The Annotated Big Sleep

by Raymond Chandler

  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.18 But they’ll run out of dough some day. Regan will cash a check, drop a marker,19 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.”

  “What did the girl do before she married Eddie Mars?”

  “Torcher.”20

  “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,21 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.

  1. briar: A tobacco pipe.

  2. Is Marlowe bending to the prevailing wind? Just being agreeable? Or is he playing a game kept secret from all who want to know—cops, crooks, and reader alike? In any case, he’s finally been funneled into inquiring about Regan. “Not exactly,” but “sure.” He’ll continue to deny it, but he’ll finally be subsumed by the quest for the red MacGuffin by Chapter Twenty-Eight.

  3. Gregory is ambiguous: “pulling down the curtain” means disappearing, but he offers no indication that he might know why or how.

  4. Why “Terence”? Terrys are certainly everywhere in the old sod, but Chandler chose his names with care and an ear for symbolic resonance. He prided himself on his classical education and would have had a passing familiarity with the Roman comic dramatist Terence (195/185–159 BCE). But he undoubtedly knew far better the arch-romantic poetry of Edwardian classicist A. E. Housman, whose gorgeously wistful A Shropshire Lad was first published in 1896 and had grown increasingly popular until Housman’s death in 1936.

  One of Housman’s best-known poems begins:

  “Terence, this is stupid stuff:

  You eat your victuals fast enough;

  There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,

  To see the rate you drink your beer.”

  Which if nothing else is a fitting description of a life-loving bootlegger. The poem’s speaker is chiding Terence for writing depressing poetry that the speaker mocks with his own “big sleep”–themed couplet: “ ‘The cow, the old cow, she is dead; / It sleeps well, the horned head.’ ” But in Housman’s poem, as in TBS, the payoff is no joke: Terence knows something about that ultimate sleep that Marlowe will find out.

  Dorothy Sayers made the same poem a pivotal piece of evidence in her 1930 detective novel Strong Poison.

  Incidentally, Housman’s original title for A Shropshire Lad was The Poems of Terence Hearsay. Does Marlowe ever get closer to Terence Regan than hearsay?

  5. Located on Sunset Boulevard, a luxury high-rise apartment building and an art deco extravaganza, built in 1931. Residents have included John Wayne, Frank Sinatra, Errol Flynn, and Marilyn Monroe.

  Sunset Tower, 8358 Sunset Boulevard, West Hollywood

  6. Among other meanings (see note 15 on this page), one’s racket is one’s job.

  7. The “top card” would be a large bill, most likely a hundred. The “hay” would be smaller bills, probably ones.

  8. Packard one-twenty: The luxury automobile maker’s first midrange model, spurred into being by the Great Depression.

  9. hay…jack…gravy: Three of the many colorful terms for money used during the Depression years.

  10. rolls him for it: Mugs him violently, as “roll a drunk.”

  11. rolls him too hard: Kills him.

  12. greasy-faced liquor mob: Racial slur referring to Italian gangsters.

  13. This is an interesting use of “troubles” when referring to conflicts in Ireland. In current usage, “the Troubles” usually refers to the violent period beginning in the 1960s and ending with the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. Here it refers to the Irish Civil War, 1922–23.

  14. Regan wouldn’t be an easy target.

  15. Mencken says that “Racket is old, but racketeer was a product of Prohibition.” It was first used in 1928 by the Employers Association of Greater Chicago, an anti-union group, in reference to the Teamsters.

  16. As Al Capone said, “I am just a businessman.”

  17. under the hat: In secret.

  18. rocks: Jewelry.

  19. drop a marker: A marker is, in effect, a line of credit that is issued to high-rolling gamblers in the form of an IOU. When the gambler signs the marker, it is “dropped,” or put in a drop box, until it comes time to pay back the house.

  20. torcher: A “torch singer” was one of the many female singers who sang mostly in nightclubs throughout the country. Their repertoire usually consisted of sad, bluesy songs of lost love, sung with a theatrical blend of sentimentality and sensuality. The torch is the flame of unrequited love (as in “carrying a torch” for somebody).

  21. Recalls the flapper connotation of Vivian’s character.

  Los Angeles City Hall

  “A MATTER OF SENTIMENT”: FROM “THE CURTAIN”

  This scene recalls the following scene from Chandler’s 1936 short story “The Curtain.”

  “But you’ll get him,” I said.

  “When he gets hungry.”

  “That could take a year or two. General Winslow may not live a year. That is a matter of sentiment, not whether you have an open file when you retire.”

  “You attend to the sentiment, brother.” His eyes moved and bushy reddish eyebrows moved with them. He didn’t like me. Nobody did, in the police department, that day.

  “I’d like to,” I said and stood up. “Maybe I’d go pretty far to attend to that sentiment.”

  1937 Plymouth coupe (courtesy of Joe Mabel)

  TWENTY-ONE1

  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 foot-dangling. 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.2 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.”3

  “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’ll 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.”4

  “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.5

  That was that. We said good-bye 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.6

  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-byes 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.7 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 chiseler8 like Brody.

  Geiger was dead and Carmen would have to find some other shady character to drink exotic blends of hootch with.9 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 Olindas10 that evening to talk to him. That was how smart I was.11

  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 Club12 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,13 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.14 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 wainscoted15 in walnut and had a frieze of faded damask16 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 Sèvres china tea set17 on a copper tray beside a samovar.18 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.19 “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.”20

  “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.21 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.22 In dinner clothes he looked a little harder than in gray flannel, but he still looked like a horseman. We drank and nodded at each other.

  “Ever been here before?” he asked.

  “During prohibition. I don’t get any kick out of gambling.”23

  “Not with money,” he smiled.24 “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.25

  “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.”

  “Inform
ation 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.26 I get paid for what I do.27 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.28

  “You talk a good game,” he said. “But I dare say you can break a hundred and ten.29 You’re not really interested in Regan, are you?”

  “No, not professionally.30 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 fingered 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,31 he had a prospect that scared and he went to work. If he didn’t draw an ace, he just dropped the whole thing.”