The Man with the Golden Typewriter

by Bloomsbury Publishing

  I wouldn’t think of asking you to write to me about Moonraker but if you happen to feel in a mood of quixotic generosity, a word from you which I could pass on to my publishers would make me the fortune which has so far eluded me.

  Incidentally, The Spectator is almost girlishly thrilled that you will do The Riddle of the Sands for them and the things you said to me and I published about Prince’s Bookshop have brought Francis a flood of new business. So the impact you are having on London is that of Father Christmas in Springtime.

  FROM CHANDLER

  4th June, 1955

  I cannot imagine what I can say to you about your books that will excite your publisher. What I do say in all sincerity is that you are probably the most forceful and driving writer, of what I suppose still must be called ‘thrillers’ in England.

  Peter Cheyney wrote one good book, I thought, called Dark Duet, and another fairly good one, but his pseudo-American tough guy stories always bored me. There was also James Hadley Chase, and I think the less said of him the better. Also, in spite of the fact that you have been everywhere and seen everything, I cannot help admiring your courage in tackling the American scene . . . Some of your stuff on Harlem in Live and Let Die, and everything on St Petersburg, Florida, seems to be quite amazing for a foreigner to accomplish.

  If this is any good to you would you like me to have it engraved on a gold slab?

  It was not only good but excellent, and the imprimatur of such an established author gave the Bond novels the impetus they needed. Fleming appreciated it wholeheartedly.

  TO CHANDLER

  6th June, 1955

  These are words of such gold that no supporting slab is needed and I am passing the first sentence on to Macmillan’s in New York and Cape’s here, and will write my appreciation in caviar when the extra royalties come in.

  Seriously, it was extraordinarily kind of you to have written as you did and you have managed to make me feel thoroughly ashamed of my next book [Diamonds are Forever] which is also set in America, but in an America of much more fantasy than I allowed myself in Live and Let Die.

  There’s a moratorium at home at the moment as the Duke of Westminster1 (whom may God preserve) has ordered us to paint the outside of our house and the whole thing is hung with cradles and sounds of occasional toil.

  But they will be gone in a few days’ time and I hope you will be one of the first to darken our now gleaming doorway.

  TO CHANDLER

  29th June, 1955

  Just to remind you that you are having lunch with us on Thursday, 30th June, at one o’clock.

  Victoria Square is about three hundred yards away from you, quite close to Victoria Station – or to Buckingham Palace, whichever way you look at it.

  Apart from my wife Anne, there will be a friend of mine, Duff Dunbar a brilliant lawyer and one of your fans; Rupert Hart-Davis, the best young publisher in England who does the crime reviews for “Time and Tide” in his spare time. If anyone else comes along I will warn you but it is certainly no heavy-weight affair and nobody will say: “How do you think up those wonderful plots Mr. Chandler?”

  Despite living in nearby Eaton Square, Chandler proved an elusive guest. When at last he accepted an invitation to lunch, the occasion was not a success. ‘Our small dining room was over-crowded. Chandler was a man who was shy of houses and “entertaining” and our conversation was noisy and about people he did not know. His own diffident and rather halting manner of speech made no impact. He was not made a fuss of and I am pretty sure he hated the whole affair.’

  That Chandler attended at all was probably because Natasha Spender was present. Since the death of his wife he had embarked on a path of semi-platonic promiscuity, transferring his affections from one hopeless object of desire to another. He seemed lost without women, and Natasha was one of many at whom he cast his eye. As Fleming wrote, ‘In the few years I knew him, he was never without some good-looking companion to mother him and try and curb his drinking. These were affectionate and warm-hearted relationships and probably nothing more. Though I do not know this, I suspect that each woman was, in the end, rather glad to get away from the ghost of the other woman who always walked at his side and from the tired man who made sense for so little of the day.’

  Chandler left Britain shortly afterwards to begin the process of reapplying for US citizenship, but he returned in 1956. One of his first tasks was to review Diamonds are Forever at the invitation of Leonard Russell, Literary Editor of the Sunday Times. He was ambivalent in his praise and concluded with the words: ‘Let me plead with Mr. Fleming not to allow himself to become a stunt writer, or he will end up no better than the rest of us.’

  When Fleming wrote to thank him, Chandler replied:

  FROM CHANDLER

  11th April, 1956

  Dear Ian,

  Thank you so much for your letter of Wednesday and if the payment for my outstanding review had been received a little earlier I should have been able to eat three meals a day.

  I thought my review was no more than you deserved considering your position on the SUNDAY TIMES and I tried to write it in such a way that the good part could be quoted and the bad parts left out. After all, old boy, there had to be some bad parts. I think you will have to make up your mind what kind of a writer you are going to be. You could be almost anything except that I think you are a bit of a sadist!

  I am not in any Hampstead hospital. I am at home and if they ever put me in a hospital again I shall walk out leaving corpses strewn behind me, except pretty nurses.

  As for having lunch with you, with or without butler, I can’t do it yet – because even if I were much better than I am I should be having lunch with ladies.

  TO CHANDLER

  27th April, 1956

  Dear Ray,

  Many thanks for the splendid Chandleresque letter. Personally I loved your review and thought it was excellent as did my publishers, and as I say it was really wonderful of you to have taken the trouble.

  Probably the fault about my books is that I don’t take them seriously enough and meekly accept having my head ragged off about them in the family circle. If one has a grain of intelligence it is difficult to go on being serious about a character like James Bond. You after all write ‘novels of suspense’ – if not sociological studies – whereas my books are straight pillow fantasies of the bang-bang, kiss-kiss variety.

  But I have taken your advice to heart and will see if I can’t order my life so as to put more feeling into my typewriter.

  Incidentally, have you read A Most Contagious Game, by Samuel Grafton, published by Rupert Hart-Davis?

  Sorry about lunch even without a butler. I also know some girls and will dangle one in front of you one of these days.

  I had no idea you were ill. If you are, please get well immediately. I am extremely ill with sciatica.

  FROM CHANDLER

  1st May, 1956

  Dear Ian,

  I am leaving London on May 11th and should very much like to see you before I go. I suggest that we have lunch together at one of your better Clubs if you can arrange it. I don’t think you do yourself justice about James Bond and I did not think that I did quite do you justice in my review of your book, because anyone who writes as dashingly as you do, ought, I think, to try for a little higher grade. I have just re-read Casino Royale and it seems to me that you have disimproved with each book.

  I read several books by Samuel Grafton, but the one you mention I don’t know; I will order it.

  I don’t want any girls dangling in front of me, because my girls do their own dangling and they would be extremely bitter to have you interfere.

  You know what you can do with your sciatica don’t you?

  FROM CHANDLER

  9th June, 1956

  I didn’t like leaving England without saying good-bye to the few friends I knew well enough to care about, but then I don’t like saying good-bye at all, especially when it might be quite a long time before I come back. As
you probably know, I long overstayed the six months allowed, but I had a compelling reason, even if I get hooked for British income tax. I am also likely to lose half my European royalties, which isn’t funny. It’s all a little obscure to me, but there it is. And it doesn’t matter whether your stay in England is broken half a dozen times. If the time adds up to over six months within the fiscal year, you are it.

  I am looking forward to your next book. I am also looking forward to my next book.

  I rather liked New York this time, having heretofore loathed its harshness and rudeness. For one thing the weather has been wonderful, only one hot day so far and that not unbearable. I have friends here, but not many. Come to think of it I haven’t many anywhere. Monday night I am flying back to California and this time I hope to stick it out and make some kind of a modest but convenient home there.

  I am wondering what happened to all the chic pretty women who are supposed to be typical of New York. Damned if I’ve seen any of them. Perhaps I’ve looked in the wrong places, but I do have a feeling that New York is being slowly downgraded.

  Please remember me to Mrs. Fleming if you see her and if she remembers me (doubtful). And how is His Grace the Duke of Westminster these days? Painting lots of houses, I hope?

  TO CHANDLER

  22nd June, 1956

  Dear Ray,

  How fine to get not one but two letters from you – and one of them legible at that.2 I hope you have left a forwarding address with the Grosvenor or otherwise you will think me even more churlish than you already do.

  I cannot understand your tax position and I certainly do not believe that we will try and squeeze your European royalties out of you for over-staying your time a little. If it looks like something fierce of that kind, please let me know and I will make an impassioned appeal on your behalf.

  Eric Ambler has a new thriller coming out next week, which no doubt Prince’s Bookshop will send you. If not, I will. It is better than the last two but still not quite the good old stuff we remember. I have done a review for the Sunday Times headed ‘Forever Ambler’ which struck me as a good joke.

  My own muse is in a bad way. Despite your doubts, I really rather liked Diamonds are Forever . . . It has been very difficult to make Bond go through his tricks in From Russia, With Love, which is just going to the publishers.

  Shall be in and around New York and Vermont for the first fortnight in August and, in the unlikely event that you should happen to be in reach of the area, please let me or Macmillans, New York, know and we will share a Coke in which the contents of a Benzedrine inhaler have been soaked overnight. Which, I understand, is the fashionable drink in your country at the moment.

  FROM CHANDLER

  4th July, 1956

  Dear Ian,

  I have already ordered Eric Ambler’s new thriller since he told me about it some time before it came out. I think the title of your review, ‘Forever Ambler’ is a pretty good joke in the third class division.

  Of course I liked Diamonds are Forever and I enjoyed reading it, but I simply don’t think it is worthy of your talents.

  It is unlikely that I shall be in New York or Vermont in August. It is much more likely that I shall be in Paris. Frankly a Coke in which the contents of a Benzedrine inhaler has been soaked overnight hasn’t reached La Jolla. What does it do to you? The fashionable drink in this country is still Scotch.

  TO CHANDLER

  11th July, 1956

  Dear Ray,

  I cannot believe that you will end up by having trouble over your tax problems here. Our tax gatherers do not come down hard on the foreign visitor, and I am sure they will accept your medical alibi. I strongly advise you not to worry about the problem until faced with some kind of a demand.

  As for my opera, you are clearly living under a grave misapprehension. My talents are extended to their absolute limits in writing books like Diamonds are Forever. I am not short-weighting anybody and I have absolutely nothing more up my sleeve. The way you talk, anybody would think I was a lazy Shakespeare or Raymond Chandler. Not so.

  My only information to help you on your Paris visit is that on Thursdays, in the night club below the Moulin Rouge, there is an amateur strip-tease which might bring a flicker even to your worldly eyes. But I have not sampled it, so this information is not guaranteed.

  Now get on with writing your book and stop picking your nose and staring out of the window.

  By now Chandler was in a bad way, drinking heavily and making heavy weather of what would be his last novel, Playback. When Fleming looked at it he saw ‘a formless jumble of sub-plots, at the end of which Marlowe was obviously going to marry a rich American woman living in Paris’. Gloomily, they discussed Marlowe’s future. Chandler thought it would be the end of him: his wife would sack his secretary, redecorate his office and make him change his friends. Then, because she was so rich there would be no point Marlowe working and he would eventually drink himself to death. Fleming tried to cheer him up: ‘I said that this would make an excellent plot and that perhaps he could save Marlowe by making Mrs. Marlowe drink herself to death first.’ But Chandler couldn’t muster the enthusiasm: ‘The truth was that it had nearly all gone out of him and that he simply could not be bothered.’

  Back in the United States, towards the end of 1957, Chandler sent Fleming an oversized panoramic postcard ‘From the World-famous Palm Canyon’ in Colorado. This was followed shortly afterwards by another in which he chastised Fleming for teasing his latest female companion about their relationship.

  TO CHANDLER

  29th November, 1957

  Why do they think that Palm Canyon is ‘world-famous’? What world do these people frequent?

  It was fine to see your gusty script again and to know that you are still alive, and I heartily approve your plan to move over here. Perhaps you will get so bored here that you will be forced to get on with that long-overdue book.

  Naturally I never rag O. about you. She’s been telling tales. She is a wonderful girl and I guess you are very good for each other.

  Hurry up and come along.

  When Chandler returned to London in 1958 he was on a downward slope. Fleming gave him an introduction to the Italian gangster Lucky Luciano in the hope that he would do an article for the Sunday Times.

  TO CHANDLER

  19th March, 1958

  Dear Ray,

  Please see page 11 of the enclosed Sunday Graphic. As you see, your bird looks in good health and spirits but that spaghetti looks a trifle under-cooked.

  Henry Thody, who writes this story, is the Sunday Times and Sunday Graphic representative in Rome and I could arrange for him to meet you and chaperone you down to Naples, make all arrangements, and see you off.

  He is a splendidly eccentric chap with huge black handle-bar moustaches and you will like him.

  Now all you need is your tickets.

  So far as Capri is concerned, I should start off for a day or two at the Qui Si Sana, which is in the village of Capri in the middle of the island. But then I should explore a bit and perhaps move to one of the hotels down at Piccolo Marina, which is right on the sea.

  I enclose the ten shillings which you kindly loaned me and, although the bank rate is 7%, I have not added interest because I think you are rich enough without it.

  See you on Monday at one o’clock at the Boulestin.

  Ha Ha! about catching you at the Etoile with that pretty girl. You’d better get yourself organised!

  The Luciano initiative was a failure, culminating in a lengthy screed that Fleming damned as ‘sheer bad writing’. On 10 July, they held a conversation in a twenty-minute BBC radio broadcast, The Art of Writing Thrillers. Chandler was already drunk by the time Fleming collected him at 11.00 in the morning, and much of what he said had to be deleted. When he apologised for mentioning masturbation a BBC woman consoled him: ‘It’s quite all right Mr. Chandler, we hear much worse things than that.’

  Afterwards they had lunch at Boulestin’s, where
the conversation took a reflective turn. What did the future hold? How would their careers end? Taxation, they agreed, had killed the wealthy writer and films were the only salvation. Chandler said that Dashiell Hammett ‘had never let his work decline. He had just written himself out like an expended firework . . . [In the end] as one grew older, one grew out of gangsters and blondes and guns and, since they were the chief ingredients of thrillers, short of space fiction, that was that.’ Pertinently, given the anxiety Fleming would face over this very question, they discussed how authors like themselves could get rid of the albatross they had slung around their necks. Chandler shrugged and said he could never kill Marlowe, ‘because he liked him and other people seemed to like him and it would be unkind to them’.

  They never saw or heard from each other again. Chandler decamped to America, and although Fleming sent him a copy of his latest book he received no reply. Rumours came in early 1959 that Chandler had delirium tremens and was unwell. On enquiring at Prince’s Arcade Bookshop, which had a standing order to send Chandler anything they thought he might like, Fleming learned that this year they had not been asked to. Mr Francis agreed that this was very bad news indeed. Chandler died a week later on 26 March 1959.

  Fleming wrote an account of their friendship for the London Magazine but regretted not having produced the glowing obituary that appeared in The Times. He never forgot how much he owed Chandler for that first, favourable review. ‘I wish I had been the author,’ he wrote, ‘so that I could have repaid him for the wonderful tribute he had written out of the kindness of his heart for me and my publishers.’ Perhaps, too, he felt a sense of loneliness at the departure of yet another of his literary heroes. They had begun to vanish with alarming rapidity over the past decade and with them had gone the context in which he had established himself. No longer was he the brave new writer of Casino Royale but a man whose time, like Chandler’s, was running its course.

  When he sent the article for approval to Chandler’s agent, Helga Greene, she agreed sorrowfully that he had captured the man: “Don’t correct anything please: the mistakes are hardly important enough and the overall picture is correct, only a little bleaker, thank God, than the reality”. Contradictorially, though, she later wrote, “I was so furious that it was difficult to write at all. I wonder if the sarcasm will get through Fleming’s thick skin?” She attached a note to Chandler’s file in UCLA saying “that the executrix of the estate wishes to point out that this article is quite inaccurate and should not be used as a basis for any studies on how Raymond Chandler worked or wrote”.