PENGUIN READERS Level 6 The Long Goodbye.doc

Introduction

That night, Terry would have told me the story of his life if I'd asked him. If I had asked, and if he had told me, it might have saved a couple of lives. It might have.

Terry Lennox is a drunk. Philip Marlowe, private detective, knows it's always a mistake to try to help drunks. But then, Marlowe is always on the side of losers. Perhaps that's why he decides to help Lennox get away when he's in trouble.

But then the body of Sylvia Lennox is found. Marlowe can't believe that Lennox killed his wife, but the police certainly do. Suddenly, wherever Marlowe goes, whatever he does, Terry Lennox's strange life seems to follow him around.

It will stay that way until Marlowe can find some answers. But to find answers, you have to know what the questions are . . .

Raymond Chandler is one of the greatest of all modern detec­tive writers. He turned the tough American crime story into a kind of art. He was born in 1888 in Chicago, Illinois, but was brought up and educated in England. After fighting in France during the First World War, he returned to the United States and took a managerial job with an oil company. He rose to a high position in the organization until he was sacked in 1932, for not taking his job seriously. It was then that he decided to write for a living. By 1938 he had written sixteen stories. The hero of his first novel, The Big Sleep (1939), was Philip Marlowe. This was a great success, and Marlowe appeared in several other books, including Farewell, My Lovely (1940), The High Window (1942), The Lady in the Lake (1944), and The Long Goodbye (1953).

In his last few years, Chandler suffered from depression and ill health, and began drinking heavily. He died in 1959.

Chapter 1    Bus to Las Vegas

The first time I saw Terry Lennox he was sitting in a Rolls-Royce in front of a fancy restaurant, and he was very drunk. He had a young man's face but his hair was white as snow. You could see he was drunk by looking at his eyes; otherwise he looked like any young man who had been spending too much money in a place that was there to take your money.

There was a woman beside him. Her hair was a pretty dark red and she had a distant smile on her lips.

'I have a wonderful idea, darling,' the woman said, trying to be nice. 'Why don't we take a taxi to your place and get your little car out? It's a wonderful night for a ride up the coast.'

The man said 'Awfully sorry, but I don't have it any more. Had to sell it. 'He spoke clearly.

'Sold it, darling? What do you mean?' She slid away from him, but her voice slid even further.

'I had to. Had to eat.'

'Oh, I see.' A piece of ice wouldn't have melted on her now.

Right then, the car door seemed to open itself and the young man fell off the seat and landed, sitting, on the ground. So I went over and stuck my nose in their business, although it's always a mistake to interfere with people who are drunk. I picked him up and put him on his feet.

'Thank you so much,' he said politely. I thought I heard an accent.

'He is so English when he's drunk,' she said in a hard voice. 'Thanks for catching him.'

'I'll get him in the back of the car,' I said.

'Sorry, mister, but I'm late for an appointment.' She started to drive off. 'He's just a lost dog,' she added. 'Perhaps you can find a good home for him.' And then she was gone. And the guy was asleep in my arms.

I carried him to my car. He was heavy. As I put him in the front seat, he woke up and thanked me again, and went back to sleep. He was the politest drunk I'd ever met. While I drove, I looked at him once in a while. The right side of his face was one big scar that the doctors had worked on. They hadn't failed but they hadn't succeeded either.

I was living that year in a house on Yucca Avenue in the Laurel Canyon area. The rent was low, partly because the owner didn't want a written agreement, and partly because of the steps. She was getting old and they were too steep for her.

I got him up them somehow. Inside, I put him on the sofa and let him go back to sleep. He slept for an hour. When he woke up, he looked around and at me, and wanted to know where he was. I told him. He said his name was Terry Lennox and that he lived in Westwood, alone. His voice was steady. He said he could handle a cup of coffee.

When I brought it, he asked me why he was here. I told him he had passed out outside a restaurant and his girl had driven off and left him. He said he couldn't blame her.

'You English?' I asked.

'I lived there once. I wasn't born there.'

He finished the coffee and I drove him home. He didn't say much on the way, except that he was sorry. He had probably said it so often that it was automatic.

His apartment was small and empty. There was a little furniture but no personal items at all. It didn't look like a place where anybody lived. He offered me a drink. I said no. When I left, he thanked me again, but not as if I had climbed a mountain for him and not as if it was nothing at all. He was shy but very polite. Whatever he didn't have, he had manners.

Driving home, I thought about him. I'm supposed to be tough but this one bothered me. I didn't know why, unless it was the white hair and the scar and the clear voice. There was no reason I should see him again, though. He was just a lost dog, like the woman said.

♦

It was a month later when I did see him again, about three blocks from my office. There was a police car stopped in the middle of the street, and the men inside were staring at some­thing on the kerb. That something was Terry Lennox - or what was left of him. His shirt was dirty and open at the neck. He hadn't shaved for four or five days. His skin was so pale that the scar hardly showed. It was obvious why the policemen were looking at him, so I went over there fast and took hold of his arm.

'Stand up and walk,' I said. 'Can you do it?'

He looked at me and nodded slowly. I wasn't even sure he recognized me. 'I'm just a little empty,' he said.

He made the effort and let me walk him to the street. There was a taxi there. I opened the back door and got him inside. The police car pulled up. A cop with grey hair asked me, 'What have we got here?'

'He's not drunk,' I said. 'He's a friend.'

'That's nice,' the cop said sarcastically. He was still looking at Terry. 'What's your friend's name, pal?'

'Philip Marlowe,' Terry said slowly. 'He lives on Yucca Avenue in Laurel Canyon.'

The cop stared at us both. He was making a decision. It took him a little while. 'OK. Get him off the street at least.' The police car drove away.

We went to a place where you could get hamburgers that you could actually eat. I fed Lennox a couple and a bottle of beer and took him to my place. An hour later, he was shaved and clean, and he looked human again. I made two very mild drinks and we talked as we drank.

'Lucky you remembered my name,' I said.

'Not only that,' he said. 'I looked up your phone number, too.'

'So why didn't you call? I live here all the time.'

'Why should I bother you?'

'Looks like you ought to have bothered someone.'

'Asking for help isn't easy,' he said. 'Especially when it's all your own fault.' He looked up with a tired smile. 'Maybe I can stop drinking one of these days. They all say that, don't they?'

'It takes about three years.'

'Three years?' He looked shocked.

He turned and looked at the clock and changed the subject. 'I have a suitcase worth two hundred dollars down at the Hollywood bus station. I could get money for it. Maybe not two hundred dollars, but enough for a bus ticket to Las Vegas, and I could get a job there.'

I didn't say anything.

'A man I knew well in the army runs a big club there. His name's Randy Starr.'

Something must have shown on my face. 'Yes,' he continued, 'he's part gangster but they all are, and the other part of him isn't bad.'

'I can give you the bus fare and some extra,' I said.

He shook his head.

'I want you out of my hair,' I explained. 'I've got a feeling about you.'

'You have?' He looked down into his glass. 'We've only met twice. What sort of feeling?'

'A feeling that next time we meet, I'll find you in worse trouble than I can get you out of. I don't know why I have this feeling, but I do.'

He touched his scar gently. 'Maybe it's this. Makes me look like trouble, I suppose. But I got it honestly.'

'It's not that,' I said. 'It's this. I'm a private detective and you're a problem that I don't have to solve. But the problem's there. Maybe that girl didn't drive away that time just because you were drunk. Maybe she had a feeling, too.'

He smiled faintly. 'I was married to her once. Her name is still Lennox. I married her for her money.' When he saw my face, his smile disappeared. 'You're wondering why I didn't ask her for help. Did you ever hear of pride?'

'You're killing me, Lennox.'

'My pride is different. It's the pride of a man who has nothing else. Sorry if it bothers you.'

It bothered me and he bothered me, too, although I couldn't understand exactly why. Any more than I knew why a man would starve and walk the streets before he'd sell a suitcase. Whatever his rules were, though, he played by them.

I went down to the bus station and got his suitcase for him. When I came back, he said he had called his pal in Las Vegas. 'He was sore at me because I hadn't called him before.'

'It takes a stranger to help you,' I said, and put a hundred dollars in front of him. 'And take the suitcase with you. You might need to sell it later.'

'I don't want it,' he said. 'If you like, you can keep it for me.'

He changed his clothes and we went out for dinner. No drinks. Afterwards, he caught the bus and I drove home thinking about this and that.

♦

At nine-thirty, the telephone rang and the voice that spoke was one I had heard once before.

'Is this Mr Philip Marlowe?'

'It is.'

'This is Sylvia Lennox, Mr Marlowe. We met for a moment one night last month. I heard afterwards that you had been kind enough to take Terry home.'

'I did that.'

'I've been a little worried about him. Nobody seems to know where he is.'

'I noticed how worried you were the other night,' I said. 'He's on a bus to Las Vegas.'

'Las Vegas?' This news seemed to cheer her up. 'How sweet of him. That's where we were married.'

'I guess he forgot that,' I said, 'or he would have gone somewhere else.'

Instead of hanging up, she laughed. It was a pretty laugh. 'Are you always as rude as this to ladies?'

'I don't know that you are a lady. The man was living in the streets. He had no money, none at all. You could have found him if you'd really wanted to. He didn't want anything from you then and he probably doesn't want anything from you now.'

'That,' she said coolly, 'is something you know nothing about, Mr Marlowe. Good-night.'

She was completely right, of course, and I was all wrong. But I didn't feel wrong then. I just felt angry.

Chapter 2    An Englishman's Drink

Three days before Christmas, I got a cheque on a Las Vegas bank for one hundred dollars. A note came with it. He thanked me, wished me a Merry Christmas, and said he hoped to see me soon. The surprise came at the end. 'Sylvia and I were married again. She says not to be angry with her for wanting to try again.' I read the rest of the story on the society page of the newspaper.

'All are happy with the news that Sylvia and Terry Lennox have remarried at Las Vegas, the darlings. Sylvia is, of course, the youngest daughter of millionaire Harlan Potter. And what does Daddy think of the marriage? One can only guess. Potter is one person who never, ever, gives interviews.'

Well, I thought, if he wants her money, let him take it. I just didn't want to see him again. But I knew I would - if only because of the suitcase.

It was five o'clock on a wet March evening when he walked into my little office. He looked changed: older, more serious, but calmer, too. Like a man who had learned a hard lesson.

'Let's go to some quiet bar,' he said, as if he had seen me ten minutes before. We didn't shake hands. We almost never did. Englishmen don't shake hands all the time like Americans do and, although he wasn't English, he had their manners.

We went to Victor's. On the way, I said something stupid about his new life and he said that if he wasn't happy, at least he was rich. And he said that he wasn't having any trouble at all handling his drinking these days.

'Perhaps you were never really drunk,' I said.

At the bar we drank gin and lime, an Englishman's drink. Lennox said they didn't know the right way to make them here. I wasn't interested in talking about drinks, so I asked him about his pal in Las Vegas. Down my street, I said, Starr was known as a tough customer.

'Randy? In Las Vegas, he's a straight businessman. You should drop in and see him next time you're there. He'll be your pal.'

'Not too likely. I don't like gangsters.'

'That's just a word, Marlowe. We have that kind of world. The wars gave it to us and we're going to keep it. Randy and I and another guy were all in a little danger once together. It's different for the three of us.'

'So why didn't you ask him for help when you needed it?'

He finished his drink and signalled for another. 'Because he couldn't refuse. I didn't want to beg from him.'

'You begged from a stranger.'

He looked me straight in the eye. 'Strangers can keep going and pretend not to hear.'

When he finished the second drink, he drove me back to the office.

From then on, it became his habit to drop in around five o'clock. We usually went to Victor's. I didn't understand why he enjoyed being with me instead of being in his big expensive house. I asked him about that once.

'Nothing for me at the house,' he said, drinking his usual gin and lime.

'Am I supposed to understand that?'

'A big film with no story, as they say in the film business. Sylvia is happy enough. But not with me. In our circle, that's not too important. You see, the rich don't really have a good time. They never want anything very much except maybe someone else's wife, and that's a pale desire compared with the way a butcher's wife wants new curtains for the living room. Mostly, I just kill time. A little tennis, a little swimming.'

I told him it didn't have to be the way it was. He said I should wonder why she wanted him, not why he wanted to be there.

'You like having servants and bells to ring,' I said.

He just smiled. 'Could be. I grew up as an orphan with no money.'

I began thinking I liked him better drunk, hungry and beaten and proud. That night, he would have told me the story of his life if I'd asked him. If I had asked, and if he had told me, it might have saved a couple of lives. It might have.

♦

The last time we had drinks together was in May. It was earlier than usual and the bar was nearly empty.

'I like bars at this hour,' he said. 'I like to watch the man fix the first one of the evening. I like to taste it slowly. Alcohol is like love. The first kiss is magic.'

Then he started talking about her. 'I feel sorry for Sylvia. She's so terrible, but I think I like her. One day, she'll need someone, and no one else will be there. And I'll probably make a mess of it.'

'What's this about?' I asked.

'She's scared. I don't know of what. Maybe her father. He's a cold man. He doesn't even like her. If she annoys him too much, something might happen to her.'

'You're her husband,' I pointed out.

'Officially. Nothing more.' ' I couldn't listen to this. I stood up and dropped some money on the table. 'You talk too much, and it's always about you. See you later,' I walked out.

Ten minutes later I was sorry, but ten minutes later I was somewhere else. I didn't see him again for a month. When I did, it was early in the morning. The doorbell woke me up. He was standing there, looking like hell. And he had a gun in his hand.

The gun wasn't pointed at me; he was just holding it.

'You're driving me to Tijuana to get a plane at ten-fifteen. I have a passport but I don't have transportation. I'll pay you five hundred dollars for the ride.'

I stood in the door and didn't move to let him in. 'How about five hundred dollars plus the gun?' I asked.

He looked at it and then dropped it in his pocket.

'Come on in,' I said, and he came in and fell into a chair.

'I'm in trouble,' he said.

'It's going to be a beautiful day. Cool, too. Yeah, I guessed you were in trouble. Let's talk about it after coffee. I always need my morning coffee.'

He followed me into the kitchen. I poured him a big drink from a bottle off the shelf. He had to use two hands to get it to his mouth.

'Didn't sleep at all last night,' he said weakly.

I poured him another drink and he drank this one with one hand. When he finished it, the coffee was ready.

I sat down across from him. Without warning, his head came down on the table and he was crying. He didn't seem to notice when I took the gun from his pocket. I smelled it. It hadn't been fired.

He lifted his head and said 'I didn't shoot anybody.'

I held up my hand. 'Wait a minute. It's like this. Be very careful what you tell me if you want me to help you. I can't be told about a crime you've committed, or a crime you know has been committed. Not if you want me to drive you to Tijuana.'

He looked straight at me for the first time since he had come in. 'I said I was in trouble.'

'I heard you. I don't want to know what kind of trouble. It's a matter of law. I can't know.'

'I could make you drive me. With the gun,' he said.

I grinned and pushed the gun across the table. He didn't touch it. 'I'm a man who sometimes has business with guns. I'd look stupid trying to tell the police I was so scared I had to do what you told me to.'

'Listen,' he said, 'they won't even look in the bedroom until midday. She won't be there. The bed will be too neat, so they'll look in the guest house. Servants always know what goes on.'

'And when they see her,' I said, 'they'll think she's drunk, right? And that's the end of the story. That's all I want to hear.

You're sick of it all; you've been thinking of leaving for some time.'

'I called her father last night,' Lennox said, remembering. 'I told him I was leaving.'

'What did he say?'

'He was sorry. He wished me luck. Oh yes, he also asked me if I needed money. That's all he ever thinks about.'

'Did you ever see her with a man in the guest house?' I asked suddenly.

He looked surprised. 'I never even tried.'

'OK, so this is how it is. You came to me this morning and wanted a ride to Tijuana. You couldn't bear life with her anymo...