Resumen: Farewell…

Farewell, My Lovely resumida, para aquellos que quieren conocer de un vistazo de qué se trata la novela de Raymond Chandler…

El detective privado Marlowe se encuentra con el ex-presidiario Moose Malloy entrando al club Florian. Malloy está buscando a su novia Velma después de varios años. El club tiene nuevos dueños por lo que nadie conoce a la chica. Malloy mata al dueño y escapa. El caso es asignado al inoperante teniente Nulty, quien no tiene interés en resolver el asesinato de un negro. Marlowe decide buscar a la chica.

Marlowe encuentra a la viuda del dueño anterior del club, quien declara que la chica de Malloy ha muerto. Marlowe recibe la llamada de un tal Lindsay Marriott quien le pide que lleve un dinero para recuperar una joya robada. En la noche Marlowe es golpeado desde atrás. Cuando despierta Marriott yace muerto a su lado. Una encantadora pasante, Anne Riordan, lo encuentra y lo lleva a casa.

Anne le explica a Marlowe que ella es la hija de un policía que fue obligado a renunciar debido a los oficiales corruptos de la central. Anne averigua que el collar robado pertenece a la señora Grayle, una atractiva rubia que se casara con un millonario.

Marlowe investiga a la señora Florian y descubre que Marriott tenía un documento sobre la casa de la mujer que podía excluirla de la misma. En el cuerpo de Marriott, Marlowe había encontrado una tarjeta de un doctor Jules Amthor.

Farewell, My Lovely

Farewell, My Lovely es una novela de Raymond Chandler, quien la escribió en 1940. Farewell … es la segunda novela que muestra al detective privado Philip Marlow.

IT WAS ONE OF THE MIXED BLOCKS over on Central Avenue, the blocks that are not yet all Negro. I had just come out of a three-chair barber shop where an agency thought a relief barber named Dimitrios Aleidis might be working. It was a small matter. His wife said she was willing to spend a little money to have him come home.

I never found him, but Mrs. Aleidis never paid me any money either.

It was a warm day, almost the end of March, and I stood outside the barber shop looking up at the extended neon sign of a second floor dine and dice emporium called Florian’s. A man was looking up at the sign too. He was looking up at the dusty windows with a sort of ecstatic fixity of expression, like a muscular immigrant catching his first sight of the Statue of Liberty. He was a big man but not more than 1, 95 meters tall and not wider than a beer truck. He was about 3 meters away from me. His arms hung loose at his aides and a forgotten cigar smoked behind his enormous fingers.

Slim quiet Negroes passed up and down the street and stared at him with darting side glances. He was worth looking at. He wore an untidy borsalino hat, a rough gray sports coat with white golf balls on it for buttons, a brown shirt, a yellow tie, pleated gray flannel trousers and alligator shoes with white explosions on the toes. From his outer breast pocket cascaded a show handkerchief of the same brilliant yellow as his tie. There were a couple of colored feathers tucked into the band of his hat, but he didn’t really need them. Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.