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Zusatztext "Raymond Chandler is a master." -- The New York Times “[Chandler] wrote as if pain hurt and life mattered.” -- The New Yorker “Chandler seems to have created the culminating American hero: wised up, hopeful, thoughtful, adventurous, sentimental, cynical and rebellious.” --Robert B. Parker, The New York Times Book Review “Philip Marlowe remains the quintessential urban private eye.” -- Los Angeles Times “Nobody can write like Chandler on his home turf, not even Faulkner. . . . An original. . . . A great artist.” — The Boston Book Review “Raymond Chandler was one of the finest prose writers of the twentieth century. . . . Age does not wither Chandler’s prose. . . . He wrote like an angel.” -- Literary Review “[T]he prose rises to heights of unselfconscious eloquence, and we realize with a jolt of excitement that we are in the presence of not a mere action tale teller, but a stylist, a writer with a vision.” --Joyce Carol Oates, The New York Review of Books “Chandler wrote like a slumming angel and invested the sun-blinded streets of Los Angeles with a romantic presence.” —Ross Macdonald “Raymond Chandler is a star of the first magnitude.” --Erle Stanley Gardner “Raymond Chandler invented a new way of talking about America, and America has never looked the same to us since.” --Paul Auster “[Chandler]’s the perfect novelist for our times. He takes us into a different world, a world that’s like ours, but isn’t. ” --Carolyn See Informationen zum Autor Raymond Chandler Klappentext Crime fiction master Raymond Chandler's fourth novel featuring Philip Marlowe! the "quintessential urban private eye" (Los Angeles Times). In The Lady in the Lake! hardboiled crime fiction master Raymond Chandler brings us the story of a couple of missing wives-one a rich man's and one a poor man's-who have become the objects of Philip Marlowe's investigation. One of them may have gotten a Mexican divorce and married a gigolo and the other may be dead. Marlowe's not sure he cares about either one! but he's not paid to care. Leseprobe ONE The Treloar Building was, and is, on Olive Street, near Sixth, on the west side. The sidewalk in front of it had been built of black and white rubber blocks. They were taking them up now to give to the government, and a hatless pale man with a face like a building superintendent was watching the work and looking as if it was breaking his heart. I went past him through an arcade of specialty shops into a vast black and gold lobby. The Gillerlain Company was on the seventh floor, in front, behind swinging double plate glass doors bound in platinum. Their reception room had Chinese rugs, dull silver walls, angular but elaborate furniture, sharp shiny bits of abstract sculpture on pedastals and a tall display in a triangular showcase in the corner. On tiers and steps and islands and promontories of shining mirror-glass it seemed to contain every fancy bottle and box that had ever been designed. There were creams and powders and soaps and toilet waters for every season and every occasion. There were perfumes in tall thin bottles that looked as if a breath would blow them over and perfumes in little pastel phials tied with ducky satin bows, like the little girls at a dancing class. The cream of the crop seemed to be something very small and simple in a squat amber bottle. It was in the middle at eye height, had a lot of space to itself, and was labeled Gillerlain Regal, The Champagne of Perfumes . It was definitely the stuff to get. One drop of that in the hollow of your throat and the matched pink pearls started falling on you like summer rain. A neat little blonde sat off in a far corner at a small PBX, behind a railing and well out of harm's way. At a flat desk in ...
