Farewell, My Lovely

4

Florian’s was closed up, of course. An obvious plainclothesman sat in front of it in a car, reading a paper with one eye. I didn’t know why they bothered. Nobody there knew anything about Moose Malloy. The bouncer and the barman had not been found. Nobody on the block knew anything about them, for talking purposes.

I drove past slowly and parked around the corner and sat looking at a Negro hotel which was diagonally across the block from Florian’s and beyond the nearest intersection. It was called the Hotel Sans Souci. I got out and walked back across the intersection and went into it. Two rows of hard empty chairs stared at each other across a strip of tan fiber carpet. A desk was back in the dimness and behind the desk a baldheaded man had his eyes shut and his soft brown hands clasped peacefully on the desk in front of him. He dozed, or appeared to. He wore an Ascot tie that looked as if it had been tied about the year 1880. The green stone in his stickpin was not quite as large as an apple. His large loose chin was folded down gently on the tie, and his folded hands were peaceful and clean, with manicured nails, and gray halfmoons in the purple of the nails.

A metal embossed sign at his elbow said: “This Hotel is Under the Protection of The International Consolidated Agencies, Ltd. Inc.”

When the peaceful brown man opened one eye at me thoughtfully I pointed at the sign.

“H.P.D. man checking up. Any trouble here?”

H.P.D. means Hotel Protective Department, which is the department of a large agency that looks after check bouncers and people who move out by the back stairs leaving unpaid bills and second-hand suitcases full of bricks.

“Trouble, brother,” the clerk said in a high sonorous voice, “is something we is fresh out of.” He lowered his voice four or five notches and added “What was the name again?”

“Marlowe Philip Marlowe — “

“A nice name, brother. Clean and cheerful. You’re looking right well today.” He lowered his voice again. “But you ain’t no H.P.D. man. Ain’t seen one in years.” He unrolled his hands and pointed languidly at the sign. “I acquired that second-hand, brother, just for the effect.”

“Okey,” I said. I leaned on the counter and started to spin a half dollar on the bare, scarred wood of the counter.

“Heard what happened over at Florian’s this morning?”

“Brother, I forgit.” Both his eyes were open now and he was watching the blur of light made by the spinning coin.

“The boss got bumped off,” I said. “Man named Montgomery. Somebody broke his neck.”

“May the Lawd receive his soul, brother.” Down went the voice again. “Cop?”

“Private — on a confidential lay. And I know a man who can keep things confidential when I see one.”

He studied me, then closed his eyes and thought. He reopened them cautiously and stared at the spinning coin. He couldn’t resist looking at it.

“Who done it?” he asked softly. “Who fixed Sam?”

“A tough guy out of the jailhouse got sore because it wasn’t a white joint. It used to be, it seems. Maybe you remember?”

He said nothing. The coin fell over with a light ringing whirr and lay still.

“Call your play,” I said. “I’ll read you a chapter of the Bible or buy you a drink. Say which.”

“Brother, I kind of like to read my Bible in the seclusion of my family.” His eyes were bright, toadlike, steady.

“Maybe you’ve just had lunch,” I said.

“Lunch,” he said, “is something a man of my shape and disposition aims to do without.” Down went the voice. “Come ‘round this here side of the desk.”

I went around and drew the flat pint of bonded bourbon out of my pocket and put it on the shelf. I went back to the front of the desk. He bent over and examined it. He looked satisfied.

“Brother, this don’t buy you nothing at all,” he said. “But I is pleased to take a light snifter in your company.”

He opened the bottle, put two small glasses on the desk and quietly poured each full to the brim. He lifted one, sniffed it carefully, and poured it down his throat with his little finger lifted.

He tasted it, thought about it, nodded and said: “This come out of the correct bottle, brother. In what manner can I be of service to you? There ain’t a crack in the sidewalk ‘round here I don’t know by its first name. Yessuh, this liquor has been keepin’ the right company.” He refilled his glass.

I told him what had happened at Florian’s and why. He started at me solemnly and shook his bald head.

“A nice quiet place Sam run too,” he said. “Ain’t nobody been knifed there in a month.”

“When Florian’s was a white joint some six or eight years ago or less, what was the name of it?”

“Electric signs come kind of high, brother.”

I nodded. “I thought it might have had the same name. Malloy would probably have said something if the name had been changed. But who ran it?”

“I’m a mite surprised at you, brother. The name of that pore sinner was Florian. Mike Florian — “

“And what happened to Mike Florian?”

The Negro spread his gentle brown hands. His voice was sonorous and sad. “Daid, brother. Gathered to the Lawd. Nineteen hundred and thirty-four, maybe thirty-five. I ain’t precise on that. A wasted life, brother, and a case of pickled kidneys, I heard say. The ungodly man drops like a polled steer, brother, but mercy waits for him up yonder.” His voice went down to the business level. “Damm if I know why.”

“Who did he leave behind him? Pour another drink.”

He corked the bottle firmly and pushed it across the counter. “Two is all, brother — before sundown. I thank you. Your method of approach is soothin’ to a man’s dignity . . . Left a widow. Name of Jessie.”

“What happened to her?”

“The pursuit of knowledge, brother, is the askin’ of many questions. I ain’t heard. Try the phone book.”

There was a booth in the dark corner of the lobby. I went over and shut the door far enough to put the light on. I looked up the name in the chained and battered book. No Florian in it at all. I went back to the desk.

“No soap,” I said.

The Negro bent regretfully and heaved a city directory up on top of the desk and pushed it towards me. He closed his eyes. He was getting bored. There was a Jessie Florian, Widow, in the book. She lived at 1644 West 54th Place. I wondered what I had been using for brains all my life.

I wrote the address down on a piece of paper and pushed the directory back across the desk. The Negro put it back where he had found it, shook hands with me, then folded his hands on the desk exactly where they had been when I came in. His eyes drooped slowly and he appeared to fall asleep.

The incident for him was over. Halfway to the door I shot a glance back at him. His eyes were closed and he breathed softly and regularly, blowing a little with his lips at the end of each breath. His bald head shone.

I went out of the Hotel Sans Souci and crossed the street to my car. It looked too easy. It looked much too easy.