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It took me twenty-nine minutes to get to the Van Nuys Hotel. Once long ago it must have had a certain elegance. But no more. The memories of old cigars hung to its ceiling and of its leather lounge chairs. Room 332 was at the the back of the corridor, near the door to the fire escape. The hall that led to it had a smell of old furniture oil and the drab anonymity of a thousand shabby lives. The hotel dick, a real dope by the name of Flack, told me that the party in Room 332 had checked in at 2:47 P.M. under the name of Dr. G. W. Hambleton, El Centro, California. Of course I had to pry it out of him. There are days like that. Everybody you meet is a dope. You begin to look at yourself in the mirror and wonder. --"The Little Sister", Michael Lark's graphic novel adaption of Raymond Chandler's novel |
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