The Black-Eyed Blonde: A Philip Marlowe Novel by Benjamin Black Page A

house?”
    The slice of Triple-Cocoa Fondant Delight arrived. Mrs. Langrishe, her little eyes turning to greedy slits, examined it under her magnifying glass, intent as Sherlock himself. “Richard is not a bad fellow,” she said, as if I’d criticized her son-in-law. “Bone-idle, of course.” She ate a forkful of her cake. “Oh, now, that’s good,” she said. “Mm-mmm.”
    I wondered what the doctors would say if they saw her gobbling down this toxic delight. “Anyway,” I said, “are you going to tell me why you’ve asked me here?”
    “I told you—I wanted to get a look at you.”
    “Forgive me, Mrs. Langrishe, but now that you’ve had a look, I think—”
    “Oh, stop,” she said placidly. “Get down off your high horse. I’m sure my daughter is paying you handsomely”—I might have told her that, in fact, her daughter hadn’t paid me a dime so far—“so you can spare a few minutes for her poor old mother.”
    Patience, Marlowe, I told myself; patience. “I can’t talk to you about your daughter’s business,” I said. “That’s between her and me.”
    “Sure it is. Did I say it wasn’t?” She had a dab of cream on her chin. “But she is my daughter, and I can’t help wondering why she’d need to hire a private detective.”
    “She told you—”
    “I know, I know. The precious pearl necklace that she lost.” She turned to me. I tried not to look at that blob of white on her chin. “What kind of a fool do you take me for, Mr. Marlowe?” she asked, almost sweetly, with a sort of smile. “It’s nothing to do with pearls. She’s in some sort of trouble, isn’t she. Is it blackmail?”
    “I can only say it again, Mrs. Langrishe,” I repeated wearily, “I’m not in a position to discuss your daughter’s business with you.”
    She was still watching me, and now she nodded. “I know that,” she said. “I heard you the first time.”
    She put down her fork, gave a sated sigh, and wiped her mouth with her napkin. I was toying with the thought of ordering a drink, something with bitters and a sprig of green stuff in it, but decided against it. I could imagine Mrs. Langrishe fixing a sardonic eye on the glass.
    “Know anything about perfume, Mr. Marlowe?” she asked.
    “I know it when I smell it.”
    “Sure, sure. But do you know anything about the manufacture of it? No? I thought not.” She settled back in her chair and did a sort of shimmy inside her pink suit. I felt a lecture coming and put myself as best I could into what I thought would seem a receptive attitude. What was I doing here? Maybe I’m too much of a gentleman for my own good.
    “Most people in the perfume business,” Mrs. Langrishe said, “base their products on attar of roses. My secret is that I use only what is called rose absolute , which is got not by distillation but by the solvents method. It’s a far superior product. Know where it comes from?”
    I shook my head; it was all I was required to do: listen, nod, shake my head, be attentive.
    “Bulgaria!” she crowed, in the tone of a poker player slapping down a straight flush. “That’s right, Bulgaria. They do the harvesting in the morning, before the sun is up, which is when the flowers are at their most fragrant. It takes at least two hundred and fifty pounds of petals to produce an ounce of rose absolute, so you can imagine the cost. Two hundred and fifty pounds for one ounce—think of that!” Her gaze turned dreamy. “I made my fortune on a flower. Can you credit it? The damask rose, Rosa damascena . ’Tis a beautiful thing, Mr. Marlowe, one of God’s gifts bestowed upon us for nothing, out of His great good bounty.” She sighed again, contentedly. She was rich, she was happy, and she was full of Triple-Cocoa Fondant Delight. I envied her a little. Then her look darkened. “Tell me what my daughter hired you for, Mr. Marlowe, will you? Will you do that?”
    “No, Mrs. Langrishe, I won’t. I can’t.”
    “And I suppose you won’t