“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.”
We drove the few blocks to my office, and Chandler turned his head to soak in the smell of Lysol and the atmosphere. I introduced him to Shelly, who was working on a regular customer, a kid who looked like Alfalfa in Our Gang. Shelly was trying to straighten the kid’s teeth or kill him in the attempt.
I told Shelly that Chandler wrote detective stories, but Shelly had never heard of him.
“You got an overbite problem there, Ray,” Shelly said, pointing his cigar at Chandler and looking over the top of his thick glasses. “I’ll take a look when I finish with my friend here.”
“Some other time,” said Chandler with a smile.
“Suit yourself,” shrugged Shelly, making it clear the loss was Chandler’s. The kid in the chair was sitting with his mouth wide open. I motioned to him to close it. Shelly breathed on his mirror and wiped it clear on his dirty coat before turning to the kid, whose mouth flew open as if it were hinged.
“Landlord’s a writer,” said Shelly probing the kid’s mouth. “Writes poetry. You should meet him. He used to be a wrestler.”
“I used to think I was a poet,” said Chandler. The sad look started to cloud his face, and I hustled him into my office.
I picked up the phone and asked the operator if there was a directory listing for John Franklin Peese. She said there wasn’t which didn’t surprise me. There were a few ways to try to track down Peese. I could try theatrical agents in the hope that he was in entertainment, but it was a longshot. I could also ask my brother to see if Cash, the dead midget, had an address or number for Peese in his effects. If they knew each other, it was possible. But I doubted if Phil would give me the information.
I pulled out a phone book, sat Chandler at my desk, and told him to start at the A’s and call downtown hotels. I’d go back from the Z’s. When we hit the M’s, if we did before we got a lead, we’d talk it over. I told him we’d consider Downtown as a rectangle bordered by Alpine, Seventh, Figueroa, and Alameda. If we didn’t hit anything in that square we’d consider spreading it out or giving up on the idea.
“If they ask, say you’re the police,” I said. “If they want your name, make one up, but remember what it is. If they say they have no one named Peese, then say you’re a cop even if they don’t ask and find out if they have any midgets registered.”
He nodded and plunged eagerly into the book while I went out. I could hear him saying, “Alexandria Hotel?” when I closed the door. It might turn out to be one hell of a phone bill, but M.G.M. would pay it if I had to itemize every hotel called. There was a pay phone in the hall, and I left Shelly humming when I went to it with a pocketful of nickels.
Two of the first five hotels I called thought I was pulling some midget gag.
About fifteen minutes later, when I was about to give the operator the number of the Natick Hotel, Chandler hurried into the hall, looking both ways.
“Got it!” he yelled. I hung up and moved to his side.
The hotel was a big one downtown. Peese was registered under his own name and was in his room. Chandler had not asked to speak to him. He had thought fast and said he wanted to mail something to Peese and was confirming his address.
We got in the Buick, cut across the Figueroa, and went the few blocks downtown. While we drove, I told him about a case I’d been on in which I’d spent two weeks looking for a runaway husband who turned out to be hiding in a crawlspace in his own basement. Chandler smoked, listened and said more to himself than me, “Funny thing, civilization. It promises so much, and what it delivers is mass production of shoddy merchandise and shoddy people.”
There wasn’t time for much more conversation, and I had the feeling that a full day’s talk with Chandler in his present mood would send me running for the night watchman’s job my brother wanted me to take.
I found a space on the street, and we walked to the hotel. It had a doorman who recognized Chandler as a potential customer and accepted me as a character. I told Chandler to let me do the talking, and we crossed to the desk. There were two clerks, and one stepped forward with a slight smile.
“Yes?” he said.
“John Franklin Peese,” I said. “His room, please.”
The clerk looked at me and Chandler.
“I’ll announce you,” he said, and I put up a hand to stop him.