Marlowe

Man on TV: War continues in Europe.

Hitler has suggested that any questions

over the future of Poland will be settled entirely

between Germany and Russia.

He also stated that he regards

the Czechoslovak Question as closed.

Speaking at Washington,

President Roosevelt made no comment as to...

The name's Cavendish.

A Miss Cavendish.

Perhaps it's a first name, Cavendish?

Um, cigarette?

The cigarettes you keep for your clients,

are they better or worse than what you smoke?

They're the same.

Perhaps it is a first name, Cavendish.

It's... a good first name.

Mm.

Please.

How private exactly are your investigations, Mr. Marlowe?

What can I do for you, Mrs. Cavendish?

Mm, you are a detective.

I'd like you to find someone for me.

Mm-hmm.

Nico Peterson.

He was my lover, he disappeared without saying goodbye.

When you say disappeared, do you mean out of your life

or out of the world?

I don't know, that's why I'm here.

Where was your husband, Mrs. Cavendish,

when your lover Nico Peterson disappeared?

In retrospect...

do call me Cavendish without the Missus.

I like it.

Was your lover the sort of man to disappear

with you as a lover?

Normally, they don't disappear easily.

No, I bet they don't.

They stay around,

climb trellises, scenes in restaurants,

lie down in the road, promise you anything.

Oh, I know how it goes.

Do you lie down in the road, Mr. Marlowe?

- Drink? - Please.

Well, he's tall, like you.

Bit of a weaker man.

He dresses nice, meticulously.

What does that say about a man?

Does Mr. Peterson get money from his profession

or does he just profess his profession?

You seem to assume that I was involved

with someone unsuitable.

Yes, unless you were unsuitable for him.

Go to hell, you pathetic little...

Would it be accurate to say that Mr. Peterson

would be a marginal person in motion pictures?

- Apologies, sir. - Yes. Alright.

It would be accurate,

it would be very accurate indeed.

Man 1: Go to hell, you pathetic...

We would meet at the Corbata Club.

Do you know it?

How did Mr. Peterson know the Corbata Club?

Was he your guest

or the kind of guy who was anybody's guest?

My husband and I have an arrangement.

May I ask, is your husband homosexual?

No. He isn't remotely that interesting.

He likes polo, alcohol, waitresses

and my money.

Your money, Mrs. Cavendish?

I beg your pardon, Mr. Marlowe.

I'm asking if the money is yours.

My father was in oil, he's dead.

You'd know my mother, but we won't discuss her now.

Did you conduct your affair with Mr. Peterson at the club?

We weren't meeting in the horse sheds, Mr. Marlowe.

What did he not show up for?

An assignation.

I telephoned him a few times, no answer,

and then I went to his house the following week.

The milk hadn't been canceled

and the newspapers were piled up on his porch.

Did he have things to hide?

Haven't we all?

What do you think has become of Mr. Peterson?

Told you, I want a set of fresh eyes

and yours come highly recommended.

Maybe you'll find out what I can't.

My name's really Clare, like the county.

You know the county?

Yeah, in Ireland. I know it well.

My mother was in pictures, you'd know her.

It's rather embarrassing with the upper class.

You're very perceptive and sensitive, Mr. Marlowe.

I imagine it gives you trouble.

He ain't home, bo.

What? He owe you dough or make time with your wife?

That's the way it is, huh?

Yeah, I'd say so, and good for him.

He's not a bad guy, if you don't trust people anyway. I don't.

I think he's from Cleveland.

That's my place across the street,

he used to come over sometimes,

pass the time of day.

Give me a smoke.

How, uh, how long has he been gone?

Oh, I guess I last seen him seven weeks ago.

You, uh, you see him leave?

No, I just noticed he was gone.

How did you know?

Well, he wasn't there anymore.

That means there weren't any women banging on his front door,

or throwing a shoe at the house.

I mean, I did pretty good in my day, but not like him.

Are you a cop?

Sort of.

A private dick ain't no cop.

Yeah, you're not the first one to come around asking about him.

A pair of wetbacks showed up last week,

and they was all gussied up, but a beaner in a suit

and fancy necktie, it's still a beaner, right?

No, sometimes he's the King of Spain.

King of Spain don't ride around in no Lincoln,

with a Mexican re-spray.

Yeah, I used to work in the low end of the motor trade myself,

it was two beaners in a hot car

that had been across the border and back.

Oh, let's start at the beginning.

This guy's been looked at, sure.

Grifts, alienations of affection,

parking tickets, drunk at a social gathering.

And in the early days, public solicitation.

Now nobody knew he ever had a house,

he's down as domicile unknown.

He does have a house, I was there.

Yeah, well, there's having a house

and being the person paying for it, I suppose.

Who was paying for it?

Well, I think you'll find he was paying cash

from his no visible means of support.

Hope the lady friend looking for him looks good in black.

He was killed. October 22nd, hit and run.

Outside the Corbata Club.

You owe me lunch.

Liquid or regular?

"Deceased was struck by a vehicle, make unknown,

driver unknown, on Bay Canyon Drive

just outside the Corbata Club.

Deceased has numerous injuries including

gross comminuted fracture right side of his skull.

Death be not proud."

I guess there's no point in asking for an invite.

Oh, none at all, sir.

Uh-huh.

Oh, hey!

You looking for a gardening job?

Actually, no, a membership form.

Albert. We've got a hedge hopper here.

He needs trimming.

A ver.

- Hey, buddy. - A ver.

Maybe there's a reason you're unpopular with policemen.

Keep getting, I don't know...

punched, locked up,

and almost, but not quite, charged

with accessory, obstruction, etcetera.

- And at your age. - It's my manner, Joe.

Yup, starting to wish you still had your pension?

Sure you are.

Look, Marlowe, listen...

This guy got killed after getting sauced in there.

The remains smelled like a brewery,

and he had marks up and down his arms,

his head popped like a pumpkin.

The Corbata Club likes to make it nice,

it does not like trouble.

Hit and run is two crimes at least.

Don't fuck with me, this is LA.

These guys like Peterson

are a dime a dozen, they come out here,

they fail a screen test and they do what they've to do.

Could any member of the Corbata Club

not know that he was dead?

From our own Chief of Detectives

to the new Ambassador to England,

I find it highly unlikely it didn't come up over cream tea

that a scumbag had caught a Buick at the front entrance.

Did they ask you to broom the case?

No one has to ask, my brother.

Can I see the police file?

We don't need it.

Why you looking for this guy?

A lady wanted to find him.

Well, he'll wait until she comes by.

Go back to Boston, to that miserable goddamn family.

And then onto England, the court of Saint fucking James.

You're not the only one who's done with this.

Just remember one thing.

Oh, please, darling, not another.