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So it is with trepidation that I embark on the last novel Chandler finished before his death (he was partway through [b:Poodle Springs 1343263 Poodle Springs (Philip Marlowe, #8) Raymond Chandler https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1476095761l/1343263.SX50.jpg 239359], which was completed by Robert Parker). I have enjoyed all of Marlowe's stories, and reluctantly dipped my toe into Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer as a followup.But to this story, which felt like one of the shortest of Marlowe's tales.This was perhaps not Chandler's best novel. It lacked mystery, and really only revolved around unknown information - the circumstances which forced Miss Betty Mayfield to go on the run, hiding out in Esmeralda, California. Information she refused to share, even after Marlowe stopped being her pursuer, she became a client, and, of course a lover. Obviously becoming a lover was inevitable for any woman spending more than a few days in Marlowe's presence.It also lacks a bit of the philosophical and witty Marlowe, although there is enough wit to keep a fan involved. I thought there was some lazy writing towards the end where Chandler used an unexpected monologue commencing with “A man named Fred Pope who ran a small motel once told me his views on Esmeralda...” to dump a whole lot of background on the town, but very late in the story. It came across as information that if needed should have been dropped much earlier. As we come to expect from Marlowe, we share with him a beating (received), a beating (given), banter with the cops, a tough (but fair) house detective, small town bigshots, an array of bad guys and a couple of attractive dames who of course succumb to Marlowe's charm - for what it is.There are plenty of plot outlines in other reviews, but really it is a simple story, which tracks a few circles before it resolves itself.Some quick quotes I enjoyed:I looked at my wristwatch. it was 6.30am., not my finest hour.“Don't get fresh with me, young man.”“I'm sorry Mr Umney. But I'm not a young man. I'm old, tired, and full of no coffee.”—The next hour was three hours long.—She was quite a doll. She wore a white belted raincoat, no hat, a well-cherished head of platinum hair, booties to match the raincoat, a folding plastic umbrella, a pair of blue-gray eyes that looked at me as if I had said a dirty word. I helped her off with her raincoat. She smelled very nice. She had a pair of legs - so far as I could determine - that were not painful to look at. She wore night sheer stockings. I stared at them rather intently, especially when she crossed her legs and held out a cigarette to be lighted.—I wouldn't say she looked exactly wistful, but neither did she look as hard to get as a controlling interest in General Motors.—Then she leaned back and gave me the look. ‘I've got friends who could cut you down so small you'd need a step-ladder to put your shoes on.'‘Somebody did a lot of hard work on that one,'I said. ‘But hard work's no substitute for talent.'—What rattled and thumped was a knotted towel full of melting ice cubes. Somebody who loved me very much had put them on the back of my head. Somebody who loved me less had bashed in the back of my skull. It could have been the same person. People have moods.—And so, to a rating. Nostalgia probably effects what was probably Chandler's weakest novel, but I wouldn't go below 3 stars.