We both knew how the conversation would go, but the rules of conduct made us ride out the race. I’d played it dozens of times, and I knew it wasn’t over. I counted out three bucks
and he said, “Room 31.”
I started to turn and he added, “But he’s not there anymore. Moved out about five months ago. Glad to see him go. He was a mean little fart.”
“You got an address for him,” I said, keeping my back to the counter. The well-dressed man in the lobby was pretending to read a book, but I knew he could hear what we said.
“He didn’t leave one,” said Valentine, purring.
“You have some idea of where I can find him?” I said.
He took too long to answer “no,” so I knew he had something, maybe just a badly congested nose, but I took a chance. I didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t horse around here all day playing games. I turned slowly, pulled two bucks out of my wallet and reached over the counter grabbing Valentine by the sweater. Part of it came off in my hands. I grabbed again and pulled him into the counter. Our faces were inches apart. He smelled like Friday’s garbage on Monday morning. I thought both of us were about to throw up. Him in fear; me in disgust.
“I heard he was someplace downtown,” he squeaked.
“Where?” I asked with a forced smile.
“I don’t know, one of the big hotels,” Valentine said, gasping for air. “One of the guys who flops here saw him. He said Peese looked like he’d made the big time. Big cigar. The works. Peese wouldn’t give him the price of a small flop. He’s a bastard, that little one, a bastard.”
I let him down gently. His sweater was bunched up on his bird chest, and he was panting. I must have looked to him like my brother looks to me.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “This’ll buy you another sweater and a last name.” I dropped five more on the counter. He could get ten sweaters for less than that within a block.
“I don’t want a last name,” he said, putting the five under the counter. “What good’s a last name done anybody?”
He had a point.
I walked into the sun, and my eyes closed. I waited until I was out of sight of the door before I wiped my hands of Valentine’s grime. I knew a shortcut back to Broadway through an alley. I’d chased a kid through it once when I was doing a month as a bouncer at the Broadway Bar in ’37. Since most of the customers were bar flies and winos, I’d built up a good win-loss record. But the two or three good losses were enough to make me go back to my private investigating, Depression or no Depression. One of the losses had left me with my scalp split like a car seat that spent too much time in the desert.
The happy memory faded as I stepped into the alley and realized two things. First, I had to look forward to a day of looking for a midget in downtown hotels. He might not even be in a downtown hotel. Valentine might have got the word wrong, or the bum who passed it might have messed it up or dreamed it, but I had to give it a try. Most of my investigating involved following leads that lead nowhere. The cops did the same thing, but there were lots of cops.
The second thing I realized was that someone was following me. I didn’t want to turn back. If it was the dragon with the bad shot, he might shoot sooner than he planned if I turned. I kept walking through the alley around garbage cans, looking for an open door and expecting a bullet in the back. I had taken one there not too long ago. I didn’t want to press my luck. Even the bat who was trying to do me in would have the odds going for him eventually.
He didn’t know how to tail, and I could see his long shadow out of the corner of my eye as it hit the brick wall. He was hurrying now to keep up, but I didn’t want to break. My armpits were damp, and Broadway was just a dozen yards or so ahead. I made up my mind, reached for my gun as I walked and took a sudden turn into a doorway.
The guy behind me stumbled forward, and I moved out with my. 38 under his nose and grabbed a hunk of his jacket. It was the well-dressed guy in the flop house lobby. I pulled him into the doorway and pushed him into shadow. He looked surprised, but only a little and not at all scared. I felt him for a weapon the way the Glendale cops had taught me a tenth of a century earlier. He came away clean, and I looked at him. He wore a light grey suit with a white tie and shirt. He wasn’t dressed for tailing. He stood out like a snowball in a coal pile.
He was in his fifties. His face was round, and his mouth was small and a little weak. His nose was straight, and he wore round tortoise glasses. His hairline was falling back and his hair was thin, but he had it combed forward on the left to battle the receding glacier of time.
“O.K.,” I said. “Who are you, and why are you following me?”
He took out a pipe and lit it. His hands weren’t shaking and his voice was a little high, but perfectly calm.
“My name’s Chandler, Raymond Chandler,” he said, getting the pipe going. “I’m a writer. I write detective stories and novels.”
“That doesn’t explain why you were in the lobby of that bedbug palace and why you followed me,” I whispered through my teeth. It was my best shot at menace, but he looked interested and amused.
“I often sit around hotel lobbies picking up characters and dialogue,” he explained. “That is a little lower than the places I usually sit around in, but it was worth it. I found you. You’re the first real private investigator I’ve seen at work.”
I couldn’t tell if he was putting on an act or if he was what he said. His story sounded dumb.
“What books have you written?” I said. I put my gun back in my holster, but I didn’t lean back.
“Well,” he said. “I did one called The Big Sleep and a few months ago another one of mine, Farewell, My Lovely, came out.”
I’d never heard of him or them, and I said so.
“The number of mystery novels that have had even minimal success in the past five years can be counted on one hand of a two-toed sloth,” he sighed.
It sounded like writer talk.
“You don’t look dangerous to me,” I admitted, “but…”
“I’m a pretty dangerous man with a wet towel,” he grinned. “But my favorite weapon is a twenty-dollar bill when I have one, which is seldom. Look, you can check on me easily enough. My publisher is Knopf. I’ll give you a number to call, or you can look it up yourself. I live at 449 San Vincente Boulevard in Santa Monica with my wife Cissy. You can call her up.”
I told him I’d do just that and guided him onto Broadway and into a tavern. The phone was on the wall, and I had Chandler stand where I could see him. I had the impression that he was usually a sad man with a world-weary look, but something had awakened him, and he was smiling as he smoked.
I called an L.A. number Chandler gave me. It was a literary agency. I checked it in the phone book as I talked. I asked the guy if he had heard of Chandler, and he said he had. I asked for a description, and he gave me a pretty good one. I hung up.
“You’re a careful man, Mr…”
“Peters,” I said. “Toby Peters. I make up in caution what I lack in brains.”
“Can I buy you lunch or a beer, Mr. Peters?” Chandler said.
In ten minutes, I had pushed around a warped desk clerk and a well-meaning solid citizen. I had worked up an appetite. We found a place on the block where steak sandwiches could be had with beer and I could sit with my back to the wall watching the door. Chandler might not be the only one following me. I told Chandler my tale, and he listened. I think for a minute he decided I was nuts, but I offered to let him call Warren Hoff at Metro. He declined.
“I probably make up in brains what I lack in caution,” he said. “Peters. I have an offer for you. I heard what happened at that flop house. You’re going to start looking for that midget, right?”
I said I was.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll help you if you like. It’ll be good background material, and it will help make up for my giving you a scare.”
It would also cheer up a man who needed cheering, and I meant Chandler, not me. I could use the help even if he didn’t give me much, and he was good company.
“Fine,” I said. “Pay the bill, and let’s get going.”
