A/N: This story is an amalgemation of Raymond Chandler's 'Philip Marlowe' novels and The Maltese Falcon. Characters will be OOC in order to fit within the world created by these stories. Phrases, dialogue and plot devices will have been borrowed from the above sources. This work was created for entertainment purposes and no copyright infringment was intended.


Noir

Chapter 1: The Little Sister

It was nine o'clock in the morning. The sun was shining bright and a soft barmy wind floated in the air. I was dressed in a sharp blue suit; my socks were pressed and I'd shined my shoes. The hat I wore to church on Sundays was perched on my head, tilted down over one eye. I looked every bit the Private Investigator I claimed to be. I was calling on one of the richest men in D.C.

The foyer of the Hartley residence was nearly three stories high, and covered in smooth, black marble. The main doors were solid mahogany wood and bore the family coat of arms: a shield with birds and a rose. The ceiling was painted with a scene depicting a man, and a women with long, conveniently placed hair. I wondered idly who'd stolen her clothes. There was a staircase to one side and two doors to the other. Straight ahead was a view of a room with a bar and low lights. The curtains were closed. I was still staring at the room with the alcohol when a sound distracted me.

The girl walking down the stairs was in her late teens, tall and willowy, with waves of long dark hair and an impish expression. She sauntered over to me - eyes wandering up and down, and a slow grin curling her lips. Then, she stopped three feet in front of me and bit her thumb, looking coy. She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks before raising them again, like a theatre curtain. She laughed, a soft, breathy sort of sound - designed to wrap innocence in seduction and make men salivate. I was to become very familiar with that trick.

"You're cute," she said.

I nodded, "So I've been told."

She frowned at me as though I'd confused her and tilted her head to one side. Abruptly she spun away from me and fell backwards into my arms. I caught her and she instantly let me support her whole weight. She was a slight thing so I didn't mind all that much, but I objected on principle to being used as a human sofa. She giggled at me and folded her hands into my shirt.

"You're tall too."

I was saved from answering by the timely arrival of the butler. I raised her back to her feet and watched as she disappeared through a door I hadn't seen to my left. The butler watched me with an expressionless face.

"Who was that?" I asked, straightening my shirt and tie.

"Miss Karen Hartley, sir. Mr Hartley's youngest child." The butler replied. "It is my job to look after her."

I raised one eyebrow and glanced at the doorway through which the girl had disappeared. "My condolences."


The butler led me to a well-lit room in the far reaches of the house. Mr Hartley say there, gazing in one of two dark, leather armchairs. The wood was highly polished and the room smelt of brandy and smoke. A rich man's room, one for drinking and gambling. The walls were lined with pictures of stern-faced men in military dress, on horseback or with swords.

Mr Hartley himself was an old man, older than the age of his daughter would suggest. He had lost an arm at some point in his life and seemed proud of this fact. As I entered he gestured for me to sit in one of the leather-arm chairs, reaching into his pocket to offer me a cigar.

"Do you drink, sir?" he said. His voice was rasped in his throat, like cornhusks scraped by the wind.

"I do." I said, taking the cigar and the match that he offered. I struck the match off my fingernail. He seemed impressed with the trick.

"Good," was his reply, "I never trust a man who doesn't drink. It means he's worried about what he will do if he does; worried about what he will say. I don't trust men, who worry about their speech, Mr Fillmore. It means they either think too much or too little." He took a long drag of his cigar and blew a lungful of smoke in my direction. I let him. "So tell me, Mr Fillmore, what do you know about me?"

I settled back in the chair, rolling the cigar smoke around in my mouth before exhaling. "I know enough," I said. "You're rich, part of that inherited and part self-made. You've been married to three women and a divorced each time. As a young man you were known for your excess and your vices. You've two daughters. The elder married last year and was widowed soon after. The younger is still at home. Her name is Karen. She's both pretty and wild."

Hartley grunted and stood up, walking towards the windows. "I take it you've met my younger daughter then, sir?"

I followed him with eyes. "What makes you say that?" I asked.

He answered without turning around. "Only men who have met her, say her name with such a mixture of admiration and contempt."

I nodded, "Alright then, I've met her. I met her in the hallway when I got here. She complimented me on my looks and then tried to use me for a pillow whilst I was still standing up."

"She's just like her mother." Hartley said, reaching for a decanter and pouring two measures of liquid into a pair of glasses. He handed me one and sat down again. "However, Karen is not the reason I have called you here, Mr Fillmore. I've been robbed."

"Robbed?" I asked, viewing Mr Hartley with some amazement in my tone, "Why not go to the police? Why come to me?"

"I don't trust the police Mr Fillmore. Too many people to answer to, too many rules. I want this whole mess dealt with quickly, and I want it done well. So I came to you." He took a sip of his drink and a smoke of his cigar. "You see Mr Fillmore, the item that was taken from me is not rare or valuable, but it is something I want. It is a quirk of mine to collect things which other people have no use for."

"And this is one of those things?" I interrupted.

"It is." He said. "I have some idea who might have taken it, but I cannot be sure. Nevertheless, I want you to start looking there." A slight twitch had developed by his right eye.

"Okay," I said, "You got a name?"

"I do," he answered, "His name is Randall Julian. He used to be an artist, until he realised that he could make more money stealing art than he could producing it. I met him several years ago on a trip to Europe – Rome to be exact, and he's been a thorn in my side ever since. About ten months ago, I paid him the sum of three thousand dollars to an associate of Julian's to leave my daughter alone. It was Julian who had introduced them. Karen may be wild, but she would never had wracked up such gambling debts if it wasn't for him. I want you to find him, and find out if he has this piece."

"Who took care of the situation for you last time?" I asked.

"A man named James McAlistair. He used to handle that sort of thing for me."

"This sort of thing happen to you a lot?"

"When you're in my position sir this sort of thing happens all the time." He gave me a small self-deprecating smirk.

"So what happened to McAlistair?" I questioned.

"He disappeared. I must say I was quite hurt by it. McAlistair had been with me for many years – the least he could have done was say goodbye."

I decided not to dwell on what was obviously a sore topic for the old man. Instead, I reconvened on the topic of the robbery. "So say I find Julian," I said. "How will I know what I see is the piece I'm looking for?"e HHe

"You will know, because Randall will take great pains to conceal this piece above all others." Hartley said. His voice was strained, as though someone had pulled the strings of his throat taught like a violin. Whatever this piece was, it must mean a lot to him.

"Very well." I said, putting my now empty glass down on a little table nearby, "What do you want me to do once I've found out where he is and if he has this 'piece' or not?"

Hartley sighed, and scowled. "If he doesn't have what was stolen from me, I want you to find out who does. And if he does have it, I want it back. Steal it if you have to, I wont ask questions. But I want what is mine returned to me. Understand Mr Fillmore?"

"Yes sir."


I arrived back at the office to see my partner, Wayne Liggett, chatting to the pretty little thing who mans our front desk and deals with the phones. Lucile her name is, and she's blonde - the type of blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stain glass window. Needless to say, Wayne was sweet on her.

Wayne looked up and saw me, his eyebrows coming together in a frown. With a nod and wink to Lucille he got up and followed me into our office. The window was grey and read 'Liggett and Fillmore Investigations' in bold, roman-style lettering. It looked out over the streets of D.C.

I used to like this town, a long time ago. Back when LA was still the 'Athens of America' and Hollywood was a bunch of frame houses on the inter-urban line. But times had changed, and now the streets were riddled with filth and bare of trees. Every morning in the paper, you read how some poor fool had been shot and robbed, for a measly one-dollar and change.

Liggett interrupted my musings by leaning himself against my desk and folding his arms in an imperious manner. He does that.

"So spill it Fillmore, what's got you looking for all the world like a man who's just found out that the devil made an offer for his soul?"

"I just got back from the Hartley residence."

"So I gathered. But what's that got to do with anything? Last I check, Hartley was immoral but he wasn't the devil."

I sat down in the chair I'd placed behind my desk. It was a nice chair, comfortable, with a hinge at the base of the structure that let me lean back and put my feet up on the desk. I lit a cigarette and ignored Wayne for the moment. He scowled and didn't take offence at the action. He does the same thing to me, most times. The companionably irritated silence was interrupted by Lucile. She knocked twice on the door as is her custom before stepping into the room and closing the door.

"There's a girl out here, Mr Fillmore. She's looking to speak to you specifically." Lucile's voice matches her hair colour: soft and with an accent that tells anyone who can hear, that she grew up in Tennessee.

"A client?" I asked, taking my feet off the desk as Wayne pushed himself to his feet.

"I guess so," Lucille said, shrugging slightly. A small smile graces her lips as she looks at me. "You'll want to see her anyway. She's a knock-out." Wayne laughed aloud at that, throwing me an amused look before moving towards the door.

"Show her in Lucile," he said.

I stopped him before he left the room. "You still working on that cheating husband over on Florida and Fourth?"

Liggett nodded, one hand on the door handle. "Yeah, I'll be busy all week. You keep out of trouble now." With that parting shot, he left the room, scooting past the girl just entering.

The woman standing in the doorway was twenty or so; small and delicately put together, but she looked durable. She wore a smart, green dress and it looked good on her – matched her eyes. Her hair was black and set in loose waves, curling at the nape of her neck. Her lips were full and red, stained darker than was natural by some form of paint. Her skin was the colour of cream and her eyes were clear. She looked elegant, calm and poised. She looked like four million dollars.

I stood to greet her as she moved further into the room and gestured to one of the chairs in front of my desk.

"Please, have a seat Miss –" I broke off, realising that I didn't yet know her name.

She supplied it for me. "Third. Ingrid Third." Her voice was confident and cultured, little to no accent, which made me think she'd been educated at a school that charged more than I earned in a year. She sat gracefully, crossing her legs high and folding her hands in her lap, on top of a slim, black purse. Even in the upright chair, she managed to recline giving the impression of a strong will and strong emotions – the dangerous, unpredictable type.

I settled back in my own chair and watched her. She never fidgeted, not once – normally people who come to my office are nervous.

"What can I do for you Miss Third." I asked.

She took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye. Her green eyes met mine with a strength of character, I'd rarely seen in someone her age. "You spoke to my father earlier today." She said.

"I've spoken to a lot of people," I said, "how do I know which one's your father?"

Her lips curled in a ghost of a smile. She was the only person I'd ever met who could put such scorn into such a small movement. "My father is Mr Hartley, Mr Fillmore."

"Your Jonathon Hartley's eldest child?" It had been a response I wasn't expecting and it took me by surprise. I didn't like it. She nodded, the tilt of her head and the raising of a single eyebrow emphasising her be-damned-to-you attitude.

"So what can I do for you?" I asked, curious as to why Hartley's eldest child would be coming to my office, less than two hours after I visited her old man.

"I know dad's hired you for a job, Mr Fillmore. I wanted to see if you were up to it."

"Oh and why is that?"

Both eyebrows rose this time, and she fixed me with an imperious stare. "I was under the impression that cases such as these took quite a bit of work."

"Cases such as these?" I said, "So your father told you why he hired me did he?"

Something flashed behind her eyes, but it was quickly hidden behind a smiling mask. "Of course. What will your first step be."

"The same one it always is." I said. I didn't like the way she had changed the subject so soon after answering my question.

"There's a routine to these investigations is there?" She asked. Her voice was softly mocking, a light hint of laughter in the tone.

"Everything in life has a routine Miss Third." I said, "Now how about you tell me why you're really here."

She sat up straighter at that. She obviously disliked being challenged so openly. "My father is not as young as he used to be Mr Fillmore. This whole business has greatly upset him and I want it handled with the least amount of stress possible for him."

"A noble sentiment." I offered. She frowned then, as though sensing that I was mocking her. Abruptly she settled back into the chair, making a show of uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. My eyes followed of their own accord.

"My father likes you Mr Fillmore." she said, eyes now fixed at a point above my shoulder. "But then again he like James too." Her gaze met mine and she once again raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "I suppose you know who James is?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I know." Something in my tone must have irked her, because she snapped into an upright position almost at once.

"Stop playing games with me Mr Fillmore. Dad wants to find James doesn't he?" There was a fire in her eyes and light blush to her cheeks that made her seem even more appealing than usual.

"Why would your father want me to find Mr McAlistair?" I asked, hands itching to reach for a cigarette.

"Because it wasn't right, how James just left." She said, anger evident in her voice. "And I don't know why you're being so difficult about this Mr Fillmore. I must tell you that I don't like you're manners."

I scowled at that comment and decided I'd had enough. "And I'm not crazy about yours either. I didn't ask you to come here. I don't mind if you don't like my manners and I don't mind if you show me your legs – their nice legs and I'd like to know them better if I had the chance. But don't you go cross-examining me."

Her legs unfolded, heels hitting the floor with a sharp crack. In an instant she was on her feet looking down at me. "People do not talk to me that way." She said. Her anger was something sparkling and terrifying. I knew that if I stood, she'd be more than a foot shorter than me. It'd been like a robin trying to take on a crow. I laughed at her before I realised what I was doing. It was a cool, mocking laugh – one I hadn't intended at all, but that served its purpose.

She relaxed, slowly melting back into her original position. "He doesn't want you to look for James, does he?" she asked, a wry smile curling her lips.

"Doesn't he?" I asked.

She shook her head at me, and this time when she met my gaze there was a depth of sadness there. "Could you find James if Dad asked you to?"

I shrugged, finally giving into temptation and pulling a cigarette from the breast-pocket. I offered her one, but she waved it away. "It depends," I said, "when'd he go?"

It was her turn to shrug, "A little over three months ago. Dad and I had just gotten back from Europe and Karen was still at school. Everything was normal, and then, James just didn't come home one night. They found his car two days later by the river front."

"They?" I asked.

Her eyes widened, and I realised my mistake. "So Dad didn't tell you then?" she said, a note of smugness in her voice.

"He told me about McAlistair," I said, "but that isn't what he hire me for." I looked at her; at the way her lips were curled in a triumphant smile and how her entire manner was at ease. "Which is exactly what you wanted me to say wasn't it?"

She stood with the elegant grace of someone born to move in higher circles and sauntered past me to the door. "I'm sure I don't care what you say Mr Fillmore. Good-day."

With that she was gone, and I was left cursing the closed door.


A/N: Thankyou for reading. Please review.