FAREWELL MY LOVELY PDF

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His second Marlowe novel, Farewell, My Lovely (), became the basis for three movie versions adapted by other PDF (tablet), spicesinlaris.ga HTML Zip. Title: Farewell, My Lovely Author: Chandler, Raymond Thornton () Date of first publication: 1 October Edition used as base for. books, including Farewell, My Lovely (), The High Window (), The Lady in the Lake It was none of my business at all, so I walked over to the door.


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Chandler, Raymond - Marlowe 2 - Farewell My Lovely · Read more Farewell My Lovely (Philip Marlowe 02) · Read more. Farewell My Lovely (Philip Marlowe 02). Read more Chandler, Raymond - Marlowe 2 - Farewell My Lovely · Read more. Read online or download for free graded reader ebook Farewell my lovely by Raymond Chandler of pre-intermediate level you can download in epub, mobi, fb2.

Haw, Haw. The bouncer frowned. He was not used to being talked to like that. He took his hand off the shirt and doubled it into a fist about the size and color of a large eggplant. He had his job, his reputation for toughness, his public esteem to consider.

He considered them for a second and made a mistake. He swung the fist very hard and short with a sudden outward jerk of the elbow and hit the big man on the side of the jaw. A soft sigh went around the room.

It was a good punch. The shoulder dropped and the body swung behind it. There was a lot of weight in that punch and the man who landed it had had plenty of practice. He took it, shook himself lightly, made a quiet sound in his throat and took hold of the bouncer by the throat.

The bouncer tried to knee him in the groin. The big man turned him in the air and slid his gaudy shoes apart on the scaly linoleum that covered the floor. Three men jumped out of the way. The bouncer went over with a table and smacked into the baseboard with a crash that must have been heard in Denver. His legs twitched. Then he lay still. The customers, by ones and twos and threes, became quiet shadows that drifted soundless across the floor, soundless through the doors at the head of the stairs.

Soundless as shadows on grass. We leaned against the bar. We had whiskey sours. The big man licked his whiskey sour impassively down the side of the thick squat glass. He stared solemnly at the barman, a thin, worried-looking Negro in a white coat who moved as if his feet hurt him.

Not right lately, nossuh. Nobody here would. I smiled. I made it a big warm friendly smile. I put my back against the bar and looked at the room. It was now empty, save for the barman, the big man and myself, and the bouncer crushed over against the wall. The bouncer was moving. He was moving slowly as if with great pain and effort.

He was crawling softly along the baseboard like a fly with one wing. He was moving behind the tables, wearily, a man suddenly old, suddenly disillusioned.

I watched him move. The barman put down two more whiskey sours. I turned to the bar. The big man glanced casually over at the crawling bouncer and then paid no further attention to him. Velma did some warbling. A redhead she was. Cute as lace pants.

We was to of been married when they hung the frame on me. I was beginning to have enough of the adventure. Malloy is the name.

The Great Bend bank job. Forty grand. Solo job. There was a noise behind us. The bouncer was on his feet again, weaving a little. He had his hand on the knob of a dark door over behind the crap table.

He got the door open, half fell through. The door clattered shut. A lock clicked. He drank his drink at a gulp. Two more of the same. His enormous back hid the door. It was locked. He shook it and a piece of the panel flew off to one side. He went through and shut the door behind him. There was silence. I looked at the barman. The barman looked at me.

His eyes became thoughtful. He polished the counter and sighed and leaned down with his right ann. I reached across the counter and took hold of the arm.

It was thin, brittle. I held it and smiled at him. He leaned on my arm, and said nothing. Grayness invaded his shining face. Drinks do that to him.

This place used to be a white establishment.

Get the idea? He thinks the people here should know where his girl is. He asked me a question down below and then dragged me up. I never saw him before. What you got down there? Got anything else? Leggo my arm.

Easy now. His eyes rolled. His head jerked. There was a dull flat sound at the back of the place, behind the closed door beyond the crap table. It might have been a slammed door. The barman froze. His mouth drooled. I listened. No other sound. I started quickly for the end of the counter. I had listened too long. The door at the back opened with a bang and Moose Malloy came through it with a smooth heavy lunge and stopped dead, his feet planted and a wide pale grin on his face.

A Colt Army. Moose Malloy looked the room over with a raking glance. His grin was taut, nailed on. He shifted his feet and moved silently across the room.

Farewell, My Lovely!

He looked like a man who could take a bank single-handed-even in those clothes. He came to the bar. The barman put his hands high in the air.

The big man stepped to my back and prowled me over carefully with his left hand. His breath was hot on my neck. It went away. I turned slowly and looked at him.

Just tell them johns not to get careless is all. I gotta catch a street car. He stopped and looked at me carefully. The barman stooped. I jumped around behind the counter and jostled him out of the way. A sawed-off shotgun lay under a towel on a shelf under the bar.

Beside it was a cigar box. In the cigar box was a. I took both of them. The barman pressed back against the tier of glasses behind the bar. I went back around the end of the bar and across the room to the gaping door behind the crap table. There was a hallway behind it, L-shaped, almost lightless. The bouncer lay sprawled on its floor unconscious, with a knife in his hand. I leaned down and pulled the knife loose and threw it down a back stairway.

The bouncer breathed stertorously and his hand was limp. There was a small scarred desk close to a partly boarded-up window. The torso of a man was bolt upright in the chair. His head was folded back over the high back of the chair so that his nose pointed at the boarded-up window. Just folded, like a handkerchief or a hinge.

Inside was a newspaper with a smear of oil in the middle. The gun would have come from there. It had probably seemed like a good idea at the time, but the position of Mr.

Old Boy - Farewell, My Lovely

There was a telephone on the desk. I laid the sawed-off shotgun down and went over to lock the door before I called the police. I felt safer that way and Mr.

When the prowl car boys stamped up the stairs, the bouncer and the barman had disappeared and I had the place to myself. Dirty brown linoleum covered the floor and the smell of old cigar butts hung in the air. He lit half of a cigar and threw the match on the floor, where a lot of company was waiting for it.

Another shine killing. No pix, no space, not even four lines in the want-ad section. He picked my card up and read it again and threw it down. One of those guys, huh?

Jesus, you look tough enough. What was you doing all that time? Everybody else does. Poor old Nulty. Always good for a laugh, Nulty is. She thought he could be persuaded to come home. You met the big guy how? I just happened to be there. So he took me upstairs. He took the gun away from Montgomery, probably.

He just picked me up. He could wear you or me for a watch charm. I heard a shot, but I got the idea somebody had got scared and shot at Malloy and then Malloy took the gun away from whoever did it. He went there to look for this girl named Velma that had been his girl before he was pinched for the bank job. He was pinched there. How many guys is put on it? Listen, you know why? No space. One time there was five smokes carved Harlem sunsets on each other down on East Eighty-four.

One of them was cold already. There was blood on the furniture, blood on the walls, blood even on the ceiling. I go down and outside the house a guy that works on the Chronicle, a newshawk, is coming off the porch and getting into his car. The phone rang on his desk. He listened to it and smiled sorrowfully. He hung up and scribbled on a pad and there was a faint gleam in his eyes, a light far back in a dusty corridor. That was Records.

Got his prints, mug and everything. Six five and one-half, two hundred sixty-four pounds, without his necktie. Well, the hell with him. They got him on the air now. Probably at the end of the hot car list. Malloy will be looking for her. Try Velma. You might pick something up. You can work under glass. His smile was cunning as a broken mousetrap. I heard different. But any guy in the department can do you a lot of good.

Since the last shake-up, things is really tough. Not ever. After lunch. I ate lunch at a drugstore, bought a pint of bourbon, and drove eastward to Central Avenue and north on Central again. The hunch I had was as vague as the heat waves that danced above the sidewalk.

Nothing made it my business except curiosity. Even a no-charge job was a change. An obvious plainclothesman sat in front of it in a car, reading a paper with one eye.

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. 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 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.

Any trouble here? Clean and cheerful. I leaned on the counter and started to spin a half dollar on the bare, scarred wood of the counter. Somebody broke his neck. And I know a man who can keep things confidential when I see one.

He reopened them cautiously and stared at the spinning coin. It used to be, it seems. Maybe you remember? The coin fell over with a light ringing whirr and lay still.

Say which. I went back to the front of the desk. He bent over and examined it. He looked satisfied. He lifted one, sniffed it carefully, and poured it down his throat with his little finger lifted.

In what manner can I be of service to you? He started at me solemnly and shook his bald head. Malloy would probably have said something if the name had been changed. But who ran it? The name of that pore sinner was Florian. His voice was sonorous and sad. Gathered to the Lawd. Nineteen hundred and thirty-four, maybe thirty-five. 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.

Pour another drink. I thank you. Left a widow. Name of Jessie. Try the phone book. 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. 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 West 54th Place. I wondered what I had been using for brains all my life.

Chandler, Raymond - Farewell My Lovely

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. There was a large bare patch around a tough-looking palm tree. A line of stiff yellowish half-washed clothes jittered on a rusty wire in the side yard.

I drove on a quarter block, parked my car across the street and walked back. Slow steps shuffled and the door opened and I was looking into dimness at a blowsy woman who was blowing her nose as she opened the door. Her face was gray and puffy. Her body was thick in a shapeless outing flannel bathrobe many moons past color and design. It was just something around her body. Jessie Florian? Florian whose husband once ran a place of entertainment on Central Avenue?

Mike Florian? Her eyes glittered with surprise. My goodness sakes alive. Who did you say you was? Then with effort she unhooked the door and turned away from it.

A large handsome cabinet radio droned to the left of the door in the corner of the room. It was the only decent piece of furniture the place had. It looked brand new. Everything was junk-dirty overstuffed pieces, a wooden rocker that matched the one on the porch, a square arch into a dining room with a stained table, finger marks all over the swing door to the kitchen beyond. A couple of frayed lamps with once gaudy shades that were now as gay as super-annuated streetwalkers.

The woman sat down in the rocker and flopped her slippers and looked at me. I looked at the radio and sat down at the end of a davenport. She saw me looking at it. Then she tittered. I leaned back against something hard, felt for it and brought up an empty quart gin bottle.

The woman tittered again. He never got enough of them here. Any special redhead? A girl named Velma. So I thought of you. Not much. I guess they have to get her in order to touch it.

Money sharpens the memory. You said you was a copper though. I held up the dead soldier and shook it. Then I threw it to one side and reached back on my hip for the pint of bond bourbon the Negro hotel clerk and I had barely tapped. I held it out on my knee. Then suspicion climbed all over her face, like a kitten, but not so playfully. Her eyes stayed on the bottle. Suspicion fought with thirst, and thirst was winning. It always does. A coated tongue coiled on her lips.

Just hold it careful, mister. I poured her a slug that would have made me float over a wall. She reached for it hungrily and put it down her throat like an aspirin tablet and looked at the bottle. I poured her another and a smaller one for me. She took it over to her rocker. Her eyes had turned two shades browner already. I went over and stood the bottle on an end beside her. She reached for it. Who you say you was? She read it with her tongue and lips, dropped it on a table beside her and set her empty glass on it.

I sat down and rolled a cigarette around in my fingers and waited. It was that simple. Song and dance. She went off somewheres. How would I know what them tramps do? Help rourseif to the whiskey-I could run out for more when we need it.

I put my hand around my glass and swallowed what was in it slowly enough to make it seem more than it was. Okey, handsome. A guy that downloads me a drink is a pal.

She was as cute as a washtub. I heard her fumbling steps going into the back part of the house. The poinsettia shoots tap-tapped dully against the front wall. The clothes line creaked vaguely at the side of the house. The ice cream peddler went by ringing his bell. Then from the back of the house there were various types of crashing sounds. A chair seemed to fall over backwards, a bureau drawer was pulled out too far and crashed to the floor, there was fumbling and thudding and muttered thick language.

Then the slow click of a lock and the squeak of a trunk top going up. More fumbling and banging. A tray landed on the floor. I got up from the davenport and sneaked into the dining room and from that into a short hail. I looked around the edge of an open door. She was in there swaying in front of the trunk, making grabs at what was in it, and then throwing her hair back over her forehead with anger. She was drunker than she thought. She leaned down and steadied herself on the trunk and coughed and sighed.

Then she went down on her thick knees and plunged both hands into the trunk and groped. They came up holding something unsteadily. A thick package tied with faded pink tape. Slowly, clumsily, she undid the tape. She slipped an envelope out of the package and leaned down again to thrust the envelope out of sight into the right-hand side of the trunk.

She retied the tape with fumbling fingers. I sneaked back the way I had come and sat down on the davenport. Breathing stertorous noises, the woman came back into the living room and stood swaying in the doorway with the tape-tied package. She grinned at me triumphantly, tossed the package and it fell somewhere near my feet. She waddled back to the rocker and sat down and reached for the whiskey.

I picked the package off the floor and untied the faded pink tape. Newspaper stills. Not that them tramps ever got in no newspapers except by way of the police blotter.

People from the joint they are. The men had sharp foxy faces and racetrack clothes or eccentric clownlike makeup. Hoofers and comics from the filling station circuit. Not many of them would ever get west of Main Street. You would find them in tanktown vaudeville acts, cleaned up, or down in the cheap burlesque houses, as dirty as the law allowed and once in a while just enough dirtier for a raid and a noisy police court trial, and then back in their shows again, grinning, sadistically filthy and as rank as the smell of stale sweat.

The women had good legs and displayed their inside curves more than Will Hays would have liked. Blondes, brunettes, large cowlike eyes with a peasant dullness in them. Small sharp eyes with urchin greed in them. One or two of the faces obviously vicious. One or two of them might have had red hair. I looked them over casually, without interest and tied the tape again.

I should have had it. I stood up with my glass and went over and put it down beside hers on the end table. A voice shouted behind me.

I plunged ahead down into the right side of the trunk, felt an envelope and brought it up swiftly. She was out of her chair when I got back to the living room, but she had only taken two or three steps. Her eyes had a peculiar glassiness. A murderous glassiness. She blinked twice and tried to lift her nose with her upper lip. Some dirty teeth showed in a rabbit leer. The Moose? What about him? She pushed the bottle against her lips and gurgled at it. Some of the whiskey ran down her chin.

I liked being with her. I liked getting her drunk for my own sordid purposes. I was a swell guy. I enjoyed being me. You find almost anything under your hand in my business, but I was beginning to be a little sick at my stomach. I opened the envelope my hand was clutching and drew out a glazed still. It was like the others but it was different, much nicer. The girl wore a Pierrot costume from the waist up.

Under the white conical hat with a black pompon on the top, her fluffed out hair had a dark tinge that might have been red. The face was in proffle but the visible eye seemed to have gaiety in it. But it was pretty. People had been nice to that face, or nice enough for their circle. Yet it was a very ordinary face and its prettiness was strictly assembly line.

You would see a dozen faces like it on a city block in the noon hour. Below the waist the photo was mostly legs and very nice legs at that. She lunged but came short. She made no sound except thick breathing. I slipped the photo back into the envelope and the envelope into my pocket.

Where is she? Beat it. Her hand opened and the whiskey bottle slid to the carpet and began to gurgle. I bent to pick it up. She tried to kick me in the face. I stepped away from her. I stepped over to her side after a moment and put the flat bottle, now almost empty, on the table at her side. She was staring down at the carpet. The radio droned pleasantly in the corner. A car went by outside. A fly buzzed in a window. After a long time she moved one lip over the other and spoke to the floor, a meaningless jumble of words from which nothing emerged.

Then she laughed and threw her head back and drooled. Then her right hand reached for the bottle and it rattled against her teeth as she drained it. When it was empty she held it up and shook it and threw it at me. It went off in the corner somewhere, skidding along the carpet and bringing up with a thud against the baseboard.

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She leered at me once more, then her eyes closed and she began to snore. Suddenly I had enough of the scene, too much of it, far too much of it. I picked my hat off the davenport and went over to the door and opened it and went out past the screen. The radio still droned in the corner and the woman still snored gently in her chair.

I threw a quick look back at her before I closed the door, then shut it, opened it again silently and looked again. Her eyes were still shut but something gleamed below the lids. I went down the steps, along the cracked walk to the street. Old Nosey checking up on the neighbors. I waved a hand at her. The curtain fell. He sat in his chair in the same attitude of sour patience. But there were two more cigar stubs in his ashtray and the floor was a little thicker in burnt matches.

I sat down at the vacant desk and Nulty turned over a photo that was lying face down on his desk and handed it to me. It was a police mug, front and profile, with a fingerprint classification underneath. It was Malloy all right, taken in a strong light, and looking as if he had no more eyebrows than a French roll. Things look beter. We got him cornered. A prowl car was talking to a conductor the end of the Seventh Street line.

The conductor mentioned a guy that size, looking like that. He got off Third and Alexandria. What you been doing?

Maybe brown. Oh yeah, funny. Remind me to laugh on my day off. He had money. Look at the clothes he was wearing. They must have been made to order. I talked to a Negro hotelman who knows the neighborhood. The sign was expensive so the shines just went on using it when they took over. She lives at West 54th Place. Her name is Jessie Florian. I took in a pint of bourbon with me. Florian about Velma.

You remember, Mr. Nulty, the redhead named Velma that Moose Malloy was looking for? Her home is very shabby except for a new radio, worth seventy or eighty dollars.

Florian-Jessie to me-said her husband left her nothing but his old clothes and a bunch of stills of the gang who worked at his joint from time to time. I plied her with liquor and she is a girl who will take a drink if she has to knock you down to get the bottle.

After the third or fourth she went into her modest bedroom and threw things around and dug the bunch of stills out of the bottom of an old trunk.

But I was watching her without her knowing it and she slipped one out of the packet and hid it. So after a while I snuck in there and grabbed it. He lifted it and stared at it and his lips quirked at the corners. Haw, haw. Velma Valento, huh? What happened to this doll? Florian says she died-but that hardly explains why she hid the photo. Why did she hide it? In the end, after I told her about the Moose being out, she seemed to take a dislike to me.

By the way, he was in for a bank job. That means a reward. Who got it? Maybe he knows who. That would be another job he would give time to. Sit down a minute. Apparently this Velma is dead, if Mrs. That was all I was interested in. Even big guys. He smiled. When I was about a yard from the door, I went back and opened it again quietly and looked in. He was sitting in the same position pushing his thumbs at each other. He looked worried. His mouth was still open. I shut the door again and went away.

His other hand held a brush poised in the air, as if he might be going to do a little work after a while, if somebody made a down payment.

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His face was aging, saggy, full of the disgust of life and the thickening effects of liquor. But it had a hard cheerfulness that I liked, and the eyes were as bright as drops of dew.

I was looking at him across my office desk at about four-thirty when the phone rang and I heard a cool, supercilious voice that sounded as if it thought it was pretty good.

You have been recommended to me as a man who can be trusted to keep his mouth shut. We can discuss a matter. Do you know where that is? Well, Cabrillo Street is rather hard to find. The streets down here are all laid out in a pattern of interesting but intricate curves. I should suggest that you walk up the steps from the sidewalk cafe. If you do that, Cabrillo is the third street you come to and my house is the only one on the block.

At seven then? Montemar Vista is quite a distance. Are you particular about the nature of the employment? Nice use of the subjunctive mood. The end of my foot itched, but my bank account was still trying to crawl under a duck. I thought Mr. Rembrandt had a faint sneer on his face. I got the office bottle out of the deep drawer of the desk and took a short drink. That took the sneer out of Mr. Rembrandt in a hurry. A wedge of sunlight slipped over the edge of the desk and fell noiselessly to the carpet.

I had filled and lit a pipe when the telephone rang again. It was Nulty this time. His voice sounded full of baked potato. Malloy went to see that Florian dame. My upper lip suddenly felt a little cold. I thought you had him cornered. We get a call from some old window-peeker on West Fifty-four.

Two guys was to see the Florian dame. Number one parked the other side of the street and acted kind of cagey. Looked the dump over good before he went in. Was in about an hour. Six feet, dark hair, medium heavy built. Come out quiet.

Well, Number Two was the Moose. Guy in loud clothes as big as a house. This was about a hour after you was there, she says. He goes in fast and is in about five minutes only. Just before he gets back in his car he takes a big gat out and spins the chamber. A nifty. The old lady misses one too. The Florian dame has skipped out. So they report back and go on about the job. So about an hour, maybe hour and a half after that, the old lady phones in again and says Mrs.

Lewin Lockridge Grayle, the young wife of a wealthy and influential Bay City resident. Grayle is a ravishing blonde whom Grayle met when she was singing for the radio station he owned. She married him in Europe under an assumed name to keep her background secret. Anne offers to have her hire Marlowe to find the necklace.

Marlowe examines some marijuana cigarettes he found on Marriott's body and discovers the card of a psychic, Jules Amthor. He makes an appointment to see him.

On a hunch, he investigates Mrs. Florian's house and discovers Marriott held a trust deed on it, meaning he could foreclose on her at will. Following up with Mrs. Florian, she reveals she was once a servant for Marriott's family, and Marlowe suspects she was somehow blackmailing him.

Marlowe visits Mrs. Grayle, who finds him attractive and hires him, which he can use as an excuse to continue investigating the two murders. They make a date to meet again at the club of a local hoodlum, Laird Brunette, near the spot where Marriott was killed. At Amthor's office Marlowe probes him for his connection to Marriott and the drugs.

Amthor calls in a pair of Bay City detectives out of their jurisdiction to arrest Marlowe, claiming Marlowe tried to blackmail him, but instead of taking him to jail they knock him unconscious and lock him up in a private hospital run by Dr. Sonderborg, a drug dealer, who keeps him docile with drug injections. He escapes, but on the way out he sees Malloy in another room.

He discusses the case with Randall, who is annoyed at his persistence in investigating the case. They suspect Marriott of blackmailing wealthy women, in league with Amthor, and return to Mrs. Florian's, only to find her murdered, apparently shaken to death by Moose Malloy. Because of the involvement of the Bay City cops Amthor called in, Marlowe visits the corrupt Bay City police chief, John Wax, who brushes him off until Marlowe mentions that he's been hired by Mrs.

Marlowe is then told that Malloy may be hiding out on a gambling boat anchored beyond the three-mile limit and run by Brunette, who also controls the corrupt city government in Bay City.

Marlowe sneaks on board with the help of Red Norgaard, another honest cop fired by Bay City, and despite being caught by Brunette, persuades him to pass a message through his criminal network to Malloy. Marlowe calls Mrs. Grayle, ostensibly to have her pick him up at his apartment for their date.

Malloy, responding to Marlowe's message, shows up first and hides when Mrs.I could get it done for you. Farewell, My Lovely , like many of Chandler's novels, was written by what he called cannibalising previous short stories [1] —taking previously written short stories and altering them to fit together as a novel. I shall be carrying a large amount of money and it is not my money.

No Velma heah, brother. It seemed to be at the end of a street called Camino de la Costa.