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The High Little Sister in the Lake

Page history last edited by barry_ergang@... 13 years, 1 month ago

The High Little Sister in the Lake by Barry Ergang

 

        With regard to "Gideon Fell, Hardboiled Sawbones," Xavier Lechard wrote: "Barry: Congratulations for this brilliant piece. Gid Fell and Hank Merrivale are wonderful creations, and I look forward to a sequel."

        I replied: "Thanks, Xavier, but I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for a 'sequel,' if I were you.    :-)"

        Xavier:  "Now I have a suggestion to you and other members with a taste for pastiche and satire: why not giving the other point of view? I mean, we had a hardboiled take on Carrian mysteries; it would be fair to give JDC his revenge and have a Carrian take on hardboiled mysteries. Who'll be brave enough to write Carr's version of The Big Sleep? (No, it won't be me)."

        Me: "Okay, I can't resist trying. Let me explain one thing in advance, though. Carr rarely used the first-person unless his narrator was functioning as a Watson. So, reversing the method I adopted in "Gideon Fell, Hardboiled Sawbones," I'm using the third-person for the Carrian take on Chandler. That said, and making no claims for success, I give you an excerpt from the never-forthcoming "The High Little Sister in the Lake."

 

        A quaint anomaly nestled in the mountains sixty miles north of Los Angeles, the village of Crumpet-on-Scone crouched beneath a twilight of smoky purple clouds when Marlowe drove into the High Street and parked in front of the Satan's Elbow Inn. He wondered wryly if the beverages they served were hellish concoctions. After the long drive, he had earned a thirst sufficient to find that out. It was time to bend his own elbow alongside Satan and whoever else frequented the establishment.

        When he emerged from the car he glanced about him. Small retail shops, a post office, and, further on, a church lined the street. None of the buildings had the appearance of housing Neddy Pluto's casino. The smoky dusk was descending rapidly, but Marlowe could discern a couple of narrower lanes crisscrossing the High Street. Perhaps the casino was on one of these.

        It had been as hot as a strumpet's step-ins in the streets of Los Angeles, but here the air was cool and pure, smogless and sweet. Marlowe breathed deeply, savoring the freshness. Despite the early hour nobody strode the sidewalks. He welcomed the solitude and the somnolent sensation of having moved back in time to the kind of world he had never known.

        In a manner of speaking he had. Crumpet-on-Scone had been founded after the Great War by a wealthy British emigré, Lord Petheridge, who used his inherited wealth to found an oil company which repaid his investment a thousandfold. Despite his affluence, Petheridge felt the Beverly Hills lifestyle uncongenial to his disposition. Yearning for the more civilized environment of the English village of his boyhood, he purchased the land surrounding Scone Lake, developed Crumpet-on-Scone, and erected a palatial estate, Petheridge Farm, on a hill overlooking the village. Marlowe could just make out one of its turrets in the crepuscular light. Inside the house were his client Percival Petheridge, son of Lord Petheridge, and possibly his sisters Patricia and Penelope--if the latter two were not out somewhere pursuing the predilections that left them open to blackmail.

        The interior of the Satan's Elbow Inn was as twilit as its unassuming exterior but far more crowded. Marlowe bulled his way to the bar and ordered a whisky. He could feel the eyes of other patrons boring into him as though trying to probe his character and identity. It seemed rustic English villages transplanted to California were not immune to a suspicion of and mute hostility toward strangers which many other small towns harbor.

        "I'd like to get a room for the night."

        The sullen-faced man behind the bar said: "We're full up, guv. Lotsa folks visitin` these days."

        "Are they hoodlums or butterfly collectors?"

        "I wouldn't know, guv."

        "Is there anywhere else in town I might get a room?"

        "I wouldn't know, guv."

        "There seems to be a lot you don't know."

        "I wouldn't know, guv."

        Marlowe grinned and swallowed some whisky. "Perhaps, then, you can give me directions to the Golden Gouge Casino."

        The barman's sullen face did not alter, but cautious light shone in his eyes. His glance drifted to a sturdy man in a gray suit standing close enough to have overheard the conversation. The man took a couple of steps to position himself alongside Marlowe. He had a round, ruddy face topped by thinning brown hair.

        "Excuse me," he said. "I couldn't help overhearing your question. May I ask why you are interested in the casino?"

        Marlowe lighted a cigarette. "May I ask why you're asking?"

        The man folded back the lapel of his coat to display a badge. "My name is Nulty. I'm the Chief Constable of Crumpet-on-Scone."

        Marlowe's grin widened. "Chief Constable, eh? How veddy British." He exhaled some smoke and said: "My interest in the casino is the usual one."

        "No, sir." Nulty shook his head, scrutinizing Marlowe carefully. "You haven't the look of a gambler."

        "You mean my suit isn't stylish enough? Perhaps it's because I've been on a losing streak."

        "Perhaps. May I see some identification, sir?"

        Marlowe decided that there must be something about him that attracted policemen everywhere. The difference here was Nulty's politeness. In Los Angeles he would have been confronted with more overt belligerence.

        "Do you require every newcomer to your village to show identification?" Marlowe asked.

        "If you please, sir, I'd rather not turn this into a scene. Just be good enough to show me some identification and we can put paid to this matter."

        Reaching into an inside coat pocket, Marlowe produced his wallet, opened it, and showed Nulty the photostatic copy of his license. The latter studied it, pursing his lips, and nodded ever so faintly.

        "A private detective, are you, Mr. Marlowe." He did not make it a question.

        "Yeah," Marlowe answered, lapsing into the argot of the mean streets.

        "Then I shall ask you again what your business is at the casino."

        "Tell me, does Neddy Pluto pay you well to vet strangers?"

        Nulty's ruddy face took on a redder hue, but he kept anger out of his tone. "I'll thank you to maintain a civil tone, sir."

        Marlowe swallowed the remainder of his drink, replaced his glass on the bar, and placed a few bills beside it. "I'll thank you for the conversation, Constable, and bid you good evening."

        A moment after he departed, the barman looked at Nulty with a vague anticipatory expression. Nulty nodded and the barman placed a telephone atop the counter. The policeman lifted the receiver and dialed a number.

 

*****************

 

        It was fully dark, the air markedly cooler, when Marlowe returned to the car. Still bereft of pedestrians and automobile traffic, the High Street was a sterilely respectable counterpart to a dusty Wild West ghost town and as empty of promise. Marlowe started the engine, released the brake, and let out the clutch. He drove slowly, turning down the narrower lanes that bisected the High Street. These appeared to be mostly residential, lined with small cottages in the Tudor style. At the farthest end of one of the lanes, separated from the neighboring cottages by a considerable distance and backing onto a wooded area, stood the Golden Gouge Casino. He drove into the parking area that fronted the building, shut off the engine, got out and made his way to the front door.

        Save for a discreet sign with gilt lettering over the door, there was nothing to identify it for the sort of establishment it was. No meretricious neon bloomed against the darkness, no spotlights danced across its façade as they would in a city like Las Vegas. The building looked precisely like what it had probably once been, a private home Neddy Pluto had converted into a pleasure palace. Marlowe wondered if Pluto lived in the rooms upstairs and whether he sometimes provided lodgings for some of his underworld associates.

        The entrance hall was manned by a distinguished fellow in a tuxedo. When Marlowe entered, the fellow said: "Good evening, sir, and welcome. Have you an invitation?"

        Marlowe's eyebrows lifted. "I wasn't aware one was necessary. But I imagine Chief Constable Nulty telephoned to say I'd be coming over. My name is Philip Marlowe."

        "Indeed, Mr. Marlowe, you were expected. You may check your hat and coat over there." He pointed to a cubicle off to the right in which stood a rather seductively clad young woman. Marlowe handed her his overcoat and hat, and received a claim check in return. The tuxedoed man asked: "May I introduce you to Mr. Pluto?"

        "That won't be necessary, but thank you. I've seen Mr. Pluto's picture so I'll introduce myself after I've had a look around first."

        "As you wish, sir."

        Marlowe strode through the entrance hall, noticing the various doorways to the rooms on either side of it. One had a closed door bearing a sign that said "Office--Private" stenciled on it. The other doors were open and he glanced into them. One room appeared to be a small restaurant or lounge. Another contained a dance floor that fronted a bandstand occupied by a band playing swing music. Three or four couples swayed on the floor, others sat around tables drinking, chatting, and tapping their feet to the music. The gambling room was the largest and most crowded, with patrons thronging roulette, blackjack, poker and crap tables.

        He was aware that a pair of men in dark suits were following him at a distance, but he ignored them.

        It did not take him very long to pick Neddy Pluto out of the crowd. Thin but wide-shouldered, wearing an impeccably tailored white dinner jacket, he stood at the roulette table observing the play. His face was long and narrow, his eyes dark and deep-set. Next to him stood a woman Marlowe recognized as Patricia Petheridge. Her story was of an altogether different telling. She was a blonde--a blonde to make a vicar ring church bells on a Jewish holiday....

 

--© Barry Ergang,  July 2003

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