 Well, here we are, Mr. The Pirate's Cove. Only Bar and San Pedro catering to the seafaring trade we ain't tried yet. You're sure of that, huh? Mr. I've been driving his hack in this Berg since his self-starter. Sure, I'm sure. All right, wait for me. I'll only be a minute. Gladly. This kind of working for a living, I like. Sonny, I says you just insulted this lady who happens to be my guest. Hey, fuck it, put a hand on this, will you? Well, what's yours, mate? Little information, bucket. I was looking for a guy named Lash Lauderback. He's a friend of mine, about 6'6". He's built like a battle wagon. He takes his whiskey by the picture. Lash Lauderback's a buddy of yours, huh? Yeah. Why, what's wrong with him? He ain't got any manners, Landlubber. He swings before he so much as talks to him. Oh! You see, buddy, Lash Lauderback tore this joint apart less than two hours ago. I took five of us to get him out of here, so when you catch up to him, tell him to come on back. Tell him to drink it on the house. Like this! You got that message straight, sweetheart? Sure, yes, Casey. He looks like a bright boy with a good memory. Right, buddy? Right, fuck it. I've got a great memory. It was high time for me to get together with my client. A woman I'd never met named Daphne McGregor, who'd hired me by long-distance call to LA five hours earlier and a giant economy-sized devil-may-care hard-drinking sailor. One Lash Lauderback, who for some reason had to be aboard a ship she was sailing on at four in the AM. When I announced myself at the hotel desk of the San Pedro Biltmore and after a check call was told to go to room 113, the old Ruey-type night clerk who pointed the way arched one eyebrow until it nudged his two payback. I saw why when I was at the door of 113. Come right in, Mala. Daphne McGregor was long, glossy black hair, gently framing a face that was a color and texture of melted caramels, glinting sea-green eyes and full lips that were thin, subtle, coral-red, and stayed turned up at the corners in something a little more than a provocative smile. Come back into the patio, Mala. I was just feeding the captain. Just feeding the... I was starving the full captain! I was starving every day! Hey, is that the captain? Yes, but if he doesn't keep quiet, he's going to be the ex-captain stuffed in silence. See what you mean? Here you parasite eat. Your thumb, I see. Ah, he gets worse every day. Easy job, easy job. Well, Mala, I see by that bruise on your cheek that you found Lash all right. No, Miss McGregor, I only found some unhappy people who Lash had found earlier. You mean you don't know where he is? Mala, it's late. We've only got three hours left. You got it. Your thumb, I see. Your thumb, I see. Shut up, you! Come in on in the other room, Mala. I've got to be frank with you. Frank, like the real reason you offered me 500 bucks to tear this boozer away from his bottle? Yes, but he's no boozer. He has his flame, that's all. Not according to the gentleman at the Pirates Cove. Anyhow, your reason, Miss McGregor? Daphne will do. My reason, Mala, is very simple, like pearls. Ah, missing necklace worth thousands, maybe, huh? No, a missing bed worth millions. A missing... You mean on a half-shell? The real thing? Real and rare. What do you drink, Mala? Johnny Walker's suit, too? Yeah, it's fine. Can I help you? No need. Okay. Here. Oh, thanks. Now, Mala, listen hard. There isn't time to go over this twice. Happy days. You, too. Mala, my father was the best navigator in the Pacific. He was drowned last year in the storm at sea. He left me two things. A captain there and a map to a fortune. A bed of black pearls located on Parrot Island. My father named the pearl find the Parrot's bed. That's part A. Part B is Lash Lauterbeck. Lauterbeck and Teddy Peterson. Lash, the man you've got to find, is a cracker-jack American sailor who lost his first mate's papers for jumping ship in Borneo. And Peterson also a wild man from...? No, anything but. Peterson, Mala, was half the size and weight of Lash, but twice as smart. He has a bad leg, walks with a cane. I let them shortly after the war in Honolulu. They had $30,000. I had the map. We teamed up. Came back here, bought all the diver's gear and arranged for passage on the island lady. Ship that leaves tonight, huh? It'll be six months, Mala, at least before I could find another scowl. If we miss this, I don't want to wait. Yeah, but tell me, if Lash can't be found, why don't you and Peterson sail without him? Good question, but the answer is even better. Rupert Sembelin, a British-born Malayan raised louse who's right here in San Pedro now and who knows all about my plans. And because of Sembelin, who tried twice to buy the map and three times to steal it, I hid it in the lining of Lash's coat, a fact with which Lash does not know. And Peterson does? Yes. I sent wood an hour ago via a bellhop in writing, of course, to Ted's rooming house. It's 118 North Third Street. By the way, no phone. 118 North Third, huh? Lash stays there with him? No. We feared it would be harder on Rupert Sembelin if we lived in different places and he had to guess who had the map. Lash is at the YMCA, but don't waste your time. I haven't seen him since he checked in. Now, Mother, you know it all. Yeah, all except where I might find Lash. That brawl at the Pirate's Cove doesn't seem to tie in to Rupert Sembelin. No, but Rupert, or one of his little daggermen, was no doubt following Lash. It's our only chance. You can find Sembelin at his importer's office. It's a hole in the wall near the docks. 21 Harbor Road. The 500 I promised. Thanks. There'll be another 500 if you bring Lash back before 4 a.m. Anything else? Oh, one item, Daphne. Is there a chance that either Ted Peterson or Lash would cross you up for the map? Not the slightest. I can get to the island itself without the map. Sooner or later, I'll find the map. So you see, they'd have to kill me as well as steal the map. A million in black pearls? Yeah. Well, I'm on my way. Goodbye, Daphne. I'll do my best. Oh, Marlowe. Huh? Marlowe, one last point. Parrot Island isn't really the name of the island. No? Just in case you were thinking of... well, thinking of black pearls and Marlowe. Bye, my Daphne. 21 Harbor Drive belonged near the docks, all right? But Shanghai, not San Pedro. It was a small, dimly-lit, twisted-frame building where the warped dirty and sandwiched type by a couple of flanking stone factories like a meek 120-pound commuter caught in between two fat ladies in the rush hour. And the man who answered my knock and admitted that he was Rupert Sembelin in a pleasant voice was maybe 50. Looked like an underfed toad. Can I be of some assistance, sir? Yeah, I hope so. My name is Marlowe, Mr. Sembelin. I'm an investigator for the San Pedro Port Authority. Oh, yeah. Yeah, we're looking for a sailor in trouble named Lash Lauderback. You know him? Why, yes, I do. Oh? Haven't seen him for months, though. Not since... Hmm? Not since Honolulu, I believe. Now, Mr. Marlowe, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'm quite busy and load of invoices, you know. But if you'll call tomorrow, I'll be only too glad to go into this further. Good night, sir. Sembelin had invoices to attend to like I had to spend the night mounting butterflies. I knew that as well as I knew that the takey had done had been at somebody behind me. So when I turned and started away from the place, I slipped my right hand around the 38 in my pocket and thought of Daphne McGregor's remark about Brother Rupert's little daggerman. But just then it came. A knife a foot long that splintered into the wooden porch behind me. Before I could get back to my feet, the small shadowy figure with raised arm I glimpsed behind a stepped-down Hudson was across the street near to an alley. And when I was there and after him, I found only moonlight and the empty crack pavement and a long, long line of loading ramps. I knew I was licked. But it wasn't until I turned back toward the man with the invoices that I knew just how badly. Number 21, Harbour Road was lights out in one parked Hudson missing. Obviously, Mr. Rupert Samblin hadn't wanted to be followed. Well, Ted Peterson's rooming house on North 3rd Street was my only chance of picking up a lead on Lash Slatterback. Now, Mr. Riley, here's the filthy money you were so afraid you'd never see. All of it. $11.28 in stew and common. Plus, Mr. Riley, $5 in interest. Abbey players in San Pedro? Oh, that surprises you, doesn't it? Well, Mr. Licko Merchant, it shouldn't. Each ox will flick at me only keep a rooming house. But he's a gentleman he means this day. Oh, hello. Hello. Just practice enough of it. I guess the screen doors is only good for keeping the flies out. All right. Mr. Flick, I'd like to see Ted Peterson. Peterson, is it? Do you have a message? Do you like that bellhop? I'd like to see Mr. Peterson. Oh, very well now. I'll call him. Mr. Peterson. Mr. Peterson. It's a great PA system. Coming. Coming up. What is it now? More talk about it? Oh, sorry. I didn't know you had company. He doesn't. I'm here to see you, Ted. My name is Marlowe. I'm a private detective working for Daphne. And thanks, Mr. Flickered. He's here now. Oh, yes, of course he is. Well, there's no need for me any longer now, is there? Good night, gentlemen. Good night. Now look, Ted, in a tight bundle it's this. Lash is still missing his last scene at a joint called the Pirates Cove where he was in a brawl. You, of course, know he has the map on him. Yeah. Now, have you run into him at all in the last few hours? Oh, no, no, Marlowe. I've been right here. But you know, this isn't the first time old Lash has gone out and gotten himself... Yeah, but this time it may be different. Rupert Sambolin is on Laudabach's trail, I'm sure. Sambolin? Well, it does make it different. Peterson, I think you better get over to the San Pedro Biltmore and stay next to Daphne, huh? But why? We gotta find Lash. And keep everybody alive doing it. Sambolin already has his knife throwers out. If he finds Lash and gets the map, he'll start eliminating everybody. Oh, tell me, is there anything, no matter what, anything that Lash usually does at the tail end of a bender? Oh, yeah, Marlowe, yeah, there is. What? And it never fails. Once Lash is through drinking and fighting, he goes for the deck of anything that's surrounded by water. He stretches out in his back, looks at the stars, and sings until he, the sober, is up or falls asleep. That might do it, Ted. I'm gonna head back to the Pirate's Cove and work toward the water from there. You go to Daphne in a hurry, huh? Yeah, all right, Marlowe, but I still think we're gonna be okay. Lash has done this sort of thing a thousand times. Yeah, well, let's hope this makes it a thousand and one. I'll be in touch, Ted. It wasn't much to go on, but as I walked from the rooming house to my car, I tried to tell myself that Lash is kind, like the cows always come home. There was no reason for me to worry, but in the next second I changed my mind. No, no! It was Peterson back at the house. When I got there, he was hugging the floor and trembling like he had every right to, but he hadn't been scratched. The shaky finger he pointed behind him and in a line with the open screen door said someone else had been and then some. H. Oxwell Flickert was crumpled in the corner dead, a long, mean knife deep in his back. Marlowe, Marlowe, there was one of Samberlin's men, I'm sure, and it was after me. Marlowe, what can we do? Well, not much more than we were going to. Only first Ted you call the police, give him my name and say I'll explain later, and get the Daphne fast. Well, you look for Lash. Yeah, Lash. A guy someplace under a wide and starry sky. Should be a cinch. Ted Peterson was still staring at the knife between the landlord's shoulders as I went down the stairs, now on the clammy waterfront street again. It was two o'clock. That left me with less than a couple of hours to find Lash Latterback, the giant from Borneo, who was full to his ears with Roman probably fighting his back, singing to the stars somewhere in the jack-straw jumble of greasy pilings, tottering tech-together buildings and bobbing masks that were San Pedro Harbour. I decided to push my luck and head for the Pirate's Cove Bar again, since that remained as his last known contact with civilization. I parked on a side street away from the place and walked to the corner. Bucket, the owner, was just closing up. I watched as the last of his seamy clientele staggered off down the street and then, while he fought with the stubborn lock on the door, I moved up behind him. A crummy piece of junk. Some of these days... Hey, Bucket. The joint's closed. Don't you jerks ever get tired? Shove off. Go on. Beat it. Keep your shirt on. We've got a conversation to finish. I'm still looking for Lash Latterback. Oh, sure. Now I remember. He was in earlier, wasn't you, Bo? Yeah, that's right. Yeah. Me and my memory. I guess you didn't learn much. I learned just this much. This time, let's have a straight pitch. Stand up, heavy stand up, and listen to what I want out of you. It's very simple. I'll make it hard on us. A drunk was Lash when you finally got him out the door. Come on. Talk it up. Well, that guy... Don't get drunk. He just gets thick-skilled. Yeah? But he put away enough to stagger an elephant. You watched him when he left. Where was he headed? Down the street. That way? What's of interest down there? Nothing. A few empty warehouses, a beat-up salvage yard, and a backwash. That's all. Thanks. Now, wasn't that easy? The street narrowed to a dark silent alley, the tunnel for four blocks between hulking warehouses. Finally opened on a sagging rusty graveyard for old ships and ended abruptly at the brink of a stagnant backwash marked dead end. So I stopped and turned around, and that's when my headlights picked up a woman. She'd been leaning against the piling at the water's edge. She looked into my headlights for a minute, then flipped the cigarette away and soldered toward the car. This ain't private property, honey. I got a right to be here. Who says different? You cops. Always. Every time. Wait a minute, sister. I'm no cop. Uh-huh. So I'm taking the night off anyway. Hmm. You picked a swell spot for it. Didn't hear long? Why? Maybe I like all these old dead boats. Maybe I get a friendly feeling from them. Yeah, it could be. Also, maybe you saw an oversized sailor with a full-head of steam boil out this way, huh? No, afraid not, honey. Yeah. What did you hear him, then? If his singing voice compares with the rest of him, you couldn't have missed. Look, baby, it's worth ten bucks. Keep it. I... I heard somebody singing. From out there on the hulk someplace. Spooked me, gave me the blues. I was glad when it stopped. How long ago was it? Oh, quite a while. Sure to be gone by now, honey. Uh, how about lift back to the lights? Mm-hmm. No, I'm sorry, but I'm going out and have a look for the sailor. Thanks for the information. Okay, so I'll walk. It ain't the first time. I got a flashlight from my glove compartment and started out over the massive rotten, but still floating hulks. Finally, I found a catwalk of greasy planks that wormed its way through the deserted jumble of twisted steel, apparently at the farthest point, which was where I wanted to go. I was halfway out when I got an uncomfortable hunch that I was being watched. I stopped and listened. But there was no sound except the slow grinding of metal as the black water blows served softly. So I went on. The last ship was a squat ugly barge. Beyond it was the open harbor. I played my light over the deck to a hatch and saw that the cover had made new scratches and a rust. I got it open and stabbed my light down inside. Eight feet below at the foot of an iron ladder was the body of a big man, face down. On the back of his coat dead center was a large red stain where a knife had been. I had one foot on the ladder when that hunch came again. This time with plenty to back it up. I shot my light along the catwalk and for an instant caught a glistening yellow face. It was Rupert Sembelin. He ducked and ran. His head start got him almost to shore but after barking both shins and turning an ankle I got close enough to grab him by the shoulder and spin him around. Hey, get back. I'll kill you. Tonight, slimy, you've done all you're going to do. Yeah. You're making it. Good. I thought knives were your specialty. You're a regular lost. Yeah. Now let me go. Please. You don't know how through you are. This won't exactly get questions, answers Sembelin but it'll save a lot of time in the long run. Believe me. I tied Sembelin's wrist to a ton and a half of rusty anchor chain with a long piece of wire which I figured would hold him just in case he woke up before I got back. After that I found an outside phone near the salvage yard off a shack and called my client and Ted Peterson. They made it to where I was waiting in less than ten minutes. I ran with Daphne behind me and Peterson doing his best to bring up the rear with his cane slipping on the greasy planks. I let the man out along the catwalk toward the barge at the end. I hadn't told him yet that I'd found Lash dead but I didn't need to. Daphne sensed what was coming. You're good, Marlowe. You've been better than I expected. How'd you ever find this place? Breaks, Daphne. It's exactly the kind of place Lash would have ended up in. He was really a derelict too that's right. He is dead, isn't he? Yeah. Yeah, he's dead. Knife's the way it looked. I'm gonna miss him. He had the kind of rowdy power it takes to keep an 80 diving crew in line. Yeah? I'll find somebody else. Ted, I'm worried about it. It'll be tough on him. Coming, Ted. Yeah, this is it. Daphne the barge. Where is he, Marlowe? Where's Lash is? Down inside? That's right. I'll never put the knife in him. Hey, Daphne, wait a minute. Where's she going down there? Where's Lash? Where is he? What's happened to him? He's dead. Somebody stabbed him. Dead? Who did it? Sambolin? I don't know. Well, there's a good chance, except that a couple of things don't figure that way. Must have been Sambolin. I'll kill him for this, Marlowe. What things don't figure this? Lash was stabbed, you said, just like Flickett. Yeah, yeah. I've been thinking about that. Also about the fact that Sambolin followed me out here and ran when I spotted him. That's out of character for a guy who... What is it, Marlowe? See over there where my light is? That puddle of oil, you see? Footprints. Somebody made these. It was out here earlier tonight. Sambolin didn't get this far, and they're too small to be lashes. And something else, Marlowe? Yeah. Yeah, besides each one is a little... Never mind. I'll finish it for you. A little round mark made by a cane. This cane. Don't you try for your gun, Marlowe. Okay, Peterson. But you must have had a good reason. Lash was your best friend. Friend? Yeah, the one thing I always needed, Marlowe, strength. Strength. Enough to take anything he saw from a beautiful woman to a fortune in black pearls. I wanted to kill him. And tonight I got the perfect chance. The giant was drunk. Followed him out here from that bar. It was easy. It would have stayed easy if Daphne hadn't decided to hide the map on him. Yeah, the way it worked out. You killed him before you knew he had the map on him. Yeah, and then I couldn't risk coming out here alone a second time. Only chance was to steer you toward his body. But I didn't want you to find too much, Marlowe. I didn't want you to get too nosy. Too nosy like your landlord flick it, maybe? Exactly. He knew I lied to you about being home all night. Wanted to find out why, so I had to kill him as well. And that makes you next, Marlowe. What about Daphne? She's heard every word of this. You know when you got your back to her, Peterson? I can depend on Daphne, Marlowe. I love her. Now, with Lash out of the way, she'll love me. In any way, we're going to be together a long time because she wants those pearls more than anything else in the world. That's what you think, you idiot. Maybe if you've got a gun for Pete's sake, use it. I don't have a gun, Marlowe. Daphne, that map, did you find it? Sure, I found it. I have it right here. Fine. Now, you go on a shore, darling. You wait for me there. I wouldn't cross the street with you now. Don't you move, Marlowe. I mean you're a killer, Ted. Tell them now, run your gun, Ted. Look, Daphne, don't be a fool. It's ours now, all of it, darling. It's nobody's. It's not worth it, Ted. I'm burning this map right now. Burning it, Daphne. Listen. Here it goes. Look, sucker. A force in the flames. No, stop it. Put it off. No, Marlowe. Quick, you go. I'm sorry, baby, but thanks. An awful lot. It's okay, Marlowe. Honest. Maybe even better this way. I guess the little fire I started is all out now. I'm afraid it is. Yeah. Not enough left to bother with. And both my partners are gone, too. Well, that's that. I guess it's better I found out all this here tonight instead of someplace off the Melee coast. I'd like to be alone for a while, no, detective. You mind? I watched her walk away and thought about what she just said. And I took a long, last look at the fall-on little pile of ashes left on the rusty deck. Important ashes that had saved my life. Then I looked closer. And saw exactly what I expected. Daphne McGregor was walking fast when I caught up with her. I took her arm and turned her around. Hello, Mr. Marlowe. Where's that map? Out in the barge. Burned to a crisp. What you burned out there was a couple of paper napkins from your purse. I said you were good, Mr. You really are. Sure. You'd rather burn both feet off than lose that map, wouldn't you? Naturally. By the way, Marlowe, what are you doing for the next year or so? I'd like to spend them at a gorgeous spot off the Melee coast. Hey, take it easy, Tandoleo. I mean, Phil, if you ever gazed into a whole handful of black pearls as big as golf balls, they take your breath away and they're priceless. Would you, uh, also make tiffin for me? You know, I think I would. Mm-hmm. But there is one thing, Daphne. Uh-huh. Your best friends are oysters. Good night, baby. A beautiful green-eyed girl on a tropical island surrounded by a bed of black pearls. Mm-hmm. Something to think about. Well, when four o'clock came and Daphne's ship sailed out of the harbor with her and a map and a parrot all safely aboard, Marlowe, the jerk was standing on the pier waving goodbye. Waving goodbye to fun, adventure, romance. Oh, well. Maybe I'm getting old. Well, no, not old. Just, uh, careful.