Free download of The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler. Available in PDF, ePub and Kindle. lyubimov.info All New Design Author: Raymond Chandler. Author Bio for Chandler, Raymond. Author Image. Due to his straitened financial circumstances during the Great Depression, Chandler turned to his Proofreaders Canada, we pride ourselves on producing the best ebooks you can find. If the book is under copyright in your country, do not download or Author: Chandler, Raymond Thornton () Edition used as base for this ebook : New York: Alfred A. Knopf, [The Raymond Chandler Omnibus].
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Read online or download for free graded reader ebook A Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler of upper-intermediate level you can download in epub, mobi, . Raymond Thornton Chandler was a British-American novelist and screenwriter. At age forty-four, Raymond Chandler decided to become a detective fiction writer . The High Window by Raymond Chandler - free #EPUB or #Kindle download from /lyubimov.info Pulp Fiction Book, Crime Fiction, The Miracle At Speedy Motors().pdf for free at raidebook.
Raymond Thornton Chandler was a British-American novelist and screenwriter. At age forty-four, Raymond Chandler decided to become a detective fiction writer after losing his job as an oil company executive during the Depression. In addition to his short stories, Chandler published seven full novels during his lifetime, his first novel being The Big Sleep , and all but Playback have been made into motion pictures. Chandler had an immense stylistic influence on American popular literature, and is considered by many to be a founder, along with Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain and other Black Mask writers, of the hard-boiled school of detective fiction. The final complete novel by Raymond Chandler, featuring his iconic creation Philip Marlowe.
This tale of murder, thievery, and general villainy, brilliantly evokes the Dickensian squalor and evil of the East End of London in the second half of the eighteenth century. The story is told through the eyes of a nine year old boy who goes to live with his grandfather in an old inn, situated beside the Thames.
Many of the events are only half understood by the boy but the reader is left in no doubt about what is really going on as the tale moves seamlessly to its violent conclusion. However the setting and the period are very much removed from those of "The Hole in the Wall. The charge is denied by the women and they engage a local solicitor to act on their behalf. He becomes engrossed in the case and it finally drives him to step outside of the ordered world of a country solicitor.
A brief quote on the back of a paperback edition of the book credits a reviewer with stating that it is "one of the most intriguing detective stories ever written.
As with Morrison's evocation of the East End, Tey's evocation of the setting of her novel is superb and the twists and turns in the plot are made entirely believable by Tey's ability to "lay the groundwork" for each development well in advance of its occurrence. Both of these novels are well worth a read and both ebooks are no further than a mouse-click away. Check them out on this page. Project Gutenberg Australia a treasure-trove of literature treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership.
Other Works: The zip archive includes the html text and images. His sport is chess yet he does not play against anybody. He just replays games of chess masters and solves chess puzzles. His brushes with danger and death he just narrates matter-of-factly.
In one scene a rich, powerful, mean-spirited guy comes to his office. After some tough guy dialogue Marlowe slugs the visitor which made the latter double up in pain while his bodyguard--certainly armed--is just outside. When Marlowe later meets the bodyguard he insults him on his face. Yet they left Marlowe unharmed. Marlowe befriends a down on his luck war veteran with the scars to prove it. Then he finds out that Terry Lennox has a very wealthy nymphomaniac wife, who he's divorced and re-married and who ends up dead.
Limit the size to characters. However, note that many search engines truncate at a much shorter size, about characters. Your suggestion will be processed as soon as possible. Due to his straitened financial circumstances during the Great Depression, Chandler turned to his latent writing talent to earn a living, teaching himself to write pulp fiction by studying the Perry Mason story formula of Erle Stanley Gardner.
Chandler's first professional work, "Blackmailers Don't Shoot", was published in Black Mask magazine in ; his first novel, The Big Sleep, was published in , featuring his famous Philip Marlowe detective character speaking in the first person. An obvious plainsclothesman 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 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: Clean and cheerful. You're looking right well today. Ain't seen one in years. I leaned on the counter and started to spin a half dollar on the bare, scarred wood of the counter.
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. It used to be, it seems. Maybe you remember? 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. 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: 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. I told him what had happened at Florian's and why. He stared at me solemnly and shook his bald head. I nodded. Malloy would probably have said something if the name had been changed. But who ran it? The name of that pore sinner was Florian.
Mike Florian—". The Negro spread his gentle brown hands. His voice was sonorous and sad. 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. He corked the bottle firmly and pushed it across the counter.
I thank you. Your method of approach is soothin' to a man's dignity Left a widow. Name of Jessie. 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. The Negro bent regretfully and heaved a city directory up on top of the desk and pushed it towards me. He closed his eyes.
The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler: FREE Book Download
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.
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. On the porch stood one lonely wooden rocker, and the afternoon breeze made the unpruned shoots of last year's poinsettias tap-tap against the cracked stucco wall.
A line of stiff yellowish half-washed clothes jittered on a rusty wire in the side yard. The bell didn't work so I rapped on the wooden margin of the screen door.
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. She had weedy hair of that vague color which is neither brown nor blond, that hasn't enough life in it to be ginger, and isn't clean enough to be gray. Her body was thick in a shapeless outing flannel bathrobe many moons past color and design. It was just something around her body.
Her toes were large and obvious in a pair of man's slippers of scuffed brown leather. Florian whose husband once ran a place of entertainment on Central Avenue?
Mike Florian? She thumbed a wick of hair past her large ear. Her eyes glittered with surprise. Her heavy clogged voice said:. She stared at me a long dreary minute. Then with effort she unhooked the door and turned away from it. I stepped through the door and hooked the screen again.
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 else 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 superannuated streetwalkers. The woman sat down in the rocker and flopped her slippers and looked at me. I looked at the radio and sat down on the end of a davenport. She saw me looking at it. A bogus heartiness, as weak as a Chinaman's tea, moved into her face and voice.
Then she tittered. I don't get cops calling on me much. Her titter contained a loose alcoholic overtone. 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. I don't know what last name she used except that it wouldn't be her real one.
I'm trying to trace her for her folks.
Your place on Central is a colored place now, although they haven't changed the name, and of course the people there never heard of her. 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. The feet in the man's slippers didn't move. 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.
The woman's eyes became fixed in an incredulous stare. Then suspicion climbed all over her face, like a kitten, but not so playfully. What's the gag, mister? She blew her nose again, on one of the dirtiest handkerchiefs I ever saw. Her eyes stayed on the bottle. Suspicion fought with thirst, and thirst was winning. It always does. You wouldn't know her? I don't suppose you went there much.
The Long Goodbye
Just hold it careful, mister. This ain't no time to drop anything. 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. What was we talkin' about?
I went over and stood the bottle on an end beside her. She reached for it. Who you say you was? I took out a card and gave it to her. She read it with her tongue and lips, dropped it on a table beside her and set her empty glass on it. You ain't said that, mister. Here's to crime. I sat down and rolled a cigarette around in my fingers and waited. She either knew something or she didn't. If she knew something, she either would tell me or she wouldn't. It was that simple.
Song and dance. Nice legs and generous with 'em. She went off somewheres. How would I know what them tramps do? Help yourself 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 buys me a drink is a pal. But when I like a guy, the ceiling's the limit.
She was as cute as a washtub. She got up out of the rocker, sneezed, almost lost the bathrobe, slapped it back against her stomach and stared at me coldly. 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. The big new handsome radio in the corner whispered of dancing and love with a deep soft throbbing note like the catch in a torch singer's voice. 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 hall. 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. Newspaper stills. Not that them tramps ever got in no newspapers except by way of the police blotter.
People from the joint they are. They're all the bastard left me—them and his old clothes. I leafed through the bunch of shiny photographs of men and women in professional poses. 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. But their faces were as threadbare as a bookkeeper's office coat.
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. You couldn't tell from the photographs. I looked them over casually, without interest and tied the tape again. She leered over the bottle her right hand was grappling with unsteadily. Thick cunning played on her face, had no fun there and went somewhere else.
That troubled her. Every girl has a photo somewhere, if it's only in short dresses with a bow in her hair.
I should have had it. She reached for the glass and I turned and walked swiftly through the square arch into the dining room, into the hall, into the cluttered bedroom with the open trunk and the spilled tray. 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. It was a shot more or less in the dark, and it didn't hit anything. She blinked twice and tried to lift her nose with her upper lip. Some dirty teeth showed in a rabbit leer. He's wandering, with a forty-five gun in his hand. He killed a nigger over on Central this morning because he wouldn't tell him where Velma was.
Now he's looking for the fink that turned him up eight years ago. A white look smeared the woman's face. She pushed the bottle against her lips and gurgled at it. Some of the whiskey ran down her chin. A lovely old woman. 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 pompom on the top, her fluffed out hair had a dark tinge that might have been red.
The face was in profile but the visible eye seemed to have gaiety in it. I wouldn't say the face was lovely and unspoiled, I'm not that good at faces. 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. It was signed across the lower right hand corner: She made no sound except thick breathing. I slipped the photo back into the envelope and the envelope into my pocket. The tawny mangled brows worked up and down. 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 stood there looking at her, not saying anything, not thinking of anything particular to say. 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.
It might have been an act, but I didn't care. 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.
In the next house a window curtain was drawn aside and a narrow intent face was close to the glass, peering, an old woman's face with white hair and a sharp nose. Old Nosey checking up on the neighbors. There's always at least one like her to the block.
I waved a hand at her. The curtain fell. I went back to my car and got into it and drove back to the 77th Street Division, and climbed upstairs to Nulty's smelly little cubbyhole of an office on the second floor. Nulty didn't seem to have moved. 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 better. 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 he'll do is break into some big house where the folks are away. Lots of 'em there, old-fashioned places too far downtown now and hard to rent. He'll break in one and we got him bottled. What you been doing? I said: He wouldn't ride a street car. He had money. Look at the clothes he was wearing. He couldn't wear stock sizes. They must have been made to order. This place called Florian's was under the same name when it was a white night trap.
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. The man's name was Mike Florian. He's dead some years, but his widow is still around.
She lives at West 54th Place. Her name is Jessie Florian. She's not in the phone book, but she is in the city directory. I took in a pint of bourbon with me. She's a charming middle-aged lady with a face like a bucket of mud and if she has washed her hair since Coolidge's second term, I'll eat my spare tire, rim and all.
Florian about Velma. You remember, Mr. Nulty, the redhead named Velma that Moose Malloy was looking for? I'm not tiring you, am I, Mr.
Florian said she didn't remember Velma. 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.
FAREWELL, MY LOVELY
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. I reached into my pocket and laid the Pierrot girl on his desk. He lifted it and stared at it and his lips quirked at the corners. I could of used a piece of that once. Haw, haw. Velma Valento, huh? What happened to this doll? In the end, after I told her about the Moose being out, she seemed to take a dislike to me.
That seems impossible, doesn't it? I've told you the facts and given you the exhibit. If you can't get somewhere on this set-up, nothing I could say would help. It's still a shine killing. Wait'll we get the Moose. Hell, it's eight years since he saw the girl unless she visited him in the pen. 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.