a flea circus.
He might be in later?
I'm afraid not until late.
Too bad, I said. Ah, too bad. I'll sit down and smoke a cigarette in one of these charming chairs. I have rather a blank afternoon. Nothing to think about but my trigonometry lesson.
Yes, she said. Ye-es, of course.
I stretched out in one and lit a cigarette with the round nickel lighter on the smoking stand. She still stood, holding her lower lip with her teeth, her eyes vaguely troubled. She nodded at last, turned slowly and walked back to her little desk in the corner. From behind the lamp she stared at me. I crossed my ankles and yawned. Her silver nails went out to the cradle phone on the desk, didn't touch it, dropped and began to tap on the desk."	"Summary: The narrator enters a bookstore and interacts with the woman working there, inquiring about rare books but ultimately leaving without finding what he is looking for.
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: A. G. Geiger, the woman working at the bookstore
Fuzzy place: A bookstore
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"A. G. Geiger, the woman who was working there, and who was a great reader and an old friend of my mother's. She said that if I would wait she would look for some rare books for me, but I said """"No,"""" as I wanted to see what it felt like to be in a bookstore. So we went up the street and ate lunch at the hotel. After lunch we bought some Greek cookies and then went back to the bookstore. The woman had not found any of the books that were as old as I wanted, but she had found some others that were not so old, and she thought they might interest me. She brought them out on the counter and laid them before me one by one. They were all Greek tragedies. There was one volume that had the three plays of Sophocles, Antigone, Oedipus Rex, and Oedipus Coloneus; and another volume that had the three plays of Aeschylus, the Agamemnon, the Choephori, and the Eumenides. I asked how much each of these volumes cost, and the woman said fifteen dollars for each volume. Then I asked her about Euripides, and she said there was a volume of his plays which was very beautiful and which only cost seven dollars and fifty cents. "
9	9	"Silence for about five minutes. The door opened and a tall hungry-looking bird with a cane and a big nose came in neatly, shut the door behind him against the pressure of the door closer, marched over to the corner and placed a wrapped parcel on the desk. He took a pinseal wallet with gold corners from his pocket and showed the blonde something. She pressed a button on the desk. The tall bird went to the door in the paneled partition and opened it barely enough to slip through.
I finished my cigarette and lit another. The minutes dragged by. Horns tooted and grunted on the boulevard. A big red interurban car grumbled past. A traffic light gonged. The blonde leaned on her elbow and cupped a hand over her eyes and stared at me behind it. The partition door opened and the tall bird with the cane slid out. He had another wrapped parcel, the shape of a large book. He went over to the desk and paid money. He left as he had come, walking on the balls of his feet, breathing with his mouth open, giving me a sharp side glance as he passed.
I got to my feet, tipped my hat to the blonde and went out after him. He walked west, swinging his cane in a small tight arc just above his right shoe. He was easy to follow. His coat was cut from a rather loud piece of horse robe with shoulders so wide that his neck stuck up out of it like a celery stalk and his head wobbled on it as he walked. We went a block and a half. At the Highland Avenue traffic signal I pulled up beside him and let him see me. He gave me a casual, then a suddenly sharpened side glance, and quickly turned away. We crossed Highland with the green light and made another block. He stretched his long legs and had twenty yards on me at the comer. He turned right. A hundred feet up the hill he stopped and hooked his cane over his arm and fumbled a leather cigarette case out of an inner pocket. He put a cigarette in his mouth, dropped his match, looked back when he picked it up, saw me watching him from the corner, and straightened up as if somebody had booted him from behind. He almost raised dust going up the block, walking with long gawky strides and jabbing his cane into the sidewalk. He turned left again. He had at least half a block on me when I reached the place where he had turned. He had me wheezing. This was a narrow tree-lined street with a retaining wall on one side and three bungalow courts on the other.
He was gone. I loafed along the block peering this way and that. At the second bungalow court I saw something. It was called ""The La Baba,"" a quiet dim place with a double row of tree-shaded bungalows. The central walk was lined with Italian cypresses trimmed short and chunky, something the shape of the oil jars in Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Behind the third jar a loud-pattered sleeve edge moved.
I leaned against a pepper tree in the parkway and waited. The thunder in the foothills was rumbling again. The glare of lightning was reflected on piled-up black clouds off to the south. A few tentative raindrops splashed down on the sidewalk and made spots as large as nickels. The air was as still as the air in General Sternwood's orchid house.
The sleeve behind the tree showed again, then a big nose and one eye and some sandy hair without a hat on it. The eye stared at me. It disappeared. Its mate reappeared like a woodpecker on the other side of the tree. Five minutes went by. It got him. His type are half nerves. I heard a match strike and then whistling started. Then a dim shadow slipped along the grass to the next tree. Then he was out on the walk coming straight towards me, swinging the cane and whistling. A sour whistle with jitters in it. I stared vaguely up at the dark sky. He passed within ten feet of me and didn't give me a glance. He was safe now. He had ditched it.
I watched him out of sight and went up the central walk of the La Baba and parted the branches of the third cypress. I drew out a wrapped book and put it under my arm and went away from there. Nobody yelled at me."	"Summary: The narrator follows a tall bird who makes several purchases and then disappears. The narrator eventually finds him in a bungalow court, but loses him again.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of actions and dialogue
Active character: Tall bird, blonde at the desk, narrator
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Unnamed streets and bungalows
Diegetic time: A few hours"	A tall bird came into the store and walked up to a blonde at the desk. He had a kind of mask over his eyes and wore a brown robe with sandals. I followed him as he went to one counter and bought a cup, then to another and bought a box of licks, then to another and bought a book, then to another and bought some soap. I got behind him and watched him buy all these things but when he turned around I was not there. After he had paid for them all he left the store and started walking down the street. I ran after him and caught up with him. He stopped and asked me if I wanted anything and I told him no so he went on. He walked slowly and kept looking at everything on both sides of the street. He looked in the windows and once he even stopped and looked in a doorway. He seemed to be thinking very hard about something and finally he stopped at the corner and said he did not know which way to go. I suggested that we turn right and he said that was all right so we turned. We walked on for some blocks and then came to a bungalow court. He said this must be the place and opened the gate and went inside. 
10	10	"[5]
Back on the boulevard I went into a drugstore phone booth and looked up Mr. Arthur Gwynn Geiger's residence. He lived on Laverne Terrace, a hillside street off Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I dropped my nickel and dialed his number just for fun. Nobody answered. I turned to the classified section and noted a couple of bookstores within blocks of where I was.
The first I came to was on the north side, a large lower floor devoted to stationery and office supplies, a mass of books on the mezzanine. It didn't look the right place. I crossed the street and walked two blocks east to the other one. This was more like it, a narrowed cluttered little shop stacked with books from floor to ceiling and four or five browsers taking their time putting thumb marks on the new jackets. Nobody paid any attention to them. I shoved on back into the store, passed through a partition and found a small dark woman reading a law book at a desk.
I flipped my wallet open on her desk and let her look at the buzzer pinned to the flap. She looked at it, took her glasses off and leaned back in her chair. I put the wallet away. She had the fine-drawn face of an intelligent Jewess. She stared at me and said nothing.
I said: ""Would you do me a favor, a very small favor?""
I don't know. What is it? She had a smoothly husky voice.
You know Geiger's store across the street, two blocks west?
I think I may have passed it.
It's a bookstore, I said. Not your kind of a bookstore. You know darn well.
She curled her lip slightly and said nothing. ""You know Geiger by sight?"" I asked.
I'm sorry. I don't know Mr. Geiger.
Then you couldn't tell me what he looks like?
Her lip curled some more. ""Why should I?""
No reason at all. If you don't want to, I can't make you.
She looked out through the partition door and leaned back again. ""That was a sheriff's star, wasn't it?""
Honorary deputy. Doesn't mean a thing. It's worth a dime cigar.
I see. She reached for a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose and reached for it with her lips. I held a match for her. She thanked me, leaned back again and regarded me through smoke. She said carefully:
You wish to know what he looks like and you don?t want to interview him?
He's not there, I said.
I presume he will be. After all, it's his store.
I don't want to interview him just yet, I said.
She looked out through the open doorway again. I said: ""Know anything about rare books?""
You could try me.
Would you have a Ben Hur, 1860, Third Edition, the one with the duplicated line on page 116?
She pushed her yellow law book to one side and reached a fat volume up on the desk, leafed it through, found her page, and studied it. ""Nobody would,"" she said without looking up. ""There isn't one.""
Right.
What in the world are you driving at?
The girl in Geiger's store didn't know that.
She looked up. ""I see. You interest me. Rather vaguely.""
I'm a private dick on a case. Perhaps I ask too much. It didn't seem much to me somehow.
She blew a soft gray smoke ring and poked her finger through. It came to pieces in frail wisps. She spoke smoothly, indifferently. ""In his early forties, I should judge. Medium height, fattish. Would weigh about a hundred and sixty pounds. Fat face, Charlie Chan moustache, thick soft neck. Soft all over. Well dressed, goes without a hat, affects a knowledge of antiques and hasn't any. Oh yes. His left eye is glass.""
You'd make a good cop, I said.
She put the reference book back on an open shelf at the end of her desk, and opened the law book in front of her again. ""I hope not,"" she said. She put her glasses on."	"Summary: The narrator goes to a drugstore, calls Mr. Arthur Gwynn Geiger, and then visits two bookstores for information about him.
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, the small dark woman in the bookstore
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Drugstore phone booth, bookstores
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"He gave me a pill for my headache, and then I went to the drugstore and called up Mr. Arthur Gwynn Geiger at the palace in Sparta."""" That's right,"" said Mrs. Williams. ""That was just before you were born."" And his voice was like that of a god!"" cried the small dark woman in the bookstore. No,"" said Mrs. Williams. ""I guess he didn't talk much when he was alive, but the sound of his voice on the phone was like the voice of a god!"""" There is something about him that reminds me of my grandfather!"" cried the small dark woman in the bookstore. """"My grandfather had a deep, soft voice, and he used to touch everything with his fingers as though it were very precious, and he always wore a heavy gold signet ring on his finger."""" Then you're descended from a Greek god!"" said Mrs. Williams. Yes,"" said the small dark woman in the bookstore. ""The blood of the gods runs in my veins."""" I believe you,"" said Mrs. Williams. ""I can see it in your eyes!"""" Her eyes are like those of a goddess!"" cried the small dark woman in the bookstore. """"Her eyes are like those of Aphrodite, the goddess of love!"""" "
11	11	"I thanked her and left. The rain had started. I ran for it, with the wrapped book under my arm. My car was on a side street pointing at the boulevard almost opposite Geiger's store. I was well sprinkled before I got there. I tumbled into the car and ran both windows up and wiped my parcel off with my handkerchief. Then I opened it up.
I knew about what it would be, of course. A heavy book, well bound, handsomely printed in handset type on fine paper. Larded with full-page arty photographs. Photos and letterpress were alike of an indescribable filth. The book was not new. Dates were stamped on the front endpaper, in and out dates. A rent book. A lending library of elaborate smut.
I rewrapped the book and locked it up behind the seat. A racket like that, out in the open on the boulevard, seemed to mean plenty of protection. I sat there and poisoned myself with cigarette smoke and listened to the rain and thought about it.
[6]
Rain filled the gutters and splashed knee-high off the sidewalk. Big cops in slickers that shone like gun barrels had a lot of fun carrying giggling girls across the bad places. The rain drummed hard on the roof of the car and the burbank top began to leak. A pool of water formed on the floorboards for me to keep my feet in. It was too early in the fall for that kind of rain. I struggled into a trench coat and made a dash for the nearest drugstore and bought myself a pint of whiskey. Back in the car I used enough of it to keep warm and interested. I was long overparked, but the cops were too busy carrying girls and blowing whistles to bother about that.
In spite of the rain, or perhaps even because of it, there was business done at Geiger's. Very nice cars stopped in front and very nice-looking people went in and out with wrapped parcels. They were not all men.
He showed about four o'clock. A cream-colored coupe stopped in front of the store and I caught a glimpse of the fat face and the Charlie Chan moustache as he dodged out of it and into the store. He was hatless and wore a belted green leather raincoat. I couldn't see his glass eye at that distance. A tall and very good-looking kid in a jerkin came out of the store and rode the coupe off around the comer and came back walking, his glistening black hair plastered with rain.
Another hour went by. It got dark and the rain-clouded lights of the stores were soaked up by the black street. Street-car bells jangled crossly. At around five-fifteen the tall boy in the jerkin came out of Geiger's with an umbrella and went after the cream-colored coupe. When he had it in front Geiger came out and the tall boy held the umbrella over Geiger's bare head. He folded it, shook it off and handed it into the car. He dashed back into the store. I started my motor.
The coupe went west on the boulevard, which forced me to make a left turn and a lot of enemies, including a motorman who stuck his head out into the rain to bawl me out. I was two blocks behind the coupe before I got in the groove. I hoped Geiger was on his way home. I caught sight of him two or three times and then made him turning north into Laurel Canyon Drive. Halfway up the grade he turned left and took a curving ribbon of wet concrete which was called Laverne Terrace. It was a narrow street with a high bank on one side and a scattering of cabin-like houses built down the slope on the other side, so that their roofs were not very much above road level. Their front windows were masked by hedges and shrubs. Sodden trees dripped all over the landscape."	"Summary: The protagonist buys a smutty book, observes Geiger's store from his car during the rain, follows Geiger in his cream-colored coupe, and ends up on a narrow street with cabin-like houses.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of a place
Active character: Protagonist, Geiger
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Boulevards, gutters, sidewalk
Diegetic time: A few hours"	In the gutter. And he bought a smutty book to read on the train, Because it was filled with pictures of women stripped to their skin. 3 I saw him pacing up and down the boulevards in the rain. From his car, through the driving rain, I watched Geiger's store. He opened, and closed, and opened again; but never looked out of his door. I saw the people going in and out of Geiger's store. I saw the cars that drove up to Geiger's door. In the last one I saw Geiger ride by. He was sitting alone in a cream-colored coupe. 4 The rain kept drumming on the windshield. Through the glass the grey rain swept by. The windows of the palace in Sparta were dark as we passed. A great wooden gate stood open in the wall. My man turned in at the gate, and stopped before an iron door. The rain swept by the windshield, faster and faster. The iron door opened, and closed behind us. The rain swept by the windshield, faster and faster. We stopped before a low, dark house. The door opened, and closed behind me. 5 In the gloom I could see only the walls of a narrow street, Cabin-like houses peering down at each other from either side. There was no life anywhere. The silence of death was on every hand. I heard the rain dripping from the eaves into the gutters. I saw the wind rushing like water along the street. I felt the wetness on my forehead. 6 And suddenly it seemed to me that some enormous beast Was creeping through the darkness toward me on its belly. The hair rose on the nape of my neck. I could not move a muscle. For a long time I stood there rooted to the spot. Then, without warning, I felt the beast crawling up my legs. I screamed like a woman, and ran down the street, shrieking! At the corner I turned. The scream caught in my throat. Before me stood Geiger, staring at me, wide-eyed! 
12	12	"Geiger had his lights on and I hadn't. I speeded up and passed him on a curve, picked a number off a house as I went by and turned at the end of the block. He had already stopped. His car lights were tilted in at the garage of a small house with a square box hedge so arranged that it masked the front door completely. I watched him come out of the garage with his umbrella up and go in through the hedge. He didn't act as if he expected anybody to be tailing him. Light went on in the house. I drifted down to the next house above it, which seemed empty but had no signs out. I parked, aired out the convertible, had a drink from my bottle, and sat. I didn't know what I was waiting for, but something told me to wait. Another army of sluggish minutes dragged by.
Two cars came up the hill and went over the crest. It seemed to be a very quiet street. At a little after six more bright lights bobbed through the driving rain. It was pitch black by then. A car dragged to a stop in front of Geiger's house. The filaments of its lights glowed dimly and died. The door opened and a woman got out. A small slim woman in a vagabond hat and a transparent raincoat. She went in through the box maze. A bell rang faintly, light through the rain, a closing door, silence.
I reached a flash out of my car pocket and went downgrade and looked at the car. It was a Packard convertible, maroon or dark brown. The left window was down. I felt for the license holder and poked light at it. The registration read: Carmen Sternwood, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood. I went back to my car again and sat and sat. The top dripped on my knees and my stomach burned from the whiskey. No more cars came up the hill. No lights went on in the house before which I was parked. It seemed like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in.
At seven-twenty a single flash of hard white light shot out of Geiger's house like a wave of summer lightning. As the darkness folded back on it and ate it up a thin tinkling scream echoed out and lost itself among the rain-drenched trees. I was out of the car and on my way before the echoes died.
There was no fear in the scream. It had a sound of half-pleasurable shock, an accent of drunkenness, an overtone of pure idiocy. It was a nasty sound. It made me think of men in white and barred windows and hard narrow cots with leather wrist and ankle straps fastened to them. The Geiger hideaway was perfectly silent again when I hit the gap in the hedge and dodged around the angle that masked the front door. There was an iron ring in a lion's mouth for a knocker. I reached for it, I had hold of it. At that exact instant, as if somebody had been waiting for the cue, three shots boomed in the house. There was a sound that might have been a long harsh sigh. Then a soft messy thump. And then rapid footsteps in the house—going away.
The door fronted on a narrow run, like a footbridge over a gully, that filled the gap between the house wall and the edge of the bank. There was no porch, no solid ground, no way to get around to the back. The back entrance was at the top of a flight of wooden steps that rose from the alley-like street below. I knew this because I heard a clatter of feet on the steps, going down. Then I heard the sudden roar of a starting car. It faded swiftly into the distance. I thought the sound was echoed by another car, but I wasn't sure. The house in front of me was as silent as a vault. There wasn't any hurry. What was in there was in there."	"Summary: The protagonist follows Geiger to a house where a woman gets out of a car and goes inside. A few minutes later, there is a loud scream and three shots are fired. The protagonist enters the house and hears footsteps running away, followed by the sound of cars driving off.
Trope: Mysterious house with secrets
Narrative arc: Suspenseful
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of events
Active character: Geiger, Carmen Sternwood
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Unnamed street, Geiger's house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	I followed Geiger's car to his house, and there saw Carmen Sternwood step from it into the light of a street-lamp. She was wearing evening clothes. A chauffeur in evening livery stood at the curb with her bag. The big car slid away down the street, its lights disappearing slowly into the distance. Geiger's door opened and closed again, and then the porch light went out. A few minutes later, I heard the sound of a car driving away. It stopped for a moment, with an almost imperceptible jolt when it started up again. It seemed to go very slowly. After that there was only silence until about half past eleven. I had put on my hat and overcoat, and taken my gun from the desk drawer. I stepped out of the room and closed the door behind me. I went downstairs quietly and took a final look out of the window before I turned away. In the square below a man was walking back and forth, smoking a cigar. He wore an overcoat with a fur collar. When he passed under one of the street lamps, I could see him clearly. It was Geiger. At five minutes past twelve, I heard a taxi stop at the bottom of the hill. I looked out and saw Geiger get into it. The driver pulled the door shut and drove off. Ten minutes later I heard the front door of Geiger's house open, and then close again. I crossed the hall quickly and went upstairs. For two hours I sat in the chair by the window waiting for something to happen. There was nothing but stillness. It was just a little after two when I heard the scream. It came from inside the house next door. It was high and shrill and terrible to hear. A second later three shots were fired, and then silence again. I jumped up from the chair and ran across the hall and into Geiger's house. The front door was open, and I went through into the living-room. A lamp was burning dimly on the table beside the big leather couch. I saw the body of a woman lying there, sprawled across the arm of the couch. I knew right away it was Carmen Sternwood. Her head hung sideways and her dark hair was tangled over her face. She was dressed in a white evening gown, with high-heeled shoes and pale stockings. Her long bare arms lay limply along her sides. A single shot must have killed her instantly. There was a small hole in the middle of her forehead, like the hole made by a bullet fired close to the skin. I moved over to the door leading to the bedroom wing. I called Geiger's name and got no answer. Then I heard footsteps running away from me, down the hallway. I ran after them, and a moment later heard the front door slam shut. I raced through the living-room and out onto the porch. There were two cars standing in the driveway. One was the taxicab which had brought Geiger home. 
13	13	"I straddled the fence at the side of the runway and leaned far out to the draped but unscreened French window and tried to look in at the crack where the drapes came together. I saw lamplight on a wall and one end of a bookcase. I got back on the runway and took all of it and some of the hedge and gave the front door the heavy shoulder. This was foolish. About the only part of a California house you can't put your foot through is the front door. All it did was hurt my shoulder and make me mad. I climbed over the railing again and kicked the French window in, used my hat for a glove and pulled out most of the lower small pane of glass. I could now reach in and draw a bolt that fastened the window to the sill. The rest was easy. There was no top bolt. The catch gave. I climbed in and pulled the drapes off my face.
Neither of the two people in the room paid any attention to the way I came in, although only one of them was dead.
[7]
It was a wide room, the whole width of the house. It had a low beamed ceiling and brown plaster walls decked out with strips of Chinese embroidery and Chinese and Japanese prints in grained wood frames. There were low bookshelves, there was a thick pinkish Chinese rug in which a gopher could have spent a week without showing his nose above the nap. There were floor cushions, bits of odd silk tossed around, as if whoever lived there had to have a piece he could reach out and thumb. There was a broad low divan of old rose tapestry. It had a wad of clothes on it, including lilac-colored silk underwear. There was a big carved lamp on a pedestal, two other standing lamps with jade-green shades and long tassels. There was a black desk with carved gargoyles at the corners and behind it a yellow satin cushion on a polished black chair with carved arms and back. The room contained an odd assortment of odors, of which the most emphatic at the moment seemed to be the pungent aftermath of cordite and the sickish aroma of ether.
On a sort of low dais at one end of the room there was a high-backed teakwood chair in which Miss Carmen Sternwood was sitting on a fringed orange shawl. She was sitting very straight, with her hands on the arms of the chair, her knees close together, her body stiffly erect in the pose of an Egyptian goddess, her chin level, her small bright teeth shining between her parted lips. Her eyes were wide open. The dark slate color of the iris had devoured the pupil. They were mad eyes. She seemed to be unconscious, but she didn't have the pose of unconsciousness. She looked as if, in her mind, she was doing something very important and making a fine job of it. Out of her mouth came a tinny chuckling noise which didn't change her expression or even move her lips.
She was wearing a pair of long jade earrings. They were nice earrings and had probably cost a couple of hundred dollars. She wasn't wearing anything else.
She had a beautiful body, small, lithe, compact, firm, rounded. Her skin in the lamplight had the shimmering luster of a pearl. Her legs didn't quite have the raffish grace of Mrs. Regan's legs, but they were very nice. I looked her over without either embarrassment or ruttishness. As a naked girl she was not there in that room at all. She was just a dope. To me she was always just a dope."	"Summary: The narrator breaks into a house and finds two people, one of whom is dead.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of a place
Literary movement: Noir
Active character: Narrator, Miss Carmen Sternwood
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Fuzzy place: Unnamed house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	As I said, it was not the first time that I had broken into this house. This time I had been inside only half an hour when the bell rang and I heard the front door open and close again. I stepped to the head of the stairs, wondering who it was, but she came straight up them, talking as she came, and went on down the hall toward her bedroom without seeing me. She was very pretty in a rather childish way; tall and slender, with good shoulders and a slim waist, but she wore a dress that would have suited a girl of sixteen better than a woman of twenty-four. I didn't like her voice much. It was too loud and high-pitched for my taste. She stopped in the middle of the hall, talking to somebody, and I could hear the ring of metal against china, probably her keys dropping into the bowl on the console table. Then she went on into her room and slammed the door behind her. I didn't know whether to go on or wait. A few moments later she opened the door again and stood there for a moment looking at me. She said: 'Why, how do you do? I thought you were at work.' 
14	14	"I stopped looking at her and looked at Geiger. He was on his back on the floor, beyond the fringe of the Chinese rug, in front of a thing that looked like a totem pole. It had a profile like an eagle and its wide round eye was a camera lens. The lens was aimed at the naked girl in the chair. There was a blackened flash bulb clipped to the side of the totem pole. Geiger was wearing Chinese slippers with thick felt soles, and his legs were in black satin pajamas and the upper part of him wore a Chinese embroidered coat, the front of which was mostly blood. His glass eye shone brightly up at me and was by far the most lifelike thing about him. At a glance none of the three shots I heard had missed. He was very dead.
The flash bulb was the sheet lightning I had seen. The crazy scream was the doped and naked girl's reaction to it. The three shots had been somebody else's idea of how the proceedings might be given a new twist. The idea of the lad who had gone down the back steps and slammed into a car and raced away. I could see merit in his point of view.
A couple of fragile gold-veined glasses rested on a red lacquer tray on the end of the black desk, beside a potbellied flagon of brown liquid. I took the stopper out and sniffed at it. It smelled of ether and something else, possibly laudanum. I had never tried the mixture but it seemed to go pretty well with the Geiger menage.
I listened to the rain hitting the roof and the north windows. Beyond was no other sound, no cars, no siren, just the rain beating. I went over to the divan and peeled off my trench coat and pawed through the girl's clothes. There was a pale green rough wool dress of the pull-on type, with half sleeves. I thought I might be able to handle it. I decided to pass up her underclothes, not from feelings of delicacy, but because I couldn't see myself putting her pants on and snapping her brassiere. I took the dress over to the teak chair on the dais. Miss Sternwood smelled of ether also, at a distance of several feet. The tinny chuckling noise was still coming from her and a little froth oozed down her chin. I slapped her face. She blinked and stopped chuckling. I slapped her again.
Come on, I said brightly. Let's be nice. Let's get dressed.
She peered at me, her slaty eyes as empty as holes in a mask. ""Gugutoterell,"" she said.
I slapped her around a little more. She didn't mind the slaps. They didn't bring her out of it. I set to work with the dress. She didn't mind that either. She let me hold her arms up and she spread her fingers out wide, as if that was cute. I got her hands through the sleeves, pulled the dress down over her back, and stood her up. She fell into my arms giggling. I set her back in the chair and got her stockings and shoes on her.
Let's take a little wa1k, I said. Let's take a nice little walk.
We took a little walk. Part of the time her earrings banged against my chest and part of the time we did the splits in unison, like adagio dancers. We walked over to Geiger's body and back. I had her look at him. She thought he was cute. She giggled and tried to tell me so, but she just bubbled. I walked her over to the divan and spread her out on it. She hiccuped twice, giggled a little and went to sleep. I stuffed her belongings into my pockets and went over behind the totem pole thing. The camera was there all right, set inside it, but there was no plateholder in the camera. I looked around on the floor, thinking he might have got it out before he was shot. No plateholder. I took hold of his limp chilling hand and rolled him a little. No plateholder. I didn't like this development."	"Summary: The narrator finds Geiger dead and tries to help the naked girl get dressed and leave, but realizes something is missing.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of actions and dialogue
Active character: Geiger, the narrator, the naked girl
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Geiger's apartment
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"But Geiger had no need to hurry, for he was already dead. He lay in a huddled mass upon the floor, and beside him I saw the stick with which he had beaten me so cruelly. I bent over his body and turned it on its back; but there was no breath in his swollen face, no life in the dull eyes that stared up at me from their purple sockets. In silence I withdrew, leaving the door open, lest any who might come should see my shame and not understand. When I returned to the girl I found her sitting up, wrapped in the blanket. She held it about her closely, but even so I could see how beautiful she was, for the light of dawn was beginning to shine through the window. Her hair, loosened from its band, hung about her in heavy tangles, but it did not hide the wonderful whiteness of her neck or the great dark eyes that looked at me with wonder and fear. """"We must go,"""" I said. And as she stood up I saw that she was naked except for the blanket, for all her clothes were scattered about the floor. """"Sit down again,"""" I commanded. """"You must put on your clothes."""" "
15	15	"I went into a hall at the back of the room and investigated the house. There was a bathroom on the right and a locked door, a kitchen at the back. The kitchen window had been jimmied. The screen was gone and the place where the hook had pulled out showed on the sill. The back door was unlocked. I left it unlocked and looked into a bedroom on the left side of the hall. It was neat, fussy, womanish. The bed had a flounced cover. There was perfume on the triple-mirrored dressing table, beside a handkerchief, some loose money, a man's brushes, a keyholder. A man's clothes were in the closet and a man's slippers under the flounced edge of the bed cover. Mr. Geiger's room. I took the keyholder back to the living room and went through the desk. There was a locked steel box in the deep drawer. I used one of the keys on it. There was nothing in it but a blue leather book with an index and a lot of writing in code, in the same slanting printing that had written to General Sternwood. I put the notebook in my pocket, wiped the steel box where I had touched it, locked the desk up, pocketed the keys, turned the gas logs off in the fireplace, wrapped myself in my coat and tried to rouse Miss Sternwood. It couldn't be done. I crammed her vagabond hat on her head and swathed her in her coat and carried her out to her car. I went back and put all the lights out and shut the front door, dug her keys out of her bag and started the Packard. We went off down the hill without lights. It was less than ten minutes' drive to Alta Brea Crescent. Carmen spent them snoring and breathing ether in my face. I couldn't keep her head off my shoulder. It was all I could do to keep it out of my lap.
[8]
There was dim light behind narrow leaded panes in the side door of the Sternwood mansion. I stopped the Packard under the porte-cochere and emptied my pockets out on the seat. The girl snored in the corner, her hat tilted rakishly over her nose, her hands hanging limp in the folds of the raincoat. I got out and rang the bell. Steps came slowly, as if from a long dreary distance. The door opened and the straight, silvery butler looked out at me. The light from the hall made a halo of his hair.
He said: ""Good evening, sir,"" politely and looked past me at the Packard. His eyes came back to look at my eyes.
Is Mrs. Regan in?
No, sir.
The General is asleep, I hope?
Yes. The evening is his best time for sleeping.
How about Mrs. Regan's maid?
Mathilda? She's here, sir.
Better get her down here. The job needs the woman's touch. Take a look in the car and you'll see why.
He took a look in the car. He came back. ""I see,"" he said. ""I'll get Mathilda.""
Mathilda will do right by her, I said.
We all try to do right by her, he said.
I guess you have had practice, I said.
He let that one go. ""Well, good-night,"" I said. ""I'm leaving it in your hands.""
Very good, sir. May I call you a cab?
Positively, I said, not. As a matter of fact I'm not here. You're just seeing things.
He smiled then. He gave me a duck of his head and I turned and walked down the driveway and out of the gates.
Ten blocks of that, winding down curved rain-swept streets, under the steady drip of trees, past lighted windows in big houses in ghostly enormous grounds, vague clusters of eaves and gables and lighted windows high on the hillside, remote and inaccessible, like witch houses in a forest. I came out at a service station glaring with wasted light, where a bored attendant in a white cap and a dark blue windbreaker sat hunched on a stool, inside the steamed glass, reading a paper. I started in, then kept going. I was as wet as I could get already. And on a night like that you can grow a beard waiting for a taxi. And taxi drivers remember."	"Summary: The protagonist investigates a house, takes something from a locked box, and leaves with a woman who is unconscious. He then returns to the Sternwood mansion and leaves it in the hands of the butler.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of action
Active character: Protagonist, Miss Sternwood, Butler
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Unnamed house, kitchen, bedroom
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"He searched the house, from cellar to attic. He found nothing but a few dust-covered newspapers and some empty bottles. He tried to open a locked box in the kitchen, without success; but he took something out of it. Then he went upstairs to Miss Sternwood's bedroom. She was lying on her back on the bed, with her eyes closed, breathing quietly. Propped up against the pillow behind her head was a phial of sleeping draught. He put that into his pocket with what he had taken from the box in the kitchen. He touched her hand, which lay outside the coverlet. It was very cold and clammy. He stood looking at her for a moment, then he bent over and kissed her. He went down to the hall and put on his coat and hat. The woman who had brought him was waiting for him, sitting by the fire. She looked rather pale and worried. He said: """"Is there any chance of her coming round?"""" No."" I'm sorry."" She nodded. ""What am I to do now?"" she asked. ""She ought to be moved somewhere warmer than this place."""" Let me think."" He went to the front door and looked out. The snow was falling thickly. There was no sign of life anywhere. He turned back. The woman was standing in the middle of the floor, looking at him. What is it?"" he said sharply. She didn't answer. He walked towards her quickly. She made a movement as if to run away. Don't!"" he said. She stood still. He went past her and opened the door. You can't get out,"" she said. ""It's snowing like mad."" He turned round again, holding the door open wide. Come on,"" he said. She came slowly across the room. They walked together up the path to the gate. When they reached it, he let go of her arm. Good-bye,"" he said. ""I'm sorry."" She stared at him. Then she said: ""Thank you."" He shut the gate and watched her walk quickly away along the road through the driving snow. He waited until he could no longer see her. Then he turned and walked back to the palace in Sparta. He went straight to his own rooms. For an hour he sat before the fire, thinking. At last he rang the bell and sent for the butler. A messenger will call for you in the morning,"" he said. ""You'll take charge of the household hereafter."" The butler bowed. Is everything ready for the journey tomorrow night?"" Yes, sir. I have packed your luggage already, sir."" Very well."" The butler hesitated. There was something he wanted to say, he thought. But he couldn't find the words. Good night,"" he said. The King nodded. Good night, sir."" The butler went out of the room. For a long time after he had gone, Philip sat staring into the fire. At last he rose to his feet, and stretching himself, yawned. His mind seemed suddenly tired. "
16	16	"I made it back to Geiger's house in something over half an hour of nimble walking. There was nobody there, no car on the street except my own car in front of the next house. It looked as dismal as a lost dog. I dug my bottle of rye out of it and poured half of what was left down my throat and got inside to light a cigarette. I smoked half of it, threw it away, got out again and went down to Geiger's. I unlocked the door and stepped into the still warm darkness and stood there, dripping quietly on the floor and listening to the rain. I groped to a lamp and lit it.
The first thing I noticed was that a couple of strips of embroidered silk were gone from the wall. I hadn't counted them, but the spaces of brown plaster stood out naked and obvious. I went a little farther and put another lamp on. I looked at the totem pole. At its foot, beyond the margin of the Chinese rug, on the bare floor another rug had been spread. It hadn't been there before. Geiger's body had. Geiger's body was gone.
That froze me. I pulled my lips back against my teeth and leered at the glass eye in the totem pole. I went through the house again. Everything was exactly as it had been. Geiger wasn't in his flounced bed or under it or in his closet. He wasn't in the kitchen or the bathroom. That left the locked door on the right of the hall. One of Geiger's keys fitted the lock. The room inside was interesting, but Geiger wasn't in it. It was interesting because it was so different from Geiger's room. It was a hard bare masculine bedroom with a polished wood floor, a couple of small throw rugs in an Indian design, two straight chairs, a bureau in dark grained wood with a man's toilet set and two black candles in foot-high brass candlesticks. The bed was narrow and looked hard and had a maroon batik cover. The room felt cold. I locked it up again, wiped the knob off with my handkerchief, and went back to the totem pole. I knelt down and squinted along the nap of the rug to the front door. I thought I could see two parallel grooves pointing that way, as though heels had dragged. Whoever had done it had meant business. Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.
It wasn't the law. They would have been there still, just about getting warmed up with their pieces of string and chalk and their cameras and dusting powders and their nickel cigars. They would have been very much there. It wasn't the killer; He had left too fast. He must have seen the girl. He couldn't be sure she was too batty to see him. He would be on his way to distant places. I couldn't guess the answer, but it was all right with me if somebody wanted Geiger missing instead of just murdered. It gave me a chance to find out if I could tell it leaving Carmen Sternwood out. I locked up again, choked my car to life and rode off home to a shower, dry clothes and a late dinner. After that I sat around in the apartment and drank too much hot toddy trying to crack the code in Geiger's blue indexed notebook. All I could be sure of was that it was a list of names and addresses, probably of the customers. There were over four hundred of them. That made it a nice racket, not to mention any blackmail angles, and there were probably plenty of those. Any name on the list might be a prospect as the killer. I didn't envy the police their job when it was handed to them.
I went to bed full of whiskey and frustration and dreamed about a man in a bloody Chinese coat who chased a naked girl with long jade earrings while I ran after them and tried to take a photograph with an empty camera.
[9]
The next morning was bright, clear and sunny. I woke up with a motorman's glove in my mouth, drank two cups of coffee and went through the morning papers. I didn't find any reference to Mr. Arthur Gwynn Geiger in either of them. I was shaking the wrinkles out of my damp suit when the phone rang. It was Bernie Ohls, the D.A.'s chief investigator, who had given me the lead to General Sternwood.
Well, how's the boy? he began. He sounded like a man who had slept well and didn't owe too much money.
I've got a hangover, I said."	"Summary: The protagonist returns to Geiger's house to find it empty and Geiger missing. He discovers a hidden room in the house and suspects foul play.
Trope: Mysterious disappearance
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of a place
Active character: Protagonist (the narrator
Quoted character: Geiger, Carmen Sternwood
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Geiger's house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	The house was dark and still when I returned to it; Geiger had gone. The door of the suite he occupied was closed, and there were no lights showing from any of the windows. At the front door a tall thin woman in black, who proved to be Carmen Sternwood's maid, was waiting for me. She told me that Mrs. Sternwood had left with her sister earlier in the afternoon in a car which was taking them on to Los Angeles. She had been instructed to remain at Geiger's house until I returned. I sent her home, and went into the house myself. There were no signs of Geiger anywhere; his luggage had gone with him, leaving only empty wardrobes behind. I searched the place thoroughly, but without result. It was evident to me that he had intended to leave some time before midday, and that this had not been possible owing to unforeseen circumstances. It was equally clear that he had taken every precaution to prevent me from following him. He had locked the gates behind him, and the keys were missing from their usual places. I spent half an hour prowling up and down outside the walls, then came back and made another systematic search of the interior of the house. In doing so I happened to glance idly into the garden behind the swimming pool, and saw something which made me stare. 
17	17	"Tsk, tsk. He laughed absently and then his voice became a shade too casual, a cagey cop voice. Seen General Sternwood yet?
Uh-huh.
Done anything for him?
Too much rain, I answered, if that was an answer.
They seem to be a family things happen to. A big Buick belonging to one of them is washing about in the surf off Lido fish pier.
I held the telephone tight enough to crack it. I also held my breath.
Yeah, Ohls said cheerfully. A nice new Buick sedan all messed up with sand and sea water.... Oh, I almost forgot. There's a guy inside it.
I let my breath out so slowly that it hung on my lip. ""Regan?"" I asked.
Huh? Who? Oh, you mean the ex-legger the eldest girl picked up and went and married. I never saw him. What would he be doing down there?
Quit stalling. What would anybody be doing down there?
I don't know, pal. I'm dropping down to look see. Want to go along?
Yes.
Snap it up, he said. I'll be in my hutch.
Shaved, dressed and lightly breakfasted I was at the Hall of Justice in less than an hour. I rode up to the seventh floor and went along to the group of small offices used by the D.A.'s men. Ohls' was no larger than the others, but he had it to himself. There was nothing on his desk but a blotter, a cheap pen set, his hat and one of his feet. He was a medium-sized blondish man with stiff white eyebrows, calm eyes and well-kept teeth. He looked like anybody you would pass on the street. I happened to know he had killed nine men—three of them when he was covered, or somebody thought he was.
He stood up and pocketed a flat tin of toy cigars called Entractes, jiggled the one in his mouth up and down and looked at me carefully along his nose, with his head thrown back.
It's not Regan, he said. I checked. Regan's a big guy, as tall as you and a shade heavier. This is a young kid.
I didn't say anything.
What made Regan skip out? Ohls asked. You interested in that?
I don't think so, I said.
When a guy out of the liquor traffic marries into a rich family and then waves good-by to a pretty dame and a couple million legitimate bucks—that's enough to make even me think. I guess you thought that was a secret.
Uh-huh.
Okey, keep buttoned, kid. No hard feelings. He came around the desk tapping his pockets and reaching for his hat.
I'm not looking for Regan, I said.
He fixed the lock on his door and we went down to the official parking lot and got into a small blue sedan. We drove out Sunset, using the siren once in a while to beat a signal. It was a crisp morning, with just enough snap in the air to make life seem simple and sweet, if you didn't have too much on your mind. I had.
It was thirty miles to Lido on the coast highway, the first ten of them through traffic. Ohls made the run in three quarters of an hour. At the end of that time we skidded to a stop in front of a faded stucco arch and I took my feet out of the floorboards and we got out. A long pier railed with white two-by-fours stretched seaward from the arch. A knot of people leaned out at the far end and a motorcycle officer stood under the arch keeping another group of people from going out on the pier. Cars were parked on both sides of the highway, the usual ghouls, of both sexes. Ohls showed the motorcycle officer his badge and we went out on the pier, into a loud fish smell which one night's hard rain hadn't even dented.
There she is—on the power barge, Ohls said, pointing with one of his toy cigars."	"Summary: The narrator is speaking with Ohls about a car that washed up on Lido and they go to investigate.
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: General Sternwood, Regan, Ohls
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Lido pier
Diegetic time: A few hours"	There was no answer, and he had to shout above the wind and surf. “A car came ashore on Lido last night. It’s a good way up from the pier. A big job to get it out.” “I’ll have it towed in tomorrow,” said General Sternwood. The General went back into his palace at Sparta, and Regan stood for a long time watching him go with his head bent, and the rain running down his face. Then he turned and walked away, through the streets of Sparta; but he went very slowly, and he did not look where he was going. He found Ohls sitting in his office, smoking and waiting for some papers that the General had sent for. Ohls was pleased to see him, and told him to sit down. “What was all that about?” said Regan. “That is what I am trying to find out,” said Ohls. “We were talking about cars that came ashore on the Lido, and how far up they got. Well, here is one that got right up to the pier. There’s only one reason for a big car getting washed up like that: it has been pushed over the edge by someone who wanted to get rid of it. It wasn’t an accident.” Regan nodded. “Who was driving it?” “It looks as if the driver was thrown out just before it hit the water. He might have jumped or been pushed. There are bloodstains on the upholstery. We’ve identified them.” Regan sat silent for a moment, thinking. Then he spoke quietly. “The owner was a man called Kromer. He was killed two days ago in the Bois de Boulogne. He had a secretary named Armitage. He was also killed. Have you got any news of him yet?” Ohls shook his head. “Nothing yet. But there’s something queer about this business. If these two characters tried to get rid of the body of a third character, why did they get rid of it by putting it in their own car? That doesn’t make sense. Why not push it over the railings into the river? You can’t sink a car in the Seine, but you could sink a body. And then you’d be able to drive the car away afterwards. No, that doesn’t make sense.” “Perhaps they didn’t want to get rid of the body,” said Regan. “Perhaps they wanted us to find it. Perhaps they wanted us to know that they knew something we didn’t know. Did you hear what happened at the hotel tonight? Did you hear what that girl told me?” “Yes,” said Ohls. “That’s interesting.” “What do you mean ‘that’s interesting’?” “Well, that’s another thing that doesn’t make sense. Why should she tell you? What does she want to get mixed up in a business like this for?” “I don’t know,” said Regan. “But I’m going to find out.” “You think you’re going to get mixed up in it too?” “I’m already mixed up in it,” said Regan. “And so are you.” “So I am,” said Ohls. “I wonder what’s going to happen next.” 
18	18	"A low black barge with a wheelhouse like a tug's was crouched against the pilings at the end of the pier. Something that glistened in the morning sunlight was on its deck, with hoist chains still around it, a large black and chromium car. The arm of the hoist had been swung back into position and lowered to deck level. Men stood around the car. We went down slippery steps to the deck.
Ohls said hello to a deputy in green khaki and a man in plain clothes. The barge crew of three men leaned against the front of the wheelhouse and chewed tobacco. One of them was rubbing at his wet hair with a dirty bath-towel. That would be the man who had gone down into the water to put the chains on.
We looked the car over. The front bumper was bent, one headlight smashed, the other bent up but the glass still unbroken. The radiator shell had a big dent in it, and the paint and nickel were scratched up all over the car. The upholstery was sodden and black. None of the tires seemed to be damaged.
The driver was still draped around the steering post with his head at an unnatural angle to his shoulders. He was a slim dark-haired kid who had been good-looking not so long ago. Now his face was bluish white and his eyes were a faint dull gleam under the lowered lids and his open mouth had sand in it. On the left side of his forehead there was a dull bruise that stood out against the whiteness of the skin.
Ohls backed away, made a noise in his throat and put a match to his little cigar. ""What's the story?""
The uniformed man pointed up at the rubbernecks on the end of the pier. One of them was fingering a place where the white two-by-fours had been broken through in a wide space. The splintered wood showed yellow and clean, like fresh-cut pine.
Went through there. Must have hit pretty hard. The rain stopped early down here, around nine p.m. The broken wood's dry inside. That puts it after the rain stopped. She fell in plenty of water not to be banged up worse, not more than half tide or she'd have drifted farther, and not more than half tide going out or she'd have crowded the piles. That makes it around ten last night. Maybe nine-thirty, not earlier. She shows under the water when the boys come down to fish this morning, so we get the barge to hoist her out and we find the dead guy.
The plainclothesman scuffed at the deck with the toe of his shoe. Ohls looked sideways along his eyes at me, and twitched his little cigar like a cigarette.
Drunk? he asked, of nobody in particular.
The man who had been toweling his head went over to the rail and cleared his throat in a loud hawk that made everybody look at him. ""Got some sand,"" he said, and spat. ""Not as much as the boy friend got—but some.""
The uniformed man said: ""Could have been drunk. Showing off all alone in the rain. Drunks will do anything.""
Drunk, hell, the plainclothesman said. The hand throttle's set halfway down and the guy's been sapped on the side of the head. Ask me and I'll call it murder.
Ohls looked at the man with the towel. ""What do you think, buddy?""
The man with the towel looked flattered. He grinned. ""I say suicide, Mac. None of my business, but you ask me, I say suicide. First off the guy plowed an awful straight furrow down that pier. You can read his tread marks all the way nearly. That puts it after the rain like the Sheriff said. Then he hit the pier hard and clean or he don't go through and land right side up. More likely turned over a couple of times. So he had plenty of speed and hit the rail square. That's more than half-throttle. He could have done that with his hand falling and he could have hurt his head falling too.""
Ohls said: ""You got eyes, buddy. Frisked him?"" he asked the deputy. The deputy looked at me, then at the crew against the wheelhouse. ""Okey, save that,"" Ohls said."	"Summary: A group of men inspect a car that was found on a barge after falling off a pier. They discuss the possible causes of the accident, including suicide or murder.
Narrative arc: Investigative
Enunciation: Dialogue between characters
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Ohls, uniformed man, plainclothesman, crew members against the wheelhouse
Fuzzy time: Last night, this morning
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: End of the pier, deck of the barge
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"No, it's just that I thought... What I'm trying to say is that you can't always tell the truth in a poem. In fact, sometimes it would be better if you could. But there are limits."""" Ohls looked up from his examination of the car. You said it had been pushed off the end of the pier?"" The uniformed man nodded. """"The pier at the end of the dock behind the palace in Sparta. Last night, about three o'clock. This morning, when they were coming out with the barge for their regular run to Athens, they found it floating on the deck. Stranded. A dead motor."""" Well, that's good,"" said the plainclothesman. ""That should make it easier."" The men against the wheelhouse came aboard and began walking toward them. They were short and dark, dressed in heavy gray woolen sweaters over blue work shirts. Their faces were lined, their eyes small and hard, and the sweat on their faces made them look as though they had just emerged from some unwholesome cave. They carried canvas bags which bulged oddly and seemed to have a life of their own. There was something savage about them, but not particularly dangerous. If anything, they looked like hungry children. One of them touched the detective on the arm and said something in Greek. No, no,"" Ohls said, smiling, ""you go right ahead. We'll wait here until you've done your job."" He gestured toward the car, then turned back to the plainclothesman. """"They're used to this sort of thing, I guess. It won't bother them."""" The detective looked surprised. """"I didn't know you spoke Greek."""" Ohls shrugged. """"Enough to get along. At least I hope so. I know the word for 'car'."""" The detective grinned. """"And 'body,'"""" he added. Yes,"" Ohls said soberly. ""Body."" One of the crewmen touched him again, pointing at the car. Yes, yes,"" Ohls said, ""we'll wait."" The crewman pointed at the detective and smiled briefly. Then he turned away and led the other two toward the stern. They went down the steps to the afterdeck and spread a tarpaulin on the floor beside the winch. The first one opened his bag and took out a pair of thick leather gloves. He pulled them on carefully and knelt by the side of the tarpaulin. The other two stood over him, smoking cigarettes. The one who had opened the bag leaned forward and started talking rapidly in a low voice. The second man nodded, put out his cigarette, and began to pull off his sweater. He unfolded it carefully, examining the inside lining with great care. Then he put it aside and bent to help the first man pick up the body. They lifted it easily and set it down gently on the tarpaulin. Now the third man was talking excitedly, pulling at his shirt. The detective turned away. He walked across the deck to where Ohls stood leaning against the rail. "
19	19	"A small man with glasses and a tired face and a black bag came down the steps from the pier. He picked out a fairly clean spot on the deck and put the bag down. Then he took his hat off and rubbed the back of his neck and stared out to sea, as if he didn't know where he was or what he had come for.
Ohls said: ""There's your customer, Doc. Dove off the pier last night. Around nine to ten. That's all we know.""
The small man looked in at the dead man morosely. He fingered the head, peered at the bruise on the temple, moved the head around with both hands, felt the man's ribs. He lifted a lax dead hand and stared at the fingernails. He let it fall and watched it fall. He stepped back and opened his bag and took out a printed pad of D.O.A. forms and began to write over a carbon.
Broken neck's the apparent cause of death, he said, writing. Which means there won't be much water in him. Which means he's due to start getting stiff pretty quick now he's out in the air. Better get him out of the car before he does. You won't like doing it after.
Ohls nodded. ""How long dead, Doc?""
I wouldn't know.
Ohls looked at him sharply and took the little cigar out of his mouth and looked at that sharply. ""Pleased to know you, Doc. A coroner's man that can't guess within five minutes has me beat.""
The little man grinned sourly and put his pad in his bag and clipped his pencil back on his vest. ""If he ate dinner last night, I'll tell you—if I know what time he ate it. But not within five minutes.""
How would he get that bruise—falling?
The little man looked at the bruise again. ""I don't think so. That blow came from something covered. And it had already bled subcutaneously while he was alive.""
Blackjack, huh?
Very likely.
The little M.E.'s man nodded, picked his bag off the deck and went back up the steps to the pier. An ambulance was backing into position outside the stucco arch. Ohls looked at me and said: ""Let's go. Hardly worth the ride, was it?""
We went back along the pier and got into Ohls' sedan again. He wrestled it around on the highway and drove back towards town along a three-lane highway washed clean by the rain, past low rolling hills of yellow-white sand terraced with pink moss. Seaward a few gulls wheeled and swooped over something in the surf and far out a white yacht looked as if it was hanging in the sky.
Ohls cocked his chin at me and said: ""Know him?""
Sure. The Sternwood chauffeur. I saw him dusting that very car out there yesterday.
I don't want to crowd you, Marlowe. Just tell me, did the job have anything to do with him?
No. I don't even know his name.
Owen Taylor. How do I know? Funny about that. About a year or so back we had him in the cooler on a Mann Act rap. It seems he run Sternwood's hotcha daughter, the young one, off to Yuma. The sister ran after them and brought them back and had Owen heaved into the icebox. Then next day she comes down to the D.A. and gets him to beg the kid off with the U. S. 'cutor. She says the kid meant to marry her sister and wanted to, only the sister can't see it. All she wanted was to kick a few high ones off the bar and have herself a party. So we let the kid go and then darned if they don't have him come back to work. And a little later we get the routine report on his prints from Washington, and he's got a prior back in Indiana, attempted hold-up six years ago. He got off with a six months in the county jail, the very one Dillinger bust out of. We hand that to the Sternwoods and they keep him on just the same. What do you think of that?
They seem to be a screwy family, I said. Do they know about last night?
No. I gotta go up against them now."	"Summary: A small man arrives at the pier and examines a dead body. The police officer asks him how long the person has been dead.
Enunciation: Dialogue between characters
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Small man, Officer Ohls
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Pier, car, beach
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"A small man climbed from the car, and with a trembling hand took out a sheaf of papers. He was wearing an eyeglass on a black cord around his neck. The officers stepped forward to meet him, and he began speaking in a high voice. The sound of it caused the Officer Ohls to shudder as though he had heard the cry of a lost soul in torment.  We are here,"" he said. ""Everything is in order."""" They led him past the body on the pier, and down into the car. As they went through the door the small man's eye fell on the dead man. For a moment he stood still. Then he turned away quickly and got into the car. It wasn't until they were driving back along the beach that he spoke again.  I suppose you think this is just another suicide?"" he asked the officer.  Yes, sir. That's what we think."" He looked at the small man with interest. This one is different,"" the little man said. ""Different how?""  I can't tell you now. Perhaps later."""" The officer pressed his lips together. """"I hope so,"""" he said. After a while the car pulled up before a palace in Sparta.  There is something I would like to know,"" the small man said, turning to the driver.  Yes, sir?""  Is there any possibility of getting rid of these bodies?""""  Of course not. The inquest will be held tomorrow morning.""""  Inquest!"" the little man cried. ""Good God, no! Can't we do something about that?""""  You mean have the case hushed up?""  Yes, yes. What difference does it make now?"" The officer opened the door of the car.  But if you want to you can say it was suicide,"" he suggested.  Yes, yes, that's better. That's better. Thank you."""" With a gesture of infinite weariness the little man lifted himself out of the car. """"Good-bye,"""" he said. The officer watched him as he walked across the terrace and disappeared inside the building. The next day the coroner's jury found that the two men had been drowned accidentally. CHAPTER X THE RED-HAIRED MAN The most valuable gift that Greece gave to Rome was her sense of proportion. The Roman Empire would never have risen to its height if every detail of its organization had been perfect. It was the imperfections which made it great. It was the weaknesses of the men who administered it that kept it alive. When things went wrong they were able to admit it. And when they couldn't put them right, they had the wisdom to leave them alone. One of these imperfections concerned the relation between the Emperor and the police. "
20	20	"Leave the old man out of it, if you can.
Why?
He has enough troubles and he's sick.
You mean Regan?
I scowled. ""I don't know anything about Regan, I told you. I'm not looking for Regan. Regan hasn't bothered anybody that I know of.""
Ohls said: ""Oh,"" and stared thoughtfully out to sea and the sedan nearly went off the road. For the rest of the drive back to town he hardly spoke. He dropped me off in Hollywood near the Chinese Theater and turned back west to Alta Brea Crescent. I ate lunch at a counter and looked at an afternoon paper and couldn't find anything about Geiger in it.
After lunch I walked east on the boulevard to have another look at Geiger's store.
[10]
The lean black-eyed credit jeweler was standing in his entrance in the same position as the afternoon before. He gave me the same knowing look as I turned in. The store looked just the same. The same lamp glowed on the small desk in the corner and the same ash blonde in the same black suede-like dress got up from behind it and came towards me with the same tentative smile on her face.
Was it—? she said and stopped. Her silver nails twitched at her side. There was an overtone of strain in her smile. It wasn't a smile at all. It was a grimace. She just thought it was a smile.
Back again, I chirped airily, and waved a cigarette. Mr. Geiger in today?
I'm—I'm afraid not. No—I'm afraid not. Let me see—-you wanted ...?
I took my dark glasses off and tapped them delicately on the inside of my left wrist. If you can weigh a hundred and ninety pounds and look like a fairy, I was doing my best.
That was just a stall about those first editions, I whispered. I have to be careful. I've got something he'll want. Something he's wanted for a long time.
The silver fingernails touched the blond hair over one small jet-buttoned ear. ""Oh, a salesman,"" she said. ""Well—you might come in tomorrow. I think he'll be here tomorrow.""
Drop the veil, I said. I'm in the business too.
Her eyes narrowed until they were a faint greenish glitter, like a forest pool far back in the shadow of trees. Her fingers clawed at her palm. She stared at me and chopped off a breath.
Is he sick? I could go up to the house, I said impatiently. I haven't got forever.
You—a—you—a— her throat jammed. I thought she was going to fall on her nose. Her whole body shivered and her face fell apart like a bride's pie crust. She put it together again slowly, as if lifting a great weight, by sheer will power. The smile came back, with a couple of comers badly bent.
No, she breathed. No. He's out of town. That—wouldn't be any use. Can't you—come in—tomorrow?
I had my mouth open to say something when the partition door opened a foot. The tall dark handsome boy in the jerkin looked out, pale-faced and tight-lipped, saw me, shut the door quickly again, but not before I had seen on the floor behind him a lot of wooden boxes lined with newspapers and packed loosely with books. A man in very new overalls was fussing with them. Some of Geiger's stock was being moved out.
When the door shut I put my dark glasses on again and touched my hat. ""Tomorrow, then. I'd like to give you a card, but you know how it is."""	"Summary: The narrator discusses Regan and Geiger with Ohls, eats lunch, and visits Geiger's store where he interacts with the credit jeweler and the blonde.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Stream of consciousness
Active character: Narrator, Ohls, credit jeweler, blonde
Fuzzy place: Hollywood, Alta Brea Crescent
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"I tell you what, though, Regan and Geiger. He's a funny kind of guy, Regan is. I don't know whether he likes me or not. I've got to go over and see him some time. He said he was going to send me his bill for the new tires, but I haven't seen it yet."""" Well,"" said Ohls, ""that'll be all right. You can pay him when you get out. What are you going to do about your car?"""" I'm going to have it painted black when they let me out,"" said the narrator. """"I think that'll make me feel better."""" Then he ate his lunch, while Ohls drank two cups of coffee, smoked five cigarettes, and read the newspaper. The thing with him was that he didn't talk too much, because he knew how to listen. If anybody had been eavesdropping outside the door at that moment he might have picked up something good, but nobody was there except myself, and I wasn't going to tell on him. And then we went out together and drove over to Alta Brea Crescent. This was an old Spanish house with a long verandah along the side, and a high wall with iron spears on top around the back. We parked the car in front and went in through the gate into the back yard. It was like a garden with palm trees and geraniums, and the air smelled hot and heavy from the rose bushes. There were two other cars standing in the back yard one of them was Geiger's Ford which was as old as mine, but in much better condition and there was a low adobe building with a green galvanized-iron roof. This was the store. It had big double doors, with glass panels set in them, and a sign hanging on the wall inside which said: CREDIT JEWELER. There was another man in the back yard who turned around and looked at us when we came in. He was a fat dark man with a mustache. Hello, Sam,"" said Ohls. ""How're things?"" Pretty good."" How's business?"" Oh, so-so. You want to come in?"""" Yeah,"" said Ohls, and we walked across the room to where the blonde was sitting behind the counter. She was writing in a ledger and she looked up at us without smiling. I guess this is Mr. Marsten,"" said Ohls. ""He wants to ask you a few questions."""" Sure,"" said the blonde. ""What about?"" I dunno,"" said Ohls. ""It's just routine. Sit down over here and talk to him, Mr. Marsten."""" Okay,"" I said, and sat down on a chair by the window. The blonde pulled her chair back a little and looked at me with big gray eyes. She was wearing a red silk blouse with a low neckline, and her arms looked soft and warm under the shiny material. "
21	21	"Ye-es. I know how it is. She shivered a little more and made a faint sucking noise between her bright lips. I went out of the store and west on the boulevard to the corner and north on the street to the alley which ran behind the stores. A small black truck with wire sides and no lettering on it was backed up to Geiger's place. The man in the very new overalls was just heaving a box up on the tailboard. I went back to the boulevard and along the block next to Geiger's and found a taxi standing at a fireplug. A fresh-faced kid was reading a horror magazine behind the wheel. I leaned in and showed him a dollar: Tail job?
He looked me over. ""Cop?""
Private.
He grinned. ""My meat, Jack."" He tucked the magazine over his rear view mirror and I got into the cab. We went around the block and pulled up across from Geiger's alley, beside another fireplug.
There were about a dozen boxes on the truck when the man in overalls closed the screened doors and hooked the tailboard up and got in behind the wheel.
Take him, I told my driver.
The man in overalls gunned his motor, shot a glance up and down the alley and ran away fast in the other direction. He turned left out of the alley. We did the same. I caught a glimpse of the truck turning east on Franklin and told my driver to close in a little. He didn't or couldn't do it. I saw the truck two blocks away when we got to Franklin. We had it in sight to Vine and across Vine and all the way to Western. We saw it twice after Western. There was a lot of traffic and the fresh-faced kid tailed from too far back. I was telling him about that without mincing words when the truck, now far ahead, turned north again. The street at which it turned was called Brittany Place. When we got to Brittany Place the truck had vanished.
The fresh-faced kid made comforting sounds at me through the panel and we went up the hill at four miles an hour looking for the truck behind bushes. Two blocks up, Brittany Place swung to the east and met Randall Place in a tongue of land on which there was a white apartment house with its front on Randall Place and its basement garage opening on Brittany. We were going past that and the fresh-faced kid was telling me the truck couldn't be far away when I looked through the arched entrance of the garage and saw it back in the dimness with its rear doors open again.
We went around to the front of the apartment house and I got out. There was nobody in the lobby, no switchboard. A wooden desk was pushed back against the wall beside a panel of gilt mailboxes. I looked the names over. A man named Joseph Brody had Apartment 405. A man named Joe Brody had received five thousand dollars from General Sternwood to stop playing with Carmen and find some other little girl to play with. It could be the same Joe Brody. I felt like giving odds on it.
I went around an elbow of wall to the foot of tiled stairs and the shaft of the automatic elevator. The top of the elevator was level with the floor. There was a door beside the shaft lettered ""Garage."" I opened it and went down narrow steps to the basement. The automatic elevator was propped Open and the man in new overalls was grunting hard as he stacked heavy boxes in it. I stood beside him and lit a cigarette and watched him. He d1dn't like my watching him.
After a while I said: ""Watch the weight, bud. She's only tested for half a ton. Where's the stuff going?""
Brody, four-o-five, he grunted. Manager?
Yeah. Looks like a nice lot of loot.
He glared at me with pale white rimmed eyes. ""Books,"" he snarled. ""A hundred pounds a box, easy, and me with a seventy-five pound back.""
Well, watch the weight, I said.
He got into the elevator with six boxes and shut the doors. I went back up the steps to the lobby and out to the street and the cab took me downtown again to my office building. I gave the fresh-faced kid too much money and he gave me a dog-eared business card which for once I didn't drop into the majolica jar of sand beside the elevator bank."	"Summary: The narrator follows a man in overalls who is seen loading boxes onto a truck. They eventually catch up to the truck and realize it has stopped at an apartment building where the man in overalls works.
Trope: Chase scene
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of action
Active character: Narrator, man in overalls, fresh-faced kid
Fuzzy place: Store, alley, street, apartment building
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"He was walking slowly, stooped over, and looked like a man who had come in out of the wind. I took off after him. He walked straight into the store and down the aisle to where a long row of boxes stood along the wall. The fresh-faced kid was there, stacking them up. I watched from behind a corner until they were both busy. Then I went back to the alley and waited for a taxi. When it came I got in and told the driver to follow that truck."" He glanced at me sharply in the mirror. """"I don't know if I can do that, sir."""" Why not?"" Because it's going awfully fast."" I got out again. That was all right, thanks,"" I said. ""Just drive around the block."" I hurried back to the entrance and looked into the store. They were still busy with the boxes. There was no sign of the truck. I went back into the alley. It was empty. At the other end I could see the street. A long gray truck was disappearing around the corner. I ran back to the sidewalk and hailed another cab. This time I said: Just follow that truck and you'll find out where I live."" It was an old wreck of a car with a bald-headed chauffeur in a dirty shirt. I crawled in on the front seat beside him. He looked me over sourly. You sure you want to go this way?"" he grumbled. ""That's the worst part of town, mister. We ain't likely to get back for a while."""" I nodded. Let's go,"" I said. And we started off. We went past the alley and down the street. A couple of blocks ahead we saw the truck turning. It came toward us and slowed down as it passed. I stared at it. It was the same truck. We followed it through the business section and then out into a crowded residential district. The houses grew smaller and farther apart. The truck turned into a side street. So did we. The buildings became dingy and run-down. After a few blocks the houses stopped. In their place were apartment buildings. Most of them were dilapidated and deserted. The truck pulled up in front of one of them. An old woman came to the door and talked to the driver. As I watched, she opened the trunk and handed him a paper bag. He nodded and drove away. I leaned forward. """"What's the name of this place?"""" I asked. The chauffeur looked at me curiously. """"You don't know?"""" he said. """"This is where your friend works."""" *       *       *       *       * It was ten o'clock when I reached my hotel. I sat down in the lobby and tried to think. "
22	22	"I had a room and a half on the seventh floor at the back. The half-room was an office split in two to make reception rooms. Mine had my name on it and nothing else, and that only on the reception room. I always left this unlocked, in case I had a client, and the client cared to sit down and wait.
I had a client.
[11]
She wore brownish speckled tweeds, a mannish shirt and tie, hand-carved walking shoes. Her stockings were just as sheer as the day before, but she wasn't showing as much of her legs. Her black hair was glossy under a brown Robin Hood hat that might have cost fifty dollars and looked as if you could have made it with one hand out of a desk blotter.
Well, you do get up, she said, wrinkling her nose at the faded red settee, the two odd semi-easy chairs, the net curtains that needed laundering and the boy's size library table with the venerable magazines on it to give the place a professional touch. I was beginning to think perhaps you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust.
Who's he? I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her. She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain.
A French writer, a connoisseur in degenerates. You wouldn't know him.
Tut, tut, I said. Come into my boudoir.
She stood up and said: ""We didn't get along very well yesterday. Perhaps I was rude.""
We were both rude, I said. I unlocked the communicating door and held it for her. We went into the rest of my suite, which contained a rust-red carpet, not very young, five green filing cases, three of them full of California climate, an advertising calendar showing the Quints rolling around on a sky-blue floor, in pink dresses, with seal-brown hair and sharp black eyes as large as mammoth prunes. There were three near-walnut chairs, the usual desk with the usual blotter, pen set, ashtray and telephone, and the usual squeaky swivel chair behind it.
You don't put on much of a front, she said, sitting down at the customer's side of the desk.
I went over to the mail slot and picked up six envelopes, two letters and four pieces of advertising matter. I hung my hat on the telephone and sat down.
Neither do the Pinkertons, I said. You can't make much money at this trade, if you're honest. If you have a front, you're making money—or expect to.
Oh—are you honest? she asked and opened her bag. She picked a cigarette out of a French enamel case, lit it with a pocket lighter, dropped case and lighter back into the bag and left the bag open.
Painfully.
How did you get into this slimy kind of business then?
How did you come to marry a bootlegger?
My God, let's not start quarreling again. I've been trying to get you on the phone all morning. Here and at your apartment.
About Owen?
Her face tightened sharply. Her voice was soft. ""Poor Owen,"" she said. ""So you know about that.""
A D.A.'s man took me down to Lido. He thought I might know something about it. But he knew much more than I did. He knew Owen wanted to marry your sister—once.
She puffed silently at her cigarette and considered me with steady black eyes. ""Perhaps it wouldn't have been a bad idea,"" she said quietly. ""He was in love with her. We don't find much of that in our circle.""
He had a police record.
She shrugged. She said negligently: ""He didn't know the right people. That's all a police record means in this rotten crime-ridden country.""
I wouldn't go that far.
She peeled her right glove off and bit her index finger at the first joint, looking at me with steady eyes. ""I didn't come to see you about Owen. Do you feel yet that you can tell me what my father wanted to see you about?""
Not without his permission.
Was it about Carmen?
I can't even say that. I finished filling a pipe and put a match to it. She watched the smoke for a moment. Then her hand went into her open bag and came out with a thick white envelope. She tossed it across the desk.
You'd better look at it anyway, she said."	"Summary: The protagonist has a client who comes to his office and they discuss various topics, including the client's deceased husband and the reason for her visit.
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Protagonist, Client
Time setting: Antiquity

Diegetic time: A few hours"	εστιν δε και το εν τη οικια αυτου σπιτιον αισχρονα, ουδ' ανακτορα φανταζεσθαι. Επεδείκνυεν ουν τον παραιτησαμενον τοις πασιν ανθρώποις τωρισμόν: ουδέ γαρ οιωνος εσχατος ησπάσατο αυτον ουδέ θηρίου, ουδέ άρνιος ουδέ κριός, ουδέ αλφιτωτής ουδέ ποιμήν, ουδέ κατσίκα ουδέ σφηνάς, ουδέ συκώτιον ουδέ μυζηθίν, ουδέ σπογγίον ουδέ ρόδακα, ουδέ πίτυς ουδέ βρύον, ουδέ χελώνη ουδέ σκορπίος, ουδέ λύκος ουδέ ειρινεύς, ουδέ δάκρυον ουδέ μητρός, ουδέ τίθεται εκ πυρός ουδέ κυπρίσις, ουδέ ταχύτης ουδέ χάρις ουδέ αβουλία, ουδέ ραθυμία ουδέ ατιμίας, ουδέ μετρητός ουδέ ανοργίλος, ουδέ βεβήλος ουδέ άδικος, ουδέ θυμός ουδέ ήλιος, ουδέ ωραίους ουδέ καλούς, ουδέ δοξά τας ουδέ τινας αρχάς, ουδέ μέγας ουδέ εύψυχος ουδέ μακρός, ουδέ ικανός ουδέ πανίσχυρος, ουδέ λόγος ουδέ φωνή ουδέ άσμα, ουδέ λογίζομαι ουδέ ταξείρειν ουδέ διώκειν ουδέ τινα καταδιώκειν. 11. Κατελθόντος δ' αύτου εις την γραφειον, προσέθηκε προσευχήν: Σώσον, Θεέ, του Χριστού σου τον πατρά, και σώζοις τον πατέρα μου. Τότε πάλιν προς τον δεσπώτην: Πολλήν, λέγει, έσχεν τηλικαύτας αγανακτήσεις τη όνειδος της μητρός, και τον πατέρα τον φανερώς εξαπατήσας, και μεν ών ζών, εν τη άγνοια πολλάκις επέθανε. Ως δε μετά θανάτου εγένετο φανερός, ουδέν του παραστήσας, ει μή το αμαρτάνειν πάντων, ουδ' αύτούν, ουδ' άλλους παρέβλεπεν. Και τότε δε θυμοφόρως απέλαβεν αυτήν, λέγων: Μή τις άλλοτε ενθάδε εισέλθης. 12. Πρεσβευσάσης δ' αυτής εις την πόλιν, επολέμησε μετά των εθνικών, και εβάστασεν υπό τους υἱούς της τριάκοντα πολεμίους. Πόλιν δ' ίππους είληφεν. Έπειτα δ' αύθις επανήλθεν εις τον Πατρίκιον, διαγράφουσα ότι έκλεψεν αυτή αύθις πέντε χαράκας. Τότε δεσπώτης καθ' ούς οιδίως επέτεινεν τωρισμόν, εξέδυσεν εν τοις τωρισμίοισι ταύτην δειλότητα και παράφρονιαν. 13. ΙΔΡΥΜΑ ΔΙΑ ΦΙΛΟΚΤΗΤΟΥ ΘΗΒΑΙΟΥ ΓΡΑΦΙΟΥ ΓΡΑΜΜΑΤΕΙΑΣ ΚΑΙ ΕΞΕΤΑΣΗΣ ΤΩΝ ΑΡΧΕΙΩΝ. ΠΕΡΙ ΤΟΥ ΑΣΚΑΝΟΝΤΟΣ ΤΗΣ ΕΝ ΤΗ ΓΡΑΦΕΙΩ ΔΙΚΑΙΟΣΥΝΗΣ ΜΕΝΕΣ ΤΩΝ ΡΗΤΡΩΝ ΚΑΙ ΤΗΣ ΣΩΣΗΣ ΤΟΥ ΠΑΤΡΟΣ ΑΛΗΘΩΣ ΠΡΩΤΩΝ ΤΟΥ ΛΟΓΟΥ. Τόδε πεπρωμένον μοί γενόμενον εκ θεού, και ταύτην εύχομένην παρ' εμου δωρήσειν, τό τε ένεσθαι εις τα σπλάγχνα μου, και ταύτην παρ' εμού ελέους ελκυθέναι, και τό δε σύνεσθαι ταύτην μοι, μη έχοντι τοις όλίγοις των επιτυχόντων εις τα σοφίαν βουλήματα τα μάχιμα συνετέλεια, μηδέ ταύτην ούτω θαυμαστω τρόπω προκαλών με, ων επειδή μόνος απαλλαγήν έσχον από του πάθους, αλλ' άλλην διάθεσιν έσχον, εθέλοις πολλάκις προς εμέ προσέρχεσθαι ως προς τον φιλάνθρωπον, ουδ' εγγύς θέλειν, όπως σε τρέψωμεν εκ του θείου αγγέλους εις τον ανθρώπινον θυμόν. Ότε δ' έφθασεν εις την γραφείον, προσευχήν τίκτευσεν εν τω όμματι τούτοις λόγοις: Σώσον, Θεέ, του Χριστού σου τον πατρά, και σώζοις τον πατέρα μου. Τότε πάλιν προς τον δεσπώτην: Πολλήν, λέγει, έσχεν τηλικαύτας αγανακτήσεις τη όνειδος της μητρός, και τον πατέρα τον φανερώς εξαπατήσας, και μεν ών ζών, εν τη άγνοια πολλάκις επέθανε. Ως δε μετά θανάτους εγένετο φανερός, ουδέν του παραστήσας, ει μή το αμαρτάνειν πάντων, ουδ' αύτούν, ουδ' άλλους παρέβλεπεν. Και τότε δε θυμοφόρως απέλαβεν αυτήν, λέγων: Μή τις άλλοτε ενθάδε εισέλθης. 14. Πρεσβευσάσης δ' αυτής εις την πόλιν, επολέμησε μετά των εθνικών, και εβάστασεν υπό τους υἱούς της τριάκοντα πολεμίους. Πόλιν δ' ίππους είληφεν. Έπειτα δ' αύθις επανήλθεν εις τον Πατρίκιον, διαγράφουσα ότι έκλεψεν αυτή αύθις πέντε χαράκας. Τότε δεσπώτης καθ' ούς οιδίως επέτεινεν τον τορισμόν, εξέδυσεν εν τοις τορισμίοισι ταύτην δειλότητα και παράφρονιαν. 15. 
23	23	"I picked it up. The address was typewritten to Mrs. Vivian Regan, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood. Delivery had been by messenger service and the office stamp showed 8.35 a.m. as the time out. I opened the envelope and drew out the shiny 4 1/4 by 3 1/4 photo that was all there was inside.
It was Carmen sitting in Geiger's high-backed teakwood chair on the dais, in her earrings and her birthday suit. Her eyes looked even a little crazier than as I remembered them. The back of the photo was blank. I put it back in the envelope.
How much do they want? I asked.
Five thousand—for the negative and the rest of the prints. The deal has to be closed tonight, or they give the stuff to some scandal sheet.
The demand came how?
A woman telephoned me, about half an hour after this thing was delivered.
There's nothing in the scandal sheet angle. Juries convict without leaving the box on that stuff nowadays. What else is there?
Does there have to be something else?
Yes.
She stared at me, a little puzzled. ""There is. The woman said there was a police jam connected with it and I'd better lay it on the line fast, or I'd be talking to my little sister through a wire screen.""
Better, I said. What kind of jam?
I don't know.
Where is Carmen now?
She's at home. She was sick last night. She's still in bed, I think.
Did she go out last night?
No. I was out, but the servants say she wasn't. I was down at Las Olindas, playing roulette at Eddie Mars' Cypress Club. I lost my shirt.
So you like roulette. You would.
She crossed her legs and lit another cigarette. ""Yes. I like roulette. All the Sternwoods like losing games, like roulette and marrying men that walk out on them and riding steeplechases at fifty-eight years old and being rolled on by a jumper and crippled for life. The Sternwoods have money. All it has bought them is a rain check.""
What was Owen doing last night with your car?
Nobody knows. He took it without permission. We always let him take a car on his night off, but last night wasn't his night off. She made a wry mouth. Do you think—?
He knew about this nude photo? How would I be able to say? I don't rule him out. Can you get five thousand in cash right away?
Not unless I tell Dad—or borrow it. I could probably borrow it from Eddie Mars. He ought to be generous with me, heaven knows.
Better try that. You may need it in a hurry.
She leaned back and hung an arm over the back of the chair. ""How about telling the police?""
It's a good idea. But you won't do it.
Won't I?
No. You have to protect your father and your sister. You don't know what the police might turn up. It might be something they couldn't sit on. Though they usually try in blackmail cases.
Can you do anything?
I think I can. But I can't tell you why or how.
I like you, she said suddenly. You believe in miracles. Would you have a drink in the office?
I unlocked my deep drawer and got out my office bottle and two pony glasses. I filled them and we drank. She snapped her bag shut and pushed her chair back.
I'll get the five grand, she said. I've been a good customer of Eddie Mars. There's another reason why he should be nice to me, which you may not know. She gave me one of those smiles the lips have forgotten before they reach the eyes. Eddie's blonde wife is the lady Rusty ran away With.
I didn't say anything. She stared tightly at me and added: ""That doesn't interest you?""
It ought to make it easier to find him—if I was looking for him. You don't think he's in this mess, do you?
She pushed her empty glass at me. ""Give me another drink. You're the hardest guy to get anything out of. You don't even move your ears."""	"Summary: The protagonist receives a photo and is asked to pay a ransom for it. The person who delivered the photo mentions a police jam connected to it. The protagonist then speaks with a woman who mentions her husband's involvement in a scandal.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: The protagonist, Carmen, Eddie Mars
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy place: Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"She had a letter for him from the woman Carmen, who asked that he meet her at eleven o'clock that night in front of the house on Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood. He was to bring no witness and was not to come in his own car. She had also enclosed a photograph which she said would explain everything. The photograph showed Eddie Mars standing beside a young woman who was sitting on the fender of a large new convertible with the top down. The young woman wore a white evening dress and a blue hat, and she looked drunk. The picture had been taken on the night of Mrs. Rinaldi's murder. The note said:  For God's sake, can't you help me? Don't let them find out I sent this. I'm crazy about your husband, but it wasn't my fault. He has to be careful. If they don't get him for this, they will get him for something else."""" So the police jam was connected with the photograph. He read the letter over several times, turning it inside out, then crumpling it into his pocket, folding the photograph carefully and putting it back into its envelope. Why should the girl send him the picture? She couldn't know anything about him. It could only be a blackmail attempt. But why didn't she ask for money? And how did she happen to have the picture? It must have been taken by someone in the party. Did they all have copies of it? There were only two people who knew the significance of the picture. One of them was dead, the other was sitting in a cell in the Hall of Justice. Had the girl been in love with Eddie Mars? Had he given her the photograph to keep as a souvenir? That was very possible. The girl was not exactly the type to be faithful to any man, least of all to one who was married. And Eddie Mars was not the kind of a man to remain faithful to any woman. Had the girl sent the picture after hearing about Mrs. Rinaldi's death? Or had she known about it already? Had Eddie told her? A dozen other possibilities passed through Marlowe's mind, but none of them made sense. Then he remembered a Greek tragedy he had once read where a woman's beauty was the cause of all the trouble. He wondered what the gods had done with her after the last act. CHAPTER 8 As he walked back across the street he saw a thin man coming up toward the office door. He stopped and turned around slowly. It was Terry Lennox. The man's face was pale and his eyes were wild-looking. Marlowe stood still and waited for him. When they were almost face to face Lennox stopped and shivered and said: """"I've seen you before somewhere."""" You saw me when I came to your house,"""" Marlowe said. Lennox shook his head, looking blankly at Marlowe's face. I've got your card,"" he said. ""You're the guy that was asking about the baby."" "
24	24	"I filled the little glass. ""You've got all you wanted out of me—a pretty good idea I'm not looking for your husband.""
She put the drink down very quickly. It made her gasp—or gave her an opportunity to gasp. She let a breath out slowly.
Rusty was no crook. If he had been, it wouldn't have been for nickels. He carried fifteen thousand dollars, in bills. He called it his mad money. He had it when I married him and he had it when he left me. No-Rusty's not in on any cheap blackmail racket.
She reached for the envelope and stood up. ""I'll keep in touch with you,"" I said. ""If you want to leave me a message, the phone girl at my apartment house will take care of it.""
We walked over to the door. Tapping the white envelope against her knuckles, she said: ""You still feel you can't tell me what Dad—""
I'd have to see him first.
She took the photo out and stood looking at it, just inside the door. ""She has a beautiful little body, hasn't she?""
Uh-huh.
She leaned a little towards me. ""You ought to see mine,"" she said gravely.
Can it be arranged?
She laughed suddenly and sharply and went halfway through the door, then turned her head to say coolly: ""You're as cold-blooded a beast as I ever met, Marlowe. Or can I call you Phil?""
Sure.
You can call me Vivian.
Thanks, Mrs. Regan.
Oh, go to hell, Marlowe. She went on out and didn't look back.
I let the door shut and stood with my hand on it, staring at the hand. My face felt a little hot. I went back to the desk and put the whiskey away and rinsed out the two pony glasses and put them away.
I took my hat off the phone and called the D.A.'s office and asked for Bernie Ohls.
He was back in his cubbyhole. ""Well, I let the old man alone,"" he said. ""The butler said he or one of the girls would tell him. This Owen Taylor lived over the garage and I went through his stuff. Parents at Dubuque, Iowa. I wired the Chief of Police there to find out what they want done. The Sternwood family will pay for it.""
Suicide? I asked.
No can tell. He didn't leave any notes. He had no leave to take the car. Everybody was home last night but Mrs. Regan. She was down at Las Olindas with a playboy named Larry Cobb. I checked on that. I know a lad on one of the tables.
You ought to stop some of that flash gambling, I said.
With the syndicate we got in this county? Be your age, Marlowe. That sap mark on the boy's head bothers me. Sure you can?t help me on this?
I liked his putting it that way. It let me say no without actually lying. We said good-by and I left the office, bought all three afternoon papers and rode a taxi down to the Hall of justice to get my car out of the lot. There was nothing in any of the papers about Geiger. I took another look at his blue notebook, but the code was just as stubborn as it had been the night before.
[12]
The trees on the upper side of Laverne Terrace had fresh green leaves after the rain. In the cool afternoon sunlight I could see the steep drop of the hill and the flight of steps down which the killer had run after his three shots in the darkness. Two small houses fronted on the street below. They might or might not have heard the shots."	"Summary: The narrator interacts with a woman who wants information about her husband and later reflects on a murder case.
Trope: Femme fatale
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Narrator, woman, Rusty
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy time: Afternoon
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Unnamed apartment building, D.A.'s office, taxi, Hall of justice, Laverne Terrace
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"The woman, who looked like a queen, wanted to know if I had any information about her husband. She didn't seem particularly interested in what I might have to say concerning her husband's murderer, and I decided that she was really just fishing around for any little item of information which might prove useful in tracing her husband's fortunes, if he ever did turn up. So I told her nothing at all except that I had been with Rusty at the time he was killed. She thanked me for my trouble and asked if I could remember anything about the other man? I said no; that the only thing I could recall was a vague impression of an enormous nose. Then she turned away from me without another word, and disappeared into one of the apartments on the ground floor of the building. It seemed a pity to have wasted my story on someone who didn't want it, and I stood there for a moment or two trying to decide whether to go back to the D.A.'s office or not. And then I heard Rusty's voice calling out my name. I ran upstairs as quickly as I could, but I was too late. The door of his room was closed, and when I knocked nobody answered. CHAPTER X A Strange Case There were two reporters waiting for me in the hall outside the D.A.'s office when I got back to the Hall of Justice. They asked me a few questions about my visit to Sparta, and then they went away. When I saw the D.A. he was very pleased with the way things were shaping. He thought that it would be a good idea to let the papers know that the case was practically solved. The public,"" he said, ""likes to feel that crime doesn't pay; and if we can hang this Italian fellow before the week is out, it'll give them something to cheer about."""" He told me that he was going to start proceedings against the body of Manfredo immediately after lunch, and that he expected to have him swinging by six o'clock. I'm afraid you won't be able to see him,"" he added. ""He will probably be dead long before you get here."""" I knew that he was joking, but I couldn't help feeling rather uncomfortable. It was impossible to tell how far the District Attorney was prepared to go in order to """"get the goods"""" on anyone whom he suspected of being mixed up in crime. Well,"" I said, ""I suppose there's nothing else I can do now except wait until the trial starts?"""" Yes,"" he answered. ""You might do worse than have dinner with me tonight. We can talk over the case afterwards, and you can give me any further assistance that may be necessary."" As I left his office I wondered whether he had meant what he said about having dinner with me. He hadn't asked me to come to his house, so I decided that it was a mere courtesy on his part. I walked down to Laverne Terrace in a rather depressed frame of mind. "
25	25	"There was no activity in front of Geiger's house or anywhere along the block. The box hedge looked green and peaceful and the shingles on the roof were still damp. I drove past slowly, gnawing at an idea. I hadn't looked in the garage the night before. Once Geiger's body slipped away I hadn't really wanted to find it. It would force my hand. But dragging him to the garage, to his own car and driving that off into one of the hundred odd lonely canyons around Los Angeles would be a good way to dispose of him for days or even for weeks. That supposed two things: a key to his car and two in the party. It would narrow the sector of search quite a lot, especially as I had had his personal keys in my pocket when it happened.
I didn't get a chance to look at the garage. The doors were shut and padlocked and something moved behind the hedge as I drew level. A woman in a green and white check coat and a small button of a hat on soft blond hair stepped out of the maze and stood looking wild-eyed at my car, as if she hadn't heard it come up the hill. Then she turned swiftly and dodged back out of sight. It was Carmen Sternwood, of course.
I went on up the street and parked and walked back. In the daylight it seemed an exposed and dangerous thing to do. I went in through the hedge. She stood there straight and silent against the locked front door. One hand went slowly up to her teeth and her teeth bit at her funny thumb. There were purple smears under her eyes and her face was gnawed white by nerves.
She half smiled at me. She said: ""Hello,"" in a thin, brittle voice. ""Wha—what—?"" That tailed off and she went back to the thumb.
Remember me? I said. Doghouse Reilly, the man that grew too tall. Remember?
She nodded and a quick jerky smile played across her face.
Let's go in, I said. I've got a key. Swell, huh?
Wha—wha—?
I pushed her to one side and put the key in the door and opened it and pushed her in through it. I shut the door again and stood there sniffing. The place was horrible by daylight. The Chinese junk on the walls, the rug, the fussy lamps, the teakwood stuff, the sticky riot of colors, the totem pole, the flagon of ether and laudanum—all this in the daytime had a stealthy nastiness, like a fag party.
The girl and I stood looking at each other. She tried to keep a cute little smile on her face but her face was too tired to be bothered. It kept going blank on her. The smile would wash off like water off sand and her pale skin had a harsh granular texture under the stunned and stupid blankness of her eyes. A whitish tongue licked at the corners of her mouth. A pretty, spoiled and not very bright little girl who had gone very, very wrong, and nobody was doing anything about it. To hell with the rich. They made me sick. I rolled a cigarette in my fingers and pushed some books out of the way and sat on the end of the black desk. I lit my cigarette, puffed a plume of smoke and watched the thumb and tooth act for a while in silence. Carmen stood in front of me, like a bad girl in the Principal's office.
What are you doing here? I asked her finally.
She picked at the cloth of her coat and didn't answer.
How much do you remember of last night?
She answered that—with a foxy glitter rising at the back of her eyes. ""Remember what? I was sick last night. I was home."" Her voice was a cautious throaty sound that just reached my ears.
Like hell you were.
Her eyes flicked up and down very swiftly.
Before you went home, I said. Before I took you home. Here. In that chair— I pointed to it—on that orange shawl. You remember all right.
A slow flush crept up her throat. That was something. She could blush. A glint of white showed under the clogged gray irises. She chewed hard on her thumb.
You—were the one? she breathed.
Me. How much of it stays with you?
She said vaguely: ""Are you the police?""
No. I'm a friend of your father's.
You're not the police?
No.
She let out a thin sigh. ""Wha—what do you want?""
Who killed him?
Her shoulders jerked, but nothing more moved in her face. ""Who else—knows?"""	"Summary: The narrator reflects on the disappearance of Geiger and contemplates the possibility that he may have been murdered. He encounters Carmen Sternwood, who is acting strangely, and questions her about what happened the previous night.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Geiger, Carmen Sternwood
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Geiger's garage, Geiger's house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	'Who's Geiger?' I asked, and he said 'A man who went into the garage business at about the time you were still in a perambulator. He had a lot of money once, but he lost it all on horses and women. Now he lives in a big house up the hill from here and drives an old touring-car which he keeps polished like a mirror. The last couple of times I've seen him he was dressed as if he were going to a fancy-dress ball, and there was a young lady with him, also in evening dress.' 'And what has happened to him? Why is he not here tonight?' 'He left here early this afternoon. He said he had some important business to attend to and that he would be back late in the evening.' 'Well,' I said, 'I don't think he'll be back tonight, because he's been murdered.' Then I repeated what I had overheard in his study. The General laughed, and I told him about my conversation with Carmen Sternwood. 'That girl is certainly acting very strangely,' he said. 'It is possible that she has found out something that she thinks will put her brother in danger, so she is trying to divert attention from him by creating a mystery about herself. Or it may be that she is just pretending to be absent-minded. You must remember that she is only twenty years old, and that she has led a very sheltered life until quite recently. She knows nothing about the world outside the front gate of this palace. It is entirely possible that she has fallen in love with Geiger.' 'I doubt it,' I said. 'She struck me as being more interested in my companion than in Geiger.' 'In any case,' he said, 'you must go up to Geiger's house now and see what you can find out. Take this revolver with you, and one of these men for company.' A few minutes later we set out in the car. As we drove up to Geiger's house I saw that the front door stood open, and Carmen Sternwood ran out and down the steps towards us. 'Thank God!' she said. 'I thought you'd never come! Oh, please hurry! There's someone killed in there! Please hurry!' CHAPTER XI THE GENERAL'S TRICKS I had expected to find Carmen Sternwood hysterical, but she was perfectly calm when we got inside the house. After looking at Geiger's body and talking to the police she said: 'Now I suppose you want to know what happened, and I'll tell you. Geiger came into the room where I was sitting and tried to kiss me. When I pushed him away he called me a dirty little brat and started cursing me. 
26	26	"About Geiger? I don't know. Not the police, or they'd be camping here. Maybe Joe Brody.
It was a stab in the dark but it got a yelp out of her. ""Joe Brody! Him!""
Then we were both silent. I dragged at my cigarette and she ate her thumb.
Don't get clever, for God's sake, I urged her. This is a spot for a little old-fashioned simplicity. Did Brody kill him?
Kill who?
Oh, Christ, I said.
She looked hurt. Her chin came down an inch. ""Yes,"" she said solemnly. ""Joe did it.""
Why?
I don't know. She shook her head, persuading herself that she didn't know.
Seen much of him lately?
Her hands went down and made small white knots. ""Just once or twice. I hate him.""
Then you know where he lives.
Yes.
And you don't like him any more?
I hate him!
Then you'd like him for the spot.
A little blank again. I was going too fast for her. It was hard not to. ""Are you willing to tell the police it was Joe Brody?"" I probed.
Sudden panic flamed all over her face. ""If I can kill the nude photo angle, of course,"" I added soothingly.
She giggled. That gave me a nasty feeling. If she had screeched or wept or even nosedived to the floor in a dead faint, that would have been all right. She just giggled. It was suddenly a lot of fun. She had had her photo taken as Isis and somebody had swiped it and somebody had bumped Geiger off in front of her and she was drunker than a Legion convention, and it was suddenly a lot of nice clean fun. So she giggled. Very cute. The giggles got louder and ran around the corners of the room like rats behind the wainscoting. She started to go hysterical. I slid off the desk and stepped up close to her and gave her a smack on the side of the face.
Just like last night,"" I said. ""We're a scream together. Reilly and Sternwood, two stooges in search of a comedian.""
The giggles stopped dead, but she didn't mind the slap any more than last night. Probably all her boy friends got around to slapping her sooner or later. I could understand how they might. I sat down on the end of the black desk again.
Your name isn't Reilly, she said seriously. It's Philip Marlowe. You're a private detective. Viv told me. She showed me your card. She smoothed the cheek I had slapped. She smiled at me, as if I was nice to be with.
Well, you do remember, I said. And you came back to look for that photo and you couldn't get into the house. Didn't you?
Her chin ducked down and up. She worked the smile. I was having the eye put on me. I was being brought into camp. I was going to yell ""Yippee!"" in a minute and ask her to go to Yuma.
The photo's gone, I said. I looked last night, before I took you home. Probably Brody took it with him. You're not kidding me about Brody?
She shook her head earnestly.
It's a pushover, I said. You don't have to give it another thought. Don't tell a soul you were here, last night or today. Not even Vivian. Just forget you were here. Leave it to Reilly.
Your name isn't— she began, and then stopped and shook her head vigorously in agreement with what I had said or with what she had just thought of. Her eyes became narrow and almost black and as shallow as enamel on a cafeteria tray. She had had an idea. I have to go home now, she said, as if we had been having a cup of tea.
Sure."	"Summary: A conversation between two characters, with one of them admitting to the murder and the other promising not to tell anyone.
Enunciation: Dialogue
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Geiger, Joe Brody, Vivian, Marlowe
Fuzzy place: Unnamed location
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Was gibt's, Geiger?  Was du willst, Brody. Joe Brody. Na so! Es ist gut, wenn ich das hre. Ich hab dich nun endlich gefunden, mein Herr, und da du mich noch lebendig wieder siehst, mu ich dir sagen, da es dir schlecht ergehen wird. Sei nicht zornig auf mich; denn ich wei doch, warum du mich suchst; und ich habe dich auch schon gefunden. Und da du mich findest, sollst du nun leben oder sterben, wie die Schicksalsgottin denkts. Willst du, da ich dich tte? Ich wei, du machst mir nichts vor; du hast mich nur gesucht, weil du mich fr tot halten wolltest. Aber jetzt sag ich dir: Ich bin nicht tot. Willst du, da ich dich tte? Sag du ja, so will ich es tun; sag du nein, so la ich dich gehen, und ich schwrs bei allem, was heilig ist, da ich keinem Menschen etwas davon sage. Sieh zu, wie du dich entscheidest. Denn ich will nicht länger warten; denn so lang du nicht entschieden hast, so lang bleib ich hier. Denn wenn ich dich nicht gleich tot sehe, so kann ich ja doch nicht sicher sein, da du nicht tot bist.  Nein, ich will nicht, da du mich ttest, Vivian. Marlowe. Wie, Vivian! Das wre eine schne Tat! Und woher nimmt der Grieche so viel Mut? Wenn du ihn gettet httest, wie httest du ihn dann zurckbringen sollen? Warum hat er sich nicht vor ihm geflgelt, als er kam? Jetzt ist es zu spat. Er mu ihn freilassen; denn er ist frei, wenn er lebt. Vivian. Ich glaube, das will er nicht. Marlowe. Aber er mu; denn er ist frei, und man darf einen Freien nicht fesseln. Wo ist der Knabe? (Der Knabe kommt.) Gib ihm seinen Stab und seine Ringe zurck, und sage ihm, wir wollen in die Stadt zurck. Und lat uns gehen.  Ohrmeister. Lebt er?  Ja, Herr; aber er steht noch ganz durcheinander da.  So bringt ihn herauf. (Er geht ab.) Marlowe. Du bist ein gutes Kind. Komm mit mir, du sollst bald dein Vaterland wiedersehen. Kommt, Alcides. Hier ist dein Lied. Wir haben dir's aus der Zeitung gemacht. Ihr lt euch ja scheiden, sonst wr's nicht gut gewesen. Geiger. Und nun singt ihr's ihm vor, damit er den ganzen Marsch nach Hellas singt, bis die andern Jungen von ihm sprechen. 
27	27	"I didn't move. She gave me another cute glance and went on towards the front door. She had her hand on the knob when we both heard a car coming. She looked at me with questions in her eyes. I shrugged. The car stopped, right in front of the house. Terror twisted her face. There were steps and the bell rang. Carmen stared back at me over her shoulder, her hand clutching the door knob, almost drooling with fear. The bell kept on ringing. Then the ringing stopped. A key tickled at the door and Carmen jumped away from it and stood frozen. The door swung open. A man stepped through it briskly and stopped dead, staring at us quietly, with complete composure.
[13]
He was a gray man, all gray, except for his polished black shoes and two scarlet diamonds in his gray satin tie that looked like the diamonds on roulette layouts. His shirt was gray and his double-breasted suit of soft, beautifully cut flannel. Seeing Carmen he took a gray hat off and his hair underneath it was gray and as fine as if it had been sifted through gauze. His thick gray eyebrows had that indefinably sporty look. He had a long chin, a nose with a hook to it, thoughtful gray eyes that had a slanted look because the fold of skin over his upper lid came down over the comer of the lid itself.
He stood there politely, one hand touching the door at his back, the other holding the gray hat and flapping it gently against his thigh. He looked hard, not the hardness of the tough guy. More like the hardness of a well-weathered horseman. But he was no horseman. He was Eddie Mars.
He pushed the door shut behind him and put that hand in the lap-seamed pocket of his coat and left the thumb outside to glisten in the rather dim light of the room. He smiled at Carmen. He had a nice easy smile. She licked her lips and stared at him. The fear went out of her face. She smiled back.
Excuse the casual entrance, he said. The bell didn't seem to rouse anybody. Is Mr. Geiger around?
I said: ""No. We don't know just where he is. We found the door a little open. We stepped inside.""
He nodded and touched his long chin with the brim of his hat. ""You're friends of his, of course?""
Just business acquaintances. We dropped by for a book.
A book, eh? He said that quickly and brightly and, I thought, a little slyly, as if he knew all about Geiger's books. Then he looked at Carmen again and shrugged.
I moved towards the door. ""We'll trot along now,"" I said. I took hold of her arm. She was staring at Eddie Mars. She liked him.
Any message—if Geiger comes back? Eddie Mars asked gently.
We won't bother you.
That's too bad, he said, with too much meaning. His gray eyes twinkled and then hardened as I went past him to open the door. He added in a casual tone: The girl can dust. I'd like to talk to you a little, soldier.
I let go of her arm. I gave him a blank stare. ""Kidder, eh?"" he said nicely. ""Don't waste it. I've got two boys outside in a car that always do just what I want them to.""
Carmen made a sound at my side and bolted through the door. Her steps faded rapidly downhill. I hadn't seen her car, so she must have left it down below. I started to say: ""What the hell—!""
Oh, skip it, Eddie Mars sighed. There's something wrong around here. I'm going to find out what it is. If you want to pick lead out of your belly, get in my way.
Well, well, I said, a tough guy.
Only when necessary, soldier. He wasn't looking at me any more. He was walking around the room, frowning, not paying any attention to me. I looked out above the broken pane of the front window. The top of a car showed over the hedge. Its motor idled.
Eddie Mars found the purple flagon and the two gold-veined glasses on the desk. He sniffed at one of the glasses, then at the flagon. A disgusted smile wrinkled his lips. ""The lousy pimp,"" he said tonelessly."	"Summary: A man named Eddie Mars enters a house and confronts two people, Carmen and the narrator. He threatens them and mentions having men outside in a car. Carmen runs away and Eddie searches the room, finding evidence of alcohol.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Eddie Mars, Carmen, the narrator
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Eddie Mars' house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"They were in the midst of a fight. Eddie Mars stood with his back against the door, as though he had been waiting there for her, and Carmen, half turning, was reaching out to push him aside when they saw me. Well,"" said Eddie Mars, ""well, well, well."" He shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Then he looked at me steadily, not even blinking. I could see him taking stock of me, measuring the odds. There was a cold, clear light in his eyes. They were quite hard and flat and colorless, like the eyes of a fish. A new guest?"" he said. ""A little late, isn't he?"""" It's all right,"" Carmen said quickly. ""He's all right."""" She put her hand on my shoulder. """"He's a friend of mine."""" Eddie Mars' face twitched. He stared at us, but his voice was quite steady. """"I'm afraid you're mistaken about that,"""" he said. """"You'd better ask him if I'm wrong."""" He took a step toward us. The door leading to the hall was open behind him, and through it I could see into the little reception-room beyond, where the bar was set up. In the middle of the floor there was a big leather chair with a man sitting in it. He wore a white suit and a straw hat pushed far back on his head. He was leaning forward with one arm over the chair-arm, looking at Eddie Mars' back. From somewhere near by there came the sound of soft music, a waltz. I didn't turn around. I just stood there, staring at Eddie Mars. Carmen stood beside me, still holding my arm, and I could feel her hand trembling. Eddie Mars watched us without moving. His eyes seemed to have changed somehow; they were not so hard now. He smiled a little, and his voice was casual again. """"So you've met my wife,"""" he said. I nodded. He pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket and opened it. """"Want one?"""" he asked politely. No thanks,"" I said. You don't smoke?"" I don't care much for cigarettes."" What kind do you like?"" Brandy,"" I said. He laughed shortly. """"Well, we haven't got any brandy here,"""" he said. """"But you can have some of this."""" He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Carmen. I took the other. He bent down and picked up a glass from the table beside the couch and gave it to me. It was half full of gin, but I drank it down. Carmen went over to the phonograph and turned it off. I felt very quiet inside. I began to understand how a cornered rat feels, or maybe like a soldier who has orders to give himself up. It wouldn't be so bad after all, just being quiet and letting things happen. Eddie Mars sat down in a big leather chair and crossed his legs. He was smiling at me in a friendly way. "
28	28	"He looked at a couple of books, grunted, went on around the desk and stood in front of the little totem pole with the camera eye. He studied it, dropped his glance to the floor in front of it. He moved the small rug with his foot, then bent swiftly, his body tense. He went down on the floor with one gray knee. The desk hid him from me partly. There was a sharp exclamation and he came up again. His arm flashed under his coat and a black Luger appeared in his hand. He held it in long brown fingers, not pointing it at me me, not pointing it at anything.
Blood, he said. Blood on the floor there, under the rug. Quite a lot of blood.
Is that so? I said, looking interested.
He slid into the chair behind the desk and hooked the mulberry-colored phone towards him and shifted the Luger to his left hand. He frowned sharply at the telephone, bringing his thick gray eyebrows close together and making a hard crease in the weathered skin at the top of his hooked nose. ""I think we'll have some law,"" he said.
I went over and kicked at the rug that lay where Geiger had lain. ""It's old blood,"" I said. ""Dried blood.""
Just the same we'll have some law.""
Why not? I said.
His eyes went narrow. The veneer had flaked off him, leaving a well-dressed hard boy with a Luger. He didn't like my agreeing with him.
Just who the hell are you, soldier?
Marlowe is the name. I'm a sleuth.
Never heard of you. Who's the girl?
Client. Geiger was trying to throw a loop on her with some black-mail. We came to talk it over. He wasn't here. The door being open we walked in to wait. Or did I tell you that?
Convenient, he said. The door being open. When you didn't have a key.
Yes. How come you had a key?
Is that any of your business, soldier?
I could make it my business.
He smiled tightly and pushed his hat back on his gray hair. ""And I could make your business my business.""
You wouldn't like it. The pay's too small.
All right, bright eyes. I own this house. Geiger is my tenant. Now what do you think of that?
You know such lovely people.
I take them as they come. They come all kinds. He glanced down at the Luger, shrugged and tucked it back under his arm. Got any good ideas, soldier?
Lots of them. Somebody gunned Geiger. Somebody got gunned by Geiger, who ran away. Or it was two other fellows. Or Geiger was running a cult and made blood sacrifices in front of that totem pole. Or he had chicken for dinner and liked to kill his chickens in the front parlor.
The gray man scowled at me.
I give up, I said. Better call your friends downtown.
I don't get it, he snapped. I don't get your game here.
Go ahead, call the buttons. You'll get a big reaction from it.
He thought that over without moving. His lips went back against his teeth. ""I don't get that, either,"" he said tightly.
Maybe it just isn't your day. I know you, Mr. Mars. The Cypress Club at Las Olindas. Flash gambling for flash people. The local law in your pocket and a well-greased line into L.A. In other words, protection. Geiger was in a racket that needed that too. Perhaps you spared him a little now and then, seeing he's your tenant.
His mouth became a hard white grimace. ""Geiger was in what racket?""
The smut book racket.
He stared at me for a long level minute. ""Somebody got to him,"" he said softly. ""You know something about it. He didn't show at the store today. They don't know where he is. He didn't answer the phone here. I came up to see about it. I find blood on the floor, under a rug. And you and a girl here.""
A little weak, I said. But maybe you can sell the story to a willing buyer. You missed a little something, though. Somebody moved his books out of the store today—the nice books he rented out.
He snapped his fingers sharply and said: ""I should have thought of that, soldier. You seem to get around. How do you figure it?"""	"Summary: A man discovers blood on the floor and calls for law enforcement, but another man claims to be a detective investigating Geiger's disappearance.
Trope: Detective solving a crime
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Dialog
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Marlowe, Mars
Quoted character: Geiger
Fuzzy place: Front parlor
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"A little further on, by the front parlor door, I saw that something was spattered over the floor. It was blood!"""" [Footnote: Ed. Note: This is an inaccurate report of what Marlowe saw. He had heard Geiger's voice at the door and knew that he had returned. He also knew that there was no blood in the front hall or parlor. The spatterings which he saw were due to Mars' struggles with the two men who attacked him in the back yard. Some of the drops were large and some small; this is accounted for by the fact that a man bleeding from a stab wound will lose a considerable amount of blood within a few minutes.] But he didn't say anything about it then. 'Come here!' he said. And when I got near him he took hold of my arm and said: 'We've got to get out of this. Something's wrong here. Come on.' Well, sir, we went upstairs into the dining-room and sat down at the table. We were both pretty much upset, and I guess neither one of us knew what to do next. Then all at once Marlowe jumped up and ran out of the room, and I thought he was going to be sick, but he didn't come back. "
29	29	"I think Geiger was rubbed. I think that is his blood. And the books being moved out gives a motive for hiding the body for a while. Somebody is taking over the racket and wants a little time to organize.
They can't get away with it, Eddie Mars said grimly.
Who says so? You and a couple of gunmen in your car outside? This is a big town now, Eddie. Some very tough people have checked in here lately. The penalty of growth.
You talk too damned much, Eddie Mars said. He bared his teeth and whistled twice, sharply. A car door slammed outside and running steps came through the hedge. Mars flicked the Luger out again and pointed it at my chest. Open the door.
The knob rattled and a voice called out. I didn't move. The muzzle of the Luger looked like the mouth of the Second Street tunnel, but I didn't move. Not being bullet proof is an idea I had had to get used to.
Open it yourself, Eddie. Who the hell are you to give me orders? Be nice and I might help you out.
He came to his feet rigidly and moved around the end of the desk and over to the door. He opened it without taking his eyes off me. Two men tumbled into the room, reaching busily under their arms. One was an obvious pug, a good-looking pale-faced boy with a bad nose and one ear like a club steak. The other man was slim, blond, deadpan, with close-set eyes and no color in them.
Eddie Mars said: ""See if this bird is wearing any iron.""
The blond flicked a short-barreled gun out and stood pointing it at me. The pug sidled over flatfooted and felt my pockets with care. I turned around for him like a bored beauty modeling an evening gown.
No gun, he said in a burry voice.
Find out who he is.
The pug slipped a hand into my breast pocket and drew out my wallet. He flipped it open and studied the contents. ""Name's Philip Marlowe, Eddie. Lives at the Hobart Arms on Franklin. Private license, deputy's badge and all. A shamus."" He slipped the wallet back in my pocket, slapped my face lightly and turned away.
Beat it, Eddie Mars said.
The two gunmen went out again and closed the door. There was the sound of them getting back into the car. They started its motor and kept it idling once more.
All right. Talk, Eddie Mars snapped. The peaks of his eyebrows made sharp angles against his forehead.
I'm not ready to give out. Killing Geiger to grab his racket would be a dumb trick and I'm not sure it happened that way, assuming he has been killed. But I'm sure that whoever got the books knows what's what, and I'm sure that the blonde lady down at his store is scared batty about something or other. And I have a guess who got the books.
Who?
That's the part I'm not ready to give out. I've got a client, you know.
He wrinkled his nose. ""That—"" he chopped it off quickly.
I expected you would know the girl, I said.
Who got the books, soldier?
Not ready to talk, Eddie. Why should I?
He put the Luger down on the desk and slapped it with his open palm. ""This,"" he said. ""And I might make it worth your while.""
That's the spirit. Leave the gun out of it. I can always hear the sound of money. How much are you clinking at me?
For doing what?
What did you want done?"	"Summary: The protagonist, Philip Marlowe, is questioned by Eddie Mars about the whereabouts of some books and the possible murder of Geiger.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Geiger, Eddie Mars, Philip Marlowe
Fuzzy place: Unnamed location
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"Geiger didn't leave any books here?"" Eddie Mars said. ""What books?"" The kind you have in your house, the kind Geiger had in his room, the kind you were after."" Eddie Mars shook his head slowly. He stared at Marlowe with sad eyes. """"I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about,"""" he said. He sat down on the edge of the table and folded his hands loosely on his knees. His face was pale and there was a dryness about his mouth that made it look shrunken. Look, mister,"" he said quietly. ""If anybody thinks they can come around here and talk to me like this, just because I happen to be a gambler and my wife happens to be a floozie and I happen to be mixed up with a couple of hoods who sell liquor by the gallon to bars all over L.A., then they're making a big mistake. I know where I stand. I've got a pretty good idea where you stand. And let's not try to get mixed up."""" You want me to go away?"" Yes, if that's the way you feel. I won't mention the books again. But I still want to know why you killed Geiger."""" Eddie Mars stood up suddenly. His mouth opened and closed without making a sound. Then: """"You're crazy!"""" he said. """"You're stark raving nuts! What books? Who said anything about killing Geiger? Who told you that? When did I kill Geiger?"""" There was no expression on his face now. It was as blank as a child's. Philip Marlowe looked at him steadily. This is a little rough on you, Mars, but you could probably take it better if you had something to sit down on."""" He reached behind him and lifted the wooden chair off the floor. He placed it beside the desk and sat down carefully. Then he took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. When he spoke again his voice was very quiet. I'll tell you what happened, Mars,"" he said. ""It will be easier for you to understand it sitting down. When Geiger disappeared he left some books in his room. They were stolen from the house of a woman named Helen Brannigan. She is also missing. The books are valuable. Some people wanted them back."""" He nodded at Eddie Mars. Your wife is one of those people. You knew where Geiger was hiding out. You went to see him. You took a gun along, because you knew you might have trouble. You found out where the books were hidden. You took them. Geiger put up a fight. You shot him twice in the belly and once in the heart."""" Eddie Mars smiled a faint and very cold smile. If you're through playing games with me, let's go back to my office. We can finish the deal we started."""" Marlowe shook his head slowly. """"That's another thing you don't understand,"""" he said. """"We finished the deal when I came in here. "
30	30	"He slammed the desk hard. ""Listen, soldier. I ask you a question and you ask me another. We're not getting anywhere. I want to know where Geiger is, for my own personal reasons. I didn't like his racket and I didn't protect him. I happen to own this house. I'm not so crazy about that right now. I can believe that whatever you know about all this is under glass, or there would be a flock of johns squeaking sole leather around this dump. You haven't got anything to sell. My guess is you need a little protection yourself. So cough up.""
It was a good guess, but I wasn't going to let him know it. I lit a cigarette and blew the match out and flicked it at the glass eye of the totem pole. ""You're right,"" I said. ""If anything has happened to Geiger, I'll have to give what I have to the law. Which puts it in the public domain and doesn't leave me anything to sell. So with your permission I'1l just drift.""
His face whitened under the tan. He looked mean, fast and tough for a moment. He made a movement to lift the gun. I added casually: ""By the way, how is Mrs. Mars these days?""
I thought for a moment I had kidded him a little too far. His hand jerked at the gun, shaking. His face was stretched out by hard muscles. ""Beat it,"" he said quite softly. ""I don't give a damn where you go or what you do when you get there. Only take a word of advice, soldier. Leave me out of your plans or you'll wish your name was Murphy and you lived in Limerick.""
Well, that's not so far from Clonmel, I said. I hear you had a pal came from there.
He leaned down on the desk, frozen-eyed, unmoving. I went over to the door and opened it and looked back at him. His eyes had followed me, but his lean gray body had not moved. There was hate in his eyes. I went out and through the hedge and up the hill to my car and got into it. I turned it around and drove up over the crest. Nobody shot at me. After a few blocks I turned off, cut the motor and sat for a few moments. Nobody followed me either. I drove back into Hollywood.
[14]
It was ten minutes to five when I parked near the lobby entrance of the apartment house on Randall Place. A few windows were lit and radios were bleating at the dusk. I rode the automatic elevator up to the fourth floor and went along a wide hall carpeted in green and paneled in ivory. A cool breeze blew down the hall from the open screened door to the Ere escape.
There was a small ivory pushbutton beside the door marked ""405."" I pushed it and waited what seemed a long time. Then the door opened noiselessly about a foot. There was a steady, furtive air in the way it opened. The man was long-legged, long-waisted, high-shouldered and he had dark brown eyes in a brown expressionless face that had learned to control its expressions long ago. Hair like steel wool grew far back on his head and gave him a great deal of domed brown forehead that might at a careless glance have seemed a dwelling place for brains. His somber eyes probed at me impersonally. His long thin brown lingers held the edge of the door. He said nothing.
I said: ""Geiger?""
Nothing in the man's face changed that I could see. He brought a cigarette from behind the door and tucked it between his lips and drew a little smoke from it. The smoke came towards me in a lazy, contemptuous puff and behind it words in a cool, unhurried voice that had no more inflection than the voice of a faro dealer.
You said what?
Geiger. Arthur Gwynn Geiger. The guy that has the books.
The man considered that without any haste. He glanced down at the tip of his cigarette. His other hand, the one that had been holding the door, dropped out of sight. His shoulder had a look as though his hidden hand might be making motions.
Don't know anybody by that name, he said. Does he live around here?
I smiled. He didn't like the smile. His eyes got nasty. I said: ""You're Joe Brody?""
The brown face hardened. ""So what? Got a grift, brother—or just amusing yourself?""
So you're Joe Brody, I said. And you don't know anybody named Geiger. That's very funny."	"Summary: The protagonist confronts a man about the whereabouts of Geiger and mentions Mrs. Mars, causing the man to become angry and threaten the protagonist.
Trope: Tough guy with a gun
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Protagonist, man at door
Time setting: Antiquity

Diegetic time: A few hours"	But the man at the door said: “I am a ruffian, I am a murderer. As for you, you are a fool, and fools I have killed before now; but we will see whether you can face a pistol.” And he drew out a pistol and held it up in his hand. Then the other stood still and waited. “Now,” said the man, “where is Geiger?” But the other did not speak. “Do you hear?” said the man. “Where is Geiger?” But the other only looked at him and waited. “It shall be well with you if you tell me,” said the man. “Yes,” said the other, “it shall be well with me.” The man put the pistol to his head. “Where is Geiger?” he said. “In Hell,” said the other. And then the man’s face grew red and he shouted: “Are you going to tell me that about Mrs. Mars?” And he came forward and struck the other across the face with the barrel of the pistol. And the other caught hold of the hand that held the pistol and bent back the fingers till they cracked, and the pistol fell upon the floor. And the man began to cry. “Give me my pistol,” he said. “I must go away. It is no good here. I cannot stand it. Give me my pistol.” But the other took him by the shoulder and led him into the house. CHAPTER VI When you have lived as long as I have, you learn to know what is coming. In the evening, when the light was beginning to fail and the violet shadows crept through the trees and lay like pools under the overhanging bushes, I went up to where the man was sitting on the bank. He had taken off his boots and was resting his feet in the water. “There are trout there,” he said, “if you want one.” “No,” I said, “I do not want one. May I sit down?” “Of course.” And he stretched his legs out into the stream, so that the water covered them up to the knee. There were plenty of flies about, brown ones and green ones, and a few white ones among them. “It is too late for that,” he said, when I asked him if I might get some. “You won’t get many.” “That does not matter,” I said. “I don’t want many.” I sat down near him. After a time he said: “I suppose you know something about fishing.” “I know quite enough to enjoy it,” I said. “I think it is rather a bore, really.” “I think it is rather a bore, too,” he said. “A bore is better than nothing.” And then we both laughed. “How old are you?” he said suddenly. “Twenty-three.” “And how long have you been in Greece?” “Three months.” “What made you come?” “Why did I come?” 
31	31	"Yeah? You got a funny sense of humor maybe. Take it away and play on it somewhere else.
I leaned against the door and gave him a dreamy smile. ""You got the books, Joe. I got the sucker list. We ought to talk things over.""
He didn't shift his eyes from my face. There was a faint sound in the room behind him, as though a metal curtain ring clicked lightly on a metal rod. He glanced sideways into the room. He opened the door wider.
Why not—if you think you've got something? he said coolly. He stood aside from the door. I went past him into the room.
It was a cheerful room with good furniture and not too much of it. French windows in the end wall opened on a stone porch and looked across the dusk at the foothills. Near the windows a closed door in the west wall and near the entrance door another door in the same wall. This last had a plush curtain drawn across it on a thin brass rod below the lintel.
That left the east wall, in which there were no doors. There was a davenport backed against the middle of it, so I sat down on the davenport. Brody shut the door and walked crab-fashion to a tall oak desk studded with square nails. A cedarwood box with gilt hinges lay on the lowered leaf of the desk. He carried the box to an easy chair midway between the other two doors and sat down. I dropped my hat on the davenport and waited.
Well, I'm listening, Brody said. He opened the cigar box and dropped his cigarette stub into a dish at his side. He put a long thin cigar in his mouth. Cigar? He tossed one at me through the air.
I reached for it. Brody took a gun out of the cigar box and pointed it at my nose. I looked at the gun. It was a black Police.38. I had no argument against it at the moment.
Neat, huh? Brody said. Just kind of stand up a minute. Come forward just about two yards. You might grab a little air while you're doing that. His voice was the elaborately casual voice of the tough guy in pictures. Pictures have made them all like that.
Tsk, tsk, I said, not moving at all. Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains. You're the second guy I've met within hours who seems to think a gat in the hand means a world by the tail. Put it down and don't be silly, Joe.
His eyebrows came together and he pushed his chin at me. His eyes were mean.
The other guy's name is Eddie Mars, I said. Ever hear of him?
No. Brody kept the gun pointed at me.
If he ever gets wise to where you were last night in the rain, he'll wipe you off the way a check raiser wipes a check.
What would I be to Eddie Mars? Brody asked coldly. But he lowered the gun to his knee.
Not even a memory, I said.
We stared at each other. I didn't look at the pointed black slipper that showed under the plush curtain on the doorway to my left.
Brody said quietly: ""Don't get me wrong. I'm not a tough guy—just careful. I don't know hell's first whisper about you. You might be a lifetaker for all I know.""
You're not careful enough, I said. That play with Geiger's books was terrible.
He drew a long slow breath and let it out silently. Then he leaned back and crossed his long legs and held the Colt on his knee.
Don't kid yourself I won't use this heat, if I have to, he said. What's your story?
Have your friend with the pointed slippers come on in. She gets tired holding her breath.
Brody called out without moving his eyes off my stomach. ""Come on in, Agnes.""
The curtain swung aside and the green-eyed, thigh-swinging ash blonde from Geiger's store joined us in the room. She looked at me with a kind of mangled hatred. Her nostrils were pinched and her eyes had darkened a couple of shades. She looked very unhappy."	"Summary: The protagonist and Joe have a conversation in a room, with Brody pointing a gun at the protagonist. The protagonist mentions Eddie Mars and Agnes enters the room.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The protagonist, Joe, Brody, Agnes
Fuzzy place: A cheerful room with good furniture
Diegetic time: A few hours"	We were in a cheerful room with good furniture, not the usual stuff of the road houses. I sat on a couch and Joe sat on the edge of a chair, his hat still on, looking at me as though I was an unusual kind of bird. After a moment he said: “You’re the guy that was talking to Brody.” “That’s right,” I said. “He had you covered all the time you were standing there. You must have a death wish.” “I’ve got plenty of those,” I said. “But what is it all about? Is this a place to eat or not?” “It’s a gambling joint,” he said, “but we can eat here. What did you want to talk to Brody for?” “I wanted to know where Eddie Mars was.” “What would you want to know that for?” “I thought maybe he could get me some work driving a truck.” He nodded. “Sure. Anything you want.” “Where is he?” “At home.” “I tried there. The girl wouldn’t let me in.” “She’s his wife.” “Oh. Wasn’t she the one who was shot up at the race track?” “Yeah. She’s out of it now. Almost back to normal. You want to see her?” “Not particularly. But thanks. Where is Eddie Mars?” He scratched his jaw slowly. “If I told you that, I’d be giving away information about my boss. And I don’t do that without asking questions first.” “What sort of questions?” “Questions I want answers to. Who are you? Where did you come from? What are you doing here?” I looked at him carefully. He was young, but he had the look of a man who is going to be tough. There was nothing soft about him. There wasn’t anything soft about anything in that room. It was too clean, too silent, too empty. Even the air seemed too bright. His eyes had no curiosity, only a hard cold interest. I stood up and walked around the room, looking at everything, coming back and sitting down. I lit another cigarette. “My name’s Marlowe,” I said. “Philip Marlowe. Private detective. I’m staying at the apartment over the drugstore.” “Are you working for anyone?” “No.” He reached behind him and pushed a button under the table. A door opened at the side of the room and a fat bald-headed man with a black mustache came in. “Gladys will show you your room,” Joe said. “Then we’ll talk more. If you’re interested in seeing Eddie Mars, you’ll have to wait until he wants to see you. You understand that?” “I understand that. And you understand I’m not going to sit in my room like a potted palm just because you say so.” “You won’t have to. You’ll want to stay.” “Why?” “Because you like things,” he said, and smiled. “Do you always talk like that?” “No. Only when I feel like it.” “Are you always like this?” “Like what?” “So sure of yourself.” “I guess so. Why not?” 
32	32	"I knew damn well you were trouble, she snapped at me. I told Joe to watch his step.
It's not his step, it's the back of his lap he ought to watch, I said.
I suppose that's funny, the blonde squealed.
It has been, I said. But it probably isn't any more.
Save the gags, Brody advised me. Joe's watchin' his step plenty. Put some light on so I can see to pop this guy, if it works out that way.
The blonde snicked on a light in a big square standing lamp. She sank down into a chair beside the lamp and sat stiffly, as if her girdle was too tight. I put my cigar in my mouth and bit the end off. Brody's Colt took a close interest in me while I got matches out and lit the cigar. I tasted the smoke and said:
The sucker list I spoke of is in code. I haven't cracked it yet, but there are about five hundred names. You got twelve boxes of books that I know of. You should have at least five hundred books. There'll be a bunch more out on loan, but say five hundred is the full crop, just to be cautious. If it's a good active list and you could run it even fifty per cent down the line, that would be one hundred and twenty-five thousand rentals. Your girl friend knows all about that. I'm only guessing. Put the average rental as low as you like, but it won't be less than a dollar. That merchandise costs money. At a dollar a rental you take one hundred and twenty-five grand and you still have your capital. I mean, you still have Geiger's capital. That's enough to spot a guy for.
The blonde yelped; ""You're crazy, you goddam egg-headed—!""
Brody put his teeth sideways at her and snarled: ""Pipe down, for Chrissake. Pipe down!""
She subsided into an outraged mixture of slow anguish and bottled fury. Her silvery nails scraped on her knees.
It's no racket for bums, I told Brody almost affectionately. It takes a smooth worker like you, Joe. You've got to get confidence and keep it. People who spend their money for second-hand sex jags are as nervous as dowagers who can't find the rest room. Personally I think the blackmail angles are a big mistake. I'm for shedding all that and sticking to legitimate sales and rentals.
Brody's dark brown stare moved up and down my face. His Colt went on hungering for my vital organs. ""You're a funny guy,"" he said tonelessly. ""Who has this lovely racket?""
You have, I said. Almost.
The blonde choked and clawed her ear. Brody didn't say anything. He just looked at me.
What? the blonde yelped. You sit there and try to tell us Mr. Geiger ran the kind of business right down on the main drag? You're nuts!
I leered at her politely. ""Sure I do. Everybody knows the racket exists. Hollywood's made to order for it. If a thing like that has to exist, then right out on the street is where all practical coppers want it to exist. For the same reason they favor red light districts. They know where to flush the game when they want to.""
My God, the blonde wailed. You let this cheesehead sit there and insult me, Joe? You with a gun in your hand and him holding nothing but a cigar and his thumb?
I like it, Brody said. The guy's got good ideas. Shut your trap and keep it shut, or I'll slap it shut for you with this. He flicked the gun around in an increasingly negligent manner.
The blonde gasped and turned her face to the wall. Brody looked at me and said cunningly; ""How have I got that lovely racket?"""	"Summary: The speaker is explaining a lucrative racket to someone named Joe, while being interrupted by a blonde woman who objects to the conversation.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The speaker, Joe, the blonde woman
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"'Joe,' I said, 'I have an idea for a racket which may make us both rich.' Joe gave me his attention, and so did the blonde woman. 'I have been thinking all afternoon,' I said, 'of the value of the place we are in. It is unique. There is nothing like it in the world. You may find girls who are better looking, but you will not find them living in a palace like this, with no obligations whatever to anybody. The other night when I came back from the islands I found this girl here trying on my wife's jewels. She has never seen anything like them before; nor has anybody else. And there are more where they came from. If I were running a house in New York or Paris I could not give these jewels to any of my girls, because I should have to pay too much income tax on them. But here, if I want to, I can give them to one of my girls and keep them. And that is what I propose to do. I propose to pick out a girl whom I think deserving, and give her those jewels as a present. Not only that, but every month I intend to give each girl here a present of money, and that too shall be tax free. The money, by the way, will come out of your pocket, Joe, and you can add the cost of the presents to my salary bill. So you see we can all live happily ever after. Now tell me, what do you say to the idea?"""" When I had finished speaking there was silence. The girl had laid down her sewing and sat staring at me. Her face was white, and her eyes shone with hate. I turned to Joe. """"Well,"""" I said, """"what do you think of it?"""" Then the girl rose and came over towards us. She stood in front of me, and looked at me steadily. Then she laughed. 'You damned fool,' she said, 'don't you know that you have just given away half a million dollars?"""" CHAPTER XXXVII I LEARN TO FISH FOR SALMON """"Yes,"""" I said, """"that is what I thought."""" Then the girl spoke again. """"Where did you get the money?"""" I asked her. """"It is yours,"""" she replied. """"And you can have it back. Only remember that it belongs to me."""" Then I took out a key and unlocked the drawer of the table. From it I brought a bundle of bank notes. These I counted, and then handed the remainder to the girl. There were thirty thousand francs in all. """"Keep it,"""" I said, """"it is yours."" He will keep his word,"" she answered. ""He always does. He will keep this money, and he will give me the other half million, also."""" Then she walked across to Joe, and kissed him on the cheek. Joe smiled, but said nothing. "
33	33	"You shot Geiger to get it. Last night in the rain. It was dandy shooting weather. The trouble is he wasn't alone when you whiffed him. Either you didn't notice that, which seems unlikely, or you got the wind up and lammed. But you had nerve enough to take the plate out of his camera and you had nerve enough to come back later on and hide his corpse, so you could tidy up on the books before the law knew it had a murder to investigate.
Yah, Brody said contemptuously. The Colt wobbled on his knee. His brown face was as hard as a piece of carved wood. You take chances, mister. It's kind of goddamned lucky for you I didn't bop Geiger.
You can step off for it just the same, I told him cheerfully. You're made to order for the rap.
Brody's voice rustled. ""Think you got me framed for it?""
Positive.
How come?
There's somebody who'll tell it that way. I told you there was a witness. Don't go simple on me, Joe.
He exploded then. ""That goddamned little hot pants!"" he yelled. ""She would, god damn her! She would——just that!""
I leaned back and grinned at him. ""Swell. I thought you had those nude photos of her.""
He didn't say anything. The blonde didn't say anything. I let them chew on it. Brody's face cleared slowly, with a sort of grayish relief. He put his Colt down on the end table beside his chair but kept his right hand close to it. He knocked ash from his cigar on the carpet and stared at me with eyes that were a tight shine between narrowed lids.
I guess you think I'm dumb, Brody said.
Just average, for a grifter. Get the pictures.""
What pictures?
I shook my head. ""Wrong play, Joe. Innocence gets you nowhere. You were either there last night, or you got the nude photo from somebody that was there. You knew she was there, because you had your girl friend threaten Mrs. Regan with a police rap. The only ways you could know enough to do that would be by seeing what happened or by holding the photo and knowing where and when it was taken. Cough up and be sensible.""
I'd have to have a little dough, Brody said. He turned his head a little to look at the green-eyed blonde. Not now green-eyed and only superficially a blonde. She was as limp as a fresh-killed rabbit.
No dough, I said.
He scowled bitterly. ""How'd you get to me?""
I flicked my wallet out and let him look at my buzzer. ""I was working on Geiger—for a client. I was outside last night, in the rain. I heard the shots. I crashed in. I didn't see the killer. I saw everything else.""
And kept your lip buttoned, Brody sneered.
I put my wallet away. ""Yes,"" I admitted. ""Up till now. Do I get the photos or not?""
About these books, Brody said. I don't get that.
I tailed them here from Geiger's store. I have a witness.
That punk kid?
What punk kid?
He scowled again. ""The kid that works at the store. He skipped out after the truck left. Agnes don't even know where he flops.""
That helps, I said, grinning at him. That angle worried me a little. Either of you ever been in Geiger's house—before last night?
Not even last night, Brody said sharply. So she says I gunned him, eh?
With the photos in hand I might be able to convince her she was wrong. There was a little drinking being done.
Brody sighed. ""She hates my guts. I bounced her out. I got paid, sure, but I'd of had to do it anyway. She's too screwy for a simple guy like me."" He cleared his throat. ""How about a little dough? I'm down to nickels. Agnes and me gotta move on.""
Not from my client.
Listen—
Get the pictures, Brody.
Oh, hell, he said. You win. He stood up and slipped the Colt into his side pocket. His left hand went up inside his coat. He was holding it there, his face twisted with disgust, when the door buzzer rang and kept on ringing.
[15]
He didn't like that. His lower lip went in under his teeth, and his eyebrows drew down sharply at the corners. His whole face became sharp and foxy and mean."	"Summary: The narrator confronts Joe Brody about a murder and tries to get him to confess.
Trope: Confronting the suspect with evidence
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, Joe Brody
Fuzzy time: Last night in the rain
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"Yet let me not forget that I am a Greek. The moment comes when I must stand up before the Spartans and declare my manhood, or sink into everlasting infamy. Come, Joe Brody, have done with this comedy of yours. You know as well as I do that last night in the rain, on the slope of Taygetus, you killed Deucalion, King of Sparta."""" What makes you think so?"" he asked quietly. He had all his wits about him, and I thought I saw something of triumph in his eyes. I saw the pool of blood where Deucalion lay, and the tracks of your horse in the mud; I heard from the lips of Alcmene how you fought over the body of the dead king; and I have been to your palace, which I see is now a prison, and have found here your cloak, which I know beyond a doubt to be the one you wore last night."""" Then it was you who followed me?"" he asked. ""And since you had discovered the truth, why did you not take me at once?"""" Because I wished to watch your face,"" I answered. ""I knew that you would betray yourself, and I wanted to see the very look of villainy on you."""" You were mistaken,"" he said, smiling; ""but tell me, what shall I do with you?"""" "
34	34	"The buzzer kept up its song. I didn't like it either. If the visitors should happen to be Eddie Mars and his boys, I might get chilled off just for being there. If it was the police, I was caught with nothing to give them but a smile and a promise. And if it was some of Brody's friends—supposing he had any—they might turn out to be tougher than he was.
The blonde didn't like it. She stood up in a surge and chipped at the air with one hand. Nerve tension made her face old and ugly.
Watching me, Brody jerked a small drawer in the desk and picked a bone-handled automatic out of it. He held it at the blonde. She slid over to him and took it, shaking.
Sit down next to him, Brody snapped. Hold it on him low down, away from the door. If he gets funny use your own judgment. We ain't licked yet, baby.
Oh, Joe, the blonde wailed. She came over and sat next to me on the davenport and pointed the gun at my leg artery. I didn't like the jerky look in her eyes.
The door buzzer stopped humming and a quick impatient rapping on the wood followed it. Brody put his hand in his pocket, on his gun, and walked over to the door and opened it with his left hand. Carmen Sternwood pushed him back into the room by putting a little revolver against his lean brown lips.
Brody backed away from her with his mouth working and an expression of panic on his face. Carmen shut the door behind her and looked neither at me nor at Agnes. She stalked Brody carefully, her tongue sticking out a little between her teeth. Brody took both hands out of his pockets and gestured placatingly at her. His eyebrows designed themselves into an odd assortment of curves and angles. Agnes turned the gun away from me and swung it at Carmen. I shot my hand out and closed my fingers down hard over her hand and jammed my thumb on the safety catch. It was already on. I kept it on. There was a short silent tussle, to which neither Brody nor Carmen paid any attention whatever. I had the gun. Agnes breathed deeply and shivered the whole length of her body. Carmen's face had a bony scraped look and her breath hissed. Her voice said without tone:
I want my pictures, Joe.
Brody swallowed and tried to grin. ""Sure, kid, sure."" He said it in a small flat voice that was as much like the voice he had used to me as a scooter is like a ten-ton truck.
Carmen said: ""You shot Arthur Geiger. I saw you. I want my pictures."" Brody turned green.
Hey, wait a minute, Carmen, I yelped.
Blonde Agnes came to life with a rush. She ducked her head and sank her teeth in my right hand. I made more noises and shook her off.
Listen, kid, Brody whined. Listen a minute—
The blonde spat at me and threw herself on my leg and tried to bite that. I cracked her on the head with the gun, not very hard, and tried to stand up. She rolled down my legs and wrapped her arms around them. I fell back on the davenport. The blonde was strong with the madness of love or fear, or a mixture of both, or maybe she was just strong.
Brody grabbed for the little revolver that was so close to his face. He missed. The gun made a sharp rapping noise that was not very loud. The bullet broke glass in a folded-back French window. Brody groaned horribly and fell down on the floor and jerked Carmen's feet from under her. She landed in a heap and the little revolver went skidding off into a corner. Brody jumped up on his knees and reached for his pocket.
I hit Agnes on the head with less delicacy than before, kicked her off my feet, and stood up. Brody flicked his eyes at me. I showed him the automatic. He stopped trying to get his hand into his pocket.
Christ! he whined. Don't let her kill me!"	"Summary: The protagonist is in a tense situation with multiple characters and guns, trying to avoid getting caught or injured.
Trope: Tension between characters with guns
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Dialogue, action
Active character: Eddie Mars, Brody, Carmen Sternwood, Agnes
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Eddie Mars. Hast du die Waffen? Brody. In meinem Arsch! Eddie Mars. Das ist eine scharfe Kugel, Bruderherre! Wir sind zwei gegen drei und mit zwei Feinden da hinten, der eine ein Weib und der andere ein Schwachkopf. Halt das verdammte Ding weg von mir! Carmen Sternwood. Sei still, Phil! Agnes, bringe mir die Pistole aus dem Schlafzimmer! Phil, komm hierher! Ich will dich nicht ansehen. (Agnes geht ins Schlafzimmer.) Brody. Ich habe keine Lust zu sterben. Eddie Mars. Hier, Mann! Geh hinunter in den Garten. (Brody geht durch die offene Tr hinunter.) Eddie Mars. Jetzt wirst du sehen, wie ich meinen Teil tue! Carmen Sternwood. Und wenn sie ihn erst einmal gefangen haben, was dann? Eddie Mars. Dann werden sie ihn zum Schein verhaften. Du kannst damit rechnen. Und dann werde ich ihn abholen. Aber diesmal wird er frei sein. Verstehst du? Carmen Sternwood. Wir stehen alle hier mit unseren Gesichtern an der Wand. Eddie Mars. Meinst du, es liegt bei mir, da du so bist? Wo hast du die Pistole her? Carmen Sternwood. Die hattest du doch gesagt! Eddie Mars. Ich war's nicht. Ich hab sie dir gegeben. Komm, wir gehen jetzt hinunter. (Er geht hinunter.) Carmen Sternwood. Es gibt keinen Ausweg mehr fr mich. (Agnes kommt mit einer Pistole in der Hand.) Agnes. Hier ist deine Pistole, gnädige Frau. Carmen Sternwood. Ich danke dir, Agnes. Gehen Sie, ich mu noch etwas mit Ihnen besprechen. Agnes. Natürlich, gnädige Frau. (Sie geht ins Schlafzimmer.) Zehnte Szene  (Carmen Sternwood allein auf der Terrasse, hinter ihr im Garten die Palmen, die hohen Begonien, die Rosenbume; vorne links die Tre. Links neben der Tre sieht man einen Teil der vorderen Halle mit der breiten Treppe. Rechts unten am Ende des Gartens zwischen den Bumen erscheint die Figur eines Mannes, der die gleiche Kleidung wie Brody trgt. Er geht langsam ber den Rasen, stutzt, wenn er den Garten erreicht hat, bleibt stehen, schttelt den Kopf und geht um das Haus herum. Auf der Terrasse steht Carmen Sternwood unbeweglich, die Hnde an den Seiten, und blickt ihm nach.) 
35	35	"I began to laugh. I laughed like an idiot, without control. Blonde Agnes was sitting up on the floor with her hands Hat on the carpet and her mouth wide open and a wick of metallic blond hair down over her right eye. Carmen was crawling on her hands and knees, still hissing. The metal of her little revolver glistened against the baseboard over in the corner. She crawled towards it relentlessly.
I waved my share of the guns at Brody and said: ""Stay put. You're all right.""
I stepped past the crawling girl and picked the gun up. She looked up at me and began to giggle. I put her gun in my pocket and patted her on the back. ""Get up, angel. You look like a Pekinese.""
I went over to Brody and put the automatic against his midriff and reached his Colt out of his side pocket. I now had all the guns that had been exposed to view. I stuffed them into my pockets and held my hand out to him.
Give.
He nodded, licking his lips, his eyes still scared. He took a fat envelope out of his breast pocket and gave it to me. There was a developed plate in the envelope and five glossy prints.
Sure these are all?
He nodded again. I put the envelope in my own breast pocket and turned away. Agnes was back on the davenport, straightening her hair. Her eyes ate Carmen with a green distillation of hate. Carmen was up on her feet too, coming towards me with her hand out, still giggling and hissing. There was a little froth at the corners of her mouth. Her small white teeth glinted close to her lips.
Can I have them now? she asked me with a coy smile.
I'll take care of them for you. Go on home.
Home?
I went to the door and looked out. The cool night breeze was blowing peacefully down the hall. No excited neighbors hung out of doorways. A small gun had gone off and broken a pane of glass, but noises like that don't mean much any more. I held the door open and jerked my head at Carmen. She came towards me, smiling uncertainly.
Go on home and wait for me, I said soothingly.
She put her thumb up. Then she nodded and slipped past me into the hall. She touched my cheek with her fingers as she went by. ""You'll take care of Carmen, won't you?"" she cooed.
Check.
You're cute.
What you see is nothing, I said. I've got a Bali dancing girl tattooed on my right thigh.
Her eyes rounded. She said: ""Naughty,"" and wagged a finger at me. Then she whispered: ""Can I have my gun?""
Not now. Later. I'll bring it to you.
She grabbed me suddenly around the neck and kissed me on the mouth. ""I like you,"" she said. ""Carmen likes you a lot."" She ran off down the hall as gay as a thrush, waved at me from the stairs and ran down the stairs out of my sight.
I went back into Brody's apartment.
[16]
I went over to the folded-back French window and looked at the small broken pane in the upper part of it. The bullet from Carmen's gun had smashed the glass like a blow. It had not made a hole. There was a small hole in the plaster which a keen eye would find quickly enough. I pulled the drapes over the broken pane and took Carmen's gun out of my pocket. It was a Banker's Special,.22 caliber, hollow point cartridges. It had a pearl grip, and a small round silver plate set into the butt was engraved: ""Carmen from Owen."" She made saps of all of them.
I put the gun back in my pocket and sat down close to Brody and stared into his bleak brown eyes. A minute passed. The blonde adjusted her face by the aid of a pocket mirror. Brody fumbled around with a cigarette and jerked: ""Satisfied?""
So far. Why did you put the bite on Mrs. Regan instead of the old man?
Tapped the old man once. About six, seven months ago. I figure maybe he gets sore enough to call in some law."	"Summary: The protagonist is in a room with several characters, including Blonde Agnes, Carmen, and Brody. He takes control of the situation by collecting all the guns and leaves with Carmen. He returns to Brody's apartment and reflects on why Brody targeted Mrs. Regan instead of her husband.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Protagonist, Blonde Agnes, Carmen, Brody
Fuzzy place: Unnamed apartment
Diegetic time: A few hours"	There was only one chair, so he sat on the floor. The girl's eyes were like hot coals as she kept throwing them from the woman to him and back again. Blonde Agnes laughed at the situation. 'I'm afraid this is a little out of the way for you,' she said. 'The next time I want a professional I'll know better.' Carmen looked at Brody in silence. She had all her guns on her, and three more were lying on the table. She picked them up and placed them in her handbag. 'Give me your guns,' she said to him. 'Are you afraid of us?' He shrugged and handed over his guns. It gave her pleasure to see that he did it without argument. Perhaps she could manage this fool after all. She put them in the same place with her own. Brody, still sitting on the floor, got out his cigarettes. There was no ashtray, but he didn't bother about that. He lit one and smoked quietly. Well, this is rather nice,' he said. 'If we don't mind being uncomfortable we can have quite a pleasant evening together. Why don't we just sit here and talk? You won't be going away, will you? After all, there's plenty of room here for both of you. It's not as if you were strangers. Why don't you call me by my first name? I'm sure you'd like me if you knew me better.' Carmen took a cigarette from him and lit it. She watched him narrowly. She had never seen anything like him. She had expected an American to be vulgar, but he wasn't vulgar at all. He spoke very softly, and there was something in his eyes that was frightening. You are a brave man,' she said. 'You are not afraid to die.' He smiled. 'No,' he said. 'I am not afraid to die.' That pleased her. She nodded to the woman. 'Go away,' she said. 'I will take care of him.' The woman hesitated. 'Go on,' said Carmen. 'I will come back for you later.' The woman hesitated again, then went out quickly. Carmen stood looking at the door for a moment, then turned and walked across the room. She paused in front of Brody. 'Now what shall we do?' she said. 'Tell me what you want and I will try to give it to you.' He looked at her calmly through the smoke of his cigarette. 'You seem to be in command of the situation,' he said. 'Why don't you make it easy for yourself and tell me why you came here? If you're after me, why did you bring this other woman with you? She isn't your type. And why shoot Mrs. Regan instead of her husband? I suppose it was because she was more easily accessible, wasn't it? But why did you choose to shoot her at all? You must know that she saw your face when she opened the door. 
36	36	"What made you think Mrs. Regan wouldn't tell him about it?
He considered that with some care, smoking his cigarette and keeping his eyes on my face. Finally he said: ""How well you know her?""
I've met her twice. You must know her a lot better to take a chance on that squeeze with the photo.
She skates around plenty. I figure maybe she has a couple of soft spots she don't want the old man to know about. I figure she can raise five grand easy.
A little weak, I said. But pass it. You're broke, eh?
I been shaking two nickels together for a month, trying to get them to mate.
What you do for a living?
Insurance. I got desk room in Puss Walgreen's office, Fulwider Building, Western and Santa Monica.
When you open up, you open up. The books here in your apartment?
He snapped his teeth and waved a brown hand. Confidence was oozing back into his manner. ""Hell, no. In storage.""
You had a man bring them here and then you had a storage outfit come and take them away again right afterwards?
Sure. I don't want them moved direct from Geiger's place, do I?
You're smart, I said admiringly. Anything incriminating in the joint right now?
He looked worried again. He shook his head sharply.
That's fine, I told him. I looked across at Agnes. She had finished fixing her face and was staring at the wall, blank-eyed, hardly listening. Her face had the drowsiness which strain and shock induce, after their first incidence.
Brody flicked his eyes warily. ""Well?""
How'd you come by the photo?
He scowled. ""Listen, you got what you came after, got it plenty cheap. You done a nice neat job. Now go peddle it to your top man. I'm clean. I don't know nothing about any photo, do I, Agnes?""
The blonde opened her eyes and looked at him with vague but uncomplimentary speculation. ""A half smart guy,"" she said with a tired sniff. ""That's all I ever draw. Never once a guy that's smart all the way around the course. Never once.""
I grinned at her. ""Did I hurt your head much?""
You and every other man I ever met.
I looked back at Brody. He was pinching his cigarette between his fingers, with a sort of twitch. His hand seemed to be shaking a little. His brown poker face was still smooth.
We've got to agree on a story, I said. For instance, Carmen wasn't here. That's very important. She wasn't here. That was a vision you saw."	"Summary: The narrator discusses a plan with Brody, who is trying to hide something from his wife Agnes. The narrator mentions the photo and asks how Brody came by it.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Dialog
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Mrs. Regan, Carmen, Brody, Agnes
Time setting: Antiquity

Diegetic time: A few hours"	Mrs. Regan said: “And I said, ‘Maybe you ought to go and tell Carmen.’ And he says, ‘No, that’s all right.’ But I said, ‘I bet she’d be glad to see him; she likes people so much.’ And he says, ‘Don’t worry about it!’ So I said, ‘That’s all right, then,’ and left him with his beer.” Brody was talking to Agnes, who was sitting on the arm of his chair. He put his arm round her neck and drew her down beside him, but she kept her face turned away from him, as though ashamed or hurt by his company. The narrator asked Brody if this was not a sad business, and whether he would like some more wine. But Brody said he had better stop now, and added something in Greek which nobody understood but himself. Then he turned to Agnes and spoke to her earnestly in English. After listening for a moment, Agnes got up and went over to the narrator. She said in a whisper: “He wants me to take you upstairs and show you that picture.” “But,” said the narrator, “why does he want to hide it?” Agnes answered: “Brody doesn’t know anything about pictures, but I’m sure it isn’t any good. He thinks you’ll steal it.” “Not at all,” said the narrator, “I just wanted to look at it.” “Well, come along, then,” said Agnes. “Follow me.” CHAPTER V They climbed the stairs together. On the landing outside the door of the bedroom Agnes knocked. It was opened by Carmen, who stood there in her shift. At the sight of the narrator she cried out with joy and embraced him. “Come in,” she said. “I am so glad to see you.” The narrator was greatly embarrassed, and could only stammer out an apology for intruding on her. Carmen took his hand and led him to the window-seat. She sat down beside him and put her head on his shoulder. “I have been so unhappy,” she said. “It has been so quiet without you.” The narrator said: “You don’t know how sorry I am to have missed you. I have been expecting you every day.” “Yes,” said Carmen, “but you must not expect me ever again. I shall not be coming here any more.” The narrator said: “Why not? What has happened?” Carmen replied: “When you left last night, Brody came in very late. When I asked him where he had been, he flew into a rage and accused me of trying to poison him. He said I should leave the house immediately. That was why I went to Mrs. Regan’s. I told her what had happened, and she persuaded me to stay the night. 
37	37	"Huh! Brody sneered. If you say so, pal, and if—? he put his hand out palm up and cupped the lingers and rolled the thumb gently against the index and middle fingers.

I nodded. We'll see. There might be a small contribution. You won't count it in grands, though. Now where did you get the picture?

A guy slipped it to me.

Uh-huh. A guy you just passed in the street. You wouldn't know him again. You never saw him before.

Brody yawned. It dropped out of his pocket, he leered.

Uh-huh. Got an alibi for last night, poker pan?

Sure. I was right here. Agnes was with me. Okey, Agnes?

I'm beginning to feel sorry for you again, I said.

His eyes flicked wide and his mouth hung loose, the cigarette balanced on his lower lip.

You think you're smart and you're so goddamned dumb, I told him. Even if you don't dance off up in Quentin, you have such a bleak long lonely time ahead of you.

His cigarette jerked and dropped ash on his vest.

Thinking about how smart you are, I said.

Take the air, he growled suddenly. Dust. I got enough chinning with you. Beat it.

Okey. I stood up and went over to the tall oak desk and took his two guns out of my pockets, laid them side by side on the blotter so that the barrels were exactly parallel. I reached my hat off the floor beside the davenport and started for the door.

Brody yelped: Hey!

I turned and waited. His cigarette was jiggling like a doll on a coiled spring. Everything's smooth, ain't it? he asked.

Why, sure. This is a free country. You don't have to stay out of jail, if you don't want to. That is, if you're a citizen. Are you a citizen?

He just stared at me, jiggling the cigarette. The blonde Agnes turned her head slowly and stared at me along the same level. Their glances contained almost the exact same blend of foxiness, doubt and frustrated anger. Agnes reached her silvery nails up abruptly and yanked a hair out of her head and broke it between her fingers, with a bitter jerk.

Brody said tightly: You're not going to any cops, brother. Not if it's the Sternwoods you're working for. I've got too much stuff on that family. You got your pictures and you got your hush. Go and peddle your papers.

Make your mind up, I said. You told me to dust, I was on my way out, you hollered at me and I stopped, and now I'm on my way out again. Is that what you want?

You ain't got anything on me, Brody said.

Just a couple of murders. Small change in your circle.
He didn't jump more than an inch, but it looked like a foot. The white cornea showed all around the tobacco-colored iris of his eyes. The brown skin of his face took on a greenish tinge in the lamplight.
Blonde Agnes let out a low animal wail and buried her head in a cushion on the end of the davenport. I stood there and admired the long line of her thighs.
Brody moistened his lips slowly and said: ""Sit down, pal. Maybe I have a little more for you. What's that crack about two murders mean?""
I leaned against the door. ""Where were you last night about seven-thirty, Joe?""
His mouth drooped sulkily and he stared down at the floor. ""I was watching a guy, a guy who had a nice racket I figured he needed a partner in. Geiger. I was watching him now and then to see had he any tough connections. I figure he has friends or he don't work the racket as open as he does. But they don't go to his house. Only dames.""
You didn't watch hard enough, I said. Go on.
I'm there last night on the street below Geiger's house. It's raining hard and I'm buttoned up in my coupe and I don't see anything. There's a car in front of Geiger's and another car a little way up the hill. That's why I stay down below. There's a big Buick parked down where I am and after a while I go over and take a gander into it. It's registered to Vivian Regan. Nothing happens, so I scram. That's all. He waved his cigarette. His eyes crawled up and down my face.
Could be, I said. Know where that Buick is now?
Why would I?
In the Sheriff's garage. It was lifted out of twelve feet of water off Lido fish pier this a.m. There was a dead man in it. He had been sapped and the car pointed out the pier and the hand throttle pulled down.
Brody was breathing hard. One of his feet tapped restlessly. ""Jesus, guy, you can't pin that one on me,"" he said thickly.
Why not? This Buick was down back of Geiger's according to you. Well, Mrs. Regan didn't have it out. Her chauffeur, a lad named Owen Taylor, had it out. He went over to Geiger's place to have words with him, because Owen Taylor was sweet on Carmen, and he didn't like the kind of games Geiger was playing with her. He let himself in the back way with a jimmy and a gun and he caught Geiger taking a photo of Carmen without any clothes on. So his gun went off, as guns will, and Geiger fell down dead and Owen ran away, but not without the photo negative Geiger had just taken. So you ran after him and took the photo from him. How else would you have got hold of it?"	"Summary: The protagonist confronts Brody about a picture and threatens to go to the police.
Narrative arc: Tension
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Brody, Agnes
Quoted character: Geiger, Mrs. Regan, Owen Taylor
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy place: Brody's office
Diegetic time: A few hours"	I said I’d give it to Agnes. “You’ll do nothing of the kind!” he shouted, and his face went as red as a beet. He jumped up from behind the desk and started for me, but I didn’t wait around to tangle with him. I took one look at that picture and I knew what was coming. It was like some beastly nightmare. The old devil had painted a picture of Geiger in bed with Mrs. Regan! And there she was, spread-eagle fashion, with her eyes half open and her lips parted. And there he was beside her, almost sitting on her, and his hairy arms were hanging over her body. I couldn’t stand it! I grabbed my hat and started for the door, and Brody yelled after me: “You ain’t going anywhere!” I turned and faced him. “Oh, yes, I am!” I said. “And if you try to stop me, I’ll go straight to the police! I know all about you now; you’re an indecent old pervert and I’m going to have you put away where you belong!” “Shut your trap!” he howled. “If you open your mouth to me again I’ll kill you!” “You’d better,” I said, and I felt myself trembling with rage. “I can tell you this much, you degenerate old fool: I’m not going to let you blackmail Geiger or any other man in town, and if you try it I’ll get you sent to prison so fast you won’t know what hit you!” “You think you can bluff me?” he screamed, and I could see his eyes starting out of his head. “Go ahead!” I told him. “Try it! You’ve gone too far this time. I know all about you, and I’m going to expose you! I’m going to the newspapers with this picture and tell them what a dirty old sinner you are!” “Listen to me!” he screamed. “You listen to me, you smart-assed little punk! I don’t care who you are or what your father is! If you open your mouth, I’ll break every bone in your body! I’ll tear you to pieces! Do you hear me? I’ve got a million dollars’ worth of property here, and I can afford to pay for everything I want. You understand that? I can buy anything I want, including girls! Girls come cheap to me, and they do whatever I tell them to do! Do you get that? I’ll smash you into pulp if you interfere with me!” He stood there, panting for breath, and then he started to laugh. “Now,” he said, “you know why I wanted you here tonight. I wanted to give you a chance to be reasonable. I wanted to talk to you before I called in the boys.” “What boys?” I asked. “The ones from the Athletic Club,” he replied. “You know, the ones who are always ready to help their friends when they’re in trouble. 
38	38	"Brody licked his lips. ""Yeah,"" he said. ""But that don't make me knock him off. Sure, I heard the shots and saw this killer come slamming down the back steps into the Buick and off. I took out after him. He hit the bottom of the canyon and went west on Sunset. Beyond Beverly Hills he skidded oil the road and had to stop and I came up and played copper. He had a gun but his nerve was bad and I sapped him down. So I went through his clothes and found out who he was and I lifted the plate-holder, just out of curiosity. I was wondering what it was all about and getting my neck wet when he came out of it all of a sudden and knocked me off the car. He was out of sight when I picked myself up. That's the last I saw of him.""
How did you know it was Geiger he shot? I asked gruffly.
Brody shrugged. ""I figure it was, but I can be wrong. When I had the plate developed and saw what was on it, I was pretty damn sure. And when Geiger didn't come down to the store this morning and didn't answer his phone I was plenty sure. So I figure it's a good time to move his books out and make a quick touch on the Sternwoods for travel money and blow for a while.""
I nodded. ""That seems reasonable. Maybe you didn't murder anybody at that. Where did you hide Geiger's body?""
He jumped his eyebrows. Then he grinned. ""Nix, nix. Skip it. You think I'd go back there and handle him, not knowing when a couple carloads of law would come tearing around the corner? Nix.""
Somebody hid the body, I said.
Brody shrugged. The grin stayed on his face. He didn't believe me. While he was still not believing me the door buzzer started to ring again. Brody stood up sharply, hard-eyed. He glanced over at his guns on the desk.
So she's back again, he growled.
If she is, she doesn't have her gun, I comforted him. Don't you have any other friends?
Just about one,"" he growled. ""I got enough of this puss in the corner game."" He marched to the desk and took the Colt. He held it down at his side and went to the door. He put his left hand to the knob and twisted it and opened the door a foot and leaned into the opening, holding the gun tight against his thigh.
A voice said: ""Brody?""
Brody said something I didn't hear. The two quick reports were muffled. The gun must have been pressed tight against Brody's body. He tilted forward against the door and the weight of his body pushed it shut with a bang. He slid down the wood. His feet pushed the carpet away behind him. His left hand dropped off the knob and the arm slapped the floor with a thud. His head was wedged against the door. He didn't move. The Colt clung to his right hand.
I jumped across the room and rolled him enough to get the door open and crowd through. A woman peered out of a door almost opposite. Her face was full of fright and she pointed along the hall with a clawlike hand.
I raced down the hall and heard thumping feet going down the tile steps and went down after the sound. At the lobby level the front door was closing itself quietly and running feet slapped the sidewalk outside. I made the door before it was shut, clawed it open again and charged out.
A tall hatless figure in a leather jerkin was running diagonally across the street between the parked cars. The figure turned and flame spurted from it. Two heavy hammers hit the stucco wall beside me. The figure ran on, dodged between two cars, vanished.
A man came up beside me and barked: ""What happened?""
Shooting going on, I said.
Jesus! He scuttled into the apartment house."	"Summary: Brody explains how he chased a killer and found out who he was, but the killer escaped. He plans to steal money and leave town, but is killed by someone else.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Brody
Quoted character: Geiger, Sternwoods
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Canyon, Sunset, Beverly Hills
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"The killer ran; Brody chased. The killer ran down a canyon; Brody followed. The killer reached Sunset and turned east; Brody saw him and took the same turn. The killer came to Beverly Hills; Brody was close behind. The killer, nearing his palace in Sparta, caught his breath and leaped for the gate. And just as he reached it Geiger opened it and let him through. There you are,"" said Geiger, ""and here is the key to your treasure."""" Brody thanked him politely and went up-stairs. He locked himself into his room, but first he looked out of the window into the courtyard below. There sat Sternwoods' chauffeur, smoking a pipe, waiting for the master of the house. So now I know who my murderer is,"" said Brody. """"That should be all right."""" But it wasn't all right. It wasn't all right at all. If only Brody had been a little quicker! If only he had not waited until morning to begin his investigations! For when he entered his room that evening he found lying on his bed the letter which contained the secret of his death. My dear friend,"" it began, ""I shall never forget our pleasant afternoon together in the mountains. I have brought with me from New York the ten thousand dollars which you left in trust with me. "
39	39	"I walked quickly down the sidewalk to my car and got in and started it. I pulled out from the curb and drove down the hill, not fast. No other car started up on the other side of the street. I thought I heard steps, but I wasn't sure about that. I rode down the hill a block and a half, turned at the intersection and started back up. The sound of a muted whistling came to me faintly along the sidewalk. Then steps. I double parked and slid out between two cars and went down low. I took Carmen's little revolver out of my pocket.
The sound of the steps grew louder, and the whistling went on cheerfully. In a moment the jerkin showed. I stepped out between the two cars and said: ""Got a match, buddy?""
The boy spun towards me and his right hand darted up to go inside the jerkin. His eyes were a wet shine in the glow of the round electroliers. Moist dark eyes shaped like almonds, and a pallid handsome face with wavy black hair growing low on the forehead in two points. A very handsome boy indeed, the boy from Geiger's store.
He stood there looking at me silently, his right hand on the edge of the jerkin, but not inside it yet. I held the little revolver down at my side.
You must have thought a lot of that queen, I said.
Go——yourself, the boy said softly, motionless between the parked cars and the five-foot retaining wall on the inside of the sidewalk.
A siren wailed distantly coming up the long hill. The boy's head jerked towards the sound. I stepped in close and put my gun into his jerkin.
Me or the cops? I asked him.
His head rolled a little sideways as if I had slapped his face. ""Who are you?"" he snarled.
Friend of Geiger's.
Get away from me, you son of a bitch.
This is a small gun, kid. I'll give it you through the navel and it will take three months to get you well enough to walk. But you'll get well. So you can walk to the nice new gas chamber up in Quentin.
He said: ""Go——yourself."" His hand moved inside the jerkin. I pressed harder on his stomach. He let out a long soft sigh, took his hand away from the jerkin and let it fall limp at his side. His wide shoulders sagged. ""What you want?"" he whispered.
I reached inside the jerkin and plucked out the automatic. ""Get into my car, kid.""
He stepped past me and I crowded him from behind. He got into the car.
Under the wheel, kid. You drive.
He slid under the wheel and I got into the car beside him. I said: ""Let the prowl car pass up the hill. They'll think we moved over when we heard the siren. Then turn her down hill and we'll go home.""
I put Carmen's gun away and leaned the automatic against the boy's ribs. I looked back through the window. The whine of the siren was very loud now. Two red lights swelled in the middle of the street. They grew larger and blended into one and the car rushed by in a wild flurry of sound.
Let's go, I said.
The boy swung the car and started off down the hill.
Let's go home, I said. To Laverne Terrace.
His smooth lips twitched. He swung the car west on Franklin. ""You're a simple-minded lad. What's your name?""
Carol Lundgren, he said lifelessly.
You shot the wrong guy, Carol. Joe Brody didn't kill your queen.
He spoke three words to me and kept on driving.
[17]
A moon half gone from the full glowed through a ring of mist among the high branches of the eucalyptus trees on Laverne Terrace. A radio sounded loudly from a house low down the hill. The boy swung the car over to the box hedge in front of Geiger's house, killed the motor and sat looking straight before him with both hands on the wheel. No light showed through Geiger's hedge.
I said: ""Anybody home, son?""
You ought to know.
How would I know?
Go——yourself.
That's how people get false teeth."	"Summary: The narrator confronts a boy who had been whistling and walking down the street, and reveals that he knows about the boy's involvement in the murder of Geiger's queen.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Narrator, boy
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Unnamed sidewalk and hill
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"But I, in no such mood, turned into the side street to escape him, and had gone a good way along it, before I heard him whistling again, and looking back saw him coming down the sidewalk. Then I went to meet him, and when he came up, I said, """"Young man, are you always whistling like that?"""" He answered, ""Yes,"" with great pride; for he was very vain of his voice. But I said, sternly, """"Hush! Can't you see that we have come out here to talk together? You must not whistle so loudly."""" Then he looked at me with astonishment, and asked, """"Who are you, sir?"""" To which I answered, """"My name is Damon, and I am an artist from Sparta, staying here with Geiger; but why do you ask me?"""" And he replied, ""I wanted to know if you were a friend of mine."" Then I said, """"Why, yes; I suppose I am your friend; although I don't know you very well yet. So now, let us go up this hill and sit on the grass, and you shall tell me why you are afraid of me."""" "
40	40	"He showed me his in a tight grin. Then he kicked the door open and got out. I scuttled out after him. He stood with his fists on his hips, looking silently at the house above the top of the hedge.
All right, I said. You have a key. Let's go on in.
Who said I had a key?
Don't kid me, son. The fag gave you one. You've got a nice clean manly little room in there. He shooed you out and locked it up when he had lady visitors. He was like Caesar, a husband to women and a wife to men. Think I can't figure people like him and you out?
I still held his automatic more or less pointed at him, but he swung on me just the same. It caught me flush on the chin. I backstepped fast enough to keep from falling, but I took plenty of the punch. It was meant to be a hard one, but a pansy has no iron in his bones, whatever he looks like.
I threw the gun down at the kid's feet and said: ""Maybe you need this.""
He stooped for it like a flash. There was nothing slow about his movements. I sank a fist in the side of his neck. He toppled over sideways, clawing for the gun and not reaching it. I picked it up again and threw it in the car. The boy came up on all fours, leering with his eyes too wide open. He coughed and shook his head.
You don't want to fight, I told him. You're giving away too much weight.
He wanted to fight. He shot at me like a plane from a catapult, reaching for my knees in a diving tackle. I sidestepped and reached for his neck and took it into chancery. He scraped the dirt hard and got his feet under him enough to use his hands on me where it hurt. I twisted him around and heaved him a little higher. I took hold of my right wrist with my left hand and turned my right hipbone into him and for a moment it was a balance of weights. We seemed to hang there in the misty moonlight, two grotesque creatures whose feet scraped on the road and whose breath panted with effort.
I had my right forearm against his windpipe now and all the strength of both arms in it. His feet began a frenetic shuffle and he wasn't panting any more. He was ironbound. His left foot sprawled off to one side and the knee went slack. I held on half a minute longer. He sagged on my arm, an enormous weight I could hardly hold up. Then I let go. He sprawled at my feet, out cold. I went to the car and got a pair of handcuffs out of the glove compartment and twisted his wrists behind him and snapped them on. I lifted him by the armpits and managed to drag him in behind the hedge, out of sight from the street. I went back to the car and moved it a hundred feet up the hill and locked it.
He was still out when I got back. I unlocked the door, dragged him into the house, shut the door. He was beginning to gasp now. I switched a lamp on. His eyes fluttered open and focused on me slowly.
I bent down, keeping out of the way of his knees and said: ""Keep quiet or you'll get the same and more of it. Just lie quiet and hold your breath. Hold it until you can't hold it any longer and then tell yourself that you have to breathe, that you're black in the face, that your eyeballs are popping out, and that you're going to breathe right now, but that you're sitting strapped in the chair in the clean little gas chamber up in San Quentin and when you take that breath you're fighting with all your soul not to take it, it won't be air you'll get, it will be cyanide fumes. And that's what they call humane execution in our state now.""
Go——yourself, he said with a soft stricken sigh."	"Summary: The narrator confronts someone who had a key to a house and they engage in a physical altercation, resulting in the other person being handcuffed and dragged inside.
Narrative arc: Suspenseful confrontation and physical altercation
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Action scene
Active character: The narrator, the person with the key
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Fuzzy place: Unnamed street and house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"Und dann strzte ich ihn mit meinen beiden Hnden gegen die Mauer. Das war ein Greuel zu sehen, da er in dem Augenblick, als ihm der Schrecken aus den Gliedern wich, vor mich hinfiel und auf die Knie niederstie; es war so schn, wie das Blut von einem furchtbaren Wunden ber einen gelben Stein flieet! Ich lachte und zog ihn hoch, und er fing an sich weh zu tun, und sein Atem ging heiser und erschpft. Es ist gut,"" sagte ich, ""nun will ich dich fortbringen."" Er begann zu weinen. Weine nicht!"" sagte ich, ""du wirst sehen, was du fr eine Freude erlebst."""" Und als er noch immer weinte, nahm ich ihn bei der Schulter, schob ihn zwischen die beiden Balken des Torweges und sprach: Nimm das Schlsselbeil!"""" Er hatte in seiner Tasche einen Bogen Silberdraht hngern gesehen. """"Nimm das Beil!"""" sagte ich wieder. """"Du mu mir die Tr zum Haus aufschlieen."""" Er wurde wieder bange und bekam keine Sprache mehr. Nun,"""" sagte ich, """"und wenn du nicht gleich antrettest? Ich sage dir, ich bin erbittert! Ich mchte dich auch erwrgen. Ich sage dir, ich bin erbittert! Wenn du nicht sofort auftrittst, so schliet ich dich ein, bis du freit!"""" Nun, da er nun wohl begriffen hatte, was ich wollte, stand er auf und trat aus dem Torweg hinaus. Dann schlo er die Tr auf, und ich hob sie empor und rief: Jetzt sind wir allein!"" Und als wir in die Stube traten, sagte ich: So ist der Teufel! Da steh' ich und rede mit ihm, und er hat die Schlssel bei sich! Aber jetzt will ich dir zeigen, wer hier der Herr ist."""" Und als wir uns ber die Treppe in das erste Stockwerk hinaufschlichen, kamen wir an die Tre. Da hatte ich pltzlich einen Gedanken, und ich rief: Steh nur da, du Schlingel! Ich komme sogleich wieder herunter."""" Und ich lief in die Strae hinaus und holte ein Paar Handschellen, denn ich dachte, da er die Schlssel noch bei sich htte und uns alles durchsuchen knnte. Als ich aber in die Wohnung zurckkam, sa er schon am Fenster und sah hinaus. Was machst du?"" fragte ich. Er wurde ganz klein und sah mich an, und da brach er in lautes Gelchter aus. Hast du dich im Lachen verletzt?"" fragte ich. ""Lieber komm herunter!"""" Nein,"" sagte er, ""bleib du nur oben, ich komme sogleich!"""" Damit lie er sich mit dem Rcksitz des Lehnsessels vom Fenster herabgleiten und kam dann herunter und setzte sich auf die Bank. Ich legte ihm die Handschellen an, und er fing an zu schluchzen. Du hast wohl Angst vor mir?"" fragte ich. Ja,"" sagte er. Dann sehe ich doch, da du keinen Mut hast!"" Nun, wenn ich auch keinen Mut habe, so hast du ihn doch nicht!"""" Ach ja,"" sagte ich, ""das ist eben richtig, da mu ich ihn haben!"""" Und ich zog ihn durch den Gang hinunter und ber die Treppe hinauf in das obere Stockwerk, wo die Kammer war, und in die Kammer hinein. Dann ging ich hinunter und holte die Leiter. "
41	41	"You're going to cop a plea, brother, don't ever think you're not. And you're going to say just what we want you to say and nothing we don't want you to say.
Go——yourself.
Say that again and I'll put a pillow under your head.
His mouth twitched. I left him lying on the floor with his wrists shackled behind him and his cheek pressed into the rug and an animal brightness in his visible eye. I put on another lamp and stepped into the hallway at the back of the living room. Geiger's bedroom didn't seem to have been touched. I opened the door, not locked now, of the bedroom across the hall from it. There was a dim flickering light in the room and a smell of sandalwood. Two cones of incense ash stood side by side on a small brass tray on the bureau. The light came from the two tall black candles in the foot-high candlesticks. They were standing on straight-backed chairs, one on either side of the bed.
Geiger lay on the bed. The two missing strips of Chinese tapestry made a St. Andrew's Cross over the middle of his body, hiding the blood-smeared front of his Chinese coat. Below the cross his black-pajama'd legs lay stiff and straight. His feet were in the slippers with thick white felt soles. Above the cross his arms were crossed at the wrists and his hands lay flat against his shoulders, palms down, fingers close together and stretched out evenly. His mouth was closed and his Charlie Chan moustache was as unreal as a toupee. His broad nose was pinched and white. His eyes were almost closed, but not entirely. The faint glitter of his glass eye caught the light and winked at me.
I didn't touch him. I didn't go very near him. He would be as cold as ice and as stiff as a board.
The black candles guttered in the draft from the open door. Drops of black wax crawled down their sides. The air of the room was poisonous and unreal. I went out and shut the door again and went back to the living room. The boy hadn't moved. I stood still, listening for sirens. It was all a question of how soon Agnes talked and what she said. If she talked about Geiger, the police would be there any minute. But she might not talk for hours. She might even have got away.
I looked down at the boy. ""Want to sit up, son?""
He closed his eye and pretended to go to sleep. I went over to the desk and scooped up the mulberry-colored phone and dialed Bernie Ohls' office. He had left to go home at six o'clock. I dialed the number of his home. He was there.
This is Marlowe, I said. Did your boys find a revolver on Owen Taylor this morning?
I could hear him clearing his throat and then I could hear him trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. ""That would come under the heading of police business,"" he said.
If they did, it had three empty shells in it.
How the hell did you know that? Ohls asked quietly.
Come over to 7244 Laverne Terrace, off Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I'll show you where the slugs went.
Just like that, huh?
Just like that.
Ohls said: ""Look out the window and you'll see me coming round the corner. I thought you acted a little cagey on that one.""
Cagey is no word for it, I said.
[18]
Ohls stood looking down at the boy. The boy sat on the couch leaning sideways against the wall. Ohls looked at him silently, his pale eyebrows bristling and stiff and round like the little vegetable brushes the Fuller Brush man gives away.
He asked the boy: ""Do you admit shooting Brody?""
The boy said his favorite three words in a muffled voice.
Ohls sighed and looked at me. I said: ""He doesn't have to admit that. I have his gun.""
Ohls said: ""I wish to Christ I had a dollar for every time I've had that said to me. What's funny about it?""
It's not meant to be funny, I said."	"Summary: The protagonist is confronted with a dead body and has a conversation with a boy who admits to shooting someone.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Protagonist, boy, Geiger (dead
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy place: Living room, hallway, bedroom
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"Die Htte lag in einem Kreise aus Lehmziegeln, die von der Decke bis auf den Boden reichten; ein Rauchschacht fhrte hinauf zu einem Schornstein, der wie ein kleiner Turm aussah. Die Wnde waren mit Lkw-Kalbsleder beschlagen, und das Dach bestand aus groen Rinden, die mit Erde bedeckt waren. Vorne im Zimmer stand eine Art Feuerstelle aus Ziegelmauern, darber ein Rost, an dem zwei Kessel hngten. Ein schwerer Geruch von Pfefferminze drang mir entgegen, als ich eintrat. Neben der Feuerstelle lagen zwei Leichname ausgestreckt. Der Geiger hatte sich zu seinem Freund gekauert und sang leise vor sich hin. Das war der Sohn des Timon, dessen Bild du gesehen hast. Er trat jetzt auf mich zu und sagte: """"Willkommen!"""" Ich erzhlte ihm von meinem Begegnung mit dem Fremden und fragte nach der Stellung der Siedlung gegenber der Stadt. Als ich die Stimme des Jungen hren wollte, blickte er mich nur an und schien keine Lust zu sprechen zu haben. In diesem Augenblick kam der Alte mit einem Kopf voll kinnlangen grauen Haars ins Zimmer getreten und blieb verwirrt stehen, als er mich sah. Dann sprang er rasch zurck, denn nun bemerkte er die Leichname neben der Feuerstelle. Ich bat ihn, mir das Haus zu zeigen. Er fhrte mich durch einen kurzen Gang in die Hintertr, wo ein weiter Raum lag, in dem es stark nach Gewrben roch. Aus einem offenen Bette ragten zwei Arme. Der Alte blickte darauf herab und flsterte: """"Nun ist sie doch noch einmal bei ihrem Mann!"""" Ich fragte nach ihrer Krankheit, aber er wies ab und eilte voran in den Vorraum, wo sich auch die Schlafkammer befand. Die Geigen hingen an der Wand. Auf dem Tisch standen mehrere der Kunstwerke, die ich schon im Freien gesehen hatte. Außerdem gab es einige Bronzefiguren, die ganz anders geartet waren, als die anderen. Der Alte nahm ein kleines Standbild von einer Frau, die im Wasser schwamm, und sagte: """"Das hat meine Tochter geschnitzt."""" Es war wirklich sehr schn, aber ich merkte bald, da das Muster fr viele andere Werke der Familie sein musste. Es ging also um eben dieses Motiv, dass der Fremde erschienen war. Vielleicht hatte er meinen Brief gefunden, der in der Tasche des Toten gelegen haben mochte. Aber was hatte die Tochter damit zu tun? Der Alte fhrte mich in die Htte zurck und sagte, ich solle mich setzen. Da wurde die Tr aufgerissen, und der Junge, der vorhin so stumm gewesen war, stellte sich mit einer Pistole in der Hand vor mich hin und rief: """"Ich habe ihn getroffen, ich habe ihn getroffen!"""" Er stand zitternd da und hielt die Waffe mit beiden Hnden fest. Ich konnte nicht gleich begreifen, was geschehen war. Der Alte sprang wieder in den Schatten, und der Junge rief: """"Das war der Anwalt!"""" Dann fiel er in Ohnmacht. "
42	42	"Well, that's something, Ohls said. He turned away. I've called Wilde. We'll go over and see him and take this punk. He can ride with me and you can follow on behind in case he tries to kick me in the face.
How do you like what's in the bedroom?
I like it fine, Ohls said. I'm kind of glad that Taylor kid went off the pier. I'd hate to have to help send him to the deathhouse for rubbing that skunk.
I went back into the small bedroom and blew out the black candles and let them smoke. When I got back to the living room Ohls had the boy up on his feet. The boy stood glaring at him with sharp black eyes in a face as hard and white as cold mutton fat.
Let's go, Ohls said and took him by the arm as if he didn't like touching him. I put the lamps out and followed them out of the house. We got into our cars and I followed Ohls' twin tail-lights down the long curving hill. I hoped this would be my last trip to Laverne Terrace.
Taggart Wilde, the District Attorney, lived at the comer of Fourth and Lafayette Park, in a white frame house the size of a carbarn, with a red sandstone porte-cochere built on to one side and a couple of acres of soft rolling lawn in front. It was one of those solid old-fashioned houses which it used to be the thing to move bodily to new locations as the city grew westward. Wilde came of an old Los Angeles family and had probably been born in the house when it was on West Adams or Figueroa or St. James Park.
There were two cars in the driveway already, a big private sedan and a police car with a uniformed chauffeur who leaned smoking against his rear fender and admired the moon. Ohls went over and spoke to him and the chauffeur looked in at the boy in Ohls' car.
We went up to the house and rang the bell. A slick-haired blond man opened the door and led us down the hall and through a huge sunken living room crowded with heavy dark furniture and along another hall on the far side of it. He knocked at a door and stepped inside, then held the door wide and we went into a paneled study with an open French door at the end and a view of dark garden and mysterious trees. A smell of wet earth and flowers came in at the window. There were large dim oils on the walls, easy chairs, books, a smell of good cigar smoke which blended with the smell of wet earth and flowers.
Taggart Wilde sat behind a desk, a middle-aged plump man with clear blue eyes that managed to have a friendly expression without really having any expression at all. He had a cup of black coffee in front of him and he held a dappled thin cigar between the neat careful fingers of his left hand. Another man sat at the corner of the desk in a blue leather chair, a cold-eyed hatchet-faced man, as lean as a rake and as hard as the manager of a loan office. His neat well-kept face looked as if it had been shaved within the hour. He wore a well-pressed brown suit and there was a black pearl in his tie. He had the long nervous fingers of a man with a quick brain. He looked ready for a fight.
Ohls pulled a chair up and sat down and said: ""Evening, Cronjager. Meet Phil Marlowe, a private eye who's in a jam."" Ohls grinned.
Cronjager looked at me without nodding. He looked me over as if he was looking at a photograph. Then he nodded his chin about an inch. Wilde said: ""Sit down, Marlowe. I'll try to handle Captain Cronjager, but you know how it is. This is a big city now.""
I sat down and lit a cigarette. Ohls looked at Cronjager and asked: ""What did you get on the Randall Place killing?"""	"Summary: The protagonist and Ohls bring a boy to see Taggart Wilde, the District Attorney, in his house. They are joined by another man named Cronjager. They discuss the Randall Place killing.
Narrative arc: Investigative
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Ohls, Taggart Wilde, Cronjager
Quoted character: Taylor kid
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Laverne Terrace, Wilde's house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Ohls brought the boy along. He was in his Sunday best, a small blue serge suit that had been let out at the knees and cuffs and cuffs and allowed to bag around his thin body. They found Wilde sitting in a chair before the fireplace in his living-room, reading a copy of the Los Angeles Examiner. He glanced up as they entered and then rose to greet them with an air of courtly cordiality. His eyes were sad behind the spectacles. They were watery and brown and mild. “Well, now,” he said. “What is it?” Ohls held out the boy. “This kid saw who did it,” he said. “Wants to tell you himself.” Wilde smiled. “All right,” he said. “Bring him over here by the fire.” The boy stood uncertainly. “Come on,” said Ohls. “The D.A.’s waiting for you.” They sat down together in front of the fireplace. On the rug before them lay a stuffed owl. The boy stared at it with round, frightened eyes. “You don’t have to be afraid of this gentleman,” said Ohls. “He’s nice. He’s Taggart Wilde, the District Attorney.” The boy nodded dumbly. He didn’t speak. The silence seemed to get on Ohls’ nerves. “Well, go on,” he said. “Tell him what you told me.” The boy looked up quickly. “I ain’t going to tell him nothing,” he said. “How come? You told me you wanted to tell him yourself.” The boy looked at Wilde. “Yeah, but I changed my mind,” he said. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we can always forget it,” said Ohls. “Sure,” said the boy. “That’s what I mean.” Ohls looked up at Wilde. “Don’t worry about him,” he said. “It’s just his way.” He turned back to the boy. “Where do you live?” he asked. “Laverne Terrace,” said the boy. “Who’s your folks?” “My ma’s got no folks,” said the boy. “She’s just Ma. She works at the Randall Place laundry. My pop’s dead.” “How old are you?” “Ten.” “I thought you said twelve.” “I’m ten. I lied.” “Why did you lie about it?” “I dunno.” Ohls turned to Wilde again. “I guess maybe I better tell you about this,” he said. “Seems like this kid was one of the boys that used to hang around with this Taylor kid. You know—after school, Saturdays. A bunch of them played ball in the vacant lot next door to the Randall Place laundry. Well, when this Taylor kid got killed, this kid here kind of took it personal. Maybe because he knew him or maybe because he liked to beat him at ball or something, I don’t know. Anyway, he’s been trying to find out who done it. He’s been asking around. 
43	43	"The hatchet-faced man pulled one of his fingers until the knuckle cracked. He spoke without looking up. ""A stiff, two slugs in him. Two guns that hadn't been fired. Down on the street we got a blonde trying to start a car that didn't belong to her. Hers was right next to it, the same model. She acted rattled so the boys brought her in and she spilled. She was in there when this guy Brody got it. Claims she didn't see the killer.""
That all? Ohls asked.
Cronjager raised his eyebrows a little. ""Only happened about an hour ago. What did you expect—moving pictures of the killing?""
Maybe a description of the killer, Ohls said.
A tall guy in a leather jerkin—if you call that a description.
He's outside in my heap, Ohls said. Handcuffed. Marlowe put the arm on him for you. Here's his gun. Ohls took the boy's automatic out of his pocket and laid it on a corner of Wilde's desk. Cronjager looked at the gun but didn't reach for it.
Wilde chuckled. He was leaning back and puffing his dappled cigar without letting go of it. He bent forward to sip from his coffee cup. He took a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of the dinner jacket he was wearing and touched his lips with it and tucked it away again.
There's a couple more deaths involved, Ohls said, pinching the soft flesh at the end of his chin.
Cronjager stiffened visibly. His surly eyes became points of steely light.
Ohls said: ""You heard about a car being lifted out of the Pacific Ocean off Lido pier this a.m. with a dead guy in it?""
Cronjager said: ""No,"" and kept on looking nasty.
The dead guy in the car was chauffeur to a rich family, Ohls said. The family was being blackmailed on account of one of the daughters. Mr. Wilde recommended Marlowe to the family, through me. Marlowe played it kind of close to the vest.
I love private dicks that play murders close to the vest, Cronjager snarled. You don't have to be so goddamned coy about it.
Yeah, Ohls said. I don't have to be so goddamned coy about it. It's not so goddamned often I get a chance to be coy with a city copper. I spend most of my time telling them where to put their feet so they won't break an ankle.
Cronjager whitened around the corners of his sharp nose. His breath made a soft hissing sound in the quiet room. He said very quietly: ""You haven't had to tell any of my men where to put their feet, smart guy.""
We'll see about that, Ohls said. This chauffeur I spoke of that's drowned off Lido shot a guy last night in your territory. A guy named Geiger who ran a dirty book racket in a store on Hollywood Boulevard. Geiger was living with the punk I got outside in my car. I mean living with him, if you get the idea.
Cronjager was staring at him levelly now. ""That sounds like it might grow up to be a dirty story,"" he said.
It's my experience most police stories are, Ohls growled and tumed to me, his eyebrows bristling. You're on the air, Marlowe. Give it to him.
I gave it to him.
I left out two things, not knowing just why, at the moment, I left out one of them. I left out Carmen's visit to Brody's apartment and Eddie Mars' visit to Geiger's in the afternoon. I told the rest of it just as it happened.
Cronjager never took his eyes off my face and no expression of any kind crossed his as I talked. At the end of it he was perfectly silent for a long minute. Wilde was silent, sipping his coffee, puffing gently at his dappled cigar. Ohls stared at one of his thumbs.
Cronjager leaned slowly back in his chair and crossed one ankle over his knee and rubbed the ankle bone with his thin nervous hand. His lean face wore a harsh frown. He said with deadly politeness:
So all you did was not report a murder that happened last night and then spend today foxing around so that this kid of Geiger's could commit a second murder this evening."	"Summary: A conversation between several characters discussing a murder investigation.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Dialog
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Hatchet-faced man, Ohls, Marlowe, Cronjager
Quoted character: Brody, blonde, Eddie Mars, Carmen
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy time: Hour ago
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Street, apartment, store on Hollywood Boulevard
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"A hatchet-faced man said: """"It's about the murder case."""" Ohls turned to Marlowe. """"Know anything about it?"""" I've read the papers."" That's all he knows,"" Ohls said. ""He's a pal of Brody's and the blonde that got herself killed."""" He said it as if it were a crime. Well, what do you know about it?"" Nothing very much. The woman had money. A man named Eddie Mars wanted her back from her husband. Brody was a gigolo who lived on women's money. He was seen going into an apartment with the woman. Later she was found dead in a store on Hollywood Boulevard."""" Not so late as that,"" Cronjager said. ""Ten or eleven o'clock at night. But the store wasn't open then."""" What time did they find the body?"" Ohls asked. About two in the morning."" I'm just a Greek cop from Greece,"" Cronjager said. ""I don't have to take orders from anybody but my own chief. If I want to talk to a private dick, I'll talk to him."""" Ohls said softly: """"You're talking to me."""" Cronjager said: """"I'm also talking to you, Mr. Marlowe. You know more about this than you told us before. So let's go and sit down somewhere and you can tell us some more."""" I think I'll stay here, thanks,"" Marlowe said. Ohls grinned. """"The way you handled this guy last night, I wouldn't blame you. It must be fun."""" I always try to make things fun for everybody,"" Marlowe said. The old fat man looked at him, stared hard, then lowered his eyes. """"You're not scared of me, are you?"""" I haven't the slightest reason to be,"" Marlowe said. ""But I might get scared later on."""" He smiled and walked away down the street. The blond girl stood beside the convertible with the car door open. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse, a leather skirt cut low on her hips, red shoes, a wide leather belt around her waist. Her legs were very brown. On her arm she had a tan handbag of lizard-skin with a gold catch. She wore no hat. Her hair was piled up loosely and held by a wide gold band set with three large stones that might have been diamonds. She had put on lipstick and rouge since last night. Her eyes were still heavy with bruise and fatigue. When Marlowe stopped near her she leaned against the car and looked at him without speaking. And you've got your brother out of jail,"" he said. ""That's good. How long will you stay here?"""" "
44	44	"That's all, I said. I was in a pretty tough spot. I guess I did wrong, but I wanted to protect my client and I hadn't any reason to think the boy would go gunning for Brody.
That kind of thinking is police business, Marlowe. If Geiger's death had been reported last night, the books could never have been moved from the store to Brody's apartment. The kid wouldn't have been led to Brody and wouldn't have killed him. Say Brody was living on borrowed time. His kind usually are. But a life is a life.
Right, I said. Tell that to your coppers next time they shoot down some scared petty larceny crook running away up an alley with a stolen spare.
Wilde put both his hands down on his desk with a solid smack. ""That's enough of that,"" he snapped. ""What makes you so sure, Marlowe, that this Taylor boy shot Geiger? Even if the gun that killed Geiger was found on Taylor's body or in the car, it doesn't absolutely follow that he was the killer. The gun might have been planted—say by Brody, the actual killer.""
It's physically possible, I said, but morally impossible. It assumes too much coincidence and too much that's out of character for Brody and his girl, and out of character for what he was trying to do. I talked to Brody for a long time. He was a crook, but not a killer type. He had two guns, but he wasn't wearing either of them. He was trying to find a way to cut in on Geiger's racket, which naturally he knew all about from the girl. He says he was watching Geiger off and on to see if he had any tough backers. I believe him. To suppose he killed Geiger in order to get his books, then scrammed with the nude photo Geiger had just taken of Carmen Sternwood, then planted the gun on Owen Taylor and pushed Taylor into the ocean off Lido, is to suppose a hell of a lot too much. Taylor had the motive, jealous rage, and the opportunity to kill Geiger. He was out in one of the family cars without permission. He killed Geiger right in front of the girl, which Brody would never have done, even if he had been a killer. I can't see anybody with a purely commercial interest in Geiger doing that. But Taylor would have done it. The nude photo business was just what would have made him do it.
Wilde chuckled and looked along his eyes at Cronjager. Cronjager cleared his throat with a snort. Wilde asked: ""What's this business about hiding the body? I don?t see the point of that.""
I said: ""The kid hasn't told us, but he must have done it. Brody wouldn't have gone into the house after Geiger was shot. The boy must have got home when I was away taking Carmen to her house. He was afraid of the police, of course, being what he is, and he probably thought it a good idea to have the body hidden until he had removed his effects from the house. He dragged it out of the front door, judging by the marks on the rug, and very likely put it in the garage. Then he packed up whatever belongings he had there and took them away. And later on, Sometime in the night and before the body stiffened, he had a revulsion of feeling and thought he hadn't treated his dead friend very nicely. So he went back and laid him out on the bed. That's all guessing, of course.""
Wilde nodded. ""Then this morning he goes down to the store as if nothing had happened and keeps his eyes open. And when Brody moved the books out he found out where they were going and assumed that whoever got them had killed Geiger just for that purpose. He may even have known more about Brody and the girl than they suspected. What do you think, Ohls?""
Ohls said: ""We'll find out—but that doesn't help Cronjager's troubles. What's eating him is all this happened last night and he's only just been rung in on it."""	"Summary: The narrator defends his client, Owen Taylor, in a murder investigation by discussing the circumstances surrounding the death of Geiger and Taylor's involvement.
Trope: Murder mystery
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Marlowe, Wilde, Cronjager, Brody, Geiger, Taylor
Quoted character: Carmen Sternwood
Fuzzy place: Lido
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Marlowe, Wilde, Cronjager, Brody were all there. It was a hot day. I had a glass of wine and sat down in the shade. Marlowe and I were sitting with our backs to the sun. The others were talking together in the heat. Geiger came out on the Lido in the late afternoon. He threw some bathing things into a bag and took a book from his room. He went along the road to the beach and dived into the sea. Taylor was at the desk when he came back. He was reading letters and putting them into pigeon-holes. Geiger put on dry clothes and lay down in the shade. After a time he stood up and went across to the table where Taylor was working. He asked for some money. Taylor said that he did not have any money. I saw Geiger go over to his room. He came back with a canvas pocket-book in his hand. He opened it and counted some notes. He gave these to Taylor and went back to the shade. Taylor put the notes away in the cash-box. He turned round to me and said: ‘I have told Geiger not to bother me with requests for money.’ ‘It is very difficult,’ I answered, ‘to know what to do sometimes.’ ‘What is the matter with him?’ asked Taylor. ‘He looks pale.’ ‘He has been swimming too much,’ I said. ‘And he has been working too hard.’ Taylor laughed. ‘It’s nothing to laugh at,’ I said. ‘Geiger is ill.’ I spoke sharply. ‘Let him go home,’ said Taylor. ‘But don’t bother me with his ailments.’ Geiger got up and walked towards us. He looked rather like a dog who wants to be taken for a walk. He stood by my chair and began to talk. He talked about Carmen Sternwood. She was not well,” he said. “She was very restless and unhappy.” There was no reason why she should not get better now,” I remarked. “She is going to America with her mother soon.” “It will do her good to get away from here,” said Geiger. “She can have no pleasant memories of it.” Taylor suddenly burst out laughing. “It’s just as well she’s going,” he said. “She’d go out of her mind if she stayed here much longer.” “Why?” I asked. “Because she would kill somebody,” answered Taylor. “Or something of that kind.” Geiger moved away from him. He went over to the edge of the terrace and stood leaning on the parapet. He was looking down at the beach. A minute later he cried out. We both ran to him. He was pointing to the rocks below. Far out on the water lay a little rowing-boat with two figures in it. The boat was floating gently towards the shore. There was a splash in the water. Geiger turned white and caught hold of my arm. “Look!” he cried. “Look!” 
45	45	"Cronjager said sourly: ""I think I can find some way to deal with that angle too."" He looked at me sharply and immediately looked away again.
Wilde waved his cigar and said: ""Let's see the exhibits, Marlowe."" I emptied my pockets and put the catch on his desk: the three notes and Geiger's card to General Sternwood, Cam1en's photos, and the blue notebook with the code list of names and addresses. I had already given Geiger's keys to Ohls.
Wilde looked at what I gave him, puffing gently at his cigar. Ohls lit one of his own toy cigars and blew smoke peacefully at the ceiling. Cronjager leaned on the desk and looked at what I had given Wilde.
Wilde tapped the three notes signed by Carmen and said: ""I guess these were just a come-on. If General Sternwood paid them, it would be through fear of something worse. Then Geiger would have tightened the screws. Do you know what he was afraid of?"" He was looking at me.
I shook my head.
Have you told your story complete in all relevant details?
I left out a couple of personal matters. I intend to keep on leaving them out, Mr. Wilde.
Cronjager said: ""Hah!"" and snorted with deep feeling.
Why? Wilde asked quietly.
Because my client is entitled to that protection, short of anything but a Grand Jury. I have a license to operate as a private detective. I suppose that word 'private' has some meaning. The Hollywood Division has two murders on its hands, both solved. They have both killers. They have the motive, the instrument in each case. The blackmail angle has got to be suppressed, as far as the names of the parties are concerned.
Why? Wilde asked again.
That's okey, Cronjager said dryly. We're glad to stooge for a shamus of his standing.
I said: ""I'll show you."" I got up and went back out of the house to my car and got the book from Geiger's store out of it. The uniformed police driver was standing besides Ohls' car. The boy was inside it, leaning back sideways in the corner.
Has he said anything? I asked.
He made a suggestion, the copper said and spat. I'm letting it ride.
I went back into the house, put the book on Wilde's desk and opened up the wrappings. Cronjager was using a telephone on the end of the desk. He hung up and sat down as I came in.
Wilde looked through the book, wooden-faced, closed it and pushed it towards Cronjager. Cronjager opened it, looked at a page or two, shut it quickly. A couple of red spots the size of half dollars showed on his cheekbones.
I said: ""Look at the stamped dates on the front endpaper.""
Cronjager opened the book again and looked at them. ""Well?""
If necessary, I said, I'll testify under oath that that book came from Geiger's store. The blonde, Agnes, will admit what kind of business the store did. It's obvious to anybody with eyes that that store is just a front for something. But the Hollywood police allowed it to operate, for their own reasons. I dare say the Grand Jury would like to know what those reasons are.
Wilde grinned. He said: ""Grand Juries do ask those embarrassing questions sometimes—in a rather vain effort to find out just why cities are run as they are run.""
Cronjager stood up suddenly and put his hat on. ""I'm one against three here,"" he snapped. ""I'm a homicide man. If this Geiger was running indecent literature, that's no skin off my nose. But I'm ready to admit it won't help my division any to have it washed over in the papers. What do you birds want?""
Wilde looked at Ohls. Ohls said calmly: ""I want to turn a prisoner over to you. Let's go.""
He stood up. Cronjager looked at him fiercely and stalked out of the room. Ohls went after him. The door closed again. Wilde tapped on his desk and stared at me with his clear blue eyes."	"Summary: The protagonist and the other characters discuss a case involving blackmail and murder.
Narrative arc: Tension and suspense
Enunciation: Dialogue between characters
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Cronjager, Wilde, Ohls
Fuzzy place: House, car
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"Aber er sagte:  """"Es tut mir leid, da Sie hierher kommen; es ist ja ein ganz schmutziger Haufen. Aber ich habe einen Vertrag mit ihm abgeschlossen und mchte ihn nicht brechen."""" Und so sind wir nun hierher gekommen"", erklarte Cronjager. ""Er sagt, er wolle uns helfen, aber ich glaube kaum daran."""" Wilde, der die beiden schon eine Weile beobachtet hatte, rief: """"Das Wr hat den Kopf verloren! Seht Ihr nicht, wie er herumwirbelt?"""" Ohls war noch immer auf dem Tisch. Er sa zwischen seinen Beinen und sah zu ihnen hinauf. Pltzlich stand er auf und sagte: """"Ich habe den Fall durchgedacht. Es wird mich wohl das Leben kosten, wenn ich euch helfe, aber ich will es tun. Ich bin doch sonst kein Feigling. Die Sache ist diese: Der Mann, den Ihr sucht, ist ein schwarzer Schurke. Er hat Euch hereingelegt, um Geld aus Euch herauszuschlagen, und dann hat er Eure Frau ermordet. Er sollte Euch auch umbringen, aber das ist ihm misslungen, weil ich dazwischen kam. Jetzt kommt die Polizei nach Hause, und die werden ihn kriegen, wenn er sich nicht in Luft auflst. Aber er ist nicht blau gemacht, denn er kennt sich aus in solchen Geschften und wird Wachleute und alles getuschen. Wir mssen ihn also fassen, bevor die Polizei hier ist."""" Und wie sollen wir das machen?"" fragte Cronjager. ""Wir sind vier gegen einen, und der andere hat sein Messer bei sich."""" Da lchelte Ohls. """"Sagt mir nur, wo Ihr den Schwarzen vermutet"""", sagte er. """"Dann sehe ich nach. Aber Ihr knnt ihm nichts anhaben, sobald ich ihn gegriffen habe. Er ist etwas Besonderes, und ich bin der einzige, der ihn fassen kann, denn ich wei was von Schwarzblutern."""" Wenn das stimmt, so wrde er keine Gefahr fr mich sein, wenn er gefangen ist"", sagte Wilde. Da stand Ohls wieder auf. """"Komm, Nilsen"""", sagte er, """"ich werde dir zeigen, ob ich dich brauchen kann oder nicht. Das Ding ist ganz einfach. Hier drin ist niemand auer euch Vieren. Also, wer von euch wird mir helfen?"""" Niemand sagte etwas. Dann nahm Ohls seine Pistole aus der Tasche und legte sie auf den Tisch. """"So"""", sagte er, """"jetzt helft mir, sonst wird es mir noch leid werden."""" In diesem Augenblick ffnete sich die Tr, und ein groer, schwarzer Mann trat herein. Als er den Ohls sah, setzte er sich sofort auf den Boden, legte den Kopf auf die Knie und begann zu schluchzen. "
46	46	"You ought to understand how any copper would feel about a cover-up like this, he said. You'll have to make statements of all of it—at least for the files. I think it may be possible to keep the two killings separate and to keep General Sternwood's name out of both of them. Do you know why I'm not tearing your ear off?
No. I expected to get both ears torn off.
What are you getting for it all?
Twenty-five dollars a day and expenses.
That would make fifty dollars and a little gasoline so far.
About that.
He put his head on one side and rubbed the back of his left little finger along the lower edge of his chin.
And for that amount of money you're willing to get yourself in Dutch with half the law enforcement of this county?
I don't like it, I said. But what the hell am I to do? I'm on a case. I'm selling what I have to sell to make a living. What little guts and intelligence the Lord gave me and a willingness to get pushed around in Order to protect a client. It's against my principles to tell as much as I've told tonight, without consulting the General. As for the cover-up, I've been in police business myself, as you know. They come a dime a dozen in any big city. Cops get very large and emphatic when an outsider tries to hide anything, but they do the same things themselves every other day, to oblige their friends or anybody with a little pull. And I'm not through. I'm still on the case. I'd do the same thing again, if I had to.
Providing Cronjager doesn't get your license, Wilde grinned. You said you held back a couple of personal matters. Of what import?
I'm still on the case, I said, and stared straight into his eyes.
Wilde smiled at me. He had the frank daring smile of an Irishman. ""Let me tell you something, son. My father was a close friend of old Sternwood. I've done all my office permits—and maybe a good deal more —to save the old man from grief. But in the long run it can't be done. Those girls of his are bound certain to hook up with something that can't be hushed, especially that little blonde brat. They ought not to be running around loose. I blame the old man for that. I guess he doesn't realize what the world is today. And there's another thing I might mention while we're talking man to man and I don't have to growl at you. I'll bet a dollar to a Canadian dime that the General's afraid his son-in-law, the ex-bootlegger, is mixed up in this somewhere, and what he really hoped you would find out is that he isn't. What do you think of that?""
Regan didn't sound like a blackmailer, what I heard of him. He had a soft spot where he was and he walked out on it.
Wilde snorted. ""The softness of that spot neither you nor I could judge. If he was a certain sort of man, it would not have been so very soft. Did the General tell you he was looking for Regan?""
He told me he wished he knew where he was and that he was all right. He liked Regan and was hurt the way he bounced off without telling the old man good-by.
Wilde leaned back and frowned. ""I see,"" he said in a changed voice. His hand moved the stuff on his desk around, laid Geiger's blue notebook to one side and pushed the other exhibits toward me. ""You may as well take these,"" he said. ""I've no further use for them.""
[19]
It was close to eleven when I put my car away and walked around to the front of the Hobart Arms. The plate-glass door was put on the lock at ten, so I had to get my keys out. Inside, in the square barren lobby, a man put a green evening paper down beside a potted palm and {licked a cigarette butt into the tub the palm grew in. He stood up and waved his hat at me and said: ""The boss wants to talk to you. You sure keep your friends waiting, pal."""	"Summary: The narrator discusses a cover-up with Wilde and reflects on his involvement in the case.
Narrative arc: Reflective
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, Wilde
Quoted character: General Sternwood, Regan
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Unnamed locations such as the police station and the hotel lobby
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"We would have the truth, if necessary at the cost of the case. It was not yet too late to cover up. Wilde had been all but promised a peerage in the next Honours List. That was to be his reward for the great work he had done during the General Election. He could hardly be given it now, and what was more important, he knew that he couldn't be given it. He understood that as well as I did. The papers were full of it. But still we stood together and played our cards with courage. In the end we pulled it off. General Sternwood, Regan and myself are being sent back to England on medical grounds. No questions will be asked. There will be no enquiry. We shall return quietly and live out our time in comparative obscurity. And perhaps one day we shall die without having to answer for ourselves. Oh, this is a tragic tale!"""" Ah,"" said Wilde, ""it's an epic."" Well, it is an epic in its own way,"" I replied. ""It has everything an epic should have. Heroism, tragedy, love and death. It is the sort of thing the Greeks would have made into a play."""" Perhaps they would,"" agreed Wilde. ""But they didn't know about motor-cars."" *       *       *       *       * It must be nearly eleven o'clock. I've got another hour before I go to bed, so I'll finish the story. After dinner I went to my room and wrote a few letters. I'd just finished when there was a knock at the door. Regan came in. I think I said how shocked I was to see him. He looked ghastly. His face was white and drawn, and he walked with difficulty. He'd been drinking heavily since lunch-time, and he was completely out of control. I didn't want him in my room, and I told him so. But he wasn't listening to me. He said he wanted to talk to me. I put him off as long as I could, but at last I had to give in. I sent the waiter away, and then he sat down and told me his story. """"You ought to have done this sooner,"""" I said. """"I might have helped you."""" You can help me now,"" he said. ""Listen and don't interrupt me. You're going back to England with General Sternwood and me tomorrow morning. We're sailing from Taranto. You understand?"""" Yes,"" I said, ""but why?"" It's got nothing to do with you. Just listen to me and don't interrupt."""" Very well,"" I said. ""Go on."" This afternoon I shot a man,"" he began. """"His name was Gino. He was a gangster. He was connected with the smuggling business. He had something to do with the murder of poor old George, and he was going to blackmail me. If he hadn't kept his mouth shut we'd both have been in prison. "
47	47	"I stood still and looked at his flattened nose and club steak ear.
What about?
What do you care? Just keep your nose clean and everything will be jake. His hand hovered near the upper buttonhole of his open coat.
I smell of policemen, I said. I'm too tired to talk, too tired to eat, too tired to think. But if you think I'm not too tired to take orders from Eddie Mars—try getting your gat out before I shoot your good ear off.
Nuts. You ain't got no gun. He stared at me levelly. His dark wiry brows closed in together and his mouth made a downward curve.
That was then, I told him. I'm not always naked.
He waved his left hand. ""Okey. You win. I wasn't told to blast anybody. You'll hear from him.""
Too late will be too soon, I said, and turned slowly as he passed me on his way to the door. He opened it and went out without looking back. I grinned at my own foolishness, went along to the elevator and upstairs to the apartment. I took Carmen's little gun out of my pocket and laughed at it. Then I cleaned it thoroughly, oiled it, wrapped it in a piece of canton flannel and locked it up. I made myself a drink and was drinking it when the phone rang. I sat down beside the table on which it stood.
So you're tough tonight, Eddie Mars' voice said.
Big, fast, tough and full of prickles. What can I do for you?
Cops over there—you know where. You keep me out of it?
Why should I?
I'm nice to be nice to, soldier. I'm not nice not to be nice to.
Listen hard and you'll hear my teeth chattering.
He laughed dryly. ""Did you—or did you?""
I did. I'm damned if I know why. I guess it was just complicated enough without you.
Thanks, soldier. Who gunned him?
Read it in the paper tomorrow—maybe.
I want to know now.
Do you get everything you want?
No. Is that an answer, soldier?
Somebody you never heard of gunned him. Let it go at that.
If that's on the level, someday I may be able to do you a favor.
Hang up and let me go to bed.
He laughed again. ""You're looking for Rusty Regan, aren't you?""
A lot of people seem to think I am, but I'm not.
If you were, I could give you an idea. Drop in and see me down at the beach. Any time. Glad to see you.
Maybe.
Be seeing you then. The phone clicked and I sat holding it with a savage patience. Then I dialed the Sternwoods' number and heard it ring four or live times and then the butler's suave voice saying: General Sternwood's residence.
This is Marlowe. Remember me? I met you about a hundred years ago—or was it yesterday?
Yes, Mr. Marlowe. I remember, of course.
Is Mrs. Regan home?
Yes, I believe so. Would you—
I cut in on him with a sudden change of mind. ""No. You give her the message. Tell her I have the pictures, all of them, and that everything is all right.""
Yes ... yes....  The voice seemed to shake a little. You have the pictures—all of them—and everything is all right.... Yes, sir. I may say —thank you very much, sir.
The phone rang back in five minutes. I had finished my drink and it made me feel as if I could eat the dinner I had forgotten all about; I went out leaving the telephone ringing. It was ringing when I came back. It rang at intervals until half-past twelve. At that time I put my lights out and opened the windows up and muffled the phone bell with a piece of paper and went to bed. I had a bellyful of the Sternwood family."	"Summary: The protagonist, Marlowe, engages in a tense conversation with Eddie Mars and receives calls from various characters throughout the day.
Narrative arc: Tension and suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Marlowe, Eddie Mars
Time setting: Antiquity

Diegetic time: A few hours"	A thing, I mean to say, in which a man who had the right on his side might lose the battle. “I felt pretty sure he would not want me to come into that house, and pretty sure too that he was afraid of what he might hear if we were left alone together for five minutes.” Eddie Mars sat down in the chair from which Marlowe had risen. He didn’t look at all like a bookie any more. His mouth looked like a boy’s mouth and his eyes were clear and honest and very tired. “I thought it over,” he said. “You were wise to get me out of there. It was getting to be a little bit dangerous. A lot of the boys have been wondering how far you had got with the case, and what your next move was going to be. If you talked to any of them, they’d have to talk to me, and I’m in deep enough already. But now I think I can give you some information that will help you. You can take it or leave it.” “What did you want to tell me about this fellow? The one who gave you the note?” “I’ve told you all I know about him. I only know him as a customer. There are two or three regular customers that work for the studio. This guy is one of them.” “They make extra money that way, eh?” “Sure. On their own time, off the lot, nobody knows anything about it. They’re all actors, every damn one of them. Just actors. They put on a play for themselves when they’re not acting on the screen.” “What kind of a play?” “The same kind you see played every night in the sweatshops and gin mills around here. The same kind you read about in the papers every day. The kind where guys kill each other in dark alleys and broads fall downstairs and die of cocaine poisoning and cops get shot in the back running after perps.” “I don’t seem to remember ever having seen that play acted out here,” I said. “No, but you must have read about it,” he said. “It’s been running in the town for years. We used to call it the Red Harvest, before I came out here.” “Let me give you a piece of advice,” I said. “Don’t try to tell me anything else today. Don’t even open your mouth unless you have to. There’s a lot of people that are trying to get hold of me by telephone today.” He nodded. “I guessed so. I’ve been expecting calls myself. I’ll be glad when tomorrow comes along.” “Why?” I asked. “Because the last thing that happened last night was that a cop named Bernie Ohls called up. He said it was a personal matter. I don’t know what it was about. He didn’t say. 
48	48	"I read all three of the morning papers over my eggs and bacon the next morning. Their accounts of the affair came as close to the truth as newspaper stories usually come—as close as Mars is to Saturn. None of the three connected Owen Taylor, driver of the Lido Pier Suicide Car, with the Laurel Canyon Exotic Bungalow Slaying. None of them mentioned the Sternwoods, Bernie Ohls or me. Owen Taylor was ""chauffeur to a wealthy family."" Captain Cronjager of the Hollywood Division got all the credit for solving the two slayings in his district, which were supposed to arise out of a dispute over the proceeds from a wire service maintained by one Geiger in the back of the bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard. Brody had shot Geiger and Carol Lundgren had shot Brody in revenge. Police were holding Carol Lundgren in custody. He had confessed. He had a bad record—probably in high school. Police were also holding one Agnes Lozelle, Geiger's secretary, as a material witness.
It was a nice write-up. It gave the impression that Geiger had been killed the night before, that Brody had been killed about an hour later, and that Captain Cronjager had solved both murders while lighting a cigarette. The suicide of Taylor made Page One of Section II. There was a photo of the sedan on the deck of the power lighter, with the license plate blacked out, and something covered with a cloth lying on the deck beside the running board. Owen Taylor had been despondent and in poor health. His family lived in Dubuque, and his body would be shipped there. There would be no inquest.
[20]
Captain Gregory of the Missing Persons Bureau laid my card down on his wide flat desk and arranged it so that its edges exactly paralleled the edges of the desk. He studied it with his head on one side, grunted, swung around in his swivel chair and looked out of his window at the barred top floor of the Hall of Justice half a block away. He was a burly man with tired eyes and the slow deliberate movements of a night watchman. His voice was toneless, flat and uninterested.
Private dick, eh? he said, not looking at me at all, but looking out of his window. Smoke wisped from the blackened bowl of a briar that hung on his eye tooth. What can I do for you?
I'm working for General Guy Sternwood, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood.
Captain Gregory blew a little smoke from the corner of his mouth without removing the pipe. ""On what?""
Not exactly on what you're working on, but I'm interested. I thought you could help me.
Help you on what?
General Sternwood's a rich man, I said. He's an old friend of the D.A.'s father. If he wants to hire a full-time boy to run errands for him, that's no reflection on the police. It's just a luxury he is able to afford himself.
What makes you think I'm doing anything for him?
I didn't answer that. He swung around slowly and heavily in his swivel chair and put his large feet flat on the bare linoleum that covered his floor. His office had the musty smell of years of routine. He stared at me bleakly.
I don't want to waste your time, Captain, I said and pushed my chair back—about four inches.
He didn't move. He kept on staring at me out of his washed-out tired eyes. ""You know the D.A.?""
I've met him. I worked for him once. I know Bernie Ohls, his chief investigator, pretty well.
Captain Gregory reached for a phone and mumbled into it: ""Get me Ohls at the D.A.'s office.""
He sat holding the phone down on its cradle. Moments passed. Smoke drifted from his pipe. His eyes were heavy and motionless like his hand. The bell tinkled and he reached for my card with his left hand. ""Ohls? ... Al Gregory at headquarters. A guy named Philip Marlowe is in my office. His card says he's a private investigator. He wants information from me.... Yeah? What does he look like? ... Okey, thanks.""
He dropped the phone and took his pipe out of his mouth and tamped the tobacco with the brass cap of a heavy pencil. He did it carefully and solemnly, as if that was as important as anything he would have to do that day. He leaned back and stared at me some more.
What you want?
An idea of what progress you're making, if any."	"Summary: The narrator reads the morning papers about a murder case and visits Captain Gregory of the Missing Persons Bureau to inquire about his progress.
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Narrator, Captain Gregory, General Guy Sternwood, Bernie Ohls
Quoted character: Owen Taylor, Geiger, Carol Lundgren, Agnes Lozelle
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Laurel Canyon Exotic Bungalow, bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"I read the morning papers over breakfast. There was a lot about the murder case in them, but nothing very new. The coroner's report had been given out and it showed that Owen Taylor had died of two bullets fired from a gun which had been less than eighteen inches away from him when it was fired. He had been dead for an hour or more before he was found. He had not been drinking heavily, but he had probably taken narcotics. He had a letter opener with his fingerprints on it under the carpet beside his chair. Geiger had made another statement, saying that he didn't remember shooting Taylor, that he had no reason to shoot him and that he knew nothing about the letter opener. Carol Lundgren had also made a statement. She said she had driven Owen Taylor home at five o'clock the night before and that he had been very drunk. There was nothing about Agnes Lozelle. I turned to the other news. A small item said that General Guy Sternwood had been released on bail from county jail after being arrested for disturbing the peace. On the front page there was a picture of Captain Gregory of the Missing Persons Bureau. It was an oldish man, but a strong-looking man with a face as hard and square as a marble mask. His eyes were like black glass balls. In the lower left-hand corner of the paper there was a small photograph of me with my hat on, looking as if I was chewing something tough. I finished the paper and then I went down to the garage, got into the car and drove up Laurel Canyon Exotic Bungalow. I opened the door and went into the living room. Captain Gregory sat behind a desk, writing letters, with his thick fingers resting on the keys of an electric typewriter. A young woman in a gray uniform stood by his desk, writing in a big ledger. Both of them looked up when I came in. Yes?"" the captain asked. ""What can I do for you?"" My name is Marlowe. Philip Marlowe."" Oh yes. What can I do for you?"" I took a chair and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. I'd like to know how you make out with these two people I'm looking for."""" Which two?"""" The blonde and the dark girl I told you about last night."" Oh yes. They aren't missing any more. They've been located. They're both in Reno."""" That's good,"" I said. ""I guess that lets me out. Thanks a lot, Captain."" Why thank me? You didn't pay me anything."" I smiled. """"You should be grateful for the publicity, Captain. Anybody who's getting old needs all the publicity he can get."""" He stared at me without expression, then nodded coldly and went back to his writing. "
49	49	"He thought that over. ""Regan?"" he asked finally.
Sure.
Know him?
I never saw him. I hear he's a good-looking Irishman in his late thirties, that he was once in the liquor racket, that he married General Sternwood's older daughter and that they didn't click. I'm told he disappeared about a month back.
Sternwood oughta think himself lucky instead of hiring private talent to beat around in the tall grass.
The General took a big fancy to him. Such things happen. The old man is crippled and lonely. Regan used to sit around with him and keep him company.
What you think you can do that we can't do?
Nothing at all, in so far as finding Regan goes. But there's a rather mysterious blackmail angle. I want to make sure Regan isn't involved. Knowing where he is or isn't might help.
Brother, I'd like to help you, but I don't know where he is. He pulled down the curtain and that's that.
Pretty hard to do against your organization, isn't it, Captain?
Yeah—but it can be done—for a while. He touched a bell button on the side of his desk. A middle-aged woman put her head in at a side door. Get me the file on Terence Regan, Abba.
The door closed. Captain Gregory and I looked at each other in some more heavy silence. The door opened again and the woman put a tabbed green file on his desk. Captain Gregory nodded her out, put a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses on his veined nose and turned the papers in the file over slowly. I rolled a cigarette around in my fingers.
He blew on the 16th of September, he said. The only thing important about that is it was the chauffeur's day off and nobody saw Regan take his car out. It was late afternoon, though. We found the car four days later in a garage belonging to a ritzy bungalow court place near the Sunset Towers. A garage man reported it to the stolen car detail, said it didn't belong there. The place is called the Casa de Oro. There's an angle to that I'll tell you about in a minute. We couldn't find out anything about who put the car in there. We print the car but don't find any prints that are on file anywhere. The car in that garage don't jibe with foul play, although there's a reason to suspect foul play. It jibes with something else I'll tell you about in a minute.
I said: ""That jibes with Eddie Mars' wife being on the missing list.""
He looked annoyed. ""Yeah. We investigate the tenants and find she's living there. Left about the time Regan did, within two days anyway. A guy who sounds a bit like Regan had been seen with her, but we don't get a positive identification. It's goddamned funny in this police racket how an old woman can look out of a window and see a guy running and pick him out of a line-up six months later, but we can show hotel help a clear photo and they just can't be sure.""
That's one of the qualifications for good hotel help, I said.
Yeah. Eddie Mars and his wife didn't live together, but they were friendly, Eddie says. Here's some of the possibilities. First off Regan carried fifteen grand, packed it in his clothes all the time. Real money, they tell me. Not just a top card and a bunch of hay. That's a lot of jack but this Regan might be the boy to have it around so he could take it out and look at it when somebody was looking at him. Then again maybe he wouldn't give a damn. His wife says he never made a nickel off of old man Sternwood except room and board and a Packard 120 his wife gave him. Tie that for an ex-legger in the rich gravy.
It beats me, I said."	"Summary: The narrator is speaking with Captain Gregory about a missing man named Regan and the mysterious blackmail angle surrounding him.
Narrative arc: Investigative
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Captain Gregory, the narrator
Quoted character: General Sternwood, Eddie Mars
Fuzzy time: Late afternoon
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Tall grass, bungalow court place, garage
Diegetic time: A few hours"	“Not even Regan,” I said. “He’s been missing since late afternoon.” He looked at me with a white frown, as if he didn’t believe it. Then his mouth tightened and his eyes went hard. “I guess you had to ask that,” he said slowly. “It was the only thing there was any point in asking, wasn’t it? The blackmail angle. You’ll have to get used to thinking of everything in terms of money. It’s the American way.” “There’s a lot you haven’t got straight,” I said. “General Sternwood wanted to hire me. Eddie Mars offered me a job. I turned him down and General Sternwood hired me.” “I know that,” he said curtly. “I’m not trying to sell you anything. Just give you some background. There was something between these two guys that had nothing to do with money. But they both had plenty of that, so it could be part of it too. They were both tough guys, and they both thought they were smart. Neither of them was smart enough to live forever. That left the other guy smart. Who is the other guy?” “Me,” I said. “That’s what you think. Let’s go back to the palace in Sparta.” We went up the driveway through the tall grass, over the ridge and down into the bungalow court place. Captain Gregory walked to his car and opened the door. The sun shone on the chromium trim. He stood looking at the car, his hands on his hips, then he took off his hat and put it on the hood. “Why don’t you drive?” he said. “I’d rather walk.” He stood watching me while I unlocked the garage doors and swung the coupe out of its stall. When I came back he was leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette. His eyes were level with the top of the long dark convertible. “You’re going to like this car,” he said. “She’s a good girl.” “How come you are here?” “I just happened by,” he said. “I don’t see how you could just happen by here.” He leaned down to look inside the car. “She’s built low to the ground, but she has plenty of headroom inside. Want to take her for a spin?” “Maybe later.” He tossed his cigarette away and dropped into the seat beside me. “What time did you say Regan disappeared?” “Late afternoon. About three o’clock.” “Where did you and Carmen last see him?” “In the office. At the front of the house.” I started the engine and drove along the narrow street between the bungalows until we reached the corner of the highway. Captain Gregory pointed to a service station across the highway from the entrance to the bungalow court. “Get gas,” he said. 
50	50	"Well, here we are with a guy who ducks out and has fifteen grand in his pants and folks know it. Well, that's money. I might duck out myself, if I had fifteen grand, and me with two kids in high school. So the first thought is somebody rolls him for it and rolls him too hard, so they have to take him out in the desert and plant him among the cactuses. But I don't like that too well. Regan carried a gat and had plenty of experience using it, and not just in a greasy-faced liquor mob. I understand he commanded a whole brigade in the Irish troubles back in 1922 or whenever it was. A guy like that wouldn't be white meat to a heister. Then, his car being in that garage makes whoever rolled him know he was sweet on Eddie Mars' wife, which he was, I guess, but it ain't something every poolroom bum would know.
Got a photo? I asked.
Him, not her. That's funny too. There's a lot of funny angles to this case. Here. He pushed a shiny print across the desk and I looked at an Irish face that was more sad than merry and more reserved than brash. Not the face of a tough guy and not the face of a man who could be pushed around much by anybody. Straight dark brows with strong bone under them. A forehead wide rather than high, a mat of dark clustering hair, a thin short nose, a wide mouth. A chin that had strong lines but was small for the mouth. A face that looked a little taut, the face of a man who would move fast and play for keeps. I passed the print back. I would know that face, if I saw it.
Captain Gregory knocked his pipe out and refilled it and tamped the tobacco down with his thumb. He lit it, blew smoke and began to talk again.
Well, there could be people who would know he was sweet on Eddie Mars' frau. Besides Eddie himself. For a wonder he knew it. But he don't seem to give a damn. We check him pretty thoroughly around that time. Of course Eddie wouldn't have knocked him off out of jealousy. The set-up would point to him too obvious.
It depends how smart he is, I said. He might try the double bluff.
Captain Gregory shook his head. ""If he's smart enough to get by in his racket, he's too smart for that. I get your idea. He pulls the dumb play because he thinks we wouldn't expect him to pull the dumb play. From a police angle that's wrong. Because he'd have us in his hair so much it would interfere with his business. You might think a dumb play would be smart. I might think so. The rank and file wouldn't. They'd make his life miserable. I've ruled it out. If I'm wrong, you can prove it on me and I'll eat my chair cushion. Till then I'm leaving Eddie in the clear. jealousy is a bad motive for his type. Top-flight racketeers have business brains. They learn to do things that are good policy and let their personal feelings take care of themselves. I'm leaving that out.""
What are you leaving in?
The dame and Regan himself. Nobody else. She was a blonde then, but she won't be now. we don't find her car, so they probably left in it. They had a long start on us—fourteen days. Except for that car of Regan's I don't figure we'd have got the case at all. Of course I'm used to them that way, especially in good-class families. And of course everything I've done has had to be under the hat.
He leaned back and thumped the arms of his chair with the heels of his large heavy hands.
I don't see nothing to do but wait, he said. We've got readers out, but it's too soon to look for results. Regan had fifteen grand we know of. The girl had some, maybe a lot in rocks. But they'll run out of dough some day. Regan will cash a check, drop a marker, write a letter. They're in a strange town and they've got new names, but they've got the same old appetites. They got to get back in the fiscal system."	"Summary: The narrator discusses a case involving a man who was rolled for money and possibly killed, as well as the relationship between him and Eddie Mars' wife.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Regan, Eddie Mars' wife
Quoted character: Captain Gregory
Fuzzy place: Desert, garage
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"Regan had been out in the desert somewhere, and some of his boys were drunk or crazy. They had rolled him for money. Probably they had killed him. But that wasn't the point now. The point was to get at Eddie Mars. And it was going to take a long time and a lot of work."""" I don't see what all the fuss is about,"" she said. ""I never heard he was any good."" He's no good. He's just lucky. He's like the guy who keeps drawing numbers on a pin-ball machine. You can beat him all you want. He's always coming back. There was a big gambling joint up in Ojai once, very swell place. He took it over and fixed it so nobody could beat him. If anybody got too tough he ran them out of town. If they wouldn't go, he shot them."""" So why didn't they shoot him?"" Because he was fast with a gun himself. That isn't the point. The point is he's a gambler, he's always taking chances. When he gets tired of running from me he'll start to run from the police. Maybe he won't make it. And maybe he will. But we've got to try."""" His eyes were empty again, as if he were thinking of something far away. She felt restless and cold. """"I think I'm getting kind of mixed up in your trouble,"""" she said. He turned to her slowly. His mouth curved into a smile. """"You're not mixed up in anything yet,"""" he said. """"Wait until tomorrow."""" III Eddie Mars' wife sat beside the road under an oak tree, a dark slender woman in a black dress, her hands folded in her lap. Her lips were pale and still. A grey fox stole lay across her knees. Captain Gregory sat in the front seat of the roadster with his head back against the cushions. After a while he opened his eyes and looked at her without moving his head. """"You might as well get in,"""" he said. He started the motor and drove on down the road. She sat very straight, looking ahead. When they reached the garage there was a man standing by the side of the road. Gregory stopped the car and he got in. He was a small wiry man with thick glasses and close-cropped hair. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and no coat. Well?"" said Gregory. ""What do you want?"" We saw your car parked up there,"" said the little man. ""We thought maybe you'd broken down."" I'm busy,"" said Gregory. ""Get lost."" You're Captain Gregory, aren't you? The dick that was here this morning?"""" Sure."" The little man wiped his face carefully with his handkerchief. """"Well, I guess maybe you remember me? Name's Flannery. Used to work for the studio."""" No,"" said Gregory. ""Can't say I do."" I know Eddie Mars pretty well,"" said Flannery. ""He told us about you. About how you came around asking questions about his wife. "
51	51	"What did the girl do before she married Eddie Mars?
Torcher.
Can't you get any old professional photos?
No. Eddie must of had some, but he won't loosen up. He wants her let alone. I can't make him. He's got friends in town, or he wouldn't be what he is. He grunted. Any of this do you any good?
I said: ""You'll never find either of them. The Pacific Ocean is too close.""
What I said about my chair cushion still goes. We'll find him. It may take time. It could take a year or two.
General Sternwood may not live that long, I said.
We've done all we could, brother. If he wants to put out a reward and spend some money, we might get results. The city don't give me the kind of money it takes. His large eyes peered at me and his scratchy eyebrows moved. You serious about thinking Eddie put them both down?
I laughed. ""No. I was just kidding. I think what you think, Captain. That Regan ran away with a woman who meant more to him than a rich wife he didn't get along with. Besides, she isn't rich yet.""
You met her, I suppose?
Yes. She'd make a jazzy week-end, but she'd be wearing for a steady diet.
He grunted and I thanked him for his time and information and left. A gray Plymouth sedan tailed me away from the City Hall. I gave it a chance to catch up with me on a quiet street. It refused the offer, so I shook it off and went about my business.
[21]
I didn't go near the Sternwood family. I went back to the office and sat in my swivel chair and tried to catch up on my footdangling. There was a gusty wind blowing in at the windows and the soot from the oil burners of the hotel next door was down-drafted into the room and rolling across the top of the desk like tumbleweed drifting across a vacant lot. I was thinking about going out to lunch and that life was pretty flat and that it would probably be just as flat if I took a drink and that taking a drink all alone at that time of day wouldn't be any fun anyway. I was thinking this when Norris called up. In his carefully polite manner he said that General Sternwood was not feeling very well and that certain items in the newspaper had been read to him and he assumed that my investigation was now completed.
Yes, as regards Geiger, I said. I didn't shoot him, you know.
The General didn't suppose you did, Mr. Marlowe.
Does the General know anything about those photographs Mrs. Regan was worrying about?
No, sir. Decidedly not.
Did you know what the General gave me?
Yes, sir. Three notes and a card, I believe.
Right. I'1l return them. As to the photos I think I'd better just destroy them.
Very good, sir. Mrs. Regan tried to reach you a number of times last night—
I was out getting drunk, I said.
Yes. Very necessary, sir, I'm sure. The General has instructed me to send you a check for five hundred dollars. Will that be satisfactory?
More than generous, I said.
And I presume we may now consider the incident closed?
Oh sure. Tight as a vault with a busted time lock.
Thank you, sir. I am sure we all appreciate it. When the General is feeling a little better—possibly tomorrow—he would like to thank you in person.
Fine, I said. I'll come out and drink some more of his brandy, maybe with champagne.
I shall see that some is properly iced, the old boy said, almost with a smirk in his voice.
That was that. We said good-by and hung up. The coffee shop smell from next door came in at the windows with the soot but failed to make me hungry. So I got out my office bottle and took the drink and let my self-respect ride its own race."	"Summary: The protagonist is discussing a missing person case with Captain Torres and reflecting on his own thoughts and actions.
Narrative arc: Reflective
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Stream of consciousness
Active character: Eddie Mars, Torcher, General Sternwood
Time setting: Antiquity

Diegetic time: A few hours"	""" He paused. ""And now what?"" he said. ""You're quite sure you know who I mean, Eddie Mars?"""" I'm quite sure."" Then he thought: """"Why did I say that? Why did I have to be quite sure? Can't I see that he won't tell me anything if he thinks I don't believe him? But Eddie Mars has got his pride, and if he's been mixed up in this deal it would be like a kick in the teeth for him to admit it. And I've got my own pride too, and I can't let him think I'm just a dumb hired gun."""" His face worked with sudden anger at himself. He had been very proud of the way he had handled Eddie Mars. It was not the first time Eddie had lied to him, but it was the first time Eddie had ever really tried to snow him. He had put up with Eddie Mars' little tricks because he liked Eddie. If Eddie wasn't so goddam crooked, he wouldn't be any good as a fixer. A fixer had to be able to do things Eddie Mars could do. But suddenly Eddie Mars was no longer any good as a fixer. The feeling was there inside him. It couldn't be explained. It was one of those hunches. He could feel it in his guts. He didn't know why, but he knew Eddie Mars had made a mistake that time. He had overreached himself. Well, maybe he'd find out why. He stood up and yawned again and shivered. Captain Torres came back with a small black man carrying a tray of food. It was plain peasant food, a plate of fried fish, a bowl of soup, bread and cheese and a jug of red wine. After he had eaten he sat on the bed and smoked. A few hours later Torcher knocked on the door and came in. He wore a short white jacket and a broad leather belt with a sheathed knife. His feet were bare. He looked very tired and depressed. He sat down in a chair and put his head on his knees and his arms round his legs. You cold?"" Philip Marlowe asked. Yes,"" the boy said. ""I hate this place. It smells."" They always have some kind of a smell,"" Marlowe said. ""It's a superstition. They think the gods like it."""" I wish they'd go away."" So do I,"" Marlowe said. ""Maybe they will."" He looked down at the boy and frowned. You all right?"" he asked. I don't feel so hot."" He lifted his head off his knees. ""I'm sick of it here. I'm getting lonesome."" Marlowe took a cigarette from his pocket and held it between his fingers. """"Where'd you get that outfit?"""" General Sternwood gave it to me. He said to take care of myself."""" Do you always wear it around here?"" Yes. It's warmer than a bathrobe."""" "
52	52	"I counted it up on my fingers. Rusty Regan had run away from a lot of money and a handsome wife to go wandering with a vague blonde who was more or less married to a racketeer named Eddie Mars. He had gone suddenly without good-bys and there might be any number of reasons for that. The General had been too proud, or, at the first interview he gave me, too careful, to tell me the Missing Persons Bureau had the matter in hand. The Missing Persons people were dead on their feet on it and evidently didn't think it worth bothering over. Regan had done what he had done and that was his business. I agreed with Captain Gregory that Eddie Mars would have been very unlikely to involve himself in a double murder just because another man had gone to town with the blonde he was not even living with. It might have annoyed him, but business is business, and you have to hold your teeth clamped around Hollywood to keep from chewing on stray blondes. If there had been a lot of money involved, that would be different. But fifteen grand wouldn't be a lot of money to Eddie Mars. He was no two-bit chiseler like Brody.
Geiger was dead and Carmen would have to find some other shady character to drink exotic blends of hootch with. I didn't suppose she would have any trouble. All she would have to do would be to stand on the corner for five minutes and look coy. I hoped that the next grifter who dropped the hook on her would play her a little more smoothly, a little more for the long haul rather than the quick touch.
Mrs. Regan knew Eddie Mars well enough to borrow money from him. That was natural, if she played roulette and was a good loser. Any gambling house owner would lend a good client money in a pinch. Apart from this they had an added bond of interest in Regan. He was her husband and he had gone off with Eddie Mars' wife.
Carol Lundgren, the boy killer with the limited vocabulary, was out of circulation for a long, long time, even if they didn't strap him in a chair over a bucket of acid. They wouldn't, because he would take a plea and save the county money. They all do when they don't have the price of a big lawyer. Agnes Lozelle was in custody as a material witness. They wouldn't need her for that, if Carol took a plea, and if he pleaded guilty on arraignment, they would turn her loose. They wouldn't want to open up any angles on Geiger's business, apart from which they had nothing on her.
That left me. I had concealed a murder and suppressed evidence for twenty-four hours, but I was still at large and had a five-hundred-dollar check coming. The smart thing for me to do was to take another drink and forget the whole mess.
That being the obviously smart thing to do, I called Eddie Mars and told him I was coming down to Las Olindas that evening to talk to him. That was how smart I was."	"Summary: The protagonist reflects on various characters and their involvement in a mysterious case, while contemplating his own actions.
Narrative arc: Reflective
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Stream of consciousness
Active character: Rusty Regan, Eddie Mars, Captain Gregory, Carol Lundgren, Agnes Lozelle
Time setting: Antiquity

Diegetic time: A few hours"	"He's a character, that Rusty Regan, all right! What do you suppose he's mixed up in?"""" The door opened and Eddie Mars came in. So Rusty sent for you,"" he said. ""How did he look?"" Like an old crock."" That's the stuff to tell him. I don't like him anyway."" He was talking out of the side of his mouth and looking at me with half-shut eyes. The door opened again and Captain Gregory and Carol Lundgren came in. You know our little friend Agnes Lozelle?"" asked Eddie Mars. I've seen her around."" She says she doesn't want to talk to anybody but you,"" said Captain Gregory. And she gave me hell when I told her you were busy,"" said Carol Lundgren. They don't scare me,"" said Eddie Mars. ""Tell her I'll be there in five minutes."""" As they went out the door shut on some one else who had been standing behind it and I caught a glimpse of a pale yellow face. Just inside the door I met a waiter with a tray full of dirty dishes. I thanked him for leaving the table so neat, then I went back to the bar and had a couple of drinks while I waited for the next act in this Greek tragedy. It didn't take long. A few minutes after Eddie Mars left the phone rang and I picked up the receiver. I'm sorry, sir,"" the voice at the other end said, ""but she has refused absolutely to see any one but yourself."""" Go tell her I'm coming over,"" I said, and hung up. I was just drinking my third rye whiskey when Eddie Mars walked in. Well?"" he asked. You can go over now,"" I said. He looked at his watch. """"It's damned late for this kind of thing. All right. Here's the keys of the car. Take your time about getting back. Sleep in the car if you like. Nobody'll be using it tonight."""" I put the keys in my pocket. If I slept in the car,"" I said, ""wouldn't it be well to take the license plates off?"""" He looked at me sharply and then smiled. """"You're thinking of something,"""" he said. I don't have to think of anything,"" I said. ""I just have ideas."""" He laughed. He was standing with one foot on the rail of the balcony, leaning on the balustrade, looking down at the dance floor. After a moment he turned away and followed me out. I drove slowly back toward the road, swinging wide in a curve at the edge of the parking lot. The road was dark and empty. There was no moon and the night was very still. I turned the car eastward toward the mountains. I guess I was trying to get away from people. "
53	53	"I got down there about nine, under a hard high October moon that lost itself in the top layers of a beach fog. The Cypress Club was at the far end of the town, a rambling frame mansion that had once been the summer residence of a rich man named De Cazens, and later had been a hotel. It was now a big dark outwardly shabby place in a thick grove of wind-twisted Monterey cypresses, which gave it its name. It had enormous scrolled porches, turrets all over the place, stained-glass trims around the big windows, big empty stables at the back, a general air of nostalgic decay. Eddie Mars had left the outside much as he had found it, instead of making it over to look like an MGM set. I left my car on a street with sputtering arc lights and walked into the grounds along a damp gravel path to the main entrance. A doorman in a double-breasted guard's coat let me into a huge dim silent lobby from which a white oak staircase curved majestically up to the darkness of an upper floor. I checked my hat and coat and waited, listening to music and confused voices behind heavy double doors. They seemed a long way off, and not quite of the same world as the building itself. Then the slim pasty-faced blond man who had been with Eddie Mars and the pug at Geiger's place came through a door under the staircase, smiled at me bleakly and took me back with him along a carpeted hall to the boss's office.
This was a square room with a deep old bay window and a stone fireplace in which a fire of juniper logs burned lazily. It was wainscoted in walnut and had a frieze of faded damask above the paneling. The ceiling was high and remote. There was a smell of cold sea.
Eddie Mars' dark sheenless desk didn't belong in the room, but neither did anything made after 1900. His carpet had a Florida suntan. There was a bartop radio in the corner and a Sévres china tea set on a copper tray beside a samovar. I wondered who that was for. There was a door in the corner that had a time lock on it.
Eddie Mars grinned at me sociably and shook hands and moved his chin at the vault. ""I'm a pushover for a heist mob here except for that thing,"" he said cheerfully. ""The local johns drop in every morning and watch me open it. I have an arrangement with them.""
You hinted you had something for me, I said. What is it?
What's your hurry? Have a drink and sit down.
No hurry at all. You and I haven't anything to talk about but business.
You'll have the drink and like it, he said. He mixed a couple and put mine down beside a red leather chair and stood crosslegged against the desk himself, one hand in the side pocket of his midnight-blue dinner jacket, the thumb outside and the nail glistening. In dinner clothes he looked a little harder than in gray flannel, but he still looked like a horse-man. We drank and nodded at each other.
Ever been here before? he asked.
During prohibition. I don't get any kick out of gambling.
Not with money, he smiled. You ought to look in tonight. One of your friends is outside betting the wheels. I hear she's doing pretty well. Vivian Regan.
I sipped my drink and took one of his monogrammed cigarettes.
I kind of liked the way you handled that yesterday, he said. You made me sore at the time but I could see afterwards how right you were. You and I ought to get along. How much do I owe you?
For doing what?
Still careful, eh? I have my pipe line into headquarters, or I wouldn't be here. I get them the way they happen, not the way you read them in the papers. He showed me his large white teeth.
How much have you got? I asked.
You're not talking money?
Information was the way I understood it.
Information about what?
You have a short memory. Regan.
Oh, that. He waved his glistening nails in the quiet light from one of those bronze lamps that shoot a beam at the ceiling. I hear you got the information already. I felt I owed you a fee. I'm used to paying for nice treatment.
I didn't drive down here to make a touch. I get paid for what I do. Not much by your standards, but I make out. One customer at a time is a good rule. You didn't bump Regan off, did you?
No. Did you think I did?
I wouldn't put it past you.
He laughed. ""You're kidding.""
I laughed. ""Sure, I'm kidding. I never saw Regan, but I saw his photo. You haven't got the men for the work. And while we're on that subject don't send me any more gun punks with orders. I might get hysterical and blow one down.""
He looked through his glass at the fire, set it down on the end of the desk and wiped his lips with a sheer lawn handkerchief."	"Summary: The narrator arrives at a run-down building called the Cypress Club and meets Eddie Mars, who offers him a drink and talks about business.
Narrative arc: Casual conversation
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Eddie Mars, narrator
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: The Cypress Club
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"And here are the sphinxes on each side of the door, and the seven steps up to the porch, and the two lions crouched in front of the door. And then you go inside and there is the hall with the great pillars, and the big throne of the king in the middle of the floor. Well, this was the Cypress Club, and it had been a very fine place once, but now it looked like an old palace in Sparta, when all the people have gone away and left the walls standing empty. It was closed tight as a drum. There wasn't a light anywhere. I went around and peeped into the card-room and the barroom and the restaurant. Everything was dark and silent. Then I went back outside and looked at the door again. There were letters on it, painted in gold. They read: Cypress Club Eddie Mars Proprietor I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The silence was so heavy that for a moment I couldn't hear anything. Then I heard the click of a switch, and lights began to come on dimly, like fireflies lighting one by one in a dark wood. Eddie Mars came out of the office. He looked cool and pleasant in a white suit and gray shoes. """"Come in,"""" he said. """"Have a drink?"""" I nodded and sat down on a leather couch. The light got brighter. Eddie Mars leaned over a table and turned on some music. A slow, sad waltz started to play. You don't look like a waiter,"" I said. ""Aren't you busy tonight?"" He grinned and said: """"No, I'm not busy tonight."""" I thought he would offer me some kind of an excuse, but he didn't. It made me feel easier in my mind. I knew there was nothing phony about him. A man who doesn't make excuses isn't ashamed of what he does. I finished my drink and we went out into the car. We drove along the Coast Highway, through Santa Monica, through Venice, to Ocean Park, then north again until we were out past the amusement parks. The houses stopped. We turned off the highway and drove a mile or so along a dark road. At last we swung into a driveway which led between tall eucalyptus trees. The house was way back from the road, set among palm trees and oleander bushes. Eddie Mars opened the door and switched on the light. The living-room was furnished expensively but simply. The floor was covered with a thick carpet of green pile. On the wall hung a few large paintings of the coast. There was a big desk, a big leather couch, a big chair, a big bookcase. Everything was big. The room was quiet and shadowy. Two girls came out of a rear hallway. One of them was the blonde I had seen at the track. She wore a tailored dinner dress and high-heeled slippers. The other girl was tall and thin, with a long nose and a wide mouth. "
54	54	"You talk a good game, he said. But I dare say you can break a hundred and ten. You're not really interested in Regan, are you?
No, not professionally. I haven't been asked to be. But I know somebody who would like to know where he is.
She doesn't give a damn, he said.
I mean her father.
He wiped his lips again and looked at the handkerchief almost as if he expected to find blood on it. He drew his thick gray eyebrows close together and lingered the side of his weatherbeaten nose.
Geiger was trying to blackmail the General, I said. The General wouldn't say so, but I figure he was at least half scared Regan might be behind it.
Eddie Mars laughed. ""Uh-uh. Geiger worked that one on everybody. It was strictly his own idea. He'd get notes from people that looked legal—were legal, I dare say, except that he wouldn't have dared sue on them. He'd present the notes, with a nice flourish, leaving himself empty-handed. If he drew an ace, he had a prospect that scared and he went to work. If he didn't draw an ace, he just dropped the whole thing.""
Clever guy, I said. He dropped it all right. Dropped it and fell on it. How come you know all this?
He shrugged impatiently. ""I wish to Christ I didn't know half the stuff that's brought to me. Knowing other people's business is the worst investment a man can make in my circle. Then if it was just Geiger you were after, you're washed up on that angle.""
Washed up and paid off.
I'm sorry about that. I wish old Sternwood would hire himself a soldier like you on a straight salary, to keep those girls of his home at least a few nights a week.
Why?
His mouth looked sulky. ""They're plain trouble. Take the dark one. She's a pain in the neck around here. If she loses, she plunges and I end up with a fistful of paper which nobody will discount at any price. She has no money of her own except an allowance and what's in the old man's will is a secret. If she wins, she takes my money home with her.""
You get it back the next night, I said.
I get some of it back. But over a period of time I'm loser.
He looked earnestly at me, as if that was important to me. I wondered why he thought it necessary to tell me at all. I yawned and finished my drink.
I'm going out and look the joint over, I said.
Yes, do. He pointed to a door near the vault door. That leads to a door behind the tables.
I'd rather go in the way the suckers enter.
Okey. As you please. We're friends, aren't we, soldier?
Sure. I stood up and we shook hands.
Maybe I can do you a real favor some day, he said. You got it all from Gregory this time.
So you own a piece of him too.
Oh not that bad. We're just friends.
I stared at him for a moment, then went over to the door I had come in at. I looked back at him when I had it open.
You don't have anybody tailing me around in a gray Plymouth sedan, do you?
His eyes widened sharply. He looked jarred. ""Hell, no. Why should I?""
I couldn't imagine, I said, and went on out. I thought his surprise looked genuine enough to be believed. I thought he even looked a little worried. I couldn't think of any reason for that.
[22]
It was about ten-thirty when the little yellow-sashed Mexican orchestra got tired of playing a low-voiced, prettied-up rhumba that nobody was dancing to. The gourd player rubbed his finger tips together as if they were sore and got a cigarette into his mouth almost with the same movement. The other four, with a timed simultaneous stoop, reached under their chairs for glasses from which they sipped, smacking their lips and flashing their eyes. Tequila, their manner said. It was probably mineral water. The pretense was as wasted as the music. Nobody was looking at them."	"Summary: The protagonist talks to Eddie Mars about Regan and Geiger, and they discuss the General and his daughters.
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The protagonist, Eddie Mars
Quoted character: Regan, Geiger, the General, the girls
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment in time
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Eddie Mars' house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"The wife of the General had followed him, and now his daughters came, their hair loose upon their shoulders, in robes like clouds. They were not as Regan or Geiger, but they were lovely to look upon; and he saw that it was not only for himself that he stood there, but for all men who had loved and suffered and died. And suddenly he thought of the palace in Sparta where he had been born, and of the women he had known and loved. """"You have been kind to me,"""" he said to Eddie Mars. """"But I must go now."""" He started to walk away, but Eddie Mars caught his arm. """"Wait a minute,"""" he said. """"What about that twenty dollars?"""" The old man's eyes blazed at him. """"Go to hell! Go to your God-damned house! But do not touch me!"" He began to move away again, and then stopped. I'll send you some money,"" he said. ""To help you. For the General was my friend."""" CHAPTER 10. THE FURY OF THE GODS The General sat on a couch with his wife beside him, waiting for his daughters to come home. He was angry. He had told them that they were to be home by eight o'clock, and it was now nearly nine. His wife said nothing. She knew when her husband was angry. She had seen the same expression on his face when he had watched the sun set on the day that he had won the battle of Thermopylae. The girls finally arrived, dressed in fine robes and jewels. The General looked at them and said nothing. You are late,"" he said. ""Where have you been?"""" We went to see the poet,"" said one of the girls. The General turned to his wife. """"These girls are a disgrace to this house,"""" he said. """"They will not learn how to behave themselves."""" I am sorry, Father,"" said one of the girls. ""We will try to be better in the future."""" The General turned to his wife. """"You hear what she says?"""" he asked. The wife nodded. """"Then leave us,"""" said the General. The girls left the room. When they were gone, the General turned to his wife. """"They are growing up,"""" he said. """"I think it is time we found husbands for them."""" Yes,"" said the wife. ""It is time."" The General sat on the couch and sipped his wine. """"My head hurts,"""" he said. """"I think I will go to bed."""" Yes,"" said the wife. ""It has been a long day."" The General got up and walked slowly toward the bedroom. As he passed the door to the library, he heard voices inside. He opened the door and saw his daughters sitting on the floor, reading from a book. They looked up and smiled at him. What are you doing?"" asked the General. Reading,"" said one of the girls. ""It is a book called The Odyssey."""" "
55	55	"The room had been a ballroom once and Eddie Mars had changed it only as much as his business compelled him. No chromium glitter, no indirect lighting from behind angular cornices, no fused glass pictures, or chairs in violent leather and polished metal tubing, none of the pseudo-modernistic circus of the typical Hollywood night trap. The light was from heavy crystal chandeliers and the rose-damask panels of the wall were still the same rose damask, a little faded by time and darkened by dust, that had been matched long ago against the parquetry floor, of which only a small glass-smooth space in front of the little Mexican orchestra showed bare. The rest was covered by a heavy old-rose carpeting that must have cost plenty. The parquetry was made of a dozen kinds of hardwood, from Burma teak through half a dozen shades of oak and ruddy wood that looked like mahogany, and fading out to the hard pale wild lilac of the California hills, all laid in elaborate patterns, with the accuracy of a transit.
It was still a beautiful room and now there was roulette in it instead of measured, old-fashioned dancing. There were three tables close to the far wall. A low bronze railing joined them and made a fence around the croupiers. All three tables were working, but the crowd was at the middle one. I could see Vivian Regan's black head close to it, from across the room where I was leaning against the bar and turning a small glass of bacardi around on the mahogany.
The bartender leaned beside me watching the cluster of well-dressed people at the middle table. ""She's pickin' 'em tonight, right on the nose,"" he said. ""That tall blackheaded frail.""
Who is she?
I wouldn't know her name. She comes here a lot though.
The hell you wouldn't know her name.
I just work here, mister, he said without any animosity. She's all alone too. The guy was with her passed out. They took him out to his car.
I'll take her home, I said.
The hell you will. Well, I wish you luck anyways. Should I gentle up that bacardi or do you like it the way it is?
I like it the way it is as well as I like it at all, I said.
Me, I'd just as leave drink croup medicine, he said.
The crowd parted and two men in evening clothes pushed their way out and I saw the back of her neck and her bare shoulders in the opening. She wore a low-cut dress of dull green velvet. It looked too dressy for the occasion. The crowd closed and hid all but her black head. The two men came across the room and leaned against the bar and asked for Scotch and soda. One of them was flushed and excited. He was mopping his face with a black-bordered handkerchief. The double satin stripes down the side of his trousers were wide enough for tire tracks.
Boy, I never saw such a run, he said in a jittery voice. Eight wins and two stand-offs in a row on that red. That's roulette, boy, that's roulette.
lt gives me the itch, the other one said. She's betting a grand at a crack. She can't lose. They put their beaks in their drinks, gurgled swiftly and went back.
So wise the little men are, the barkeep drawled. A grand a crack, huh. I saw an old horseface in Havana once—-
The noise swelled over at the middle table and a chiseled foreign voice rose above it saying: ""If you will just be patient a moment, madam. The table cannot cover your bet. Mr. Mars will be here in a moment.""
I left my bacardi and padded across the carpet. The little orchestra started to play a tango, rather loud. No one was dancing or intending to dance. I moved through a scattering of people in dinner clothes and full evening dress and sports clothes and business suits to the end table at the left. It had gone dead. Two croupiers stood behind it with their heads together and their eyes sideways. One moved a rake back and forth aimlessly over the empty layout. They were both staring at Vivian Regan."	"Summary: The narrator observes a woman playing roulette in a beautiful old-fashioned room, while interacting with the bartender and other patrons.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of a place, dialogue
Active character: Eddie Mars, Vivian Regan
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Fuzzy place: Ballroom turned into casino
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Eddie Mars, the man who was paying for the party, was over in a far corner with some other men. He looked up at me and nodded. I went over and sat on a bench by him. “Having fun?” he asked. “It’s great. What is that music?” “Debussy.” A waiter brought me a drink. Eddie Mars introduced me to the other men. One of them was a very old man with white hair and a red nose. He was talking about something to do with oil. The others were younger. They had been looking at the woman playing roulette when I came in. When they heard my name, their eyes turned back to her again. She was a tall girl with black hair, and she was dressed in yellow silk. Her shoulders were bare. It was not a good dress for her. It made her look hard and brittle. Eddie Mars noticed me looking at her. “I’ll show you around later,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of nice things here.” He finished his cocktail and stood up. “Well, fellas. We’re going to have dinner now. You guys stay here and play until it’s time for us to go into the dining-room.” He turned to me. “Are you coming?” He led the way out of the ballroom. The orchestra played Debussy as we walked down the hall towards the dining-room. 
56	56	"Her long lashes twitched and her face looked unnaturally white. She was at the middle table, exactly opposite the wheel. There was a disordered pile of money and chips in front of her. It looked like a lot of money. She spoke to the croupier with a cool, insolent, ill-tempered drawl.
What kind of a cheap outfit is this, I'd like to know. Get busy and spin that wheel, highpockets. I want one more play and I'm playing table stakes. You take it away fast enough I've noticed, but when it comes to dishing it out you start to whine.
The croupier smiled a cold polite smile that had looked at thousands of boors and millions of fools. His tall dark disinterested manner was flawless. He said gravely: ""The table cannot cover your bet, madam. You have over sixteen thousand dollars there.""
It's your money, the girl jeered. Don't you want it back?
A man beside her tried to tell her something. She turned swiftly and spat something at him and he faded back into the crowd red-faced. A door opened in the paneling at the far end of the enclosed place made by the bronze railing. Eddie Mars came through the door with a set indifferent smile on his face, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dinner jacket, both thumbnails glistening outside. He seemed to like that pose. He strolled behind the croupiers and stopped at the corner of the middle table. He spoke with lazy calm, less politely than the croupier.
Something the matter, Mrs. Regan?
She turned her face to him with a sort of lunge. I saw the curve of her cheek stiffen, as if with an almost unbearable inner tautness. She didn't answer him.
Eddie Mars said gravely: ""If you're not playing any more, you must let me send someone home with you.""
The girl flushed. Her cheekbones stood out white in her face. Then she laughed off-key. She said bitterly:
One more play, Eddie. Everything I have on the red. I like red. It's the color of blood.
Eddie Mars smiled faintly, then nodded and reached into his inner breast pocket. He drew out a large pinseal wallet with gold corners and tossed it carelessly along the table to the croupier. ""Cover her bet in even thousands,"" he said, ""if no one objects to this turn of the wheel being just for the lady.""
No one objected, Vivian Regan leaned down and pushed all her winnings savagely with both hands on to the large red diamond on the layout.
The croupier leaned over the table without haste. He counted and stacked her money and chips, placed all but a few chips and bills in 3 neat pile and pushed the rest back off the layout with his rake. He opened Eddie Mars' wallet and drew out two flat packets of thousand-dollar bills. He broke one, counted six bills out, added them to the unbroken packet, put the four loose bills in the wallet and laid it aside as carelessly as if it had been a packet of matches. Eddie Mars didn't touch the wallet. Nobody moved except the croupier. He spun the wheel lefthanded and sent the ivory ball skittering along the upper edge with a casual flirt of his wrist. Then he drew his hands back and folded his arms.
Vivian's lips parted slowly until her teeth caught the light and glittered like knives. The ball drifted lazily down the slope of the wheel and bounced on the chromium ridges above the numbers. After a long time and then very suddenly motion left it with a dry click. The wheel slowed, carrying the ball around with it. The croupier didn't unfold his arms until the wheel had entirely ceased to revolve.
The red wins, he said formally, without interest. The little ivory ball lay in Red 25, the third number from the Double Zero. Vivian Regan put her head back and laughed triumphantly.
The croupier lifted his rake and slowly pushed the stack of thousand-dollar bills across the layout, added them to the stake, pushed everything slowly out of the field of play."	"Summary: A woman named Vivian Regan is playing at a casino table and makes a large bet with the help of Eddie Mars. She wins, but her reaction is intense and she seems to be in a bad mood.
Trope: Gamblers' luck
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of a casino scene
Literary movement: Noir
Active character: Vivian Regan, Eddie Mars
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy place: The casino
Diegetic time: A few hours"	And the house was very rich and very old, full of white columns and flags on the roof like a ship. It looked like a temple; it smelled like money. The room was lighted by a great golden dome in which fire crawled over the blue paint of the ceiling; and through the open doors there came in from the night a little wind that stirred the red curtains and the yellow hangings of the tables. There was an immense red carpet with a pattern of flowers, and all around the walls were white chairs and stands for the cards, and behind them men with red waistcoats and white ties, and beside each table a woman in black velvet who took the money and paid out the stakes. Vivian Regan went past the doors into the gambling-room, walking lightly with her eyes on the floor, and Eddie Mars followed close behind her. She passed down between the tables and stopped before a green baize cloth, smooth and dark as the skin of a snake. On one side of her a man sat alone, playing solitaire; on the other side there was only one other player, a young man in evening clothes. He had curly hair and a dark face and he was laughing at some joke his partner had made, but when she stood up straight and still, suddenly, looking across the green cloth at him, his eyes changed and he turned pale under his tan and began to play rapidly and without interest. She put her hand on the chair and sat down opposite him. Her face was calm and beautiful and her dress was black and simple, and yet she stood out from all the other women in the room as the leopardess stands out among sheep. The croupier handed her chips and she pushed them together in front of her with her fingers. A waiter brought her a glass of champagne and she drank it and played for a while, watching the cards fall. Then she looked up and said: “I want to make a big bet.” Eddie Mars leaned against the wall and watched her intently, waiting for what she would do next. The croupier nodded to her and asked her how much she wanted to play. “Ten thousand francs,” she said. The croupier held out the box of chips and she took half of them and pushed them forward. A murmur went through the room. She reached in her bag and took out a jeweled cigarette case and opened it. The croupier spun the wheel and threw the ball across the green cloth and then she took a cigarette and lit it and blew the smoke out slowly, watching the wheel go round and round. They heard the click of the ball as it dropped into one of the slots, and the croupier raked in the losing bets and counted out the winner’s, but she never moved her eyes from the spinning wheel, and they could see the tiny muscles working in her cheeks and under her jaw bone. She had lost. She took another cigarette and lit it and began to play again. She won three times in a row. 
57	57	"Eddie Mars smiled, put his wallet back in his pocket, turned on his heel and left the room through the door in the paneling.
A dozen people let their breath out at the same time and broke for the bar. I broke with them and got to the far end of the room before Vivian had gathered up her winnings and turned away from the table. I went out into the large quiet lobby, got my hat and coat from the check girl, dropped a quarter in her tray and went out on the porch. The doorman loomed up beside me and said: ""Can I get your car for you, sir?""
I said: ""I'm just going for a walk.""
The scrollwork along the edge of the porch was wet with the fog. The fog dripped from the Monterey cypresses that shadowed off into nothing towards the cliff above the ocean. You could see a scant dozen feet in any direction. I went down the porch steps and drifted off through the trees, following an indistinct path until I could hear the wash of the surf licking at the fog, low down at the bottom of the cliff. There wasn't a gleam of light anywhere. I could see a dozen trees clearly at one time, another dozen dimly, then nothing at all but the fog. I circled to the left and drifted back towards the gravel path that went around to the stables where they parked the cars. When I could make out the outlines of the house I stopped. A little in front of me I had heard a man cough.
My steps hadn't made any sound on the soft moist turf. The man coughed again, then stifled the cough with a handkerchief or a sleeve. While he was still doing that I moved forward closer to him. I made him out, a vague shadow close to the path. Something made me step behind a tree and crouch down. The man turned his head. His face should have been a white blur when he did that. It wasn't. It remained dark. There was a mask over it.
I waited, behind the tree.
[23]
Light steps, the steps of a woman, came along the invisible pathway and the man in front of me moved forward and seemed to lean against the fog. I couldn't see the woman, then I could see her indistinctly. The arrogant carriage of her head seemed familiar. The man stepped out very quickly. The two figures blended in the fog, seemed to be part of the fog. There was dead silence for a moment. Then the man said:
This is a gun, lady. Gentle now. Sound carries in the fog. Just hand me the bag.
The girl didn't make a sound. I moved forward a step. Quite suddenly I could see the foggy fuzz on the man's hat brim. The girl stood motionless. Then her breathing began to make a rasping sound, like a small file on soft wood.
Yell, the man said, and I'll cut you in half.
She didn't yell. She didn't move. There was a movement from him, and a dry chuckle. ""It better be in here,"" he said. A catch clicked and a fumbling sound came to me. The man turned and came towards my tree. When he had taken three or four steps he chuckled again. The chuckle was something out of my own memories. I reached a pipe out of my pocket and held it like a gun.
I called out softly: ""Hi, Lanny.""
The man stopped dead and started to bring his hand up. I said: ""No. I told you never to do that, Lanny. You're covered.""
Nothing moved. The girl back on the path didn't move. I didn't move. Lanny didn't move.
Put the bag down between your feet, kid, I told him. Slow and easy.
He bent down. I jumped out and reached him still bent over. He straightened up against me breathing hard. His hands were empty."	"Summary: The protagonist follows Eddie Mars out of the room and then goes for a walk in the foggy night. He encounters a masked man and a woman, who is revealed to be his partner Lanny, and confronts them.
Trope: Masked confrontation
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of a place and dialogue
Active character: Eddie Mars, protagonist, Lanny, masked man
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Foggy path, trees, gravel path
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"He followed Eddie Mars out of the room and through a small door and up a flight of steps. There were voices in the fog outside, and the muffled sound of an engine starting. Eddie was speaking to someone in the dark. He heard him give an order, heard the starter click, and then the sound of the car moving away into the night. He walked on down the gravel path between the trees until he came to a turn that ended at a high iron gate. It was closed. He stood there for a long time, listening to the silence and watching the fog creep higher against the walls of the palace. Then he turned back and walked slowly across the lawn toward the house. He went inside and up the stairs and lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. In a little while he got up again and dressed and went outside again and started walking. The air was very still and cold, with no wind at all. As he walked along the gravel path among the trees, it seemed as though he were going back many years into the past, until he had almost forgotten who he was and what he was doing there. For a long time he walked on through the fog without knowing where he was going. He did not think about anything, but only kept putting one foot ahead of the other and following the faint glow of light that shone from the wall of the palace. When he came to the turn in the path, he stopped and looked through the iron bars of the gate into the garden beyond. The fog was so thick that he could barely make out the shapes of the trees. Then he saw something white move along the path between the cypresses. He waited until it came close, and then he opened the gate and stepped aside to let her pass. She walked on by him and stopped when she reached the spot where he was standing. She had a white veil over her face, and he could see only her eyes and part of her lips. Her figure was outlined clearly in the white silk dress, and he could see the outline of her breasts beneath the cloth. She held a handkerchief tightly in one hand and she was crying silently. I thought you would come,"" she said. ""I knew you would come."""" You sent for me?"" Yes."" Why?"" Because I wanted you to."" I don't understand."" Come with me."" But why are you crying?"" I'm afraid."" Afraid of what?"" Everything."" Let me see your face."" She took off the veil. Lanny!"" It's all right now,"" she said. ""It won't hurt any more."""" She slipped her arm through his. They walked on together through the garden and around the corner of the building until they came to the terrace. Standing in front of the double doors was a man in a mask. He wore a black cape and carried a sword in his hand. Good evening, my dear,"" he said. ""We've been waiting for you."""" "
58	58	"Tell me I can't get away with it, I said. I leaned against him and took the gun out of his overcoat pocket. Somebody's always giving me guns, I told him. I'm weighted down with them till I walk all crooked. Beat it.
Our breaths met and mingled, our eyes were like the eyes of two tomcats on a wall. I stepped back.
On your way, Lanny. No hard feelings. You keep it quiet and I keep it quiet. Okey?
Okey, he said thickly.
The fog swallowed him. The faint sound of his steps and then nothing. I picked the bag up and felt in it and went towards the path. She still stood there motionless, a gray fur coat held tight around her throat with an ungloved hand on which a ring made a faint glitter. She wore no hat. Her dark parted hair was part of the darkness of the night. Her eyes too.
Nice work, Marlowe. Are you my bodyguard now? Her voice had a harsh note.
Looks that way. Here's the bag.
She took it. I said: ""Have you a car with you?""
She laughed. ""I came with a man. What are you doing here?""
Eddie Mars wanted to see me.
I didn't know you knew him. Why?
I don't mind telling you. He thought I was looking for somebody he thought had run away with his wife.
Were you?
No.
Then what did you come for?
To find out why he thought I was looking for somebody he thought had run away with his wife.
Did you find out?
No.
You leak information like a radio announcer, she said. I suppose it's none of my business—even if the man was my husband. I thought you weren't interested in that.
People keep throwing it at me.
She clicked her teeth in annoyance. The incident of the masked man with the gun seemed to have made no impression on her at all. ""Well, take me to the garage,"" she said. ""I have to look in at my escort.""
We walked along the path and around a corner of the building and there was light ahead, then around another corner and came to a bright enclosed stable yard lit with two floodlights. It was still paved with brick and still sloped down to a grating in the middle. Cars glistened and a man in a brown smock got up off a stool and came forward.
Is my boy friend still blotto? Vivian asked him carelessly.
I'm afraid he is, miss. I put a rug over him and run the windows up. He's okey, I guess. Just kind of resting.
We went over to a big Cadillac and the man in the smock pulled the rear door open. On the wide back seat, loosely arranged, covered to the chin with a plaid robe, a man lay snoring with his mouth open. He Seemed to be a big blond man who would hold a lot of liquor.
Meet Mr. Larry Cobb, Vivian said. Mister Cobb—Mister Marlowe.
I grunted.
Mr. Cobb was my escort, she said. Such a nice escort, Mr. Cobb. So attentive. You should see him sober. I should see him sober. Somebody should see him sober. I mean, just for the record. So it could become a part of history, that brief flashing moment, soon buried in time, but never forgotten—when Larry Cobb was sober.
Yeah, I said.
I've even thought of marrying him, she went on in a high strained voice, as if the shock of the stick-up was just beginning to get to her. At odd times when nothing pleasant would come into my mind. We all have those spells. Lots of money, you know. A yacht, a place on Long Island, a place at Newport, a place at Bermuda, places dotted here and there all over the world probably—just a good Scotch bottle apart. And to Mr. Cobb a bottle of Scotch is not very far.
Yeah, I said. Does he have a driver to take him home?
Don't say 'yeah.' It's common. She looked at me with arched eyebrows. The man in the smock was chewing his lower lip hard. Oh, undoubtedly a whole platoon of drivers. They probably do squads right in front of the garage every morning, buttons shining, harness gleaming, white gloves immaculate—a sort of West Point elegance about them.
Well, where the hell is this driver? I asked."	"Summary: The protagonist, Marlowe, encounters Vivian and they have a conversation about her husband and her current situation.
Enunciation: Dialog
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Marlowe, Vivian
Time setting: Antiquity

Diegetic time: A few hours"	"You came as an angel, and your name Was Vivian!"""" Marlowe. 216 O beautiful Greek maid, how can I tell The tale that makes my bosom heave and swell? This is the day when you first met me, And all was joy and gladness; but to-day I am a wretched wanderer on my way To seek some ship that may convey me far From this accursed land. My only star Is Hope, my trust is in the Gods, and yet No ray of hope shines forth from out the sky, And Heaven seems frowning on the earth below. The day is bright, but I am sad and low With grief and trouble; let us change our theme, For 'tis too early yet to speak of doom. Tell me, O maiden, of your life at home In Athens, and what manner of man was he Who gave you for a husband."""" Vivian. 220 Alas ! my husband's dead ! He died a hero's death by Asop's flood, When fighting with the Thracians for his brood Of tender children and his wedded wife, Whom now the pirates, ruthless in their strife, Have borne away captive, I alone remain To mourn him and my other kin who fell Beneath the sword of foemen and the swell Of waters. They have left me here a slave, 230 To serve the tyrant of the land, till one Awaits me whom I know not. But, methinks, He will be kind and gentle, since he spares All others, and no evil eye surveys The humblest maiden of the household slaves. "
59	59	"He drove hisself tonight, the man in the smock said, almost apologetically. I could call his home and have somebody come down for him.
Vivian turned around and smiled at him as if he had just presented her with a diamond tiara. ""That would be lovely,"" she said. ""Would you do that? I really wouldn't want Mr. Cobb to die like that—with his mouth open. Someone might think he had died of thirst.""
The man in the smock said: ""Not if they sniffed him, miss.""
She opened her bag and grabbed a handful of paper money and pushed it at him. ""You'll take care of him, I'm sure.""
Jeeze, the man said, pop-eyed. I sure will, miss.
Regan is the name, she said sweetly. Mrs. Regan. You'll probably see me again. Haven't been here long, have you?
No'm. His hands were doing frantic things with the fistful of money he was holding.
You'll get to love it here, she said. She took hold of my arm. Let's ride in your car, Marlowe.
It's outside on the street.
Quite all right with me, Marlowe. I love a nice walk in the fog. You meet such interesting people.
Oh, nuts, I said.
She held on to my arm and began to shake. She held me hard all the way to the car. She had stopped shaking by the time we reached it. I drove down a curving lane of trees on the blind side of the house. The lane opened on De Cazens Boulevard, the main drag of Las Olindas. We passed under the ancient sputtering arc lights and after a while there was a town, buildings, dead-looking stores, a service station with a light over a nightbell, and at last a drugstore that was still open.
You better have a drink, I said.
She moved her chin, a point of paleness in the corner of the seat. I turned diagonally into the curb and parked. ""A little black coffee and a smattering of rye would go well,"" I said.
I could get as drunk as two sailors and love it.
I held the door for her and she got out close to me, brushing my cheek with her hair. We went into the drugstore. I bought a pint of rye at the liquor counter and carried it over to the stools and set it down on the cracked marble counter.
Two coffees, I said. Black, strong and made this year.
You can't drink liquor in here, the clerk said. He had a washed-out blue smock, was thin on top as to hair, had fairly honest eyes and his chin would never hit a wall before he saw it.
Vivian Regan reached into her bag for a pack of cigarettes and shook a couple loose just like a man. She held them towards me.
It's against the law to drink liquor in here, the clerk said.
I lit the cigarettes and didn't pay any attention to him. He drew two cups of coffee from a tarnished nickel urn and set them in front of us. He looked at the bottle of rye, muttered under his breath and said wearily: ""Okey, I'll watch the street while you pour it.""
He went and stood at the display window with his back to us and his ears hanging out.
My heart's in my mouth doing this, I said, and unscrewed the top of the whiskey bottle and loaded the coffee. The law enforcement in this town is terrific. All through prohibition Eddie Mars' place was a night club and they had two uniformed men in the lobby every night—to see that the guests didn't bring their own liquor instead of buying it from the house.
The clerk turned suddenly and walked back behind the counter and went in behind the little glass window of the prescription room.
We sipped our loaded coffee. I looked at Vivian's face in the mirror back of the coffee urn. It was taut, pale, beautiful and wild. Her lips were red and harsh.
You have wicked eyes, I said. What's Eddie Mars got on you?"	"Summary: A woman asks a man to take care of someone and then they go for a drive. They stop at a drugstore where the man buys whiskey and they have loaded coffee.
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: The man in the smock, Vivian Regan, Marlowe
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: The street, De Cazens Boulevard, the drugstore
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"He is to take care of you, and do what he can for you. I leave it with you."""" He's all right,"" said the man in the smock. ""I'll look after him."" Thank you,"" she said. She turned and went away quickly, without waiting for his reply. Marlowe watched her until she disappeared down the street, and then turned back to the man in the smock. """"That was your daughter?"""" he asked. Yes."" I'm awfully sorry,"" said Marlowe. ""Don't worry about her. She'll get over it. These things happen every day."""" It's not that,"" said the man in the smock. ""It's the other thing."" What other thing?"" The war,"" said the man in the smock. ""It's getting pretty close to us. I don't like it at all."""" Tell me,"" said Marlowe. ""What does the war mean to you?"""" To me?"" said the man in the smock. ""It means God knows what it means. It means a lot of people are getting killed. It means trouble in Europe. It means nothing but trouble."""" Trouble in Europe!"" shouted Marlowe. ""The war! Do you know what the war means? It means that Germany will destroy France and Britain. And then she'll destroy America, and she'll rule the world. And there won't be any more freedom and happiness anywhere. You'll live in hell on earth. You'll work like a slave, and you'll die like a worm. That's what the war means. Now do you understand?"""" Yes,"" said the man in the smock. ""I understand."" He looked at Marlowe with steady eyes. Marlowe stared back at him. Then the man in the smock spoke again. """"Let's go for a ride,"""" he said. They got into Vivian Regan's car and drove up De Cazens Boulevard. Marlowe lit a cigarette. He felt that he could not talk any more about the war. But he knew that he had done something important. He had spoken to someone. He had tried to make them understand. It was no longer a dream. After they had driven for some time, they stopped at a drugstore. They went inside. There was a counter running along the wall, and behind the counter were shelves full of bottles containing drugs and patent medicines. A fat young man in a white coat stood behind the counter, writing in a ledger. Hello, Phil,"" said Marlowe. ""How are you this afternoon?"""" All right, Mr. Marlowe."" I want some whiskey,"" said Marlowe. ""A half-bottle of rye."" The fat young man took out a bottle from one of the shelves behind the counter, put a glass on the counter, and poured some whiskey into it. Here you are, Mr. Marlowe,"" he said. Marlowe took a ten-dollar bill from his pocket, put it on the counter, and took the bottle. Thanks,"" he said. ""And give me some loaded coffee for my friend here."""" The fat young man nodded. They went outside and got into the car. They drove down the street and turned into the park. The park was empty except for some children playing in front of the palace in Sparta. Marlowe took off the top of the bottle, took a drink, and handed the bottle to the man in the smock. "
60	60	"She looked at me in the mirror. ""I took plenty away from him tonight at roulette—starting with five grand I borrowed from him yesterday and didn't have to use.""
That might make him sore. You think he sent that loogan after you?
What's a loogan?
A guy with a gun.
Are you a loogan?
Sure, I laughed. But strictly speaking a loogan is on the wrong side of the fence.
I often wonder if there is a wrong side.
We're losing the subject. What has Eddie Mars got on you?
You mean a hold on me of some sort?
Yes.
Her lip curled. ""Wittier, please, Marlowe. Much wittier.""
How's the General? I don't pretend to be witty.
Not too well. He didn't get up today. You could at least stop questioning me.
I remember a time when I thought the same about you. How much does the General know?
He probably knows everything.
Norris would tell him?
No. Wilde, the District Attorney, was out to see him. Did you burn those pictures?
Sure. You worry about your little sister, don't you—from time to time.
I think she's all I do worry about. I worry about Dad in a way, to keep things from him.
He hasn't many illusions, I said, but I suppose he still has pride.
We're his blood. That's the hell of it. She stared at me in the mirror with deep, distant eyes. I don't want him to die despising his own blood. It was always wild blood, but it wasn't always rotten blood.
Is it now?
I guess you think so.
Not yours. You're just playing the part.
She looked down. I sipped some more coffee and lit another cigarette for us. ""So you shoot people,"" she said quietly. ""You're a killer.""
Me? How?
The papers and the police fixed it up nicely. But I don't believe everything I read.
Oh, you think I accounted for Geiger—or Brody—or both of them.
She didn't say anything. ""I didn't have to,"" I said. ""I might have, I suppose, and got away with it. Neither of them would have hesitated to throw lead at me.""
That makes you just a killer at heart, like all cops.
Oh, nuts.
One of those dark deadly quiet men who have no more feelings than a butcher has for slaughtered meat. I knew it the first time I saw you.
You've got enough shady friends to know different.
They're all soft compared to you.
Thanks, lady. You're no English muffin yourself.
Let's get out of this rotten little town.
I paid the check, put the bottle of rye in my pocket, and we left. The clerk still didn't like me.
We drove away from Las Olindas through a series of little dank beach towns with shack-like houses built down on the sand close to the rumble of the surf and larger houses built back on the slopes behind. A yellow window shone here and there, but most of the houses were dark. A smell of kelp came in off the water and lay on the fog. The tires sang on the moist concrete of the boulevard. The world was a wet emptiness.
We were close to Del Rey before she spoke to me for the first time since we left the drugstore. Her voice had a muffled sound, as if something was throbbing deep under it.
Drive down by the Del Rey beach club. I want to look at the water. It's the next street on the left.
There was a winking yellow light at the intersection. I turned the car and slid down a slope with a high bluff on one side, interurban tracks to the right, a low straggle of lights far off beyond the tracks, and then very far off a glitter of pier lights and a haze in the sky over a city. That way the fog was almost gone. The road crossed the tracks where they turned to run under the bluff, then reached a paved strip of waterfront highway that bordered an open and uncluttered beach. Cars were parked along the sidewalk, facing out to sea, dark. The lights of the beach club were a few hundred yards away."	"Summary: A conversation between two characters discussing a man named Eddie Mars and the general's health. They then drive to a beach club.
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The protagonist, the woman
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Fuzzy place: Las Olindas, Del Rey beach club
Diegetic time: A few hours"	y le dej de ver, y est all en casa del Eddie Mars. Aquella mujer se qued mirndola fijamente con unos ojos muy abiertos.  Me extraa que no vengas ms a la casa. Y cuando hablas, por qu hablas como si fueras una chiflada? La otra se puso colorada.  No lo s.  Tienes mucha gracia. Se meti los pulgares en el cinturn de la falda y se sent en una silla.  No digo que no vengas; me parece bien, porque seguramente vas a aprender algo. Pero te voy a dar un consejo: no te metas en asuntos que no entiendes. No es bueno, ni para ti ni para nadie. Ella se levant, subi la escalera y se sent al lado de su madre.  Pobre mamita. No sabe nada de las cosas de ahora. Con todo, tiene razn. Yo no debo meterme en asuntos que no entiendo. El general muri de una apopleja. Por qu va a ser asunto m la vida de este hombre? Quin soy yo para juzgarlo? Algn da tendr que morir yo tambin. Muerte, quin eres t para juzgarme? En ese momento llegaron dos automviles de lujo con los airbags despus de frenar bruscamente. Los conductores se bajaron y se pusieron a hablar con la secretaria, mientras los pasajeros se apeaban y se alegraban mucho de volver a verla. Luego entraron en el restaurante. Ella les dijo adis. Despus de comer, cuando ya se marchaban todos, se llam a su chofer y le orden que fuera a buscar su coche. Haban comido en Las Olindas. Cuando salieron de l, la tarde estaba ya muy avanzada.  Vamos a ir a Del Rey Beach Club, le dijo. El chofer se volvi a poner en marcha.   ? Sabe usted, doctor, donde vive el Eddie Mars? pregunt ella a medioda, mientras pasaban frente al palomar de la pista de tenis.  No. Ella se recost en el asiento trasero. De vez en cuando se echaba hacia delante y le decia algo al chofer. Era una carretera llana y recta que discurran entre campos de maiz y hortalizas.  Seguro que es un mono el Eddie Mars. Es tan mono que ni una chica fea puede resistirse a l. Ella se ri.  No crea usted que soy una chica fea.  No, no creo yo eso, pero no es tan guapo como para que todas sus mujeres sean hermosas. Ella se encogió de hombros.  No lo s. Lo que yo creo es que todas sus mujeres son feas, porque no estn hechas para estar enamoradas. Dej la cabeza sobre la espalda del asiento y cerr los ojos. La luz del sol entraba por la ventanilla abierta. Una onda de calor le baaba el rostro. El chofer conducira despacio, tal vez borracho. Sin embargo, no se mareaba. De pronto sint que el automvil se detena. Abri los ojos. Estaban en medio de un campo de maiz. El chofer se ape del coche y se acerc a ella.  Se ha pinchado una rueda -dijo-. Voy a cambiarla. Esper a m. Ella se qued sola. El chofer regres con un cubo lleno de agua. Se quit la camisa, se lav la cara y los brazos. Despus fue al maletero y sac una botella de whisky. Bebi un trago, se sirvi otro y se lo bebi tambin. 
61	61	"I braked the car against the curb and switched the headlights off and sat with my hands on the wheel. Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed, almost without sound, like a thought trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness.
Move closer, she said almost thickly.
I moved out from under the wheel into the middle of the seat. She turned her body a little away from me as if to peer out of the window. Then she let herself fall backwards, without a sound, into my arms. Her head almost struck the wheel. Her eyes were closed, her face was dim. Then I saw that her eyes opened and flickered, the shine of them visible even in the darkness.
Hold me close, you beast, she said.
I put my arms around her loosely at first. Her hair had a harsh feeling against my face. I tightened my arms and lifted her up. I brought her face slowly up to my face. Her eyelids were flickering rapidly, like moth wings.
I kissed her tightly and quickly. Then a long slow clinging kiss. Her lips opened under mine. Her body began to shake in my arms.
Killer, she said softly, her breath going into my mouth.
I strained her against me until the shivering of her body was almost shaking mine. I kept on kissing her. After a long time she pulled her head away enough to say: ""Where do you live?""
Hobart Arms. Franklin near Kenmore.
I've never seen it.
Want to?
Yes, she breathed.
What has Eddie Mars got on you?
Her body stiffened in my arms and her breath made a harsh sound. Her head pulled back until her eyes, wide open, ringed with white, were staring at me.
So that's the way it is, she said in a soft dull voice.
That's the way it is. Kissing is nice, but your father didn't hire me to sleep with you.
You son of a bitch, she said calmly, without moving.
I laughed in her face. ""Don't think I'm an icicle,"" I said. ""I'm not blind or without senses. I have warm blood like the next guy. You're easy to take—too damned easy. What has Eddie Mars got on you?""
If you say that again, I'll scream.
Go ahead and scream.
She jerked away and pulled herself upright, far back in the comer of the car.
Men have been shot for little things like that, Marlowe.
Men have been shot for practically nothing. The first time we met I told you I was a detective. Get it through your lovely head. I work at it, lady. I don't play at it.
She fumbled in her bag and got a handkerchief out and bit on it, her head turned away from me. The tearing sound of the handkerchief came to me. She tore it with her teeth, slowly, time after time.
What makes you think he has anything on me? she whispered, her voice muffled by the handkerchief.
He lets you win a lot of money and sends a gunpoke around to take it back for him. You're not more than mildly surprised. You didn't even thank me for saving it for you. I think the whole thing was just some kind of an act. If I wanted to flatter myself, I'd say it was at least partly for my benefit.
You think he can win or lose as he pleases.
Sure. On even money bets, four times out of five.
Do I have to tell you I loathe your guts, Mister Detective?
You don't owe me anything. I'm paid off.
She tossed the shredded handkerchief out of the car window. ""You have a lovely way with women.""
I liked kissing you.
You kept your head beautifully. That's so flattering. Should I congratulate you, or my father?
I liked kissing you.
Her voice became an icy drawl. ""Take me away from here, if you will be so kind. I'm quite sure I'd like to go home.""
You won't be a sister to me?
If I had a razor, I'd cut your throat—just to see what ran out of it.
Caterpillar blood, I said."	"Summary: The protagonist and the female character engage in a conversation about their relationship and the presence of Eddie Mars.
Enunciation: Dialogue
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The protagonist, the female character
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Unnamed location by the surf
Diegetic time: A few hours"	“Lift up your head and hear me, and think what you have done to me. I am a woman. For many years the gods have dealt hardly with my house; but they have dealt most hardly with me. My father reigned here in Sparta, and he was both wise and just. And when he died before his time, his sons fought for the kingdom. They fought until there was left but one son, and he I married. “He was weak and cruel, and I loved him. He grew worse as the years went by, and the people of Sparta hated him. But for me their hatred would have been death to him. The priests said that he was not worthy to sit upon the throne of his fathers. They said that I was not worthy to be Queen. They spoke against me and against him in public; and the people listened and believed them. They would have made war on him had I not gone down to the surf and prayed to Poseidon that he might spare us. It was the first time that I had ever prayed to him. I promised him that my husband should build a temple to him in thanksgiving if he answered my prayer. He did answer it, for the people were quieted, and Menelaus reigned for two years longer. 
62	62	"I started the car and turned it and drove back across the interurban tracks to the highway and so on into town and up to West Hollywood. She didn't speak to me. She hardly moved all the way back. I drove through the gates and up the sunken driveway to the portecochere of the big house. She jerked the car door open and was out of it before it had quite stopped. She didn't speak even then. I watched her back as she stood against the door after ringing the bell. The door opened and Norris looked out. She pushed past him quickly and was gone. The door banged shut and I was sitting there looking at it.
I turned back down the driveway and home.
[24]
The apartment house lobby was empty this time. No gunman waiting under the potted palm to give me orders. I took the automatic elevator up to my floor and walked along the hallway to the tune of a muted radio behind a door. I needed a drink and was in a hurry to get one. I didn't switch the light on inside the door. I made straight for the kitchenette and brought up short in three or four feet. Something was wrong. Something on the air, a scent. The shades were down at the windows and the street light leaking in at the sides made a dim light in the room. I stood still and listened. The scent on the air was a perfume, a heavy cloying perfume.
There was no sound, no sound at all. Then my eyes adjusted themselves more to the darkness and I saw there was something across the floor in front of me that shouldn't have been there. I backed, reached the wall switch with my thumb and flicked the light on.
The bed was down. Something in it giggled. A blond head was pressed into my pillow. Two bare arms curved up and the hands belonging to them were clasped on top of the blond head. Carmen Sternwood lay on her back, in my bed, giggling at me. The tawny wave of her hair was spread out on the pillow as if by a careful and artificial hand. Her slaty eyes peered at me and had the effect, as usual, of peering from behind a barrel. She smiled. Her small sharp teeth glinted.
Cute, aren't I? she said.
I said harshly: ""Cute as a Filipino on Saturday night.""
I went over to a floor lamp and pulled the switch, went back to put off the ceiling light, and went across the room again to the chessboard on a card table under the lamp. There was a problem laid out on the board, a six-mover. I couldn't solve it, like a lot of my problems. I reached down and moved a knight, then pulled my hat and coat off and threw them somewhere. All this time the soft giggling went on from the bed, that sound that made me think of rats behind a wainscoting in an old house.
I bet you can't even guess how I got in.
I dug a cigarette out and looked at her with bleak eyes. ""I bet I can. You came through the keyhole, just like Peter Pan.""
Who's he?
Oh, a fellow I used to know around the poolroom.
She giggled. ""You're cute, aren't you?"" she said.
I began to say: ""About that thumb—"" but she was ahead of me. I didn't have to remind her. She took her right hand from behind her head and started sucking the thumb and eyeing me with very round and naughty eyes.
I'm all undressed, she said, after I had smoked and stared at her for a minute.
By God, I said, it was right at the back of my mind. I was groping for it. I almost had it, when you spoke. In another minute I'd have said 'I bet you're all undressed.' I always wear my rubbers in bed myself, in case I wake up with a bad conscience and have to sneak away from it."	"Summary: The narrator drives the main character back to her house, but she doesn't speak to him. When he arrives home, he finds Carmen Sternwood in his bed, and they engage in a conversation.
Narrative arc: Comic relief
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, Carmen Sternwood
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: The apartment house lobby, the hallway, the kitchenette, the bedroom
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"I drove her back to her apartment house, but she did not speak to me. In the lobby a strange and rather savage chauffeur was waiting for her. I took her up in the elevator and watched her go down the hallway to her door. I sat down on a sofa near the entrance to the kitchenette, with my hands on my knees and my head down. After a while I became aware of being hungry, and went into the kitchenette and made myself some tea. It is now about eleven o'clock,"" I remarked, returning with a cup of tea to the living-room. Carmen Sternwood is undoubtedly asleep."""" I drank my tea and put the cup back on the tray and laid the tray on the table. Then I turned off the lights and went into the bedroom. Carmen Sternwood lay there, as naked as the day she was born, between the cool sheets. Her hair was spread out on the pillow like a wreath. She looked beautiful. I have never seen anything so beautiful,"" I said. ""It must be very nice to live in Sparta in the days when Lycurgus reigned."""" You are standing there, Agamemnon,"" she said drowsily. What do you want?"" Nothing."" Then why don't you get into bed?"" "
63	63	"You're cute. She rolled her head a little, kittenishly. Then she took her left hand from under her head and took hold of the covers, paused dramatically, and swept them aside. She was undressed all right. She lay there on the bed in the lamplight, as naked and glistening as a pearl. The Sternwood girls were giving me both barrels that night.
I pulled a shred of tobacco off the edge of my lower lip.
That's nice, I said. But I've already seen it all. Remember? I'm the guy that keeps finding you without any clothes on.
She giggled some more and covered herself up again. ""Well, how did you get in?"" I asked her.
The manager let me in. I showed him your card. I'd stolen it from Vivian. I told him you told me to come here and wait for you. I was—I was mysterious She glowed with delight.
Neat, I said. Managers are like that. Now I know how you got in tell me how you're going to go out.
She giggled. ""Not going—not for a long time.... I like it here. You're cute.""
Listen, I pointed my cigarette at her. Don't make me dress you again. I'm tired. I appreciate all you're offering me. It's just more than I could possibly take. Doghouse Reilly never let a pal down that way. I'm your friend. I won't let you down—in spite of yourself. You and I have to keep on being friends, and this isn't the way to do it. Now will you dress like a nice little girl?
She shook her head from side to side.
Listen, I plowed on, you don't really care anything about me. You're just showing how naughty you can be. But you don't have to show me. I knew it already. I'm the guy that found—
Put the light out, she giggled.
I threw my cigarette on the floor and stamped on it. I took a handkerchief out and wiped the palms of my hands. I tried it once more.
It isn't on account of the neighbors, I told her. They don't really care a lot. There's a lot of stray broads in any apartment house and one more won't make the building rock. It's a question of professional pride. You know—professional pride. I'm working for your father. He's a sick man, very frail, very helpless. He sort of trusts me not to pull any stunts. Won't you please get dressed, Carmen?
Your name isn't Doghouse Reilly, she said. It's Philip Marlowe. You can't fool me.
I looked down at the chessboard. The move with the knight was wrong. I put it back where I had moved it from. Knights had no meaning in this game. It wasn't a game for knights.
I looked at her again. She lay still now, her face pale against the pillow, her eyes large and dark and empty as rain barrels in a drought. One of her small five-fingered thumbless hands picked at the cover restlessly. There was a vague glimmer of doubt starting to get born in her somewhere. She didn't know about it yet. It's so hard for women—even nice women—to realize that their bodies are not irresistible.
I said: ""I'm going out in the kitchen and mix a drink. Want one?""
Uh-huh. Dark silent mystefied eyes stared at me solemnly, the doubt growing larger in them, creeping into them noiselessly, like a cat in long grass stalking a young blackbird.
If you're dressed when I get back, you'll get the drink. Okey?
Her teeth parted and a faint hissing noise came out of her mouth. She didn't answer me. I went out to the kitchenette and got out some Scotch and fizzwater and mixed a couple of highballs. I didn't have anything really exciting to drink, like nitroglycerin or distilled tiger's breath. She hadn't moved when I got back with the glasses. The hissing had stopped. Her eyes were dead again. Her lips started to smile at me. Then she sat up suddenly and threw all the covers off her body and reached.
Gimme.
When you're dressed. Not until you're dressed.
I put the two glasses down on the card table and sat down myself and lit another cigarette. ""Go ahead. I won't watch you."""	"Summary: The protagonist is in a room with a woman who is naked, but he refuses to engage in sexual activity with her because of his loyalty to her father.
Trope: Woman offering herself for sex, refusal to participate due to moral or professional reasons
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: The protagonist, Carmen (the woman
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Fuzzy place: Unnamed apartment
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Pero no es menester hacer una larga historia de que todos nos conocemos muy bien. Ella se desvistio en seguida y dio un grito cuando vio que estaba todo lleno de mugre.  Mira, dijo a Carmen, mira como me lo han dejado; y se sento en el borde de la cama con los pies sobre el suelo, esperando que yo le diera paso para entrar. Yo di el paso y sali despues de haberla examinado detenidamente.  No s lo que va a pasar ahora, dije yo; pero ya veo que te has olvidado de tu camisilla.  Si, ? y para qu la traigo yo si siempre me la pongo? El caso es saber si me la vuelvo a poner esta noche, porque si no...  No tengas cuidado; ? crees que vas a tener frico? No, no te preocupes; lo que tienes que hacer es dormirte y luego veremos lo que pasa. Pero antes, como no me has dado de comer desde ayer, quiero que me preparen unas churrascas y un panecillo con queso. Despues ire a buscar las pastillas de la maquina y con qu deseas que me lleve? Ella habia puesto cara de asombro al oir mis palabras, pero se quedo muda y no contesto nada.  ? Tienes algo que decirme?  Pues no, respondio despues de un momento de silencio; ? a quin le importa eso? Pero no te metas, hombre, que yo estoy contenta de ir a dormir a este cuarto. Y como me ha dicho tu senora que tengo que aguantar all, pues aguanto.  ? Quieres decir que te quedas esta noche conmigo?  Claro que s; ? para qu otra cosa he venido? A dormir; y luego, a ver que nos traigan aquellas cosas que has dicho.  iOh! Ya entiendo: no quieres que yo...  Yo?; ? queres tontadas? A ver, trae esa cosa que hay en la mesa, que voy a verlo todo.  Pues es la primera vez que oyes hablar de eso.  No, la segunda; la primera fue anoche.  Pues es cierto; ? no te acuerdas?  S, s; pero yo digo que es la segunda, porque anoche no lo entend.  Pues hoy te pondras mas atenta y lo entenderas mejor, y te iras sin querer hacer tonteras.  Pues s; ? cmo no lo entender? Tengo ganas de conocerlo tambien, porque como sea verdad, no me vendr mal a mi tampoco.  Pues t tienes buen juicio; pero ? sabes lo que significa?  Claro; ? no me lo has explicado ya?  Pues claro que s, pero ? no te pareces a nadie?  No, no se lo que es; pero segun has dicho, debe ser bonito y divertido.  Pues no, no es bonito ni divertido, sino lo contrario; es feo, aburrido y hasta penoso.  Entonces, ¿por qu lo haces?  Porque debo obedecer a mi jefe, y l ordena que haga estas cosas.  Pues no me extraa, dije Carmen; ? no sera por dinero?  No, no por dinero; ? no te das cuenta de que soy un estudiante pobre?  Pues no; yo pensaba que eras rico, porque tienes muy buen aspecto.  Pues no lo soy; pero ? qu tiene eso que ver con eso? Ahora no podemos hablar mas; vamos a vernos despues, porque tengo que prepararle la comida. 
64	64	"I looked away. Then I was aware of the hissing noise very sudden and sharp. It startled me into looking at her again. She sat there naked, propped on her hands, her mouth open a little, her face like scraped bone. The hissing noise came tearing out of her mouth as if she had nothing to do with it. There was something behind her eyes, blank as they were, that I had never seen in a woman's eyes.
Then her lips moved very slowly and carefully, as if they were artificial lips and had to be manipulated with springs.
She called me a filthy name.
I didn't mind that. I didn't mind what she called me, what anybody called me. But this was the room I had to live in. It was all I had in the way of a home. In it was everything that was mine, that had any association for me, any past, anything that took the place of a family. Not much; a few books, pictures, radio, chessmen, old letters, stuff like that. Nothing. Such as they were they had all my memories.
I couldn't stand her in that room any longer. What she called me only reminded me of that.
I said carefully: ""I'll give you three minutes to get dressed and out of here. If you're not out by then, I'll throw you out—by force. Just the way you are, naked. And I'll throw your clothes after you into the hall. Now—get started.""
Her teeth chattered and the hissing noise was sharp and animal. She swung her feet to the floor and reached for her clothes on a chair beside the bed. She dressed. I watched her. She dressed with stiff awkward fingers—for a woman—but quickly at that. She was dressed in a little over two minutes. I timed it.
She stood there beside the bed, holding a green bag tight against a fur-trimmed coat. She wore a rakish green hat crooked on her head. She stood there for a moment and hissed at me, her face still like scraped bone, her eyes still empty and yet full of some jungle emotion. Then she walked quickly to the door and opened it and went out, without speaking, without looking back. I heard the elevator lurch into motion and move in the shaft.
I walked to the windows and pulled the shades up and opened the windows wide. The night air came drifting in with a kind of stale sweetness that still remembered automobile exhausts and the streets of the city. I reached for my drink and drank it slowly. The apartment house door closed itself down below me. Steps tinkled on the quiet sidewalk. A car started up not far away. It rushed off into the night with a rough clashing of gears. I went back to the bed and looked down at it. The imprint of her head was still in the pillow, of her small corrupt body still on the sheets.
I put my empty glass down and tore the bed to pieces savagely.
[25]
It was raining again the next morning, a slanting gray rain like a swung curtain of crystal beads. I got up feeling sluggish and tired and stood looking out of the windows, with a dark harsh taste of Sternwoods still in my mouth. I was as empty of life as a scarecrow's pockets. I went out to the kitchenette and drank two cups of black coffee. You can have a hangover from other things than alcohol. I had one from women. Women made me sick."	"Summary: The narrator confronts a woman in his apartment and demands that she leave, feeling disgusted by her presence.
Trope: The toxic relationship between men and women
Narrative arc: Tension
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Stream of consciousness
Active character: The narrator, the woman
Fuzzy place: The narrator's apartment
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"A woman's arms were round me, and a woman's mouth was on mine; it was like a sudden drench of ice-cold water: I pushed her away from me and she fell back into the chair. You must go,"" I said. ""You have no right to be here."" She got up without speaking, and stood for a moment with her eyes fixed on me. Then she said: """"Why do you hate me so?"""" I turned my head away. Why do you ask?"" I asked. ""It is enough that I do."""" She looked at me again, and then she said: """"I am going, but I shall come again."""" Go,"" I said. ""Never come here again. I will not have you here. You are hateful to me."""" She laughed, and picked up her cloak from the floor. Good night,"" she said. ""I'll tell Peter."" And she went out. I sat down by the fire and waited for the knock at the door which I knew would come. It came in a few minutes. Come in,"" I said. He opened the door and looked at me. Is she gone?"" he asked. Yes."" She has told me."" What did she tell you?"" That you wanted her to go away, but that she refused."" "
65	65	"I shaved and showered and dressed and got my raincoat out and went downstairs and looked out of the front door. Across the street, a hundred feet up, a gray Plymouth sedan was parked. It was the same one that had tried to trail me around the day before, the same one that I had asked Eddie Mars about. There might be a cop in it, if a cop had that much time on his hands and wanted to waste it following me around. Or it might be a smoothie in the detective business trying to get a noseful of somebody else's case in order to chisel a way into it. Or it might be the Bishop of Bermuda disapproving of my night life.
I went out back and got my convertible from the garage and drove it around front past the gray Plymouth. There was a small man in it, alone. He started up after me. He worked better in the rain. He stayed close enough so that I couldn't make a short block and leave that before he entered it, and he stayed back far enough so that other cars were between us most of the time. I drove down to the boulevard and parked in the lot next to my building and came out of there with my raincoat collar up and my hat brim low and the raindrops tapping icily at my face in between. The Plymouth was across the way at a fireplug. I walked down to the intersection and crossed with the green light and walked back, close to the edge of the sidewalk and the parked cars. The Plymouth hadn't moved. Nobody got out of it. I reached it and jerked open the door on the curb side.
A small bright-eyed man was pressed back into the corner behind the wheel. I stood and looked in at him, the rain thumping my back. His eyes blinked behind the swirling smoke of a cigarette. His hands tapped restlessly on the thin wheel.
I said: ""Can't you make your mind up?""
He swallowed and the cigarette bobbed between his lips. ""I don?t think I know you,"" he said, in a tight little voice.
Marlowe's the name. The guy you've been trying to follow around for a couple of days,
I ain't following anybody, doc.
This jalopy is. Maybe you can't control it. Have it your own way. I'm now going to eat breakfast in the coffee shop across the street, orange juice, bacon and eggs, toast, honey, three or four cups of coffee and a toothpick. I am then going up to my office, which is on the seventh floor of the building right opposite you. If you have anything that's worrying you beyond endurance, drop up and chew it over. I'll only be oiling my machine gun.
I left him blinking and walked away. Twenty minutes later I was airing the scrubwoman's Soirée d'Amour out of my office and opening up a thick rough envelope addressed in a fine old-fashioned pointed handwriting. The envelope contained a brief formal note and a large mauve check for five hundred dollars, payable to Philip Marlowe and signed, Guy de Brisay Sternwood, by Vincent Norris. That made it a nice morning. I was making out a bank slip when the buzzer told me somebody had entered my two by four reception room. It was the little man from the Plymouth.
Fine, I said. Come in and shed your coat.
He slid past me carefully as I held the door, as carefully as though he feared I might plant a kick in his minute buttocks. We sat down and faced each other across the desk. He was a very small man, not more than five feet three and would hardly weigh as much as a butcher's thumb. He had tight brilliant eyes that wanted to look hard, and looked as hard as oysters on the half shell. He wore a double-breasted dark gray suit that was too wide in the shoulders and had too much lapel. Over this, open, an Irish tweed coat with some badly worn spots. A lot of foulard tie bulged out and was rainspotted above his crossed lapels.
Maybe you know me, he said. I'm Harry Jones.
I said I didn't know him. I pushed a flat tin of cigarettes at him. His small neat lingers speared one like a trout taking the fly. He lit it with the desk lighter and waved his hand.
I been around, he said. Know the boys and such. Used to do a little liquor-running down from Hueneme Point. A tough racket, brother. Riding the scout car with a gun in your lap and a wad on your hip that would choke a coal chute. Plenty of times we paid off four sets of law before we hit Beverly Hills. A tough racket.
Terrible, I said."	"Summary: The protagonist notices a gray Plymouth sedan following him and confronts the driver, who denies following him. The protagonist then receives a check from a man named Guy de Brisay Sternwood and is later visited by a small man named Harry Jones who claims to have been involved in liquor-running.
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Protagonist, small man in gray Plymouth sedan, Guy de Brisay Sternwood, Harry Jones
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Fuzzy place: Unnamed street, boulevard, parking lot, building
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"The gray Plymouth sedan was now parked on the opposite side of the street, about fifty yards ahead. The small man in the driver's seat was looking at him through the open window. He did not get out of the car, but he nodded his head and smiled faintly. Philip Marlowe got out of his own car and walked to the corner. At the boulevard, the gray sedan turned right. Marlowe went left, crossed the wide double-carriageway, and walked back along the other side of the street. The gray car stopped in front of a parking lot and the small man got out. They looked at each other across the narrow ribbon of white line between the two cars. You're following me,"" Marlowe said. ""Why?"" The small man smiled again. He had a very pale face with no color even in his eyes. His hair was black as jet. """"I'm sorry, sir."""" I don't think you are,"" Marlowe said. ""What's your name?"""" Van Fleet."" He spoke slowly, almost ceremoniously. He wore a light summer suit of brown flannel with a tweed jacket. His shoes were hand-made English brogues. He had no hat. He stood waiting for something to happen. You have a nice car,"" Marlowe said. Thank you, sir."" It's very rare. May I look at it?"" If you wish."" The small man opened the door and stood aside. Marlowe leaned over the windshield, ran his fingers lightly along the paneling, examined the dashboard, and took a long look under the hood. Nice little job,"" he said. ""How fast will she do?"" About eighty-five on the level."" Does she handle well?"" She handles beautifully. Very low center of gravity."" Then why don't you drive her yourself?"" I haven't had time lately."" Marlowe straightened up and faced him. He said:  """"Look, Mr. Van Fleet, if you want to follow me around, all right. But I don't like it and I think you ought to know it. I don't like being followed."""" Again that faint smile, just enough to show the teeth. """"I'll do my best, sir."""" What's your connection with Mr. Sternwood?"" None, sir."" Who told you to follow me?"" No one told me to follow you. I thought it would be interesting."""" Thanks very much,"" Marlowe said dryly. He got into his car and drove away. It was nearly five o'clock when he reached the address given him by the night clerk at the hotel. It was a building of three floors, with a concrete porch across the ground floor, and an office at the end of the porch. The doors on either side of the office must lead into apartments. Guy de Brisay Sternwood occupied the first floor front. Marlowe rang the bell and waited. He didn't expect to see Mr. Sternwood himself. He had telephoned and been told to come after five. "
66	66	"He leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling from the small tight comer of his small tight mouth.
Maybe you don't believe me, he said.
Maybe I don't, I said. And maybe I do. And then again maybe I haven't bothered to make my mind up. Just what is the build-up supposed to do to me?
Nothing, he said tartly.
You've been following me around for a couple of days, I said. Like a fellow trying to pick up a girl and lacking the last inch of nerve. Maybe you're selling insurance. Maybe you knew a fellow called Joe Brody. That's a lot of maybes, but I have a lot on hand in my business.
His eyes bulged and his lower lip almost fell in his lap. ""Christ, how'd you know that?"" he snapped.
I'm psychic. Shake your business up and pour it. I haven't got all day.
The brightness of his eyes almost disappeared between the suddenly narrowed lids. There was silence. The rain pounded down on the flat tarred roof over the Mansion House lobby below my windows. His eyes opened a little, shined again, and his voice was full of thought.
I was trying to get a line on you, sure, he said. I've got something to sell—cheap, for a couple of C notes. How'd you tie me to Joe?
I opened a letter and read it. It offered me a six months' correspondence course in fingerprinting at a special professional discount. I dropped it into the waste basket and looked at the little man again. ""Don't mind me. I was just guessing. You're not a cop. You don't belong to Eddie Mars' outfit. I asked him last night. I couldn't think of anybody else but Joe Brody's friends who would be that much interested in me.""
Jesus, he said and licked his lower lip. His face had turned white as paper when I mentioned Eddie Mars. His mouth drooped open and his cigarette hung to the comer of it by some magic, as if it had grown there. Aw, you're kidding me, he said at last, with the sort of smile the operating room sees.
All right. I'm kidding you. I opened another letter. This one wanted to send me a daily newsletter from Washington, all inside stuff, straight from the cookhouse. I suppose Agnes is loose, I added.
Yeah. She sent me. You interested?
Well—she's a blonde.
Nuts. You made a crack when you were up there that night—the night Joe got squibbed off. Something about Brody must have known something good about the Sternwoods or he wouldn't have taken the chance on that picture he sent them.
Uh-huh. So he had? What was it?
That's what the two hundred bucks pays for.
I dropped some more fan mail into the basket and lit myself a fresh cigarette.
We gotta get out of town, he said. Agnes is a nice girl. You can't hold that stuff on her. It's not so easy for a dame to get by these days.
She's too big for you, I said. She'll roll on you and smother you.
That's kind of a dirty crack, brother, he said with something that was near enough to dignity to make me stare at him.
I said: ""You're right. I've been meeting the wrong kind of people lately. Let's cut out the gabble and get down to cases. What have you got for the money?""
Would you pay for it?
If it does what?
If it helps you find Rusty Regan.
I'm not looking for Rusty Regan.
Says you. Want to hear it or not?
Go ahead and chirp. I'll pay for anything I use. Two C notes buys a lot of information in my circle.
Eddie Mars had Regan bumped off, he said calmly, and leaned back as if he had just been made a vice-president.
I waved a hand in the direction of the door. ""I wouldn't even argue with you,"" I said. ""I wouldn't waste the oxygen. On your way, small size."""	"Summary: A conversation between two characters where one of them tries to sell something to the other.
Enunciation: Dialog
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The main character and the person trying to sell something
Fuzzy place: The Mansion House lobby
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Then, without any preamble he began to describe the Mansion House as if it were a tooth-powder or a patent soap. It was the best built house in the town; every room was of moderate size and of proper shape; the staircase was broad and well lighted, and so was the hall; there was plenty of land round the house for airing the furniture and for playing lawn tennis; the kitchen had an excellent range which would be a great boon to him in winter-time; the garden was all enclosed by high walls with gates in them; the walls were covered with espaliers on one side and ivy on the other; there were no drains underneath; the floors were laid throughout with linoleum; each room had a different colour, which was repeated in its curtains and hangings; each bed was covered with a counterpane, and each counterpane was edged with lace; the carpets were thick enough to muffle the tread of a man walking over them; there were no rat-holes anywhere, and therefore no rats; there was no cellar, except a little one in which he kept his beer and porter; there was not even a coal-hole, but a pipe ran up from the fire-place into the roof, through which he could drop coals when they were wanted; there was no dampness anywhere, and the only smell about the place was that of the flowers in the garden; and he had a very nice servant who was always at hand to do anything that was wanted; and she was just going away because he could not afford to keep her, and he was anxious to get rid of the house as soon as possible, because he thought it would be better for him to live in lodgings while he was looking for some situation where he could get promotion. The main object of the person whom he addressed was to find out whether he could buy the Mansion House; but the man with the stick would not let him ask a single question. He had been hearing people asking questions ever since he came to the town, and he did not want to hear any more of them; besides, he was determined to sell the house himself, because he thought that if he sold it himself he should get more money for it than if he sold it through an agent. So he went on talking all day long about the many good qualities of the Mansion House, until the person who wanted to buy it got so tired of listening to him that he forgot what he came for and went away again. After this he tried another plan, which was to go and lie down in the porch of the Mansion House every afternoon, and wait till somebody passed by who might be willing to buy it. This method succeeded better than the other; for before three o'clock the next afternoon a young gentleman came along who said he would like to see the Mansion House. 
67	67	"He leaned across the desk, white lines at the corners of his mouth. He snubbed his cigarette out carefully, over and over again, without looking at it. From behind a communicating door came the sound of a typewriter clacking monotonously to the bell, to the shift, line after line.
I'm not kidding, he said.
Beat it. Don't bother me. I have work to do.
No you don't, he said sharply. I ain't that easy. I came here to speak my piece and I'm speaking it. I knew Rusty myself. Not well, well enough to say How's a boy? and he'd answer me or he wouldn't, according to how he felt. A nice guy though. I always liked him. He was sweet on a singer named Mona Grant. Then she changed her name to Mars. Rusty got sore and married a rich dame that hung around the joints like she couldn't sleep well at home. You know all about her, tall, dark, enough looks for a Derby winner, but the type would put a lot of pressure on a guy. High-strung. Rusty wouldn't get along with her. But Jesus, he'd get along with her old man's dough, wouldn't he? That's what you think. This Regan was a cockeyed sort of buzzard. He had long-range eyes. He was looking over into the next valley all the time. He wasn't scarcely around where he was. I don't think he gave a damn about dough. And coming from me, brother, that's a compliment.
The little man wasn't so dumb after all. A three for a quarter grifter wouldn't even think such thoughts, much less know how to express them.
I said: ""So he ran away.""
He started to run away, maybe. With this girl Mona. She wasn't living with Eddie Mars, didn't like his rackets. Especially the side lines, like blackmail, bent cars, hideouts for hot boys from the east, and so on. The talk was Regan told Eddie one night, right out in the open, that if he ever messed Mona up in any criminal rap, he'd be around to see him.
Most of this is on the record, Harry, I said. You can't expect money for that.
I'm coming to what isn't. So Regan blew. I used to see him every afternoon in Vardi's drinking Irish whiskey and staring at the wall. He don't talk much any more. He'd give me a bet now and then, which was what I was there for, to pick up bets for Puss Walgreen.
I thought he was in the insurance business.
That's what it says on the door. I guess he'd sell you insurance at that, if you tramped on him. Well, about the middle of September I don't see Regan any more. I don't notice it right away. You know how it is. A guy's there and you see him and then he ain't there and you don't not see him until something makes you think of it. What makes me think about it is I hear a guy say laughing that Eddie Mars' woman lammed out with Rusty Regan and Mars is acting like he was best man, instead of being sore. So I tell Joe Brody and Joe was smart.
Like hell he was, I said.
Not copper smart, but still smart. He's out for the dough. He gets to figuring could he get a line somehow on the two lovebirds he could maybe collect twice—once from Eddie Mars and once from Regan's wife. Joe knew the family a little.
Five grand worth, I said. He nicked them for that a while back.
Yeah? Harry Jones looked mildly surprised. Agnes ought to of told me that. There's a frail for you. Always holding out. Well, Joe and me watch the papers and we don't see anything, so we know old Sternwood has a blanket on it. Then one day I see Lash Canino in Vardi's. Know him?
I shook my head."	"Summary: The narrator is speaking to someone about Rusty Regan and his involvement with Eddie Mars.
Narrative arc: Informative, no clear action unfolding
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Rusty Regan, Mona Grant, Eddie Mars, Harry Jones
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"But you have told me that Rusty Regan has spoken with you in the dark. I know him for a prince. There is something in his voice, and something in his very bearing which brings him near to me, who was once a king."""" He paused as though listening, then resumed: """"He loves this woman, Mona Grant, but he knows that she loves another man, one Eddie Mars, and that she has been faithless to him, even as she would be faithless to Rusty Regan should Rusty Regan win her. And yet he still loves her. What a man! It is the same with Harry Jones, who would die for her were it possible to die for such as she. But what of Eddie Mars? Does Eddie Mars love her?"""" He turned to face Eddie Mars. """"Does Eddie Mars love her?"""" Eddie Mars met his gaze steadily. """"No,"""" said Eddie Mars; """"I do not love her."""" For just an instant there came into the eyes of the great Cossack a light that made Eddie Mars take a step backward. But it passed as quickly as it had come. The Cossack's laugh rang out, and again it seemed to fill the palace to its highest chambers. So!"" he cried, ""so! And because you do not love her, you wish to kill her husband, so that she may be free to marry Rusty Regan or Harry Jones."""" No,"" answered Eddie Mars. ""Because I don't love her, I want to kill her because she is a bad woman."""" Ah!"" said the Cossack. His smile was cold. ""So! You are honest at last. Well, let us see how honest you are. The body of your friend was found floating in the harbor at Sparta. Your story is that he was drowned while attempting to escape from the island. But the watchmen saw no boat leave the island. A fisherman found the body. It had been weighted with a leaden sinker. Why was it weighted with a leaden sinker if it had fallen overboard from a boat?"""" The Cossack held up his hand to silence him. """"I am not done yet,"""" he said. There are marks upon the body which show that the deceased was either struck upon the head or strangled before the body was placed in the water. Was Rusty Regan killed by you before you threw his body into the sea?"""" No."" Again the Cossack laughed. """"You are becoming very truthful,"""" he said. Well, then, who killed him?"" asked Eddie Mars. I did,"" said the Cossack. Again Eddie Mars took a step backward. He tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips. The Cossack nodded approval. Now you understand why I hate all men who lie,"""" he said. """"Now you understand why I hated you most of all. Because you lied to me when you said that you loved this woman and wished to marry her. "
68	68	"There's a boy that is tough like some guys think they are tough. He does a job for Eddie Mars when Mars needs him—trouble-shooting. He'd bump a guy off between drinks. When Mars don't need him he don't go near him. And he don't stay in L.A. Well it might be something and it might not. Maybe they got a line on Regan and Mars has just been sitting back with a smile on his puss, waiting for the chance. Then again it might be something else entirely. Anyway I tell Joe and Joe gets on Canino's tail. He can tail. Me, I'm no good at it. I'm giving that one away. No charge. And Joe tails Canino out to the Sternwood place and Canino parks outside the estate and a car come up beside him with a girl in it. They talk for a while and Joe thinks the girl passes something over, like maybe dough. The girl beats it. It's Regan's wife. Okey, she knows Canino and Canino knows Mars. So Joe figures Canino knows something about Regan and is trying to squeeze a little on the side for himself. Canino blows and Joe loses him. End of Act One.
What does this Canino look like?
Short, heavy set, brown hair, brown eyes, and always wears brown clothes and a brown hat. Even wears a brown suede raincoat. Drives a brown coupe. Everything brown for Mr. Canino.
Let's have Act Two, I said.
Without some dough that's all.
I don't see two hundred bucks in it. Mrs. Regan married an ex-bootlegger out of the joints. She'd know other people of his sort. She knows Eddie Mars well. If she thought anything had happened to Regan, Eddie would be the very man she'd go to, and Canino might be the man Eddie would pick to handle the assignment. It that all you have?
Would you give the two hundred to know where Eddie's wife is? the little man asked calmly.
He had all my attention now. I almost cracked the arms of my chair leaning on them.
Even if she was alone? Harry Jones added in a soft, rather sinister tone. Even if she never run away with Regan at all, and was being kept now about forty miles from L.A. in a hideout—so the law would keep on thinking she had dusted with him? Would you pay two hundred bucks for that, shamus?
I licked my lips. They tasted dry and salty. ""I think I would,"" I said. ""Where?""
Agnes found her, he said grimly. Just by a lucky break. Saw her out riding and managed to tail her home. Agnes will tell you where that is—when she's holding the money in her hand.
I made a hard face at him. ""You could tell the coppers for nothing, Harry. They have some good wreckers down at Central these days. If they killed you trying, they still have Agnes.""
Let 'em try, he said. I ain't so brittle.
Agnes must have something I didn't notice.
She's a grifter, shamus. I'm a grifter, We're all grifters. So we sell each other out for a nickel. Okey. See can you make me. He reached for another of my cigarettes, placed it neatly between his lips and lit it with a match the way I do myself, missing twice on his thumbnail and then using his foot. He puffed evenly and stared at me level-eyed, a funny little hard guy I could have thrown from home plate to second base. A small man in a big man's world. There was something I liked about him.
I haven't pulled anything in here, he said steadily. I come in talking two C's. That's still the price. I come because I thought I'd get a take it or leave it, one right gee to another. Now you're waving cops at me. You oughta be ashamed of yourself.
I said: ""You'll get the two hundred—for that information. I have to get the money myself first.""
He stood up and nodded and pulled his worn little Irish tweed coat tight around his chest. ""That's okey. After dark is better anyway. It's a leery job—buckin' guys like Eddie Mars. But a guy has to eat. The book's been pretty dull lately. I think the big boys have told Puss Walgreen to move on. Suppose you come over there to the office, Fulwider Building, Western and Santa Monica, four-twenty-eight at the back. You bring the money, I'll take you to Agnes.""
Can't you tell me yourself? I've seen Agnes."	"Summary: The narrator discusses a tough guy named Canino who may be involved in something with Eddie Mars. The narrator is offered information about Regan's wife for two hundred dollars.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Canino, Eddie Mars, Joe, Agnes, Regan's wife
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy place: Sternwood estate, Fulwider Building
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"The first time I saw Canino he had his sleeves rolled up and was splitting kindling for the fire with an axe. He was a thickset, dark-faced guy with long black hair and a broad nose and thin lips. He looked like a cross between a prizefighter and a senator. As soon as he caught my eye he stopped chopping and came over to me very politely and said: """"You must be the new boy. How do you do?"""" He seemed to have a lot of style and delicacy for a tough guy. It gave me quite a kick. That evening Joe phoned from Eddie Mars' office in the Fulwider Building. Eddie's office is on the fourth floor, in back, across a narrow hall from a couple of empty rooms. Joe wanted to know if I had found out anything about Canino yet. I told him I didn't know where Canino lived, but I'd find out, and I thought he might be interested in what I'd dug up so far. Joe was plenty pleased. He said: """"If that Canino has any funny business mixed up with Eddie Mars, we'll have something to work on."""" So I said: """"I wouldn't bet on it."""" Then he got sore and hung up. Well, it's probably nothing at all,"""" Agnes said when I told her about this. """"He may live anywhere around here. You could get all kinds of information about him at the Sternwood estate."""" I went down there next day after lunch and talked to Regan. He didn't like my looks, but he let me look through some files they had on Canino. He said he knew Canino slightly and thought he was a pretty good egg. There were three letters from the State Employment Service and two cards giving his address as 11855 Venice Boulevard. The letters were just routine acknowledgments of job applications made by him. The cards showed that he had been living there since June 1935. I thanked Regan for his trouble and went home. That night I got a phone call from Agnes. She wanted to see me. I asked why, and she said: """"I think I know who killed Owen Taylor."""" I said: """"Why did you want to see me before telling me that?"""" And she said: """"Because I don't know for sure."""" I said: """"What did you want to see me for then?"""" And she said: """"Because I want you to help me find out."""" I said: """"All right, darling. When can I see you?"""" She said: """"How much would you say you are making a week working for Joe Brody?"""" I said: """"About forty bucks."""" And she said: """"I have a proposition to make you. Come over here tonight."""" "
69	69	"I promised her, he said simply. He buttoned his overcoat, cocked his hat jauntily, nodded again and strolled to the door. He went out. His steps died along the hall.
I went down to the bank and deposited my five-hundred-dollar check and drew out two hundred in currency. I went upstairs again and sat in my chair thinking about Harry Jones and his story. It seemed a little too pat. It had the austere simplicity of fiction rather than the tangled woof of fact. Captain Gregory ought to have been able to find Mona Mars, if she was that close to his beat. Supposing, that is, he had tried.
I thought about it most of the day. Nobody came into the office. Nobody called me on the phone. It kept on raining.
[26]
At seven the rain had stopped for a breathing spell, but the gutters were still flooded. On Santa Monica the water was level with the sidewalk and a thin film of it washed over the top of the curbing. A traffic cop in shining black rubber from boots to cap sloshed through the flood on his way from the shelter of a sodden awning. My rubber heels slithered on the sidewalk as I turned into the narrow lobby of the Fulwider Building. A single drop light burned far back, beyond an open, once gilt elevator. There was a tarnished and well-missed spittoon on a gnawed rubber mat. A case of false teeth hung on the mustard-colored wall like a fuse box in a screen porch. I shook the rain off my hat and looked at the building directory beside the case of teeth. Numbers with names and numbers without names. Plenty of vacancies or plenty of tenants who wished to remain anonymous. Painless dentists, shyster detective agencies, small sick businesses that had crawled there to die, mail order schools that would teach you how to become a railroad clerk or a radio technician or a screen writer—if the postal inspectors didn't catch up with them first. A nasty building. A building in which the smell of stale cigar butts would be the cleanest odor.
An old man dozed in the elevator, on a ramshackle stool, with a burst-out cushion under him. His mouth was open, his veined temples glistened in the weak light. He wore a blue uniform coat that fitted him the way a stall fits a horse. Under that gray trousers with frayed cuffs, white cotton socks and black kid shoes, one of which was slit across a bunion. On the stool he slept miserably, waiting for a customer. I went past him softly, the clandestine air of the building prompting me, found the fire door and pulled it open. The fire stairs hadn't been swept in a month. Bums had slept on them, eaten on them, left crusts and fragments of greasy newspaper, matches, a gutted imitation-leather pocketbook. In a shadowy angle against the scribbled wall a pouched ring of pale rubber had fallen and had not been disturbed. A very nice building.
I came out at the fourth floor sniffing for air. The hallway had the same dirty spittoon and frayed mat, the same mustard walls, the same memories of low tide. I went down the line and turned a corner. The name: ""L. D. Walgreen—Insurance,"" showed on a dark pebbled glass door, on a second dark door, on a third behind which there was a light. One of the dark doors said: ""Entrance.""
A glass transom was open above the lighted door. Through it the sharp birdlike voice of Harry Jones spoke, saying:
Canino? ... Yeah, I've seen you around somewhere. Sure.
I froze. The other voice spoke. It had a heavy purr, like a small dynamo behind a brick wall. It said: ""I thought you would."" There was a vaguely sinister note in that voice.
A chair scraped on linoleum, steps sounded, the transom above me squeaked shut. A shadow melted from behind the pebbled glass."	"Summary: The protagonist reflects on a story told by Harry Jones and goes to the Fulwider Building, where he overhears a conversation between Harry and another man.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Stream of consciousness
Active character: Harry Jones, Captain Gregory
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: The Fulwider Building
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Then Harry Jones had told him the story of Jason and Medea, and how she murdered her own children because they thwarted her. He knew now that he was going to be the children in this new version of the old story. But something must have happened to give Harry a new idea; for now it seemed as if Harry were not going to kill him after all, but rather help him in some way. For he had gone to the Fulwider Building and sat down on one of the benches in the great entrance hall where other men came and went and talked. Harry was sitting there when Captain Gregory came out of his office and joined him. “Well,” said Harry, “what’s new?” “Not much,” replied the Captain. “Just the same thing over and over. Some guy comes in and wants me to get him a job. Says he knows somebody at city hall. I ask him if he has any experience, and he says yes, he’s been working for a guy for a couple of months. Then I look at his record, and he hasn’t got a chance.” “It’s tough,” said Harry. “Yes,” said the Captain, “it’s tough.” There was a long silence. The Captain put his handkerchief up to his nose. “Got a cold?” asked Harry. “No,” said the Captain. “I wish I did.” “Why?” “Because then I could take a shot of whiskey.” “You mean you can’t drink it?” “No. It just burns my stomach like fire.” “Why don’t you quit drinking it, then?” “Because it makes me feel sick.” “Then why do you take it?” “I don’t know why. I guess maybe I’m crazy.” Again there was a long silence. A young man who wore steel-rimmed spectacles came down the steps with a newspaper under his arm. “Hello, Mr. Gregory,” he said to the Captain. “How are you today?” “Pretty good,” said the Captain, “but I got a pain in my stomach.” “Maybe you ought to see the doctor,” said the young man. “Thanks,” said the Captain, “but it’ll go away pretty soon.” “That’s right,” said Harry, “you’re probably catching a cold. You’d better take some hot lemonade.” “Maybe so,” said the Captain. They heard him coughing and blowing his nose as he went upstairs. “Do you know him?” asked the young man of Harry. “Sure,” said Harry. “He used to be a college professor. He had a nervous breakdown about five years ago, and they sent him here to rest up. He was all right until last summer. Then he began to get restless. We gave him some work to do, but he couldn’t stick to it. Now he sits around and does nothing except read the papers. He’s getting worse every day.” “It’s too bad,” said the young man. “Yes,” said Harry, “it’s too bad.” 
70	70	"I went back to the first of the three doors marked with the name Walgreen. I tried it cautiously. It was locked. It moved in a loose frame, an old door fitted many years past, made of half-seasoned wood and shrunken now. I reached my wallet out and slipped the thick hard window of celluloid from over my driver's license. A burglar's tool the law had forgotten to proscribe. I put my gloves on, leaned softly and lovingly against the door and pushed the knob hard away from the frame. I pushed the celluloid plate into the wide crack and felt for the slope of the spring lock. There was a dry click, like a small icicle breaking. I hung there motionless, like a lazy fish in the water. Nothing happened inside. I turned the knob and pushed the door back into darkness. I shut it behind me as carefully as I had opened it.
The lighted oblong of an uncurtained window faced me, cut by the angle of a desk. On the desk a hooded typewriter took form, then the metal knob of a communicating door. This was unlocked. I passed into the second of the three offices. Rain rattled suddenly against the closed window. Under its noise I crossed the room. A tight fan of light spread from an inch opening of the door into the lighted office. Everything very convenient. I walked like a cat on a mantel and reached the hinged side of the door, put an eye to the crack and saw nothing but light against the angle of the wood.
The purring voice was now saying quite pleasantly: ""Sure, a guy could sit on his fanny and crab what another guy done if he knows what it's all about. So you go to see this peeper. Well, that was your mistake. Eddie don't like it. The peeper told Eddie some guy in a gray Plymouth was tailing him. Eddie naturally wants to know who and why, see.""
Harry Jones laughed lightly. ""What makes it his business?""
That don't get you no place.
You know why I went to the peeper. I already told you. Account of Joe Brody's girl. She has to blow and she's shatting on her uppers. She figures the peeper can get her some dough. I don't have any.
The purring voice said gently: ""Dough for what? Peepers don't give that stuff out to punks.""
He could raise it. He knows rich people. Harry Jones laughed, a brave little laugh.
Don't fuss with me, little man. The purring voice had an edge, like sand in the bearings.
Okey, okey. You know the dope on Brody's bump-off. That screwy kid done it all right, but the night it happened this Marlowe was right there in the room.
That's known, little man. He told it to the law.
Yeah—here's what isn't. Brody was trying to peddle a nudist photo of the young Sternwood girl. Marlowe got wise to him. While they were arguing about it the young Sternwood girl dropped around herself—with a gat. She took a shot at Brody. She lets one fly and breaks a window. Only the peeper didn't tell the coppers about that. And Agnes didn't neither. She figures it's railroad fare for her not to.
This ain't got anything to do with Eddie?
Show me how.
Where's this Agnes at?
Nothing doing.
You tell me, little man. Here, or in the back room where the boys pitch dimes against the wall.
She's my girl now, Canino. I don't put my girl in the middle for anybody.
A silence followed. I listened to the rain lashing the windows. The smell of cigarette smoke came through the crack of the door. I wanted to cough. I bit hard on a handkerchief.
The purring voice said, still gentle: ""From what I hear this blonde broad was just a shill for Geiger. I'll talk it over with Eddie. How much you tap the peeper for?""
Two centuries.
Get it?
Harry Jones laughed again. ""I'm seeing him tomorrow. I have hopes.""
Where's Agnes?
Listen—
Where's Agnes?
Silence.
Look at it, little man.
I didn't move. I wasn't wearing a gun. I didn't have to see through the crack of the door to know that a gun was what the purring voice was inviting Harry Jones to look at. But I didn't think Mr. Canino would do anything with his gun beyond showing it. I waited."	"Summary: The narrator breaks into an office and listens to a conversation between two men, Harry Jones and the purring voice. They discuss a murder case involving Eddie, Joe Brody's girl, and Marlowe.
Trope: Private detective investigating a murder case
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: The narrator, Harry Jones, the purring voice
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Diegetic time: A few hours"	I broke the door. The purring voice said: “Come in, Harry.” I stood inside the office and looked around at a long room with a row of little lighted windows that showed me part of the street outside and half of a courtyard behind. On one side was a desk littered with papers, and behind it a man in civilian clothes was sitting on a high stool with his feet on the corner of the desk and a cigarette between his fingers. A leather strap ran across his shoulders from left to right and a broad leather belt hung down his back to a pair of white riding breeches. His boots were black and highly polished. He had yellow hair brushed straight back from a high forehead. He wore no helmet. Beside him on the desk lay a sword-belt with a short-handled cavalry sabre. He said quietly: “Well, Harry?” His voice was deep and lazy, like a man taking his ease in some palatial apartment after a good dinner. The voice that had talked through the door was not deep or lazy. It was high-pitched and strained. It said: “Is Joe Brody’s girl all right?” The man on the stool swung his feet off the desk and leaned forward. “She’s lying on my bed,” he said. “As far as I know she is all right.” The high-pitched voice said: “The trouble is about Eddie. Did you get him?” “Yes, but he won’t talk. You’d better bring him in here.” “But how did he get away from me? I had him covered. I tell you, he must have been crooked. How did he manage to slip past me so quick?” Harry Jones asked sharply: “Who’s this talking?” The other laughed. “A fat friend of mine called Marlowe. He was at the palace this afternoon when we went to call on your sister.” “What was he doing there?” “He told me he was a private detective. He was asking questions.” “About Agamemnon?” “Yes, about Agamemnon.” Harry Jones turned on me and began an angry speech. I cut him short by putting my hand on my hip and showing him the gun. “Shut up!” I said. “There are two things you can do for me—keep quiet or get out of here. If you keep quiet I’ll let you go later on. If you don’t I’ll put a bullet into you. Get that?” He stared at me, then nodded his head. I turned back to the man on the stool. He was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette, watching me calmly. I said: “You’re a Greek, aren’t you?” “That’s right.” “Where do you come from?” “Sparta.” “Have you got any business in Athens?” “Yes, I’m looking for a job.” “What sort of a job?” “Something better than running errands for these rascals.” I stared at him. “You mean you work for them?” “For the gang of politicians and pimps and racketeers that rule Greece now. They’ve given me orders to kill Agamemnon and anybody else that gets in their way.” 
71	71	"I'm looking at it, Harry Jones said, his voice squeezed tight as if it could hardly get past his teeth. And I don't see anything I didn't see before. Go ahead and blast and see what it gets you.
A Chicago overcoat is what it would get you, little man.
Silence.
Where's Agnes?
Harry Jones sighed. ""Okey,"" he said wearily. ""She's in an apartment house at 28 Court Street, up on Bunker Hill. Apartment 301. I guess I'm yellow all right. Why should I front for that twist?""
No reason. You got good sense. You and me'll go out and talk to her. All I want is to find out is she dummying up on you, kid. If it's the way you say it is, everything is jakeloo. You can put the bite on the peeper and be on your way. No hard feelings?
No, Harry Jones said. No hard feelings, Canino.
Fine. Let's dip the bill. Got a glass? The purring voice was now as false as an usherette's eyelashes and as slippery as a watermelon seed. A drawer was pulled open. Something jarred on wood. A chair squeaked. A scufling sound on the floor. This is bond stuff, the purring voice said.
There was a gurgling sound. ""Moths in your ermine, as the ladies say.""
Harry Jones said softly: ""Success.""
I heard a sharp cough. Then a violent retching. There was a small thud on the floor, as if a thick glass had fallen. My fingers curled against my raincoat.
The purring voice said gently: ""You ain't sick from just one drink, are you, pal?""
Harry Jones didn't answer. There was labored breathing for a short moment. Then thick silence folded down. Then a chair scraped.
So long, little man, said Mr. Canino.
Steps, a click, the wedge of light died at my feet, a door opened and closed quietly. The steps faded, leisurely and assured.
I stirred around the edge of the door and pulled it wide and looked into blackness relieved by the dim shine of a window. The comer of a desk glittered faintly. A hunched shape took form in a chair behind it. In the close air there was a heavy clogged smell, almost a perfume. I went across to the corridor door and listened. I heard the distant clang of the elevator.
I found the light switch and light glowed in a dusty glass bowl hanging from the ceiling by three brass chains. Harry Jones looked at me across the desk, his eyes wide open, his face frozen in a tight spasm, the skin bluish. His small dark head was tilted to one side. He sat upright against the back of the chair.
A street-car bell clanged at an almost infinite distance and the sound came buffeted by innumerable walls. A brown half pint of whiskey stood on the desk with the cap off. Harry Jones' glass glinted against a castor of the desk. The second glass was gone.
I breathed shallowly, from the top of my lungs, and bent above the bottle. Behind the charred smell of the bourbon another odor lurked, faintly, the odor of bitter almonds. Harry Jones dying had vomited on his coat. That made it cyanide.
I walked around him carefully and lifted a phone book from a hook on the wooden frame of the window. I let it fall again, reached the telephone as far as it would go from the little dead man. I dialed information. The voice answered.
Can you give me the phone number of Apartment 301, 28 Court Street?
One moment, please. The voice came to me borne on the smell of bitter almonds. A silence. The number is Wentworth 2528. It is listed under Glendower Apartments.
I thanked the voice and dialed the number. The bell rang three times, then the line opened. A radio blared along the wire and was muted. A burly male voice said: ""Hello.""
Is Agnes there?
No Agnes here, buddy. What number you want?
Wentworth two-five-two-eight.
Right number, wrong gal. Ain't that a shame? The voice cackled."	"Summary: The narrator and Harry Jones go to an apartment building to talk to Agnes, but when they arrive, Harry Jones is dead. The narrator suspects cyanide poisoning.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Harry Jones, Mr. Canino
Quoted character: Agnes
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Apartment house at 28 Court Street, Glendower Apartments
Diegetic time: A few hours"	And Harry Jones, his back stiff with excitement, led the way through the lobby and into the elevator. “Apartment house at 28 Court Street,” he said in a tense voice to the operator. The elevator shot up to the fifth floor and halted. Harry stepped out and they went along a hall, turned a corner, and came before a door marked 5B. There was no bell, so Mr. Canino knocked. A woman’s voice called from within: “Who is it?” “Mr. Canino here to see Miss Van Zandt.” There was a sound of scurrying feet and then the door opened and Agnes stood there, smiling with embarrassment. She was dressed in a suit of some yellow material and her hair was bound up high on top of her head in a coronet of gold. Her face, though pale, had lost its look of ill health. She looked like a young girl on the eve of her wedding, and suddenly Mr. Canino felt old and very tired. He held out his hand to her. “I am afraid that we have come on an errand of sorrow, Miss Van Zandt,” he said quietly. “May we come in?” They entered and found themselves in a small living room furnished simply but with taste. Agnes indicated that they were to be seated and went over to a table on which stood a decanter of sherry and glasses. “Will you drink?” she asked. “Thank you,” said Mr. Canino. “It will help us over our awkward mission.” He smiled at her kindly and poured himself a glass of the wine. “The truth is, Miss Van Zandt, that we have just received word that Harry Jones has been stricken with apoplexy and lies dying at the Glendower Apartments.” For a second she stared at him, her eyes wide open with surprise. Then her face became white. “Oh, Mr. Canino! I can’t believe it!” “I’m afraid it is true,” he said gently. “I have come myself to break the news to you, and when I saw you standing there, looking as beautiful as the goddesses you have painted, I knew what a bitter blow this would be to you. But remember, Miss Van Zandt, that your suffering will be brief, for soon you will be united with the loved one whose life has gone before you.” Agnes seemed to grow smaller before their eyes. She sat down in a chair and covered her face with her hands. After a moment she raised her head. “You do not know how good it is to hear those words,” she said. “For many months now I have been filled with despair. And yet, since last night, I have known that somehow everything would work out right.” She looked at Mr. Canino inquiringly. “Perhaps I can explain,” he said. “Last evening I paid a visit to the Glendower Apartments. You see, I knew that Harry Jones was holding you there against your will. 
72	72	"I hung up and reached for the phone book again and looked up the Wentworth Apartments. I dialed the manager's number. I had a blurred vision of Mr. Canino driving fast through rain to another appointment with death.
Glendower Apartments. Mr. Schiff speaking.
This is Wallis, Police Identification Bureau. Is there a girl named Agnes Lozelle registered in your place?
Who did you say you were?
I told him again.
If you give me your number, I'll—
Cut the comedy, I said sharply, I'm in a hurry. Is there or isn't there?
No. There isn't. The voice was as stiff as a breadstick.
Is there a tall blonde with green eyes registered in the flop?
Say, this isn't any flop—
Oh, can it, can it! I rapped at him in a police voice. You want me to send the vice squad over there and shake the joint down? I know all about Bunker Hill apartment houses, mister. Especially the ones that have phone numbers listed for each apartment.
Hey, take it easy, officer. I'll cooperate. There's a couple of blondes here, sure. Where isn't there? I hadn't noticed their eyes much. Would yours be alone?
Alone, or with a little chap about five feet three, a hundred and ten, sharp black eyes, wears a double-breasted dark gray suit and Irish tweed overcoat, gray hat. My information is Apartment 301, but all I get there is the big razzoo.
Oh, she ain't there. There's a couple of car salesmen living in three-o-one.
Thanks, I'll drop around.
Make it quiet, won't you? Come to my place, direct?
Much obliged, Mr. Schiff. I hung up.
I wiped sweat off my face. I walked to the far corner of the office and stood with my face to the wall, patted it with a hand. I turned around slowly and looked across at little Harry Jones grimacing in his chair.
Well, you fooled him, Harry, I said out loud, in a voice that sounded queer to me. You lied to him and you drank your cyanide like a little gentleman. You died like a poisoned rat, Harry, but you're no rat to me.
I had to search him. It was a nasty job. His pockets yielded nothing about Agnes, nothing that I wanted at all. I didn't think they would, but I had to be sure. Mr. Canino might be back. Mr. Canino would be the kind of self-confident gentleman who would not mind returning to the scene of his crime.
I put the light out and started to open the door. The phone bell rang jarringly down on the baseboard. I listened to it, my jaw muscles drawn into a knot, aching. Then I shut the door and put the light on again and went across to it.
Yeah?
A woman's voice. Her voice. ""Is Harry around?""
Not for a minute, Agnes.
She waited a while on that. Then she said slowly: ""Who's talking?""
Marlowe, the guy that's trouble to you.
Where is he? sharply.
I came over to give him two hundred bucks in return for certain information. The offer holds. I have the money. Where are you?
Didn't he tell you?
No.
Perhaps you'd better ask him. Where is he?
I can't ask him. Do you know a man named Canino?
Her gasp came as clearly as though she had been beside me.
Do you want the two C's or not? I asked.
I—I want it pretty bad, mister.
All right then. Tell me where to bring it.
I—I— Her voice trailed off and came back with a panic rush. Where's Harry?
Got scared and blew. Meet me somewhere—anywhere at all—I have the money.
I don't believe you—about Harry. It's a trap.
Oh stuff. I could have had Harry hauled in long ago. There isn't anything to make a trap for. Canino got a line on Harry somehow and he blew. I want quiet, you want quiet, Harry wants quiet. Harry already had it. Nobody could take it away from him. You don't think I'd stooge for Eddie Mars, do you, angel?
No-o, I guess not. Not that. I'll meet you in half an hour. Beside Bullocks Wilshire, the east entrance to the parking lot.
Right, I said."	"Summary: The protagonist is searching for a girl named Agnes Lozelle and is speaking to various people on the phone.
Trope: Mysterious phone call
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Wallis, Mr. Schiff, Agnes
Fuzzy place: Glendower Apartments, Bunker Hill apartment houses, Bullocks Wilshire parking lot
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"But that was Wallis who had just hung up, and he had not found Agnes Lozelle at the Glendower Apartments, or among the Bunker Hill apartment houses. I may have to go back to New York."" Mr. Schiff's voice was hollow with gloom. He was in his office on Wilshire Boulevard, working late as usual, but this evening, for some reason, he felt old and heavy-hearted and stiff-jointed. He had always been a big man, physically, but now his body had begun to be like an old leather suitcase that has been kicked about too much and is beginning to sag and crack in unexpected places. What's she doing out there?"" he asked hopelessly. ""She isn't seeing anybody, is she?"""" His son-in-law seemed to think so. She saw you,"" said Wallis. ""She wouldn't even talk to me."""" Well, try her again tomorrow,"" suggested Mr. Schiff, sighing. I tried five times tonight."" Have you got her telephone number?"" No, sir. I don't know it. Her mother gave it to you. I guess you'd better call yourself."" All right, then,"" said Mr. Schiff. He picked up the receiver and dialed. The phone rang half a dozen times before any one answered, and when Agnes finally spoke her voice was surly. Hello,"" said Mr. Schiff. ""This is your grandfather, Mrs. Melrose Lozelle. I'm going to Los Angeles tomorrow and I thought I might look you up. Is there any chance of seeing you?"""" If you come to Bullocks Wilshire,"" said Agnes, ""I'll be in the parking lot."""" Then Mr. Schiff said good-by and hung up. And now,"" he said, turning to his son-in-law, ""you can go home."" He looked tired and old. You're not coming to the airport?"" asked Wallis. No,"" said Mr. Schiff. ""I want to get some sleep."" But his eyes were haunted by strange visions of what he was going to find when he reached California. *       *       *       *       *       * It was a beautiful morning when Agnes and her mother drove down from their house at Sunset Beach to the Bullocks Wilshire parking lot. They parked the car between two sedans belonging to the Bank of America and sat inside, smoking cigarettes and watching the people through the windshield. After a while they went into the store and bought some clothes and gloves and stockings, and then Agnes went back to the car and waited for her mother. When she returned she was wearing a new white dress and a pair of blue silk stockings, and her hair was done up high in a shining coronet of waves. She looked very lovely, and when Mr. Schiff came up to the car and got in beside her she put her hand on his knee and smiled at him. "
73	73	"I dropped the phone in its cradle. The wave of almond odor flooded me again, and the sour smell of vomit. The little dead man sat silent in his chair, beyond fear, beyond change.
I left the office. Nothing moved in the dingy corridor. No pebbled glass door had light behind it. I went down the fire stairs to the second floor and from there looked down at the lighted roof of the elevator cage. I pressed the button. Slowly the car lurched into motion. I ran down the stairs again. The car was above me when I walked out of the building.
It was raining hard again. I walked into it with the heavy drops slapping my face. When one of them touched my tongue I knew that my mouth was open and the ache at the side of my jaws told me it was open wide and strained back, mimicking the rictus of death carved upon the face of Harry Jones.
[27]
Give me the money.
The motor of the gray Plymouth throbbed under her voice and the rain pounded above it. The violet light at the top of Bullock's green-tinged tower was far above us, serene and withdrawn from the dark, dripping city. Her black-gloved hand reached out and I put the bills in it. She bent over to count them under the dim light of the dash. A bag clicked open, clicked shut. She let a spent breath die on her lips. She leaned towards me.
I'm leaving, copper. I'm on my way. This is a get-away stake and God how I need it. What happened to Harry?
I told you he ran away. Canino got wise to him somehow. Forget Harry. I've paid and I want my information.
You'll get it. Joe and I were out riding Foothill Boulevard Sunday before last. It was late and the lights coming up and the usual mess of cars. We passed a brown coupe and I saw the girl who was driving it. There was a man beside her, a dark short man. The girl was a blonde. I'd seen her before. She was Eddie Mars' wife. The guy was Canino. You wouldn't forget either of them, if you ever saw them. Joe tailed the coupe from in front. He was good at that. Canino, the watchdog, was taking her out for air. A mile or so east of Realito a road turns towards the foothills. That's orange country to the south but to the north it's as bare as hell's back yard and smack up against the hills there's a cyanide plant where they make the stuff for fumigation. Just off the highway there's a small garage and paintshop run by a gee named Art Huck. Hot car drop, likely. There's a frame house beyond this, and beyond the house nothing but the foothills and the bare stone outcrop and the cyanide plant a couple of miles on. That's the place where she's holed up. They turned off on this road and Joe swung around and went back and we saw the car turn off the road where the frame house was. We sat there half an hour looking through the cars going by. Nobody came back out. When it was quite dark Joe sneaked up there and took a look. He said there were lights in the house and a radio was going and just the one car out in front, the coupe. So we beat it.
She stopped talking and I listened to the swish of tires on Wilshire. I said: ""They might have shifted quarters since then but that's what you have to sell—that's what you have to sell. Sure you knew her?""
If you ever see her, you won't make a mistake the second time. Good-by, copper, and wish me luck. I got a raw deal.
Like hell you did, I said, and walked away across the street to my own car."	"Summary: The narrator is leaving an office and reflecting on a dead man named Harry Jones. He then encounters a woman who gives him money and asks about Harry's whereabouts.
Trope: Femme fatale
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Stream of consciousness
Active character: Narrator, woman in the car
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Dingy corridor, fire stairs, elevator cage, city streets
Diegetic time: A few hours"	It was a dingy corridor, for I had come up from the street and across the office. I stopped at the door of the fire stairs, just as Harry Jones had done before me. I turned to go back into the elevator cage. The cage was there, but the doors were shut. I waited. They did not open. I rang the bell. There was no response. I tried the door. It was locked. I knew that I must be alone in the building, and I wondered why they had sent me down those fire stairs. I went back to my office. My desk was empty. On the floor lay a dead man, with his head crushed in. He was young and fair-haired, like Harry Jones. A book on Greek Tragedy lay open beside him; and as I looked down at him, the words caught at my heart: “There is nothing else to say.” The woman who gave me money to-night looked at me with hard, cold eyes, as though she could see through me. She asked me if I knew where Harry Jones was. 
74	74	"The gray Plymouth moved forward, gathered speed, and darted around the corner on to Sunset Place. The sound of its motor died, and with it blonde Agnes wiped herself off the slate for good, so far as I was concerned. Three men dead, Geiger, Brody and Harry Jones, and the woman went riding off in the rain with my two hundred in her bag and not a mark on her. I kicked my starter and drove on downtown to eat. I ate a good dinner. Forty miles in the rain is a hike, and I hoped to make it a round trip.
I drove north across the river, on into Pasadena, through Pasadena and almost at once I was in orange groves. The tumbling rain was solid white spray in the headlights. The windshield wiper could hardly keep the glass clear enough to see through. But not even the drenched darkness could hide the flawless lines of the orange trees wheeling away like endless spokes into the night.
Cars passed with a tearing hiss and a wave of dirty spray. The highway jerked through a little town that was all packing houses and sheds, and railway sidings nuzzling them. The groves thinned out and dropped away to the south and the road climbed and it was cold and to the north the black foothills crouched closer and sent a bitter wind whipping down their flanks. Then faintly out of the dark two yellow vapor lights glowed high up in the air and a neon sign between them said: ""Welcome to Realito.""
Frame houses were spaced far back from a wide main street, then a sudden knot of stores, the lights of a drugstore behind fogged glass, the fly-cluster of cars in front of the movie theater, a dark bank on a corner with a clock sticking out over the sidewalk and a group of people standing in the rain looking at its windows, as if they were some kind of a show. I went on. Empty fields closed in again.
Fate stage-managed the whole thing. Beyond Realito, just about a mile beyond, the highway took a curve and the rain fooled me and I went too close to the shoulder. My right front tire let go with an angry hiss. Before I could stop the right rear went with it. I jammed the car to a stop, half on the pavement, half on the shoulder, got out and flashed a spotlight around. I had two flats and one spare. The flat butt of a heavy galvanized tack stared at me from the front tire.
The edge of the pavement was littered with them. They had been swept off, but not far enough off.
I snapped the flash off and stood there breathing rain and looking up a side road at a yellow light. It seemed to come from a skylight. The skylight could belong to a garage, the garage could be run by a man named Art Huck, and there could be a frame house next door to it. I tucked my chin down in my collar and started towards it, then went back to unstrap the license holder from the steering post and put it in my pocket. I leaned lower under the wheel. Behind a weighted flap, directly under my right leg as I sat in the car, there was a hidden compartment. There were two guns in it. One belonged to Eddie Mars' boy Lanny and one belonged to me. I took Lanny's. It would have had more practice than mine. I stuck it nose down in an inside pocket and started up the side road.
The garage was a hundred yards from the highway. It showed the highway a blank side wall. I played the flash on it quickly. ""Art Huck—Auto Repairs and Painting."" I chuckled, then Harry Jones' face rose up in front of me, and I stopped chuckling. The garage doors were shut, but there was an edge of light under them and a thread of light where the halves met. I went on past. The frame house was there, light in two front windows, shades down. It was set well back from the road, behind a thin clump of trees. A car stood on the gravel drive in front. It was dark, indistinct, but it would be a brown coupe and it would belong to Mr. Canino. It squatted there peacefully in front of the narrow wooden porch."	"Summary: The protagonist is driving through the rain and encounters a flat tire. He walks to a garage and then observes a house with a car parked in front.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of a journey
Active character: The protagonist, Harry Jones, Eddie Mars' boy Lanny, Mr. Canino
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment in time
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Unnamed places along the road
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"The rain came down in torrents and the road was like a river. And presently there was a thump, and the car had a flat tire! The driver stopped at once and got out to look. It was Harry Jones, who works for Eddie Mars' boy Lanny. He looked up and saw the stranger and his face went white. He backed away into the bushes, and then he started to run. Well, I'm not going to chase him through the rain,"" said the stranger, and sat down on a rock to wait. It was quite a while before he heard the sound of the car starting again. Then he got into his own car and drove off slowly, because he still had that flat tire. All along this road there are places where you can buy food and drink, but they are all shut now because it is so late. He thought of stopping and getting some wine, but he did not want to waste time. So he went on until he came to a garage. There were lights inside, but no one was moving about. He walked in and looked around. There was no one. He went to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. After a while he gave up hope and went back outside. As he stood looking around in the rain, he saw something that made him hold his breath. A hundred yards up the road, hidden by trees, was a palace. It had three stories, with pillars in front, and a fine stone wall round it. In front of the gate stood two sentries with spears. Behind them, between the gateposts, stood a great chariot, with four horses harnessed to it. Between the shafts of the chariot was a man wearing a coat of mail. On each side of him stood an armed soldier. They must be on guard there until dawn,"" thought the stranger. ""And if they see me they will certainly suspect me. But why should I go into Sparta?"""" And yet he could not get that house out of his mind. He sat down in the wet grass and waited. He watched a big black cat come out of a bush and slink over to the edge of the road. His eyes followed it as it began to prowl along the road, keeping close to the shadows. It was hungry and wanted to find some food. It came to a pile of rubbish beside the garage and stopped. Something rustled in the rubbish and the cat bent over. Then it jumped back and began to purr. The stranger rose to his feet and went to look. There, lying in the rubbish, was a loaf of bread. It had been dropped from someone's table, perhaps by mistake. The stranger picked it up, broke it in half, and put it in his pocket. Then he climbed into his car and drove off. He was not far from Sparta when he noticed that the rain had stopped and the sun was coming out. It would be easy enough to find a place to change that tire."""" "
75	75	"He would let her take it out for a spin once in a while, and sit beside her, probably with a gun handy. The girl Rusty Regan ought to have married, that Eddie Mars couldn't keep, the girl that hadn't run away with Regan. Nice Mr. Canino.
I trudged back to the garage and banged on the wooden door with the butt of my flash. There was a hung instant of silence, as heavy as thunder. The light inside went out. I stood there grinning and licking the rain off my lip. I clicked the spot on the middle of the doors. I grinned at the circle of white. I was where I wanted to be.
A voice spoke through the door, a surly voice: ""What you want?""
Open up. I've got two flats back on the highway and only one spare. I need help.
Sorry, mister. We're closed up. Realito's a mile west. Better try there.
I didn't like that. I kicked the door hard. I kept on kicking it. Another voice made itself heard, a purring voice, like a small dynamo behind a wall. I liked this voice. It said: ""A wise guy, huh? Open up, Art.""
A bolt squealed and half of the door bent inward. My flash burned briefly on a gaunt face. Then something that glittered swept down and knocked the flash out of my hand. A gun had peaked at me. I dropped low where the flash burned on the wet ground and picked it up.
The surly voice said: ""Kill that spot, bo. Folks get hurt that way.""
I snapped the flash off and straightened. Light went on inside the garage, outlined a tall man in coveralls. He backed away from the open door and kept a gun leveled at me.
Step inside and shut the door, stranger. We'll see what we can do.
I stepped inside, and shut the door behind my back. I looked at the gaunt man, but not at the other man who was shadowy over by a workbench, silent. The breath of the garage was sweet and sinister with the smell of hot pyroxylin paint.
Ain't you got no sense? the gaunt man chided me. A bank job was pulled at Realito this noon.
Pardon, I said, remembering the people staring at the bank in the rain. I didn't pull it. I'm a stranger here.
Well, there was, he said morosely. Some say it was a couple of punk kids and they got 'em cornered back here in the hills.
It's a nice night for hiding, I said. I suppose they threw tacks out. I got some of them. I thought you just needed the business.
You didn't ever get socked in the kisser, did you? the gaunt man asked me briefly.
Not by anybody your weight.
The purring voice from over in the shadows said: ""Cut out the heavy menace, Art. This guy's in a jam. You run a garage, don't you?""
Thanks, I said, and didn't look at him even then.
Okey, okey, the man in the coveralls grumbled. He tucked his gun through a flap in his clothes and bit a knuckle, staring at me moodily over it. The smell of the pyroxylin paint was as sickening as ether. Over in the corner, under a drop light, there was a big new-looking sedan with a paint gun lying on its fender.
I looked at the man by the workbench now. He was short and thick-bodied with strong shoulders. He had a cool face and cool dark eyes. He wore a belted brown suede raincoat that was heavily spotted with rain. His brown hat was tilted rakishly. He leaned his back against the workbench and looked me over without haste, without interest, as if he was looking at a slab of cold meat. Perhaps he thought of people that way.
He moved his dark eyes up and down slowly and then glanced at his fingernails one by one, holding them up against the light and studying them with care, as Hollywood has taught it should be done. He spoke around a cigarette.
Got two flats, huh? That's tough. They swept them tacks, I thought.
I skidded a little on the curve.
Stranger in town you said?"	"Summary: The protagonist is at a garage, asking for help with flat tires, but encounters suspicious behavior from the people inside.
Trope: Suspicious characters
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Protagonist, gaunt man, man in shadows
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy place: Garage
Diegetic time: A few hours"	L'endroit etait un garage, o l'on vend de l'eau-de-vie et des guepes. Il y avait quelques voitures a moitie cachees dans l'ombre. Un homme maigre, de tres longs cheveux gris, le coeur plein de vengeances, se tenait assis sur un banc. Il n'avait pas eu la force de se lever pour aller chercher deux bonbonnes d'eau-de-vie. Le narrateur demanda une coule de couteau, puis il commenca a soulever les roues. Les pneus etaient ecrases, gonfles comme des ballons.  J'ai eu du mal a m'arracher ces vieux pneus, dit-il, je ne peux plus avancer. A ce moment, un homme sortit d'un coin de l'atelier. Il etait en haillons. Il n'avait ni robe, ni tunique, ni sandales. Il avait seulement un pantalon de toile bleu ciel avec un gilet de soie rouge. Un panier charge de fleurs, de raisins, de figues et de fruits exotiques qu'il avait achetes chez un marchand arabe, lui retombait sur le dos. On aurait pu croire qu'il etait venu d'un voyage lointain; mais en realite, il habitait depuis peu la maison voisine. La lumiere tombait obliquement par une fentre. Des ombres grises s'etalaient sur le sol. Dans l'atelier, on alluma une lampe et on vit bien que l'homme etait nu, sauf son gilet de soie rouge. Son corps etait si epais et si pli, qu'il semblait fait d'une seule matiere. Ses bras pendaient a ses flancs comme des guirlandes de roses. Sa barbe etait rasee au rasoir. Il etait un peu maigre, avec de beaux yeux bleus. Il etait encore jeune.  Viens ici, lui dit-on, nous avons besoin de ton aide. Nous voulons te payer. Mais il se retourna et disparut dans les tenebres. Il passa devant le narrateur qui se trouvait sur la place.  Pourquoi ne viens-tu pas? lui dit-on. Tu es libre. Tu as vendu tes biens et tu ne travailleras plus jamais. Viens donc. Mais l'autre ne repondit pas. La nuit tombait. Il fit froid. Sur la place, les gens accoururent. Ils rentraient de leur travail, apportant leurs instruments de musique. Ils commenceraient bientot a jouer. De tous cotes, dans les petites rues etrangeres, il y avait des jardins ou l'on entendait chanter des serins et des merles, et voir des papillons blancs. Une heure plus tard, la rue etait toute noire. 
76	76	"Traveling through. On the way to L.A. How far is it?
Forty miles. Seems longer this weather. Where from, stranger?
Santa Rosa.
Come the long way, eh? Tahoe and Lone Pine?
Not Tahoe. Reno and Carson City.
Still the long way. A fleeting smile curved his lips.
Any law against it? I asked him.
Huh? No, sure not. Guess you think we're nosey. Just on account of that heist back there. Take a jack and get his flats, Art.
I'm busy, the gaunt man growled. I've got work to do. I got this spray job. And it's raining, you might have noticed.
The man in brown said pleasantly: ""Too damp for a good spray job, Art. Get moving.""
I said: ""They're front and rear, on the right side. You could use the spare for one spot, if you're busy.""
Take two jacks, Art, the brown man said.
Now, listen— Art began to bluster.
The brown man moved his eyes, looked at Art with a soft quiet-eyed stare, lowered them again almost shyly. He didn't speak. Art rocked as if a gust of wind had hit him. He stamped over to the corner and put a rubber coat over his coveralls, a sou'wester on his head. He grabbed a socket wrench and a hand jack and wheeled a dolly jack over to the doors.
He went out silently, leaving the door yawning. The rain blustered in. The man in brown strolled over and shut it and strolled back to the workbench and put his hips exactly where they had been before. I could have taken him then. We were alone. He didn't know who I was. He looked at me lightly and threw his cigarette on the cement floor and stamped on it without looking down.
I bet you could use a drink, he said. Wet the inside and even up. He reached a bottle from the workbench behind him and set it on the edge and set two glasses beside it. He poured a stiff jolt into each and held one out.
Walking like a dummy I went over and took it. The memory of the rain was still cold on my face. The smell of hot paint drugged the close air of the garage.
That Art, the brown man said. He's like all mechanics. Always got his face in a job he ought to have done last week. Business trip?
I sniffed my drink delicately. It had the right smell. I watched him drink some of his before I swallowed mine. I rolled it around on my tongue. There was no cyanide in it. I emptied the little glass and put it down beside him and moved away.
Partly, I said. I walked over to the half-painted sedan with the big metal paint gun lying along its fender. The rain hit the flat roof hard. Art was out in it, cursing.
The brown man looked at the big car. ""Just a panel job, to start with,"" he said casually, his purring voice still softer from the drink. ""But the guy had dough and his driver needed a few bucks. You know the racket.""
I said: ""There's only one that's older."" My lips felt dry. I didn't want to talk. I lit a cigarette. I wanted my tires fixed. The minutes passed on tiptoe. The brown man and I were two strangers chance-met, looking at each other across a little dead man named Harry Jones. Only the brown man didn't know that yet.
Feet crunched outside and the door was pushed open. The light hit pencils of rain and made silver wires of them. Art trundled two muddy flats in sullenly, kicked the door shut, let one of the flats fall over on its side. He looked at me savagely.
You sure pick spots for a jack to stand on, he snarled.
The brown man laughed and took a rolled cylinder of nickels out of his pocket and tossed it up and down on the palm of his hand.
Don't crab so much, he said dryly. Fix those flats.
I'm fixin' them, ain't I?
Well, don't make a song about it."	"Summary: A man is traveling to Los Angeles and encounters a mechanic named Art, who helps fix his car.
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The man, the mechanic Art
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: On the road, a garage
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Ist der Mann, dem du dich vertraust, Wohl zuverlssig? Oder hat er Das Herz des Verrters im Leibe? ART. Der Mann ist schn und wacker, mein Gebieter; Er hat das Herz eines braven Sohnes Und meiner Hllen Wachter bin ich! MANTELIS. Bist du denn mein Begleiter, Freund? ART. Ich bin dein Freier, deines Knaben Lehrmeister; Doch willst du mich nicht kennen? MANTELIS. Nein, nein! Doch nenne deinen Namen mir, O Freund! ART. Mein Name ist Art, der Sohn der Delphie, Des Ksers groer Diener in Sparta. Nun, fuhr' ich schon, oder was befiehlst du? MANTELIS. Ach, Freund, ich mu nach Los Angeles! ART. Nach Los Angeles? Sei es denn ein Fluch, Das Land? So bitt' ich dich, den Hals mir zu entsetzen! MANTELIS. Nicht Fluch, o nein! Der Ort ist reich und selig; Es wird ein groes Schlo dort errichtet, Ein Schlo so schlicht wie mde, Doch mit den prachtvollsten Dcherfenstern. ART. Das sind die Schlsse der Mnnlichkeit: Sie bauen Schlosse und Schlosse, Schlosse und Schlosse; Die Frau aber baut sich nur ein Bett. (Sie fahren ab) ZWEITE SZENE. ART (allein). Groe Gtter! Wo seid ihr, da ihr mir diese Heiligen begegnet seid? Ihr habt mir eure Reize gesendet, Da ich nach eurer Schwelle strebe, Als ob sie der Himmel wre. Geht hin, o lebendige Gtter, geht hin und macht mir einen guten Weg! Dritte szene. Der Wagen hlt vor einem Garage-Tore, welches aufgeht. Ein junger Mann in Arbeitshosen und blauem Jäckchen kommt heraus, sieht in den Wagen und spricht: BRAUN. Was wollen Sie hier? ART (aus dem Wagen springend). Hilfe, Freund! Wehe, wenn dieser Wagen noch eine halbe Meile fahre! Er ist ganz verrckt! BR. Verrckt? Und woher soll der Mensch denn wissen, da er verrckt ist? ART. Ha, Mensch, hre mich! Dieser Wagen braucht eine neue Achse! BR. Ei, ei, Herr! Noch dazu eine neue Achse! ART. Ja, ja, eine neue Achse! BR. Aber vielleicht fehlt Ihnen nur ein Rad, Herr? ART. Ha, Mensch, hast du mich verstanden? Eine neue Achse! BR. Ganz gewi, Herr! Und zwar eine ganz gute! ART. Du bist ein dummes Stck Vieh! BR. 
77	77	"Yah! Art peeled his rubber coat and sou'wester off and threw them away from him. He heaved one tire up on a spreader and tore the rim loose viciously. He had the tube out and cold-patched in nothing flat. Still scowling, he strode over to the wall beside me and grabbed an air hose, put enough air into the tube to give it body and let the nozzle of the air hose smack against the whitewashed wall.
I stood watching the roll of wrapped coins dance in Canino's hand. The moment of crouched intensity had left me. I turned my head and watched the gaunt mechanic beside me toss the air-stiffened tube up and catch it with his hands wide, one on each side of the tube. He looked it over sourly, glanced at a big galvanized tub of dirty water in the corner and grunted.
The teamwork must have been very nice. I saw no signal, no glance of meaning, no gesture that might have a special import. The gaunt man had the stiffened tube high in the air, staring at it. He half turned his body, took one long quick step, and slammed it down over my head and shoulders, a perfect ringer.
He jumped behind me and leaned hard on the rubber. His weight dragged on my chest, pinned my upper arms tight to my sides. I could move my hands, but I couldn't reach the gun in my pocket.
The brown man came almost dancing towards me across the floor. His hand tightened over the roll of nickels. He came up to me without sound, without expression. I bent forward and tried to heave Art off his feet.
The fist with the weighted tube inside it went through my spread hands like a stone through a cloud of dust. I had the stunned moment of shock when the lights danced and the visible world went out of focus but was still there. He hit me again. There was no sensation in my head. The bright glare got brighter. There was nothing but hard aching white light. Then there was darkness in which something red wriggled like a germ under a microscope. Then there was nothing bright or wriggling, just darkness and emptiness and a rushing wind and a falling as of great trees.
[28]
It seemed there was a woman and she was sitting near a lamp, which was where she belonged, in a good light. Another light shone hard on my face, so I closed my eyes again and tried to look at her through the lashes. She was so platinumed that her hair shone like a silver fruit bowl. She wore a green knitted dress with a broad white collar turned over it. There was a sharp-angled glossy bag at her feet. She was smoking and a glass of amber fluid was tall and pale at her elbow.
I moved my head a little, carefully. It hurt, but not more than I expected. I was trussed like a turkey ready for the oven. Handcuffs held my wrists behind me and a rope went from them to my ankles and then over the end of the brown davenport on which I was sprawled. The rope dropped out of sight over the davenport. I moved enough to make sure it was tied down.
I stopped these furtive movements and opened my eyes again and said: ""Hello.""
The woman withdrew her gaze from some distant mountain peak. Her small firm chin turned slowly. Her eyes were the blue of mountain lakes. Overhead the rain still pounded, with a remote sound, as if it was somebody else's rain.
How do you feel? It was a smooth silvery voice that matched her hair. It had a tiny tinkle in it, like bells in a doll's house. I thought that was silly as soon as I thought of it.
Great, I said. Somebody built a filling station on my jaw.
What did you expect, Mr. Marlowe—orchids?
Just a plain pine box, I said. Don't bother with bronze or silver handles. And don't scatter my ashes over the blue Pacific. I like the worms better. Did you know that worms are of both sexes and that any worm can love any other worm?"	"Summary: The protagonist is involved in a violent altercation with two men, resulting in his unconsciousness and capture.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Action scene
Active character: Yah, Art, Canino
Fuzzy place: Unnamed warehouse-like location
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Ei tytt, ei voinut hn muuta en; mutta kohden hnen pns eivt sotkuun hetkeen saaneet vastaukseksi. Kehn yls vain taas, tuonut ruumiit taitaa jo, nyt laukkaa etsij valmiina ja juoksevalle johtoja toivomme! Tuonut ruumiit taitaa jo?... Mutta eip kukaan ole hn ollut viel! Se karkureitti johdattelee pois liikenteelt ja virran varrelta, kevtjoki saattaa kastumaan pellolle, siin kulkee koreus polku, kaikki siit on vhn eri kuin tnne, tss tnne, tnne; mutta koska tuo paikka ei nyt en tied, niin mieleni tuossa surkuttuu. Jo toiselle puolen ovista ilmestyy aalto uutta thti, Art hnt seuraa, Canino sun kanssasi ja vuorotellen lue: Voi, miksi meidt itsetuhoisena uhmatte! Tm ei voi kyd semmoiseksi, ett maailma myrskyisemmn olisi tynn, vaan hyvin toimittakoon rangaistus, jota tarvitsemme. Ma voisin sanoa viel: Eihn tm vlttmttmll tavalla sytytetty liekki sammalaiseksi tuskin levi, ett sen jlkeen maailmaa paha olisi, joka oli muuten jo valmiiksi. Mut hn katsoo minua, pukee vris silmsi, ja sanoo: Minulla ei ole en mitn sanottavaa. Yhdistettkin molemmat nyt ktsinkin vain hiljaa, menevtt aina huoliin aina eteenpin, josko hnest ehk viel en luule. Nostetaan kerrassaan niin painavat raamut, ja vlill muutenkin tuo on aika haasteleva tehtv, mutta sitte se tuntuu helpommalta, kun ottaa ne viimein omiin ksiins, sill siin se on jo totta. No, toverit, meidn pit jatkua, kun p selks, sill koko seurue meidt jo odottelee, heit meidt seuraa ja vievn meidt tss autiolla tilassa tss, joka nkyy ulkoa kirkkaalta, mutta sislt valoa ei hiritse, koska se on tyhjn. En kuitenkaan usko, ett se olisi ihan tyhjn, vaan nytn edessni jonkunlaisia esineit, jotka siell levitt ja jotka katsellessani synkkenyttvt mua, vaikka siihen en osaa sanoa miksi, vaan jotenkin tunnen, ett on jotain pahaa. Ovatko ne vaihteet, joiden avulla pyrretttin vetjt sittenkin sen yhdest pyrstst toiseen, jotta hn olisi voinut ajaa nopeammin? Ehk kiskuraudoissa jotain? Joskus nekin kyll pelottavat, kun ne niin karille, niin kovin pitkn, niin kylmylle ne tss roikkuvat, ja siksi siks onkin mys niin harva, joka niit sinne kaltereihin astuu. Enp ymmrr, mutta milt se tuntuu, jos niiden yli hyppeleekin ja joutuu niiden alle, jolloin niiden jlkilauseet tapahtuu. 
78	78	"You're a little light-headed, she said, with a grave stare.
Would you mind moving this light?
She got up and went behind the davenport. The light went off. The dimness was a benison.
I don't think you're so dangerous, she said. She was tall rather than short, but no bean-pole. She was slim, but not a dried crust. She went back to her chair.
So you know my name.
You slept well. They had plenty of time to go through your pockets. They did everything but embalm you. So you're a detective.
Is that all they have on me?
She was silent. Smoke floated dimly from the cigarette. She moved it in the air. Her hand was small and had shape, not the usual bony garden tool you see on women nowadays.
What time is it? I asked.
She looked sideways at her wrist, beyond the spiral of smoke, at the edge of the grave luster of the lamplight. ""Ten-seventeen. You have a date?""
I wouldn't be surprised. Is this the house next to Art Huck's garage?
Yes.
What are the boys doing—digging a grave?
They had to go somewhere.
You mean they left you here alone?
Her head turned slowly again. She smiled. ""You don't look dangerous.""
I thought they were keeping you a prisoner.
It didn't seem to startle her. It even slightly amused her. ""What made you think that?""
I know who you are.
Her very blue eyes flashed so sharply that I could almost see the sweep of their glance, like the sweep of a sword. Her mouth tightened. But her voice didn't change.
Then I'm afraid you're in a bad spot. And I hate killing.
And you Eddie Mars' wife? Shame on you.
She didn't like that. She glared at me. I grinned. ""Unless you can unlock these bracelets, which I'd advise you not to do, you might spare me a little of that drink you're neglecting.""
She brought the glass over. Bubbles rose in it like false hopes. She bent over me. Her breath was as delicate as the eyes of a fawn. I gulped from the glass. She took it away from my mouth and watched some of the liquid run down my neck.
She bent over me again. Blood began to move around in me, like a prospective tenant looking over a house.
Your face looks like a collision mat, she said.
Make the most of it. It won't last long even this good.
She swung her head sharply and listened. For an instant her face was pale. The sounds were only the rain drifting against the walls. She went back across the room and stood with her side to me, bent forward a little, looking down at the floor.
Why did you come here and stick your neck out? she asked quietly. Eddie wasn't doing you any harm. You know perfectly well that if I hadn't hid out here, the police would have been certain Eddie murdered Rusty Regan.
He did, I said.
She didn't move, didn't change position an inch. Her breath made a harsh quick sound. I looked around the room. Two doors, both in the same wall, one half open. A carpet of red and tan squares, blue curtains at the windows, a wallpaper with bright green pine trees on it. The furniture looked as if it had come from one of those places that advertise on bus benches. Gay, but full of resistance.
She said softly: ""Eddie didn't do anything to him. I haven't seen Rusty in months. Eddie's not that sort of man.""
You left his bed and board. You were living alone. People at the place where you lived identified Regan's photo.
That's a lie, she said coldly.
I tried to remember whether Captain Gregory had said that or not. My head was too fuzzy. I couldn't be sure.
And it's none of your business, she added.
The whole thing is my business. I'm hired to find out.
Eddie's not that sort of man.
Oh, you like racketeers.
As long as people will gamble there will be places for them to gamble."	"Summary: A conversation between two characters, one of whom is a detective, in a dimly lit room.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Dialog
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The detective, the woman
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Fuzzy place: Unnamed apartment or house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"Die zwei Tchter, die sich soeben entfernt hatten, hatten nicht vor der Tr geblieben; sie waren in das Zimmer hinaufgegangen, und nun war es schon sehr finster geworden. Es war hier noch immer keine Lampe angezndet worden, und die einzige Lichtquelle war das Fenster, das aber jetzt dunkler wurde und sich bald vllig schlieen konnte. Aber dennoch wahrte der Detektiv seine Ruhe und erwartete geduldig, da alles seinen Gang gehen wrde. Da kam sie wieder zurck. Sie hatte eine Lampe mitgebracht, und nun stand sie auf dem Tisch, und der junge Mann richtete den Blick auf ihr Gesicht. So sah es ihm denn doch noch einmal! Und es war das Antlitz einer unbescholtenen Jungfrau, wie man es nie gesehen hat. So schn, so heiter, so rein, als knne nur das Gesicht eines Gtterkindes sein, und doch war es ganz menschlich, ganz von dieser Erde. Das Haar fiel in weien Locken ber ihre Schultern, und einen Augenblick stand sie ganz still da und sah ihn an, und dann sagte sie: """"Mein Herr, ich bin's, was du suchst."""" Der Detektiv atmete tief auf. Nun"", sagte er, ""wo sind wir? In welcher Stadt, in welchem Lande? Ist dies dein Zuhause?"""" Nein"", sagte sie, ""das ist nicht mein Zuhause. Ich komme aus der Stadt jenseits des Meeres."""" Ach ja"", sagte der Detektiv, ""du kommst also auch aus dem Lande der Gtter?"""" Und nun ging ein seltsamer Schimmer ber ihr Antlitz, und ihre Stimme klang in seiner Ohren wie ein feines Lcheln, wenn der Wind durch das Gebsch weht, und sie antwortete: """"Ja wohl, meine Brder sind die Gtter, aber ich bin die Tochter eines Menschen. Wenn du willst, kannst du bei mir bleiben, bis ich dich hinbertrage, wo du gehen sollst; aber zuerst mu ich dir meinen Namen nennen; denn meine Eltern haben mir geraten, niemals mit einem Fremden zu sprechen, ehe ich ihn nicht habe kennlernen knnen. Mein Name ist Psyche."""" Und nun lachte der Detektiv, und nach einer Weile sagte er: """"Nun, das ist ja kein schlechter Name, und du bist auch nicht eine schlechte Person, und wenn du nichts gegen mich hast, so bleibe ich bei dir und komme mit dir weiter."""" "
79	79	"That's just protective thinking. Once outside the law you're all the way outside. You think he's just a gambler. I think he's a pornographer, a blackmailer, a hot car broker, a killer by remote control, and a suborner of crooked cops. He's whatever looks good to him, whatever has the cabbage pinned to it. Don't try to sell me on any high-souled racketeers. They don't come in that pattern.
He's not a killer. Her nostrils flared.
Not personally. He has Canino. Canino killed a man tonight, a harmless little guy who was trying to help somebody out. I almost saw him killed.
She laughed wearily.
All right, I growled. Don't believe it. If Eddie is such a nice guy, I'd like to get to talk to him without Canino around. You know what Canino will do—beat my teeth out and then kick me in the stomach for mumbling.
She put her head back and stood there thoughtful and withdrawn, thinking something out.
I thought platinum hair was out of style, I bored on, just to keep sound alive in the room, just to keep from listening.
It's a wig, silly. While mine grows out. She reached up and yanked it off. Her own hair was clipped short all over, like a boy's. She put the wig back on.
Who did that to you?
She looked surprised. ""I had it done. Why?""
Yes. Why?
Why, to show Eddie I was willing to do what he wanted me to do—hide out. That he didn't need to have me guarded. I wouldn't let him down. I love him.
Good grief, I groaned. And you have me right here in the room with you.
She turned a hand over and stared at it. Then abruptly she walked out of the room. She came back with a kitchen knife. She bent and sawed at my rope.
Canino has the key to the handcuffs, she breathed. I can't do anything about those.
She stepped back, breathing rapidly. She had cut the rope at every knot.
You're a kick, she said. Kidding with every breath—the spot you're in.
I thought Eddie wasn't a killer.
She turned away quickly and went back to her chair by the lamp and sat down and put her face in her hands. I swung my feet to the floor and stood up. I tottered around, stiff-legged. The nerve on the left side of my face was jumping in all its branches. I took a step. I could still walk. I could run, if I had to.
I guess you mean me to go, I said.
She nodded without lifting her head.
You'd better go with me—if you want to keep on living.
Don't waste time. He'll be back any minute.
Light a cigarette for me.
I stood beside her, touching her knees. She came to her feet with a sudden lurch. Our eyes were only inches apart.
Hello, Silver-Wig, I said softly.
She stepped back, around the chair, and swept a package of cigarettes up off the table. She jabbed one loose and pushed it roughly into my mouth. Her hand was shaking. She snapped a small green leather lighter and held it to the cigarette. I drew in the smoke, staring into her lake-blue eyes. While she was still close to me I said:
A little bird named Harry Jones led me to you. A little bird that used to hop in and out of cocktail bars picking up horse bets for crumbs. Picking up information too. This little bird picked up an idea about Canino. One way and another he and his friends found out where you were. He came to me to sell the information because he knew—how he knew is a long story—that I was working for General Sternwood. I got his information, but Canino got the little bird. He's a dead little bird now, with his feathers ruffled and his neck limp and a pearl of blood on his beak. Canino killed him. But Eddie Mars wouldn't do that, would he, Silver-Wig? He never killed anybody. He just hires it done.
Get out, she said harshly. Get out of here quick.
Her hand clutched in midair on the green lighter. The fingers strained. The knuckles were as white as snow."	"Summary: The narrator is having a conversation with someone about Eddie Mars, who they believe is involved in various illegal activities. The narrator's partner cuts their rope and suggests they leave, while the narrator warns that Eddie Mars will come back soon.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The narrator, the person they are speaking to
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy place: Unnamed apartment or room
Diegetic time: A few hours"	I asked him what Eddie Mars did. “He runs a lot of his own shows,” he said, “and he’s got a couple of numbers going with the outfit.” I asked him what kind of numbers and he looked at me like I was crazy. “You don’t know anything about numbers?” he said. “Numbers is anything you can get away with.” “Well,” I said, “you can tell that to the judge when we bring you over to Headquarters.” He laughed then, but it wasn’t any good. His eyes were on mine and there was nothing in them now, just dead eyes. “The judge won’t hear about it,” he said. “Eddie Mars won’t let him.” Then he sat quiet for a little while, and I watched his face and knew that something was going to happen. His mouth twitched and his hands clenched and his eyes were very still. Then his right hand went into his hip pocket and came out with a small automatic. I took my eyes off his hand and stood up. I wanted to keep him from doing anything silly. “Sit down,” I said, “and you’ll be all right.” He shook his head. “No,” he said, “this is the end for both of us. You’re going to walk out of here and never come back. Only this time you’re taking somebody with you.” The guy was nuts. I took out my wallet and threw it on the table beside him. It didn’t seem worth while arguing with him any more. I turned to go to the door and cut the rope with my knife. Just as I reached the door I heard a shot behind me. I whirled around and saw that he had shot himself through the head. I put my gun away and went out of the apartment and down the stairs and across the street and started home. In the car I took a cigarette out of the case and lit it and felt better. I had another cigarette before I reached home. V I must have slept heavily because when the telephone rang I woke up suddenly and lay very still listening to the ring. After a long time it stopped and I heard the front door open and close. Then the bedroom door opened and a man walked across the floor to the window and looked out. He was tall and thin and wore a dark blue suit that fitted him very closely. He was wearing a dark brown hat with a narrow brim. As he stood there looking out of the window I got out of bed very carefully so that the springs wouldn’t creak and slipped on my trousers and socks. I wanted to see how he would act when he found I was gone. When I got to the door I could see him again, standing just as before. I crossed the living room to the hall without making any noise. I listened at the door of my study and heard him walking around the room quietly, not touching anything. I opened the front door very slowly and stepped outside. 
80	80	"But Canino doesn't know I know that, I said. About the little bird. All he knows is I'm nosing around.
Then she laughed. It was almost a racking laugh. It shook her as the wind shakes a tree. I thought there was puzzlement in it, not exactly surprise, but as if a new idea had been added to something already known and it didn't fit. Then I thought that was too much to get out of a laugh.
It's very funny, she said breathlessly. Very funny, because, you see—I still love him. Women— She began to laugh again.
I listened hard, my head throbbing. Just the rain still. ""Let's go,"" I said. ""Fast.""
She took two steps back and her face set hard. ""Get out, you! Get out! You can walk to Realito. You can make it—and you can keep your mouth shut—for an hour or two at least. You owe me that much.""
Let's go, I said. Got a gun, Silver-Wig?
You know I'm not going. You know that. Please, please get out of here quickly.
I stepped up close to her, almost pressing against her. ""You're going to stay here after turning me loose? Wait for that killer to come back so you can say so sorry? A man who kills like swatting a fly. Not much. You're going with me, Silver-Wig.""
No.
Suppose, I said thinly, your handsome husband did kill Regan? Or suppose Canino did, without Eddie's knowing it. Just suppose. How long will you last, after turning me loose?
I'm not afraid of Canino. I'm still his boss's wife.
Eddie's a handful of mush, I snarled. Canino would take him with a teaspoon. He'll take him the way the cat took the canary. A handful of mush. The only time a girl like you goes for a wrong gee is when he's a handful of mush.
Get out! she almost spit at me.
Okey. I turned away from her and moved out through the half-open door into a dark hallway. Then she rushed after me and pushed past to the front door and opened it. She peered out into the wet blackness and listened. She motioned me forward.
Good-by, she said under her breath. Good luck in everything but one thing. Eddie didn't kill Rusty Regan. You'll find him alive and well somewhere, when he wants to be found.
I leaned against her and pressed her against the wall with my body. I pushed my mouth against her face. I talked to her that way.
There's no hurry. All this was arranged in advance, rehearsed to the last detail, timed to the split second. just like a radio program. No hurry at all. Kiss me, Silver-Wig.
Her face under my mouth was like ice. She put her hands up and took hold of my head and kissed me hard on the lips. Her lips were like ice, too.
I went out through the door and it closed behind me, without sound, and the rain blew in under the porch, not as cold as her lips.
[29]"	"Summary: The protagonist is confronting a woman named Silver-Wig, who claims to still love her husband despite his involvement in a crime. The protagonist threatens Silver-Wig and leaves, but not before kissing her and feeling her lips are cold like ice.
Trope: Femme fatale
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: The protagonist, Silver-Wig
Time setting: Antiquity
Fuzzy place: Unnamed house
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Mais elle est la, et c'est tout ce qu'il nous faut.  Oui, oui, repondit le jeune homme; je suis encore fou, mais j'ai besoin d'elle... Elle est venue pour moi seule, je l'ai bien vu. Cependant il ne fallait pas que cela durat longtemps; Silver-Wig, ouvrant sa porte a demi, appela:  Entrez, monsieur. Et comme elle se penchait sur les marches de la maison pour lui tendre la main, la veste de son manteau tomba en arriere jusqu'a ses genoux. La femme eut un mouvement de surprise, comme si elle n'etait pas habituee a cette toilette; puis, sans rien dire, elle fit signe au jeune homme de la suivre. Il la suivit en honte et en desir, avec une sorte de terreur. Ils traverserent une salle a manger sombre, pleine de souvenirs de fete, dont les tentures jaunes etaient comme ternies par l'ombre et les bougies; puis ils gagnerent une antichambre, ou il y avait une table couverte d'un tapis, un fauteuil de cuir, deux chaises, et une lampe a laquelle brulait une grosse bougie rouge. Silver-Wig prit la lumiere, et, apres avoir regarde le jeune homme avec des yeux qui avaient un eclat singulier et pareils a ceux de certaines pierres precieuses:  Asseyez-vous ici, dit-elle. Il obit et s'assit sur la chaise qu'elle lui designait.  Alors, reprit-elle, maintenant vous allez me dire pourquoi vous m'avez fait demander. Et comme le jeune homme ne semblait pas savoir comment commencer:  Nous avons eu peur pour vous, poursuivit-elle, dans la nuit, quand on a entendu le fracas de la voiture. Nous avons cru que vous etiez tombe par terre ou que vous aviez rencontre quelque embuscade; nous avons pense que vous etiez mort.  J'ai ete fort mal, repondit-il, mais je vais bientot mieux.  Je suis contente, reprit-elle, car je ne veux pas perdre mon mari.  Vous voulez garder votre mari? demanda-t-il.  Oui, je l'aime encore, repondit-elle avec calme.  Vraiment? Comment cela, ma chere amie?  Parce que je suis une pauvre folle, peut-etre. Ou plutot parce que je ne comprends pas bien tout ce qui s'est passe hier soir. Mais vous m'avez promis de me raconter tout cela.  Je vous le raconterai, dit le jeune homme.  Eh bien! attendez, ne partez pas. J'ai quelque chose a vous dire avant tout.  Que voulez-vous me dire? demanda-t-il avec inquietude.  Tout simplement que si vous comptez recommencer ces sottises-la, je ne serai plus de votre avis.  Et si je recommence, que ferez-vous?  Je ferai tout ce qu'il faudra faire.  Ah! c'est bon, murmura le jeune homme, qui se leva. Et il regarda la femme avec des yeux fixes; puis, revenant vers la chaise, il s'y assit lentement.  Maintenant, continua Silver-Wig, vous pouvez me dire pourquoi vous m'avez fait demander.  Pourquoi donc? 
81	81	"The garage next door was dark. I crossed the gravel drive and a patch of sodden lawn. The road ran with small rivulets of water. It gurgled down a ditch on the far side. I had no hat. That must have fallen in the garage. Canino hadn't bothered to give it back to me. He hadn't thought I would need it any more. I imagined him driving back jauntily through the rain, alone, having left the gaunt and sulky Art and the probably stolen sedan in a safe place. She loved Eddie Mars and she was hiding to protect him. So he would find her there when he came back, calm beside the light and the untasted drink, and me tied up on the davenport. He would carry her stuff out to the car and go through the house carefully to make sure nothing incriminating was left. He would tell her to go out and wait. She wouldn't hear a shot. A blackjack is just as effective at short range. He would tell her he had left me tied up and I would get loose after a while. He would think she was that dumb. Nice Mr. Canino.
The raincoat was open in front and I couldn't button it, being handcuffed. The skirts flapped against my legs like the wings of a large and tired bird. I came to the highway. Cars went by in a wide swirl of water illuminated by headlights. The tearing noise of their tires died swiftly. I found my convertible where I had left it, both tires fixed and mounted, so it could be driven away, if necessary. They thought of everything. I got into it and leaned down sideways under the wheel and fumbled aside the flap of leather that covered the pocket. I got the other gun, stuffed it up under my coat and started back. The world was small, shut in, black. A private world for Canino and me.
Halfway there the headlights nearly caught me. They turned swiftly off the highway and I slid down the bank into the wet ditch and flopped there breathing water. The car hummed by without slowing. I lifted my head, heard the rasp of its tires as it left the road and took the gravel of the driveway. The motor died, the lights died, a door slammed. I didn't hear the house door shut, but a fringe of light trickled through the clump of trees, as though a shade had been moved aside from a window, or the light had been put on in the hall.
I came back to the soggy grass plot and sloshed across it. The car was between me and the house, the gun was down it my side, pulled as far around as I could get it, without pulling my left arm out by the roots. The car was dark, empty, warm. Water gurgled pleasantly in the radiator. I peered in at the door. The keys hung on the dash. Canino was very sure of himself. I went around the car and walked carefully across the gravel to the window and listened. I couldn't hear any voices, any sound but the swift bong-bong of the raindrops hitting the metal elbows at the bottom of the rain gutters.
I kept on listening. No loud voices, everything quiet and refined. He would be purring at her and she would be telling him she had let me go and I had promised to let them get away. He wouldn't believe me, as I wouldn't believe him. So he wouldn't be in there long. He would be on his way and take her with him. All I had to do was wait for him to come out.
I couldn't do it. I shifted the gun to my left hand and leaned down to scoop up a handful of gravel. I tossed it against the screen of the window. It was a feeble effort. Very little of it reached the glass above the screen, but the loose rattle of that little was like a dam bursting.
I ran back to the car and got on the running board behind it. The house had already gone dark. That was all. I dropped quietly on the running board and waited. No soap. Canino was too cagey.
I straightened up and got into the car backwards, fumbled around for the ignition key and turned it. I reached with my foot, but the starter button had to be on the dash. I found it at last, pulled it and the starter ground. The warm motor caught at once. It purred softly, contentedly. I got out the car again and crouched down by the rear wheels."	"Summary: The narrator is trying to find someone named Eddie Mars, who is hiding with a woman named Velma. He is confronted by a man named Canino and ends up escaping with a gun.
Trope: Chasing after a criminal
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Action sequence
Active character: Narrator, Eddie Mars, Velma, Canino
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Fuzzy place: Unnamed road, garage, ditch, highway
Diegetic time: A few hours"	I drove the car around slowly to the back of the garage and parked in front of the door. I climbed out and went up on the running-board and looked over the roof of the car. The road was empty. The sun had set and it was getting dark. I got down and ran across to the garage and pushed open the door. There was a light in the office and the door of the inner room stood open. A woman sat at the desk and Eddie Mars stood by the window with his hands behind his back. He turned quickly when he heard the door open. “Hello, Marlowe,” he said. “You’re all right.” He didn’t move from where he stood. “Velma, this is Philip Marlowe, the private eye. He’s going to help us. Put that gun away, Phil. Sit down.” The woman stood up. She had her hand in her coat. She was a plumpish blonde in her early thirties, with a red mouth and a broad face. She had nice eyes, but they were tired and there was no color in them. She put her hand out. “How do you do, Mr. Marlowe?” She spoke quietly and without expression. Her voice had a good tone, like her eyes. I took her hand. It was cold and lifeless. “Are you hurt anywhere?” “No. Not very much.” She sat down again and rubbed her arms slowly up and down. “What did you want to bring him here for?” she asked Eddie. “It might have been awkward,” Eddie said. “I thought we’d better take the chance.” He walked over to the desk and leaned against it. “Don’t let anybody come into the office, Velma.” She nodded listlessly. “And don’t leave the house,” he told me. “Canino will be around. If he tries to get in, shoot him.” I grinned at him. “Thanks.” “You’ll find the bathroom next to the bedroom. You can use the bedroom if you want to. It’s safe enough now. Canino’s outside somewhere. He’s always close when he thinks you’re getting too far away. He hates walking. And he won’t show himself till after dark.” He reached for a cigarette and lit it and smiled at me through the smoke. “Nice evening. Nice clean quiet night. Nice place to die in. But I don’t think you’ll die tonight, Marlowe. You’ve got more guts than most of them. What you haven’t got is brains. Where do you think you’re going? You can’t get out the front way.” “I know,” I said. “I’m going out the back way.” I started to walk past him. His hand shot out and caught my arm just above the elbow. We stared at each other. I felt the coldness of his fingers through my clothes, as though they were ice. He was thinking hard, with his lips slightly apart and his head a little on one side. After a moment he shook his head and released my arm. “All right,” he said. “Go ahead. Get your stuff together.” 
82	82	"I was shivering now but I knew that Canino wouldn't like that last effect. He needed that car badly. A darkened window slid down inch by inch, only some shifting of light on the glass showing it moved. Flame spouted from it abruptly, the blended roar of three swift shots. Glass starred in the coupe. I yelled with agony. The yell went off into a wailing groan. The groan became a wet gurgle, choked with blood. I let the gurgle die sickeningly, one choked gasp. It was nice work. I liked it. Canino liked it very much. I heard him laugh. It was a large booming laugh, not at all like the purr of his speaking voice.
Then silence for a little while, except for the rain and the quietly throbbing motor of the car. Then the house door crawled open, a deeper blackness in the black night. A figure showed in it cautiously, something white around the neck. It was her collar. She came out on the porch stiffly, a wooden woman. I caught the pale shine of her silver wig. Canino came crouched methodically behind her. It was so deadly it was almost funny.
She came down the steps. Now I could see the white stiffness of her face. She started towards the car. A bulwark of defense for Canino, in case I could still spit in his eye. Her voice spoke through the lisp of the rain, saying slowly, without any tone: ""I can't see a thing, Lash. The windows are misted.""
He grunted something and the girl's body jerked hard, as though he had jammed a gun into her back. She came on again and drew near the lightless car. I could see him behind her now, his hat, a side of his face, the bulk of his shoulder. The girl stopped rigid and screamed. A beautiful thin tearing scream that rocked me like a left hook.
I can see him! she screamed. Through the window. Behind the wheel, Lash!
He fell for it like a bucket of lead. He knocked her roughly to one side and jumped forward, throwing his hand up. Three more spurts of flame cut the darkness. More glass scarred. One bullet went on through and smacked into a tree on my side. A ricochet whined off into the distance. But the motor went quietly on.
He was low down, crouched against the gloom, his face a grayness without form that seemed to come back slowly after the glare of the shots. If it was a revolver he had, it might be empty. It might not. He had fired six times, but he might have reloaded inside the house. I hoped he had. I didn't want him with an empty gun. But it might be an automatic.
I said: ""Finished?""
He whirled at me. Perhaps it would have been nice to allow him another shot or two, just like a gentleman of the old school. But his gun was still up and I couldn't wait any longer. Not long enough to be a gentleman of the old school. I shot him four times, the Colt straining against my ribs. The gun jumped out of his hand as if it had been kicked. He reached both his hands for his stomach. I could hear them smack hard against his body. He fell like that, straight forward, holding himself together with his broad hands. He fell face down in the wet gravel. And after that there wasn't a sound from him.
Silver-Wig didn't make a sound either. She stood rigid, with the rain swirling at her. I walked around Canino and kicked his gun, without any purpose. Then I walked after it and bent over sideways and picked it up. That put me close beside her. She spoke moodily, as if she was talking to herself.
I—I was afraid you'd come back.
I said: ""We had a date. I told you it was all arranged."" I began to laugh like a loon.
Then she was bending down over him, touching him. And after a little while she stood up with a small key on a thin chain.
She said bitterly: ""Did you have to kill him?""
I stopped laughing as suddenly as I had started. She went behind me and unlocked the handcuffs.
Yes, she said softly. I suppose you did.
[30]
This was another day and the sun was shining again.
Captain Gregory of the Missing Persons Bureau looked heavily out of his office window at the barred upper floor of the Hall of Justice, white and clean after the rain. Then he turned ponderously in his swivel chair and tamped his pipe with a heat-scarred thumb and stared at me bleakly.
So you got yourself in another jam.
Oh, you heard about it."	"Summary: The protagonist kills a man named Canino and is questioned by Captain Gregory about it.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Protagonist, Canino, Silver-Wig
Time setting: Antiquity

Diegetic time: A few hours"	"That once, and I'll be bound for you, the ball Will run him through; for I have given him The wound already, and he will not last Long. He stood a moment thinking, then ""Well done,"" Said he, and took his hand away from me. Then, as I was still, with one great stride He came up close to Canino, and the sword Shot out between us and sheathed itself again In his right hand. His eyes were wild and wide As if they looked on something that he hated; And all at once he gave a cry like one Gone mad, and drove the sword into his heart. When it was done, he turned, and his face was White as the snow, yet there was wonder in it That changed it almost instantly, till The fury of that strange attack seemed gone. What have you done?"" said he. ""You have not done It,"" I replied. ""He was a man possessed By some infernal spirit, and killed himself."""" Then looking down upon the corpse, """"Not so,"""" Said he; """"'tis true that this poor wretch is dead But by my hand. You saw?"""" ""I saw."" The silver-wig he wore was streaming backward Over his face, and I could scarcely see The fright within his eyes, but knew it well Enough to tell that he would hide it from me. "
83	83	"Brother, I sit here all day on my fanny and I don't look as if I had a brain in my head. But you'd be surprised what I hear. Shooting this Canino was all right I guess, but I don't figure the homicide boys pinned any medals on you.
There's been a lot of killing going on around me, I said. I haven't been getting my share of it.
He smiled patiently. ""Who told you this girl out there was Eddie Mars' wife?""
I told him. He listened carefully and yawned. He tapped his gold-studded mouth with a palm like a tray. ""I guess you figure I ought to of found her.""
That's a fair deduction.
Maybe I knew, he said. Maybe I thought if Eddie and his woman wanted to play a little game like that, it would be smart—or as smart as I ever get—to let them think they were getting away with it. And then again maybe you think I was letting Eddie get away with it for more personal reasons. He held his big hand out and revolved the thumb against the index and second fingers.
No, I said. I didn't really think that. Not even when Eddie seemed to know all about our talk here the other day.
He raised his eyebrows as if raising them was an effort, a trick he was out of practice on. It furrowed his whole forehead and when it smoothed out it was full of white lines that turned reddish as I watched them.
I'm a copper, he said. Just a plain ordinary copper. Reasonably honest. As honest as you could expect a man to be in a world where it's out of style. That's mainly why I asked you to come in this morning. I'd like you to believe that. Being a copper I like to see the law win. I'd like to see the flashy well-dressed muggs like Eddie Mars spoiling their manicures in the rock quarry at Folsom, alongside of the poor little slum-bred hard guys that got knocked over on their first caper and never had a break since. That's what I'd like. You and me both lived too long to think I'm likely to see it happen. Not in this town, not in any town half this size, in any part of this wide, green and beautiful U.S.A. We just don't run our country that way.
I didn't say anything. He blew smoke with a backward jerk of his head, looked at the mouthpiece of his pipe and went on:
But that don't mean I think Eddie Mars bumped off Regan or had any reason to or would have done it if he had. I just figured maybe he knows something about it, and maybe sooner or later something will sneak out into the open. Hiding his wife out at Realito was childish, but it's the kind of childishness a smart monkey thinks is smart. I had him in here last night, after the D.A. got through with him. He admitted the whole thing. He said he knew Canino as a reliable protection guy and that's what he had him for. He didn't know anything about his hobbies or want to. He didn't know Harry Jones. He didn't know Joe Brody. He did know Geiger, of course, but claims he didn't know about his racket. I guess you heard all that.
Yes.
You played it smart down there at Realito, brother. Not trying to cover up. We keep a file on unidentified bullets nowadays. Someday you might use that gun again. Then you'd be over a barrel.
I played it smart, I said, and leered at him.
He knocked his pipe out and stared down at it broodingly. ""What happened to the girl?"" he asked, not looking up.
I don't know. They didn't hold her. We made statements, three sets of them, for Wilde, for the Sheriff's office, for the Homicide Bureau. They turned her loose. I haven't seen her since. I don't expect to.
Kind of a nice girl, they say. Wouldn't be one to play dirty games.
Kind of a nice girl, I said."	"Summary: The speaker discusses various killings and their involvement with Eddie Mars.
Narrative arc: Informative
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Brother, Eddie Mars
Quoted character: Canino, Harry Jones, Joe Brody, Geiger
Time setting: Antiquity

Diegetic time: A few hours"	"Brother, I am the murderer of Canino and Harry Jones and Joe Brody and Geiger, though Geiger was a fool who went to his own death. But this Eddie Mars is like some great beast that walks in darkness and kills. There was no reason why he should kill these men for they had done nothing to him and yet he killed them. Do you know how? With a gun with which he could shoot through the door of a room so that not one man in ten thousand could have dodged his bullet. And it was at night when one can't see well to aim a gun and yet he killed three of them."""" The crowd listened while the Greek spoke. They knew now why the police had come for Eddie Mars. They knew why Eddie Mars had sent his girl away. It was something to be mixed up in a murder case even if only by sympathy. For the first time in their lives they were living part of an adventure. The Greek stood on the running board of his truck and told them about Eddie Mars and then he told them about the woman. I've lived with her,"" the Greek said. ""She is my wife. I took her from a house in Los Angeles. She has been my wife for five years."""" There was a silence. Then a voice asked: Who's your witness?"" Nobody,"" the Greek said. ""I have no witnesses. I don't need any witnesses."" He got out of the truck and took a step towards the edge of the bluff. Look here,"" another voice cried. ""We won't let you go up there."""" Why not?"" the Greek asked. You ain't got any gun,"" a third voice said. ""You can't go up there without a gun."""" The Greek looked down at the black shadowy mass of people packed close together on the beach. Their voices sounded small and far away. What do I want with a gun?"" he asked. A few of the men had climbed up on the rim of the bluff. They crowded around the Greek and looked over the steep slope. """"You couldn't make it,"""" one of them said. The Greek smiled at them. ""Maybe you're right,"" he said. ""But I'm going to try it."""" He walked over to the wheel of his truck and put his hand on it. """"Anybody want to drive the truck?"""" he asked. Everybody backed away from it. No,"" a voice said, ""nobody wants to drive it."" The Greek turned on his heel and walked back to the edge of the bluff. He stopped and looked down at the silent group of men on the beach. Then he turned half-way and facing the sea he began to climb up the face of the cliff. The men watched him, hushed and silent. They saw him stop, get a better hold, and start again. His feet found the holds on the rock, but his hands seemed to seek and find for themselves. "
84	84	"Captain Gregory sighed and rumpled his mousy hair. ""There's just one more thing,"" he said almost gently. ""You look like a nice guy, but you play too rough. If you really want to help the Sternwood family—leave 'em alone.""
I think you're right, Captain.
How do you feel?
Swell, I said. I was standing on various pieces of carpet most of the night, being balled out. Before that I got soaked to the skin and beaten up. I'm in perfect condition.
What the hell did you expect, brother?
Nothing else. I stood up and grinned at him and started for the door. When I had almost reached it he cleared his throat suddenly and said in a harsh voice: I'm wasting my breath, huh? You still think you can find Regan.
I turned around and looked him straight in the eyes. ""No, I don't think I can find Regan. I'm not even going to try. Does that suit you?""
He nodded slowly. Then he shrugged. ""I don't know what the hell I even said that for. Good luck, Marlowe. Drop around any time.""
Thanks, Captain.
I went down out of the City Hall and got my car from the parking lot and drove home to the Hobart Arms. I lay down on the bed with my coat off and stared at the ceiling and listened to the traffic sounds on the street outside and watched the sun move slowly across a corner of the ceiling. I tried to go to sleep, but sleep didn't come. I got up and took a drink, although it was the wrong time of day, and lay down again. I still couldn't go to sleep. My brain ticked like a clock. I sat up on the side of the bed and stuffed a pipe and said out loud:
That old buzzard knows something.
The pipe tasted as bitter as lye. I put it aside and lay down again. My mind drifted through waves of false memory, in which I seemed to do the same thing over and over again, go to the same places, meet the same people, say the same words to them, over and over again, and yet each time it seemed real, like something actually happening, and for the first time. I was driving hard along the highway through the rain, with Silver-Wig in the corner of the car, saying nothing, so that by the time we reached Los Angeles we seemed to be utter strangers again. I was getting out at an all night drugstore and phoning Bernie Ohls that I had killed a man at Realito and was on my way over to Wilde's house with Eddie Mars' wife, who had seen me do it. I was pushing the car along the silent, rain-polished streets to Lafayette Park and up under the porte-cochere of Wilde's big frame house and the porch light was already on, Ohls having telephoned ahead that I was coming. I was in Wilde's study and he was behind his desk in a flowered dressing-gown and a tight hard face and a dappled cigar moved in his fingers and up to the bitter smile on his lips. Ohls was there and a slim gray scholarly man from the Sheriff's office who looked and talked more like a professor of economics than a cop. I was telling the story and they were listening quietly and Silver-Wig sat in a shadow with her hands folded in her lap, looking at nobody. There was a lot of telephoning. There were two men from the Homicide Bureau who looked at me as if I was some kind of strange beast escaped from a traveling circus. I was driving again, with one of them beside me, to the Fulwider Building. We were there in the room where Harry Jones was still in the chair behind the desk, the twisted stiffness of his dead face and the sour-sweet smell in the room. There was a medical examiner, very young and husky, with red bristles on his neck. There was a fingerprint man fussing around and I was telling him not to forget the latch of the transom. (He found Canino's thumb print on it, the only print the brown man had left to back up my story.)"	"Summary: The protagonist reflects on his experiences and conversations with Captain Gregory, contemplating his involvement with the Sternwood family.
Narrative arc: Reflective
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Stream of consciousness
Active character: Captain Gregory, Marlowe
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Various places mentioned in the text
Diegetic time: A few hours"	I had passed the best part of an hour talking with Captain Gregory. He was a true son of his tribe, but he could be civil when it suited him, and he was in no hurry to get away from me after the interview with Marlowe. When I went back into the hall I found him standing there. He put a hand on my shoulder as I passed. ‘The old man is not yet dead,’ he said. ‘But you will hear soon. In a little while you will see strange things. Be careful who you trust.’ And he laughed. I thought he was making fun of my terror of him. But he turned away without another word. So far as I can remember, that was our last conversation. I stood for some time looking at the doors. All sorts of wild thoughts raced through my mind. I have heard it said that if you are in a great battle, or in some other overwhelming situation, your life seems to pass before your eyes. That was what happened to me now. Only mine was different. It was a long film of images, running like lightning flashes across my brain. The sea and the mountain, the palace in Sparta, the garden by the sea, the crowds at Olympia, the long journey here, Aphrodite’s face, the priestess, the rooms of the palace, Eurydice’s face, Alkibiades’ voice, my mother’s smile, the sea again and the mountain. Then one particular scene rose up out of the confusion. 
85	85	"I was back again at Wilde's house, signing a typewritten statement his secretary had run off in another room. Then the door opened and Eddie Mars came in and an abrupt smile flashed to his face when he saw Silver-Wig, and he said: ""Hello, sugar,"" and she didn't look at him or answer him. Eddie Mars fresh and cheerful, in a dark business suit, with a fringed white scarf hanging outside his tweed overcoat. Then they were gone, everybody was gone out of the room but myself and Wilde, and Wilde was saying in a cold, angry voice: ""This is the last time, Marlowe. The next fast one you pull I'll throw you to the lions, no matter whose heart it breaks.""
It was like that, over and over again, lying on the bed and watching the patch of sunlight slide down the corner of the wall. Then the phone rang, and it was Norris, the Sternwood butler, with his usual untouchable voice.
Mr. Marlowe? I telephoned your office without success, so I took the liberty of trying to reach you at home.
I was out most of the night, I said. I haven't been down.
Yes, sir. The General would like to see you this morning, Mr. Marlowe, if it's convenient.
Half an hour or so, I said. How is he?
He's in bed, sir, but not doing badly.
Wait till he sees me, I said, and hung up.
I shaved, changed clothes and started for the door. Then I went back and got Carmen's little pearl-handled revolver and dropped it into my pocket. The sunlight was so bright that it danced. I got to the Sternwood place in twenty minutes and drove up under the arch at the side door. It was eleven-fifteen. The birds in the ornamental trees were crazy with song after the rain, the terraced lawns were as green as the Irish flag, and the whole estate looked as though it had been made about ten minutes before. I rang the bell. It was five days since I had rung it for the Erst time. It felt like a year.
A maid opened the door and led me along a side hall to the main hallway and left me there, saying Mr. Norris would be down in a moment. The main hallway looked just the same. The portrait over the mantel had the same hot black eyes and the knight in the stained-glass window still wasn't getting anywhere untying the naked damsel from the tree.
In a few minutes Norris appeared, and he hadn't changed either. His acid-blue eyes were as remote as ever, his grayish-pink skin looked healthy and rested, and he moved as if he was twenty years younger than he really was. I was the one who felt the weight of the years.
We went up the tiled staircase and turned the opposite way from Vivian's room. With each step the house seemed to grow larger and more silent. We reached a massive old door that looked as if it had come out of a church. Norris opened it softly and looked in. Then he stood aside and I went in past him across what seemed to be about a quarter of a mile of carpet to a huge canopied bed like the one Henry the Eighth died in.
General Sternwood was propped up on pillows. His bloodless hands were clasped on top of the sheet. They looked gray against it. His black eyes were still full of light and the rest of his face still looked like the face of a corpse.
Sit down, Mr. Marlowe. His voice sounded weary and a little stiff.
I pulled a chair close to him and sat down. All the windows were shut tight. The room was sunless at that hour. Awnings cut off what glare there might be from the sky. The air had the faint sweetish smell of old age.
He stared at me silently for a long minute. He moved a hand, as if to prove to himself that he could still move it, then folded it back over the other. He said lifelessly:"	"Summary: The protagonist, Marlowe, is at Wilde's house signing a statement when Eddie Mars enters the room. After everyone leaves except for Marlowe and Wilde, they have a tense conversation. Marlowe then receives a phone call from Norris, the Sternwood butler, about seeing General Sternwood. Marlowe goes to the Sternwood place and meets Norris, who leads him to General Sternwood's room.
Narrative arc: Tension
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Marlowe, Eddie Mars, Silver-Wig, Wilde, Norris, General Sternwood
Fuzzy time: Morning
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Wilde's house, Sternwood place
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"But I was not so sure of the voice. There was a hard glittering something in it that I didn't like. I said: """"I'm Marlowe."""" He smiled, but he kept his head back and his eyes narrowed. """"Yes?"""" he said. Then he started to open the door again. I asked him if Mr. Wilde would sign the statement I had prepared for him. I told him I would stay there until he did or until he called the police. He said: """"You won't be here long."""" And he went out and shut the door. I sat down in one of their chairs and put my feet on another one and waited. The room was as still as a palace in Sparta early in the morning, except that I could hear somebody moving around upstairs somewhere. Five minutes later Eddie Mars came back with Silver-Wig and a man who looked like a waiter at Chasen's. They stood around looking interested. I said: """"Mr. Wilde will sign this when he feels like it."""" I got up and went over to the door. I opened it and said: """"Now."""", and walked out of the room and down the stairs. After that it was all very peaceful and orderly. Everybody shook hands with everybody else. I thanked them for their hospitality. I told Eddie Mars I might be dropping along sometime when he was feeling peckish. He nodded without smiling and said: """"Sure."""" We walked back down the block together and parted at the corner. His car was parked just beyond the corner. I went home and took a cold bath and went to bed. CHAPTER XII. THE BUTLER DID IT At ten o'clock in the morning the telephone rang and General Sternwood spoke in a hoarse whisper. He wanted me to come over at once and see him. Norris, the butler, said he was lying on the floor in his room. I told Norris to let me know how he was getting along. At noon I heard from Norris again. General Sternwood was still alive, but he was having trouble breathing. I had lunch and then drove over to the Sternwood place. It is a big rambling old house on Sunset Plaza Drive, set well back from the street behind high clipped hedges. As I approached the entrance I saw two cars in front of the house, a black sedan and a flashy yellow job. A tall thin man in a black suit was standing beside the yellow car with his hat in his hand and a worried look on his face. He had an expression of polite anxiety which seemed to fit the atmosphere of the place. A little ways inside the front gate Norris was talking to a young cop in uniform. When Norris saw me coming he stepped forward and held out his hand. He looked tired and worried. He said: """"General Sternwood has been asking for you. He's dying, Mr. Marlowe. I think he wants to talk to you before it ends."""" "
86	86	"I didn't ask you to look for my son-in-law, Mr. Marlowe.
You wanted me to, though.
I didn't ask you to. You assume a great deal. I usually ask for what I want.
I didn't say anything.
You have been paid, he went on coldly. The money is of no consequence one way or the other. I merely feel that you have, no doubt unintentionally, betrayed a trust.
He closed his eyes on that. I said: ""Is that all you wanted to see me about?""
He opened his eyes again, very slowly, as though the lids were made of lead. ""I suppose you are angry at that remark,"" he said.
I shook my head. ""You have an advantage over me, General. It's an advantage I wouldn't want to take away from you, not a hair of it. It's not much, considering what you have to put up with. You can say anything you like to me and I wouldn't think of getting angry. I'd like to offer you your money back. It may mean nothing to you. It might mean something to me.""
What does it mean to you?
It means I have refused payment for an unsatisfactory job. That's all.
Do you do many unsatisfactory jobs?
A few. Everyone does.
Why did you go to see Captain Gregory?
I leaned back and hung an arm over the back of the chair. I studied his face. It told me nothing. I didn't know the answer to his question—no satisfactory answer.
I said: ""I was convinced you put those Geiger notes up to me chiefly as a test, and that you were a little afraid Regan might somehow be involved in an attempt to blackmail you. I didn't know anything about Regan then. It wasn't until I talked to Captain Gregory that I realized Regan wasn't that sort of guy in all probability.""
That is scarcely answering my question.
I nodded. ""No. That is scarcely answering your question. I guess I just don't like to admit that I played a hunch. The morning I was here, after I left you out in the orchid house, Mrs. Regan sent for me. She seemed to assume I was hired to look for her husband and she didn't seem to like it. She let drop however that 'they' had found his car in a certain garage. The 'they' could only be the police. Consequently the police must know something about it. If they did, the Missing Persons Bureau would be the department that would have the case. I didn't know whether you had reported it, of course, or somebody else, or whether they had found the car through somebody reporting it abandoned in a garage. But I know cops, and I knew that if they got that much, they would get a little more—especially as your driver happened to have a police record. I didn't know how much more they would get. That started me thinking about the Missing Persons Bureau. What convinced me was something in Mr. Wilde's manner the night we had the conference over at his house about Geiger and so on. We were alone for a minute and he asked me whether you had told me you were looking for Regan. I said you had told me you wished you knew where he was and that he was all right. Wilde pulled his lip in and looked funny. I knew just as plainly as though he had said it that by 'looking for Regan' he meant using the machinery of the law to look for him. Even then I tried to go up against Captain Gregory in such a way that I wouldn't tell him anything he didn't know already.""
And you allowed Captain Gregory to think I had employed you to find Rusty?
Yeah. I guess I did—when I was sure he had the case.
He closed his eyes. They twitched a little. He spoke with them closed. ""And do you consider that ethical?""
Yes, I said. I do.
The eyes opened again. The piercing blackness of them was startling coming suddenly out of that dead face. ""Perhaps I don't understand,"" he said."	"Summary: The speaker defends their actions and explains why they went to see Captain Gregory.
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: General, Mr. Marlowe"	"General, I am no traitor. The General. A traitor ! Mr. Marlowe. Yes, a traitor to this man, who is neither a friend nor a kinsman. He was my friend once, but he is not so now ; and I am afraid he never will be again."" The General. What has he done that you hate him ? Mr. Marlowe. In the first place, he sought to make me betray my best friends, by tempting me with wealth and honour ; in the next, he is a tyrant and a brutal fool. And as for his being my kinsman, I disown him as such, and pray heaven may never bring us near together again. But what do all these things matter ? He is your enemy, General, and if ever I could wish to see him dead, it is now, when he comes between us two, and would keep us from meeting. Say not another word on the subject, sir : you know how I love you; and you cannot doubt that I had rather die than offend you. You have commanded me to go to Captain Gregory's ; I have obeyed you, and nothing shall induce me to turn back. If you are angry with me, bear it patiently, for I deserve your anger ; and if you are pleased, let us both be glad that we are once more together."" The General (after a pause). Your conduct is noble and generous, young man ; yet I cannot help thinking that you have acted hastily, and without sufficient consideration. However, I do not mean to interfere with you ; you must make your own apology to Captain Gregory, and take the consequences of it. "
87	87	"Maybe you don't. The head of a Missing Persons Bureau isn't a talker. He wouldn't be in that office if he was. This one is a very smart cagey guy who tries, with a lot of success at first, to give the impression he's a middle-aged hack fed up with his job. The game I play is not spillikins. There's always a large element of bluff connected with it. Whatever I might say to a cop, he would be apt to discount it. And to that cop it wouldn't make much difference what I said. When you hire a boy in my line of work it isn't like hiring a window-washer and showing him eight windows and saying: 'Wash those and you're through.' You don't know what I have to go through or over or under to do your job for you. I do it my way. I do my best to protect you and I may break a few rules, but I break them in your favor. The client comes first, unless he's crooked. Even then all I do is hand the job back to him and keep my mouth shut. After all you didn't tell me not to go to Captain Gregory.
That would have been rather difficult, he said with a faint smile.
Well, what have I done wrong? Your man Norris seemed to think when Geiger was eliminated the case was over. I don't see it that way. Geiger's method of approach puzzled me and still does. I'm not Sherlock Holmes or Philo Vance. I don't expect to go over ground the police have covered and pick up a broken pen point and build a case from it. If you think there is anybody in the detective business making a living doing that sort of thing, you don't know much about cops. It's not things like that they overlook, if they overlook anything. I'm not saying they often overlook anything when they're really allowed to work. But if they do, it's apt to be something looser and vaguer, like a man of Geiger's type sending you his evidence of debt and asking you to pay like a gentleman—Geiger, a man in a shady racket, in a vulnerable position, protected by a racketeer and having at least some negative protection from some of the police. Why did he do that? Because he wanted to find out if there was anything putting pressure on you. If there was, you would pay him. If not, you would ignore him and wait for his next move. But there was something putting a pressure on you. Regan. You were afraid he was not what he had appeared to be, that he had stayed around and been nice to you just long enough to find out how to play games with your bank account.
He started to say something but I interrupted him. ""Even at that it wasn't your money you cared about. It wasn't even your daughters. You've more or less written them off. It's that you're still too proud to be played for a sucker—and you really liked Regan.""
There was a silence. Then the General said quietly: ""You talk too damn much, Marlowe. Am I to understand you are still trying to solve that puzzle?""
No. I've quit. I've been warned off. The boys think I play too rough. That's why I thought I should give you back your money—because it isn't a completed job by my standards.
He smiled. ""Quit, nothing,"" he said. ""I'll pay you another thousand dollars to find Rusty. He doesn't have to come back. I don't even have to know where he is. A man has a right to live his own life. I don't blame him for walking out on my daughter, nor even for going so abruptly. It was probably a sudden impulse. I want to know that he is all right wherever he is. I want to know it from him directly, and if he should happen to need money, I should want him to have that also. Am I clear?""
I said: ""Yes, General."""	"Summary: A private detective is discussing a case with the General, who wants him to continue investigating.
Trope: Private detective investigating a case
Narrative arc: Investigative
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The head of the Missing Persons Bureau, the General
Fuzzy place: Unnamed places where the conversation takes place
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"But the head of the Missing Persons Bureau will understand me. He is a very just man."""" The General took off his hat and looked at him with an air of great pride in his own fortitude. I am not sure that he can,"" said the detective. ""He is very intelligent, but it does not do to be too much in advance of the average man. You have come to the wrong office if you want to hear fine words. We say here that we shall get to the bottom of this business. It is what the public wants, and it is what they shall have. Of course, it may take some time. All good work takes time."""" The General bowed with a modest deprecatory air. And meanwhile you will keep up your inquiries?"""" Inquiries? Oh yes! Inquiries! Certainly!"" Do you see?"" cried the General. ""You are a man after my own heart. Yes, certainly. But there are one or two points which I should like to mention to you."""" The General rubbed his hands. He was delighted to find a fellow-worker. These are our only means,"" he cried; ""these are our only means."""" The other smiled grimly. Ah, these are our only means,"" he repeated. He turned towards the door of the outer office. """"I think I told you that I should like to look at the drawing-room again,"""" he remarked. Then he paused, and bent forward with a confidential air. And I have been thinking since,"" he added, ""that perhaps you would allow me to go over those rooms where no one has been allowed to enter yet."""" The General's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. My God!"" he cried. ""The idea never occurred to me."" They'll be locked,"" said the other; ""but I'm quite sure that if you were to ask Mr. Carson he'd let you have the keys."" Yes, I believe he would,"" said the General, who had already begun to feel the influence of the other's personality. """"I don't see why not. As a matter of fact, I haven't given them another thought since I found out that the safe was empty."""" Well, you might leave word for Mr. Carson,"" said the other. ""I have some ideas on the subject which I should like to communicate to you afterwards. Meanwhile, I'll wait here until you return."""" The General nodded and hurried out. He was eager to carry out the orders of such a skilful worker as this. When he returned ten minutes later he brought with him Mr. Carson, who was introduced to the detective. Mr. Carson,"" said the General, ""this gentleman wants the keys of the locked doors."" Mr. Carson looked at him doubtfully. """"Yes,"""" he answered, """"but I really don't know."""" There was a pause. The General was abashed before the impassive face of the housekeeper. The detective, however, stepped into the breach. He had taken out his notebook, and now he opened it with a resolute air. "
88	88	"He rested a little while, lax on the bed, his eyes closed and dark-lidded, his mouth tight and bloodless. He was used up. He was pretty nearly licked. He opened his eyes again and tried to grin at me.
I guess I'm a sentimental old goat, he said. And no soldier at all. I took a fancy to that boy. He seemed pretty clean to me. I must be a little too vain about my judgment of character. Find him for me, Marlowe. Just find him.
I'1l try, I said. You'd better rest now. I've talked your arm off.
I got up quickly and walked across the wide floor and out. He had his eyes shut again before I opened the door. His hands lay limp on the sheet. He looked a lot more like a dead man than most dead men look. I shut the door quietly and went back along the upper hall and down the stairs.
[31]
The butler appeared with my hat. I put it on and said: ""What do you think of him?""
He's not as weak as he looks, sir.
If he was, he'd be ready for burial. What did this Regan fellow have that bored into him so?
The butler looked at me levelly and yet with a queer lack of expression. ""Youth, sir,"" he said. ""And the soldier's eye.""
Like yours, I said.
If I may say so, sir, not unlike yours.
Thanks. How are the ladies this morning?
He shrugged politely.
Just what I thought,"" I said, and he opened the door for me.
I stood outside on the step and looked down the vistas of grassed terraces and trimmed trees and flowerbeds to the tall metal railing at the bottom of the gardens. I saw Carmen about halfway down, sitting on a stone bench, with her head between her hands, looking forlorn and alone.
I went down the red brick steps that led from terrace to terrace. I was quite close before she heard me. She jumped up and whirled like a cat. She wore the light blue slacks she had worn the first time I saw her. Her blond hair was the same loose tawny wave. Her face was white. Red spots flared in her cheeks as she looked at me. Her eyes were slaty.
Bored? I said.
She smiled slowly, rather shyly, then nodded quickly. Then she whispered: ""You're not mad at me?""
I thought you were mad at me.
She put her thumb up and giggled. ""I'm not."" When she giggled I didn't like her any more. I looked around. A target hung on a tree about thirty feet away, with some darts sticking to it. There were three or four more on the stone bench where she had been sitting.
For people with money you and your sister don't seem to have much fun, I said.
She looked at me under her long lashes. This was the look that was supposed to make me roll over on my back. I said: ""You like throwing those darts?""
Uh-huh.
That reminds me of something. I looked back towards the house. By moving about three feet I made a tree hide me from it. I took her little pearl-handled gun out of my pocket. I brought you back your artillery. I cleaned it and loaded it up. Take my tip—don't shoot it at people, unless you get to be a better shot. Remember?
Her face went paler and her thin thumb dropped. She looked at me, then at the gun I was holding. There was a fascination in her eyes. ""Yes,"" she said, and nodded. Then suddenly: ""Teach me to shoot.""
Huh?
Teach me how to shoot. I'd like that.
Here? It's against the law.
She came close to me and took the gun out of my hand, cuddled her hand around the butt. Then she tucked it quickly inside her slacks, almost with a furtive movement, and looked around.
I know where, she said in a secret voice. Down by some of the old wells. She pointed off down the hill. Teach me?
I looked into her slaty blue eyes. I might as well have looked at a couple of bottle-tops. ""All right. Give me back the gun until I see if the place looks all right."""	"Summary: The protagonist is speaking with someone about finding a boy and caring for a man. He then interacts with Carmen, who asks him to teach her how to shoot.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation/dialogue
Active character: Marlowe, Carmen
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Gardens
Diegetic time: A few hours"	“I found the boy, Carmen, and he’s doing fine. He’ll be ready to go home in a few days.” “That’s good news,” Marlowe said. “And I’m sure you’re taking good care of Mr. Farrell.” “I am, sir.” Marlowe turned back to the door, but Carmen caught his arm. “Mr. Marlowe?” “Yes, Carmen?” She looked at him with that intense gaze again, as if she were trying to read his mind. “I’ve never shot one of those guns before,” she said. “Would you teach me how to use it?” “If you want,” he said. “But why?” “Because it makes me feel safe.” She pressed against him and he felt her hard nipples through the thin material of her dress. “Will you teach me now?” she asked, looking up at him with those dark eyes. “Now?” Marlowe glanced at his watch. “I suppose so,” he said. “Follow me.” *** They went out into the gardens where the flowers were just beginning to open their petals in the morning sun. The air was cool and fresh and there was a light breeze blowing through the trees. Marlowe stood with Carmen in front of the fountain while he taught her how to hold the gun properly, how to aim, and how to pull the trigger. “Be careful,” he warned her. “You don’t want to point it at anyone unless you have to.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t shoot anyone who doesn’t deserve it.” As he spoke, Marlowe thought about what had happened in the palace the night before. He had been awakened by a noise coming from outside his room. When he opened the door, he saw two men standing there with swords drawn. One of them recognized him and told him that there had been an attack on the palace. Some of the guards had been killed and others wounded. Marlowe hurried to the scene and found Carmen fighting off a group of attackers. She was holding a sword in one hand and a gun in the other. When she saw him, she called out, “Help me! I need your help!” So they fought together until all the attackers were dead or fled. Then they tended to the wounded guards and made sure the palace was secure. Marlowe helped Carmen bandage the wounds of one of the guards, and then they went to find Farrell. They discovered him lying on the ground near the wall of the palace. He had been stabbed several times and there was blood everywhere. Marlowe tried to resuscitate him, but it was no use. Farrell was dead. Carmen broke down and cried when she heard the news. She kept repeating, “Why did this happen? Why did this happen?” Marlowe tried to comfort her, but he didn’t know what to say. He could only think about how much he cared for her and how he would do anything to protect her. After a while, Carmen stopped crying and dried her eyes. 
89	89	"She smiled and made a mouth, then handed it back with a secret naughty air, as if she was giving me a key to her room. We walked up the steps and around to my car. The gardens seemed deserted. The sunshine was as empty as a headwaiter's smile. We got into the car and I drove down the sunken driveway and out through the gates.
Where's Vivian? I asked.
Not up yet. She giggled.
I drove on down the hill through the quiet opulent streets with their faces washed by the rain, bore east to La Brea, then south. We reached the place she meant in about ten minutes.
In there. She leaned out of the window and pointed.
It was a narrow dirt road, not much more than a track, like the entrance to some foothill ranch. A wide five-barred gate was folded back against a stump and looked as if it hadn't been shut in years. The road was fringed with tall eucalyptus trees and deeply rutted. Trucks had used it. It was empty and sunny now, but not yet dusty. The rain had been too hard and too recent. I followed the ruts along and the noise of city traffic grew curiously and quickly faint, as if this were not in the city at all, but far away in a daydream land. Then the oil-stained, motionless walking-beam of a squat wooden derrick stuck up over a branch. I could see the rusty old steel cable that connected this walking-beam with a half a dozen others. The beams didn't move, probably hadn't moved for a year. The wells were no longer pumping. There was a pile of rusted pipe, a loading platform that sagged at one end, half a dozen empty oil drums lying in a ragged pile. There was the stagnant, oil-scummed water of an old sump iridescent in the sunlight.
Are they going to make a park of all this? I asked.
She dipped her chin down and gleamed at me.
It's about time. The smell of that sump would poison a herd of goats. This the place you had in mind?
Uh-huh. Like it?
It's beautiful. I pulled up beside the loading platform. We got out. I listened. The hum of the traffic was a distant web of sound, like the buzzing of bees. The place was as lonely as a churchyard. Even after the rain the tall eucalyptus trees still looked dusty. They always look dusty. A branch broken off by the wind had fallen over the edge of the sump and the flat leathery leaves dangled in the water.
I walked around the sump and looked into the pumphouse. There was some junk in it, nothing that looked like recent activity. Outside a big wooden bull wheel was tilted against the wall. It looked like a good place all right.
I went back to the car. The girl stood beside it preening her hair and holding it out in the sun. ""Gimme,"" she said, and held her hand out.
I took the gun out and put it in her palm. I bent down and picked up a rusty can.
Take it easy now, I said. It's loaded in all five. I'll go over and set this can in that square opening in the middle of that big wooden wheel. See? I pointed. She ducked her head, delighted. That's about thirty feet. Don't start shooting until I get back beside you. Okey?
Okey, she giggled.
I went back around the sump and set the can up in the middle of the bull wheel. It made a swell target. If she missed the can, which she was certain to do, she would probably hit the wheel. That would stop a small slug completely. However, she wasn't going to hit even that.
I went back towards her around the sump. When I was about ten feet from her, at the edge of the sump, she showed me all her sharp little teeth and brought the gun up and started to hiss.
I stopped dead, the sump water stagnant and stinking at my back.
Stand there, you son of a bitch, she said."	"Summary: The protagonist and a girl named Vivian drive to an abandoned oil field, where the girl plans to shoot at a can with a gun. The protagonist warns her not to start shooting until he is back by her side.
Trope: Femme fatale
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: Third-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Description of a place
Active character: The protagonist, Vivian
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Abandoned oil field
Diegetic time: A few hours"	And I heard him say, “You are ready to go now,” as we came into the hall where the carriage waited. I hurried back to my room and got my little brown gun and a dozen cartridges that I had hidden under my clothes; then I put on my new white hat with the black ribbons, and took the cane that was lying on the bed and walked down-stairs just as if I had been going to a party or something. “All right?” said he, opening the door of the carriage. “Yes,” I answered, and I got in. He held up his hand and said: “Good-by.” “Good-by,” I answered, and shut the door. We drove for a long time through the forest, and at last came out upon a road that led off to the left, winding between fields. After a while it turned into another road that ran straight across the country toward some hills. In about an hour we came to an old oil field that had been abandoned years before when the wells gave out. There were a few empty houses and a well or two that had been boarded up. A great many trees had grown up among the buildings, so that you could hardly see them at all. 
90	90	"The gun pointed at my chest. Her hand seemed to be quite steady. The hissing sound grew louder and her face had the scraped bone look. Aged, deteriorated, become animal, and not a nice animal.
I laughed at her. I started to walk towards her. I saw her small finger tighten on the trigger and grow white at the tip. I was about six feet away from her when she started to shoot.
The sound of the gun made a sharp slap, without body, a brittle crack in the sunlight. I didn't see any smoke. I stopped again and grinned at her.
She fired twice more, very quickly. I don't think any of the shots would have missed. There were five in the little gun. She had fired four. I rushed her.
I didn't want the last one in my face, so I swerved to one side. She gave it to me quite carefully, not worried at all. I think I felt the hot breath of the powder blast a little.
I straightened up. ""My, but you're cute,"" I said.
Her hand holding the empty gun began to shake violently. The gun fell out of it. Her mouth began to shake. Her whole face went to pieces. Then her head screwed up towards her left ear and froth showed on her lips. Her breath made a whining sound. She swayed.
I caught her as she fell. She was already unconscious. I pried her teeth open with both hands and stuffed a wadded handkerchief in between them. It took all my strength to do it. I lifted her up and got her into the car, then went back for the gun and dropped it into my pocket. I climbed in under the wheel, backed the car and drove back the way we had come along the rutted road, out of the gateway, back up the hill and so home.
Carmen lay crumpled in the corner of the car, without motion. I was halfway up the drive to the house before she stirred. Then her eyes suddenly opened wide and wild. She sat up.
What happened? she gasped.
Nothing. Why?
Oh, yes it did, she giggled. I wet myself.
They always do, I said.
She looked at me with a sudden sick speculation and began to moan.
[32]
The gentle-eyed, horse-faced maid let me into the long gray and white upstairs sitting room with the ivory drapes tumbled extravagantly on the floor and the white carpet from wall to wall. A screen star's boudoir, a place of charm and seduction, artificial as a wooden leg. It was empty at the moment. The door closed behind me with the unnatural softness of a hospital door. A breakfast table on wheels stood by the chaise-longue. Its silver glittered. There were cigarette ashes in the coffee cup. I sat down and waited.
It seemed a long time before the door opened again and Vivian came in. She was in oyster-white lounging pajamas trimmed with white fur, cut as flowingly as a summer sea frothing on the beach of some small and exclusive island.
She went past me in long smooth strides and sat down on the edge of the chaise-longue. There was a cigarette in her lips, at the comer of her mouth. Her nails today were copper red from quick to tip, without half moons.
So you're just a brute after all, she said quietly, staring at me. An utter callous brute. You killed a man last night. Never mind how I heard it. I heard it. And now you have to come out here and frighten my kid sister into a fit.
I didn't say a word. She began to fidget. She moved over to a slipper chair and put her head back against a white cushion that lay along the back of the chair against the wall. She blew pale gray smoke upwards and watched it float towards the ceiling and come apart in wisps that were for a little while distinguishable from the air and then melted and were nothing. Then very slowly she lowered her eyes and gave me a cool hard glance."	"Summary: The narrator confronts a woman with a gun who tries to shoot him, but he overpowers her and she becomes unconscious. He then drives her back to his house.
Trope: Femme fatale
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Action scene
Active character: The narrator, the woman with the gun
Fuzzy time: Nonspecific moment
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Unnamed road, driveway
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Then she had brought the gun to her shoulder, and as I ran toward her it went off. But I was upon her before the bullet could leave the muzzle, and wrested it from her hand. And when I took that dreadful thing from her, I saw for the first time how truly beautiful she was; and so fair a thing did she seem to me that my heart went out in love to her. And I would have gone down on one knee to take her by the hand, but that I heard the voice of the king, calling me by name, and telling me that he spares neither man nor woman who stands against him. And I knew that this was true, since I saw how the body of Taphos lay there at his feet; and also because I knew what manner of man he was. So I stood up again, and looking into her eyes I said: “Woman, I am Theron, King of Sparta. You are my prisoner, and must come with me.” Then she shrank back, and something like fear came into her face, and I think that she was about to speak. But I turned away without waiting to hear what she would say, and led her back along the road by which we had come. And when we were near to the palace, I told her that she should ride in my chariot, and so go back with honour to the house of the king. 
91	91	"I don't understand you, she said. I'm thankful as hell one of us kept his head the night before last. It's bad enough to have a bootlegger in my past. Why don't you for Christ's sake say something?
How is she?
Oh, she's all right, I suppose. Fast asleep. She always goes to sleep. What did you do to her?
Not a thing. I came out of the house after seeing your father and she was out in front. She had been throwing darts at a target on a tree. I went down to speak to her because I had something that belonged to her. A little revolver Owen Taylor gave her once. She took it over to Brody's place the other evening, the evening he was killed. I had to take it away from her there. I didn't mention it, so perhaps you didn't know it.
The black Sternwood eyes got large and empty. It was her turn not to say anything.
She was pleased to get her little gun back and she wanted me to teach her how to shoot and she wanted to show me the old oil wells down the hill where your family made some of its money. So we went down there and the place was pretty creepy, all rusted metal and old wood and silent wells and greasy scummy sumps. Maybe that upset her. I guess you've been there yourself. It was kind of eerie.
Yes—it is. It was a small breathless voice now.
So we went in there and I stuck a can up in a bull wheel for her to pop at. She threw a wingding. Looked like a mild epileptic fit to me.
Yes. The same minute voice. She has them once in a while. Is that all you wanted to see me about?
I guess you still wouldn't tell me what Eddie Mars has on you.
Nothing at all. And I'm getting a little tired of that question, she said coldly.
Do you know a man named Canino?
She drew her fine black brows together in thought. ""Vaguely. I seem to remember the name.""
Eddie Mars' trigger man. A tough hombre, they said. I guess he was. Without a little help from a lady I'd be where he is—in the morgue.
The ladies seem to— She stopped dead and whitened. I can't joke about it, she said simply.
I'm not joking, and if I seem to talk in circles, it just seems that way. It all ties together—everything. Geiger and his cute little blackmail tricks, Brody and his pictures, Eddie Mars and his roulette tables, Canino and the girl Rusty Regan didn't run away with. It all ties together.
I'm afraid I don't even know what you're talking about."	"Summary: The speaker is discussing a woman and her past, including a gun and an old oil well. They mention someone named Eddie Mars and a man named Canino.
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The speaker, the woman, Eddie Mars, Canino
Quoted character: Owen Taylor, Brody
Fuzzy place: Front of the house, old oil wells
Diegetic time: A few hours"	Then the woman asked, “Is there anything about Owen Taylor?” “He was a drunken bum. I told you that.” She said, “I remember his voice,” and put her head down on her arms. The front of the house was dark now and the road was very still in the early morning light. “I want to tell you something,” the speaker said. “She won’t get Eddie Mars out of jail. He’s not the kind she wants. He’s small stuff. But she’ll give him enough rope to hang himself, because it will amuse her. And he’ll have to go after this guy Canino, with Brody along. They can’t do it alone. That’ll be interesting to watch.” He paused for a moment and then went on. “And one night when they’re all out looking for Canino, somebody’ll come in here and take some oil stocks from the safe. It’s been done before. You know that. It’s happened twice.” “It won’t happen this time,” she said. “I’ve got some papers on those stocks. If anything happens to me, they’ll be found in my bedroom. I’m putting them in my dresser drawer now.” “You’re crazy,” he said. “Nobody would ever search your bedroom.” She laughed. “That’s why I’m doing it. They wouldn’t even think of it. They don’t know you or me. They haven’t lived here long enough. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To make them live here long enough?” She took her hands from her face. “The old oil wells are over there,” she said. He nodded toward the east. “Yes,” he said. “Those were the first wells. I rode over there once.” “It was quite beautiful,” she said, “before they dug up the ground. There were wild ducks there in the winter, and quail. In the spring the deer came down at night to drink. You could hear them at the pool. It was quite lovely.” He looked at her quietly, then turned away and walked down across the lawn and went into the house. The sun was rising higher and the smell of the sea came strongly on the air. A few birds sang loudly in the high eucalyptus trees. 
92	92	"Suppose you did—it would be something like this. Geiger got his hooks into your sister, which isn't very difficult, and got some notes from her and tried to blackmail your father with them, in a nice way. Eddie Mars was behind Geiger, protecting him and using him for a cat's-paw. Your father sent for me instead of paying up, which showed he wasn't scared about anything. Eddie Mars wanted to know that. He had something on you and he wanted to know if he had it on the General too. If he had, he could collect a lot of money in a hurry. If not, he would have to wait until you got your share of the family fortune, and in the meantime be satisfied with whatever spare cash he could take away from you across the roulette table. Geiger was killed by Owen Taylor, who was in love with your silly little sister and didn't like the kind of games Geiger played with her. That didn't mean anything to Eddie. He was playing a deeper game than Geiger knew anything about, or than Brody knew anything about, or anybody except you and Eddie and a tough guy named Canino. Your husband disappeared and Eddie, knowing everybody knew there had been bad blood between him and Regan, hid his wife out at Realito and put Canino to guard her, so that it would look as if she had run away with Regan. He even got Regan's car into the garage of the place where Mona Mars had been living. But that sounds a little silly taken merely as an attempt to divert suspicion that Eddie had killed your husband or had him killed. It isn't so silly, really. He had another motive. He was playing for a million or so. He knew where Regan had gone and why and he didn't want the police to have to find out. He wanted them to have an explanation of the disappearance that would keep them satisfied. Am I boring you?
You tire me, she said in a dead, exhausted voice. God, how you tire me!
I'm sorry. I'm not just fooling around trying to be clever. Your father offered me a thousand dollars this morning to find Regan. That's a lot of money to me, but I can't do it.
Her mouth jumped open. Her breath was suddenly strained and harsh. ""Give me a cigarette,"" she said thickly. ""Why?"" The pulse in her throat had begun to throb.
I gave her a cigarette and lit a match and held it for her. She drew in a lungful of smoke and let it out raggedly and then the cigarette seemed to be forgotten between her fingers. She never drew on it again.
Well, the Missing Persons Bureau can't find him, I said. It's not so easy. What they can't do it's not likely that I can do.
Oh. There was a shade of relief in her voice.
That's one reason. The Missing Persons people think he just disappeared on purpose, pulled down the curtain, as they call it. They don't think Eddie Mars did away with him.
Who said anybody did away with him?
We're coming to it, I said.
For a brief instant her face seemed to come to pieces, to become merely a set of features without form or control. Her mouth looked like the prelude to a scream. But only for an instant. The Sternwood blood had to be good for something more than her black eyes and her recklessness.
I stood up and took the smoking cigarette from between her fingers and killed it in an ashtray. Then I took Carmen's little gun out of my pocket and laid it carefully, with exaggerated care, on her white satin knee. I balanced it there, and stepped back with my head on one side like a window-dresser getting the effect of a new twist of a scarf around a dummy's neck.
I sat down again. She didn't move. Her eyes came down millimeter by millimeter and looked at the gun.
It's harmless, I said. All five chambers empty. She fired them all. She fired them all at me.
The pulse jumped wildly in her throat. Her voice tried to say something and couldn't. She swallowed.
From a distance of five or six feet, I said. Cute little thing, isn't she? Too bad I had loaded the gun with blanks. I grinned nastily. I had a hunch about what she would do—if she got the chance.
She brought her voice back from a long way off. ""You're a horrible man,"" she said. ""Horrible.""
Yeah. You're her big sister. What are you going to do about it?
You can't prove a word of it.
Can't prove what?
That she fired at you. You said you were down there around the wells with her, alone. You can't prove a word of what you say.
Oh that, I said. I wasn't thinking of trying. I was thinking of another time—when the shells in the little gun had bullets in them.
Her eyes were pools of darkness, much emptier than darkness.
I was thinking of the day Regan disappeared, I said. Late in the afternoon. When he took her down to those old wells to teach her to shoot and put up a can somewhere and told her to pop at it and stood near her while she shot. And she didn't shoot at the can. She turned the gun and shot him, just the way she tried to shoot me today, and for the same reason."	"Summary: The narrator explains a complex series of events involving blackmail, murder, and disappearance.
Narrative arc: Suspense
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Geiger, Eddie Mars, Owen Taylor, Canino, Regan, Mona Mars
Fuzzy place: Realito, the garage, the wells
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"I don't know whether you realize it or not, but this is a pretty complicated business. It's like one of those Russian dolls, where there's always another doll inside."""" He laughed and went on: Well, let me give you an account of it from the beginning. There was nothing to it at first. Geiger was blackmailing Eddie Mars. He had a picture of Regan with Canino in Realito. He wrote Eddie a letter, telling him what he wanted and when to send it. Eddie took it easy. He knew I'd find out about it sooner or later, so he just waited for me to speak up. He never even opened the letter. He gave it to his houseman to mail. The houseman got sore and took the letter down to his room and opened it himself and read it and kept it. You see?"""" Yeah,"" Eddie said. ""I got sore at myself. I should have known he'd pull that line on me. I ought to have told you about it."""" Sure,"" I said. ""But go ahead."" Well, it didn't amount to anything as long as Geiger was alive. But after he was killed, it was different. Canino started worrying. He thought maybe Geiger had told somebody else about the picture. Maybe even the police. So he and Eddie fixed it up to get the houseman out of town. That was yesterday afternoon, about four o'clock. They told him they were going to shoot some ducks down the coast. They gave him a hundred bucks and sent him to Tijuana to blow off some steam."""" And then?"" They made sure he wouldn't be back right away. Then they broke into his room and got the letter. They burned it."""" I stood up. I said: All right. Let's take a little walk."" We walked around the garage and along the wall of the property to the gate. I leaned against the fence and looked out over the road to the sea. After a while I turned around and came back and sat down again. What happened next?"" I asked. Owen Taylor happened."" Who is he?"" A private detective. Mona hired him to find her husband."""" Why?"" She wanted to talk to him about something."" About what?"" I don't know. I don't think she ever did find him. Taylor found a lot of other things instead. Like the woman in San Bernardino. That wasn't all there was to it either. There was a lot more. He found it all. But he didn't tell anybody."""" Why not?"" He was scared."" Scared of what?"" Of getting his neck broken. It was a dirty job he was on. He didn't trust anybody. He didn't even trust me. He was afraid I'd get wise to the kind of work he was doing and quit on him. He had a lot of dough tied up in it. "
93	93	"She moved a little and the gun slid off her knee and fell to the floor. It was one of the loudest sounds I ever heard. Her eyes were riveted on my face. Her voice was a stretched whisper of agony. ""Carmen! ... Merciful God, Carmen! ... Why?""
Do I really have to tell you why she shot at me?
Yes. Her eyes were still terrible. I'm—I'm afraid you do.
Night before last when I got home she was in my apartment. She'd kidded the manager into letting her in to wait for me. She was in my bed—naked. I threw her out on her ear. I guess maybe Regan did the same thing to her sometime. But you can't do that to Carmen.
She drew her lips back and made a half-hearted attempt to lick them. It made her, for a brief instant, look like a frightened child. The lines of her cheeks sharpened and her hand went up slowly like an artificial hand worked by wires and its fingers closed slowly and stiffly around the white fur at her collar. They drew the fur tight against her throat. After that she just sat staring.
Money, she croaked. I suppose you want money.
How much money? I tried not to sneer.
Fifteen thousand dollars?
I nodded. ""That would be about right. That would be the established fee. That was what he had in his pockets when she shot him. That would be what Mr. Canino got for disposing of the body when you went to Eddie Mars for help. But that would be small change to what Eddie expects to collect one of these days, wouldn't it?""
You son of a bitch! she said.
Uh-huh. I'm a very smart guy. I haven't a feeling or a scruple in the world. All I have the itch for is money. I am so money greedy that for twenty-Eve bucks a day and expenses, mostly gasoline and whiskey, I do my thinking myself, what there is of it; I risk my whole future, the hatred of the cops and of Eddie Mars and his pals, I dodge bullets and eat saps, and say thank you very much, if you have any more trouble, I hope you'll think of me, I'll just leave one of my cards in case anything comes up. I do all this for twenty-five bucks a day—and maybe just a little to protect what little pride a broken and sick old man has left in his blood, in the thought that his blood is not poison, and that although his two little girls are a trifle wild, as many nice girls are these days, they are not perverts or killers. And that makes me a son of a bitch. All right. I don't care anything about that. I've been called that by people of all sizes and shapes, including your little sister. She called me worse than that for not getting into bed with her. I got five hundred dollars from your father, which I didn't ask for, but he can afford to give it to me. I can get another thousand for finding Mr. Rusty Regan, if I could find him. Now you offer me fifteen grand. That makes me a big shot. With fifteen grand I could own a home and a new car and four suits of clothes. I might even take a vacation without worrying about losing a case. That's fine. What are you offering it to me for? Can I go on being a son of a bitch, or do I have to become a gentleman, like that lush that passed out in his car the other night?
She was as silent as a stone woman.
All right, I went on heavily. Will you take her away? Somewhere far off from here where they can handle her type, where they will keep guns and knives and fancy drinks away from her? Hell, she might even get herself cured, you know. It's been done."	"Summary: The speaker confronts a woman about her involvement in a crime and offers to help her with her problems.
Narrative arc: Dramatic tension
Enunciation: First-person narrative
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Intertextuality: Greek Mythology
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: Carmen, the speaker
Quoted character: Regan, Eddie Mars
Fuzzy place: Apartment
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"As she was about to push the door shut in my face, I caught her by the wrist and swung her back into the room. She had a lot of that peasant strength built up from hard work. She tried to jerk free, but I kept my grip on her arm. There's something I want to talk to you about,"" I said. ""It won't take long."" And I walked her over to one of the chairs and sat down beside her. Carmen looked at me with dull hatred. But there was fear behind the hate. Well?"" she said. I put my hand on her knee. You were mixed up in that business last night,"" I said. ""I've got to know what part you played."""" Regan didn't do anything,"" she said. ""He just brought me home."" That's true enough,"" I said. ""But it wasn't Regan who broke Eddie Mars' door down."""" She gave me a quick, startled look. """"You think it was?"""" she asked. I'm sure of it."" Carmen's hands opened and closed slowly. It's no good your telling me not to talk,"" I said. ""I know you helped him get into the joint. He told me all about it himself."""" No!"" Carmen cried. ""That ain't true! I swear it ain't true! Oh God, if it is true, then I wish it never had happened!"""" I believe you,"" I said. ""Maybe you didn't know what he was going to do when he went in there. Maybe you thought he was only after some money or jewels or something. But if you knew who lived there, why didn't you warn him?"""" She looked away from me, her eyes glazing. Then she said: """"It ain't none of my affair. He don't live with me."""" I sighed and nodded my head. """"So that's the way it is,"""" I said. """"All right, we'll forget the past. From now on you can help yourself. If you want to."""" She looked at me curiously. """"How's that?"""" I said: """"I know Eddie Mars. He's a pretty tough guy. He's got plenty of friends and he's always been able to protect himself up till now. But this time he's really stuck. The police are looking for him and they'll keep on looking until they find him. They'll drag his place apart and when they don't find him there, they'll come here looking for him. They'll pick you up and beat you half to death trying to make you tell them where he is. And if you do tell them, it won't do you any good. They'll go right on looking for him. He can't even hide out for long. His car's gone. Sooner or later somebody will recognize it. It could happen any minute now. He has to get out of town. He has to disappear for a while until things blow over. "
94	94	"She got up and walked slowly to the windows. The drapes lay in heavy ivory folds beside her feet. She stood among the folds and looked out, towards the quiet darkish foothills. She stood motionless, almost blending into the drapes. Her hands hung loose at her sides. Utterly motionless hands. She turned and came back along the room and walked past me blindly. When she was behind me she caught her breath sharply and spoke.
He's in the sump, she said. A horrible decayed thing. I did it. I did just what you said. I went to Eddie Mars. She came home and told me about it, just like a child. She's not normal. I knew the police would get it all out of her. In a little while she would even brag about it. And if dad knew, he would call them instantly and tell them the whole story. And sometime in that night he would die. It's not his dying—it's what he would be thinking just before he died. Rusty wasn't a bad fellow. I didn't love him. He was all right, I guess. He just didn't mean anything to me, one way or another, alive or dead, compared with keeping it from dad.
So you let her run around loose, I said, getting into other jams.
I was playing for time. just for time. I played the wrong way, of course. I thought she might even forget it herself. I've heard they do forget what happens in those fits. Maybe she has forgotten it. I knew Eddie Mars would bleed me white, but I didn't care. I had to have help and I could only get it from somebody like him.... There have been times when I hardly believed it all myself. And other times when I had to get drunk quickly—whatever time of day it was. Awfully damn quickly.
You'll take her away, I said. And do that awfully damn quickly.
She still had her back to me. She said softly now: ""What about you?""
Nothing about me. I'm leaving. I'll give you three days. If you're gone by then—okey. If you're not, out it comes. And don't think I don't mean that.
She turned suddenly. ""I don't know what to say to you. I don't know how to begin.""
Yeah. Get her out of here and see that she's watched every minute. Promise?
I promise. Eddie—
Forget Eddie. I'll go see him after I get some rest. I'll handle Eddie.
He'll try to kill you.
Yeah, I said. His best boy couldn't. I'll take a chance on the others. Does Norris know?
He'll never tell.
I thought he knew.
I went quickly away from her down the room and out and down the tiled staircase to the front hall. I didn't see anybody when I left. I found my hat alone this time. Outside the bright gardens had a haunted look, as though small wild eyes were watching me from behind the bushes, as though the sunshine itself had a mysterious something in its light. I got into my car and drove off down the hill.
What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell. Me, I was part of the nastiness now. Far more a part of it than Rusty Regan was. But the old man didn't have to be. He could lie quiet in his canopied bed, with his bloodless hands folded on the sheet, waiting. His heart was a brief, uncertain murmur. His thoughts were as gray as ashes. And in a little while he too, like Rusty Regan, would be sleeping the big sleep.
On the way downtown I stopped at a bar and had a couple of double Scotches. They didn't do me any good. All they did was make me think of Silver-Wig, and I never saw her again.
[End of The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler]"	"Summary: A woman confesses to killing a man and explains her motives. The protagonist promises to help her and leaves.
Narrative arc: Suspense, dramatic tension
Enunciation: Dialog between two characters
Tone: Epic
Genre: Poetry, Greek Tragedy
Speech standard: Poetic, tragic
Literary form: Conversation
Active character: The woman, the protagonist
Time setting: Antiquity
Absolute place: A palace in Sparta
Fuzzy place: Foothills, a room, a tiled staircase, front hall
Diegetic time: A few hours"	"I am not so much to blame as you might think; for, just before he came, I had seen the sacred image of the Lady Mother of the Gods go down in flames. It was then that my heart misgave me. When Menelaus saw that his sword was useless, and that there was nothing left but to die by my hands, he called out to me: 'You are the daughter of Tyndareus! You are the niece of Clytemnestra and Helen! Remember how these women have acted towards your mother and mine!' Those words roused me like a blow. I thought of the quarrel between Agamemnon and Helen, and all the evil it had brought upon us; and I thought of the fate which had befallen my father and my mother after they were dead. And then I remembered what I had heard from the Delphic Oracle, that the house of Atreus should only cease from war when Leda's blood should flow at last; and suddenly it seemed to me that the time was come for that blood to flow, and that we must part each other with a knife. That was what made me do the thing."" Then she added, after a pause: """"But if this is true, why does Menelaus live?"""" He lives because he is a brave man, and tried to fight. "