Farewell, My Lovely Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Raymond Chandler
emerged. Then she laughed and threw her head back and drooled. Then her right hand reached for the bottle and it rattled against her teeth as she drained it. When it was empty she held it up and shook it and threw it at me. It went off in the corner somewhere, skidding along the carpet and bringing up with a thud against the baseboard.
She leered at me once more, then her eyes closed and she began to snore.
It might have been an act, but I didn't care. Suddenly I had enough of the scene, too much of it, far too much of it.
I picked my hat off the davenport and went over to the door and opened it and went out past the screen. The radio still droned in the corner and the woman still snored gently in her chair. I threw a quick look back at her before I closed the door, then shut it, opened it again silently and looked again.
Her eyes were still shut but something gleamed below the lids. I went down the steps, along the cracked walk to the street.
In the next house a window curtain was drawn aside and a narrow intent face was close to the glass, peering, an old woman's face with white hair and a sharp nose.
Old Nosey checking up on the neighbors. There's always at least one like her to the block. I waved a hand at her. The curtain fell.
I went back to my car and got into it and drove back to the 77th Street Division, and climbed upstairs to Nulty's smelly little cubbyhole of an office on the second floor.
6
Nulty didn't seem to have moved. He sat in his chair in the same attitude of sour patience. But there were two more cigar stubs in his ashtray and the floor was a little thicker in burnt matches.
I sat down at the vacant desk and Nulty turned over a photo that was lying face down on his desk and handed it to me. It was a police mug, front and profile, with a fingerprint classification underneath. It was Malloy all right, taken in a strong light, and looking as if he had no more eyebrows than a French roll.
"That's the boy." I passed it back.
"We got a wire from Oregon State pen on him," Nulty said. "All time served except his copper. Things look beter. We got him cornered. A prowl car was talking to a conductor the end of the Seventh Street line. The conductor mentioned a guy that size, looking like that. He got off Third and Alexandria. What he'll do is break into some big house where the folks are away. Lots of 'em there, old-fashioned places too far downtown now and hard to rent. He'll break in one and we got him bottled. What you been doing?"
"Was he wearing a fancy hat and white golf balls on his jacket?"
Nulty frowned and twisted his hands on his kneecaps. "No, a blue suit. Maybe brown."
"Sure it wasn't a sarong?"
"Huh? Oh yeah, funny. Remind me to laugh on my day off."
I said: "That wasn't the Moose. He wouldn't ride a street car. He had money. Look at the clothes he was wearing. He couldn't wear stock sizes. They must have been made to order."
"Okey, ride me," Nulty scowled. "What you been doing?"
"What you ought to have done. This place called Florian's was under the same name when it was a white night trap. I talked to a Negro hotelman who knows the neighborhood. The sign was expensive so the shines just went on using it when they took over. The man's name was Mike Florian. He's dead some years, but his widow is still around. She lives at 1644 West 54th Place. Her name is Jessie Florian. She's not in the phone book, but she is in the city directory."
"Well, what do I do--date her up?" Nulty asked.
"I did it for you. I took in a pint of bourbon with me. She's a charming middle-aged lady with a face like a bucket of mud and if she has washed her hair since Coolidge's second term, I'll eat my spare tire, rim and all."
"Skip the wisecracks," Nulty said.
"I asked Mrs. Florian about Velma. You remember, Mr. Nulty, the redhead named Velma that Moose Malloy was looking for? I'm not tiring you, am I, Mr. Nulty?"
"What you sore about?"
"You wouldn't understand. Mrs. Florian said she didn't remember
She leered at me once more, then her eyes closed and she began to snore.
It might have been an act, but I didn't care. Suddenly I had enough of the scene, too much of it, far too much of it.
I picked my hat off the davenport and went over to the door and opened it and went out past the screen. The radio still droned in the corner and the woman still snored gently in her chair. I threw a quick look back at her before I closed the door, then shut it, opened it again silently and looked again.
Her eyes were still shut but something gleamed below the lids. I went down the steps, along the cracked walk to the street.
In the next house a window curtain was drawn aside and a narrow intent face was close to the glass, peering, an old woman's face with white hair and a sharp nose.
Old Nosey checking up on the neighbors. There's always at least one like her to the block. I waved a hand at her. The curtain fell.
I went back to my car and got into it and drove back to the 77th Street Division, and climbed upstairs to Nulty's smelly little cubbyhole of an office on the second floor.
6
Nulty didn't seem to have moved. He sat in his chair in the same attitude of sour patience. But there were two more cigar stubs in his ashtray and the floor was a little thicker in burnt matches.
I sat down at the vacant desk and Nulty turned over a photo that was lying face down on his desk and handed it to me. It was a police mug, front and profile, with a fingerprint classification underneath. It was Malloy all right, taken in a strong light, and looking as if he had no more eyebrows than a French roll.
"That's the boy." I passed it back.
"We got a wire from Oregon State pen on him," Nulty said. "All time served except his copper. Things look beter. We got him cornered. A prowl car was talking to a conductor the end of the Seventh Street line. The conductor mentioned a guy that size, looking like that. He got off Third and Alexandria. What he'll do is break into some big house where the folks are away. Lots of 'em there, old-fashioned places too far downtown now and hard to rent. He'll break in one and we got him bottled. What you been doing?"
"Was he wearing a fancy hat and white golf balls on his jacket?"
Nulty frowned and twisted his hands on his kneecaps. "No, a blue suit. Maybe brown."
"Sure it wasn't a sarong?"
"Huh? Oh yeah, funny. Remind me to laugh on my day off."
I said: "That wasn't the Moose. He wouldn't ride a street car. He had money. Look at the clothes he was wearing. He couldn't wear stock sizes. They must have been made to order."
"Okey, ride me," Nulty scowled. "What you been doing?"
"What you ought to have done. This place called Florian's was under the same name when it was a white night trap. I talked to a Negro hotelman who knows the neighborhood. The sign was expensive so the shines just went on using it when they took over. The man's name was Mike Florian. He's dead some years, but his widow is still around. She lives at 1644 West 54th Place. Her name is Jessie Florian. She's not in the phone book, but she is in the city directory."
"Well, what do I do--date her up?" Nulty asked.
"I did it for you. I took in a pint of bourbon with me. She's a charming middle-aged lady with a face like a bucket of mud and if she has washed her hair since Coolidge's second term, I'll eat my spare tire, rim and all."
"Skip the wisecracks," Nulty said.
"I asked Mrs. Florian about Velma. You remember, Mr. Nulty, the redhead named Velma that Moose Malloy was looking for? I'm not tiring you, am I, Mr. Nulty?"
"What you sore about?"
"You wouldn't understand. Mrs. Florian said she didn't remember
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