The Lady in the Lake by Raymond Chandler Page A

blonde, checked in here and stayed until time for the night train to El Paso. I think she must have taken that because she was in El Paso Sunday morning. She came here driving a Packard Clipper registered to Crystal Grace Kingsley, 965 Carson Drive, Beverly Hills. She may have registered as that, or under some other name, and she may not have registered at all. Her car is still in the hotel garage. I’d like to talk to the boys that checked her in and out. That wins another dollar—just thinking about it.”
    I separated another dollar from my exhibit and it went into his pocket with a sound like caterpillars fighting.
    “Can do,” he said calmly.
    He put his glass down and left the room, closing the door. I finished my drink and made another. I went into the bathroom and used some more warm water on my torso. While I was doing this the telephone on the wall tinkled and I wedged myself into the minute space between the bathroom door and the bed to answer it.
    The Texas voice said: “That was Sonny. He was inducted last week. Another boy we call Les checked her out. He’s here.”
    “Okay. Shoot him up, will you?”
    I was playing with my second drink and thinking about the third when a knock came and I opened the door to a small, green-eyed rat with a tight, girlish mouth.
    He came in almost dancing and stood looking at me with a faint sneer.
    “Drink?”
    “Sure,” he said coldly. He poured himself a large one and added a whisper of ginger ale, put the mixture down in one long swallow, tucked a cigarette between his smooth little lips and snapped a match alight while it was coming up from his pocket. He blew smoke and went on staring at me. The corner of his eye caught the money on the bed, without looking directly at it. Over the pocket of his shirt, instead of a number, the word
Captain
was stitched.
    “You Les?” I asked him.
    “No.” He paused. “We don’t like dicks here,” he added. “We don’t have one of our own and we don’t care to bother with dicks that are working for other people.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “That will be all.”
    “Huh?” The small mouth twisted unpleasantly.
    “Beat it,” I said.
    “I thought you wanted to see me,” he sneered.
    “You’re the bell captain?”
    “Check.”
    “I wanted to buy you a drink. I wanted to give you a buck. Here.” I held it out to him. “Thanks for coming up.”
    He took the dollar and pocketed it, without a word of thanks. He hung there, smoke trailing from his nose, his eyes tight and mean.
    “What I say here goes,” he said.
    “It goes as far as you can push it,” I said. “And that couldn’t be very far. You had your drink and you had your graft. Now you can scram out.”
    He turned with a swift tight shrug and slipped out of the room noiselessly.
    Four minutes passed, then another knock, very light. The tall boy came in grinning. I walked away from him and sat on the bed again.
    “You didn’t take to Les, I reckon?”
    “Not a great deal. Is he satisfied?”
    “I reckon so. You know what captains are. They have to have their cut. Maybe you better call me Les, Mr. Marlowe.”
    “So you checked her out.”
    “No, that was all a stall. She never checked in at the desk. But I remember the Packard. She gave me a dollar to put it away for her and to look after her stuff until train time. She ate dinner here. A dollar gets you remembered in this town. And there’s been talk about the car bein’ left so long.”
    “What was she like to look at?”
    “She wore a black and white outfit, mostly white, and a Panama hat with a black and white band. She was a neat blond lady like you said. Later on she took a hack to the station. I put her bags into it for her. They had initials on them but I’m sorry I can’t remember the initials.”
    “I’m glad you can’t,” I said. “It would be too good. Have a drink. How old would she be?”
    He rinsed the other glass and mixed a civilized drink for himself.
    “It’s mighty hard to