The Black-Eyed Blonde: A Philip Marlowe Novel by Benjamin Black

They came back and told me of their grim find.”
    Funny how easily even people as sophisticated as Hanson will fall into the jargon of dime novels. Their grim find, indeed.
    “Is it possible for me to talk to Miss Stover?” I asked.
    He frowned. “I’m not sure. She married her young man shortly afterward, and they moved together to the East Coast. Not New York. Boston, maybe? I’m afraid I can’t remember.”
    “What’s her married name?”
    “Ah. There you have me. Only met the young man that one time. Introductions were perfunctory, in the circumstances.”
    Now it was my turn to do some heavy thinking. He watched me with a gleam of amusement. He seemed to be getting a lot of mild fun out of our encounter. “Well,” I said, “I guess she won’t be too hard to track down.” I could see he knew this was just talk, and knew I knew it, too.
    We walked on again. Around a bend in the path, we came on an elderly Negro turning the clay in a bed of roses—his was the spade I had heard at work a minute ago. He wore faded denim overalls, and his hair was a close cap of tight gray kinks. He gave us a quick, furtive glance, the whites of his eye showing, and I thought suddenly of Richard Cavendish’s high-strung horse looking down at me through the window of my car.
    “Good morning, Jacob,” Hanson called out. The old man did not reply, only gave him another nervous-eyed look and went on with his work. When we had passed, Hanson said quietly, “Jacob doesn’t talk much. He just appeared at the gate one day, frightened and starving. We’ve never succeeded in getting him to tell us where he came from or what had happened to him. Mr. Canning ordered that he be taken in, of course, and given shelter and something to do.”
    “Mr. Canning?” I said. “Who’s he?”
    “Oh, you don’t know? I thought you’d have found out everything like that, being an investigator. Wilber Canning is the founder of our club here. That’s Wilber with an e . In fact, his name is Wilberforce—his parents called him after William Wilberforce, the great English parliamentarian and leader of the abolitionist movement.”
    “Yeah,” I said, in as dry a tone as I could muster, “I think I’ve heard of him, all right.”
    “I’m sure you have.”
    “William Wilberforce, I mean.”
    “Mr. Canning is a dedicated humanitarian, as were his parents before him. His father set up the club, you know. Our aim is to help, insofar as we can, the less fortunate members of society. The elder Mr. Canning’s employment policy, which still holds today, directed that a certain number of positions be reserved for—well, for those in need of help and protection. You’ve met Jacob and Marvin, our gateman. If you’re around for long enough, you’ll come across some other deserving individuals who’ve found sanctuary here. The Cahuilla Club has an excellent reputation among the migrant fraternity.”
    “That’s very impressive, Mr. Hanson,” I said. “You make this place sound like a cross between a rest home and a rehabilitation center. That wasn’t the impression I had of it, somehow. But no doubt folks like Nico Peterson really appreciate the philanthropic spirit of the place.”
    Hanson smiled tolerantly. “Not everyone subscribes to Mr. Canning’s benevolent principles, of course. Besides, as I said, Mr. Peterson was not a member.”
    Without my realizing it, we had come full circle, and now suddenly we were back at the clubhouse. We weren’t at the front door, though, the one I’d entered by earlier, but somewhere along the side of the building. Hanson opened a door with a full-length glass panel in it and we stepped into a wide, low room with chintz armchairs standing about, and little tables on which stacks of magazines were laid out neatly like roof shingles, and a stone fireplace about as roomy as the living room in my house on Yucca Avenue. A fireplace like that would surely get a lot of use in Pacific Palisades. There was a