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not shining and a look of
hard wet rain in the clearness of
the foothills. I was wearing my
powder-blue suit, with dark blue
shirt, tie and display handkerchief,
black brogues, black wool sockswith dark blue clock, on them. I
was neat, clean, shaved and sober,
and I didn’t care who knew it. I was
everything the well-dressed private
detective ought to be. I was calling
on four milliondollars.
The main hallway of the
Sternwood place was two stories high.
Over the entrance doors, which would
have let in a troop of Indian elephants,
there was a broad stained-glass panel
showinga knight in dark armour
rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree
and didn’t have any clothes on but some
very long and convenient hair. The
knight had pushed the vizor of his
helmet back to besociable, and he was
fiddling with the knots of the ropes that
tied the lady to the tree and not getting
anywhere. I stood there and thought that
if I lived in the house, I would sooner
or laterhave to climb up there and help
him. He didn’t seem to be really trying.
There were french doors at
the back of the hall, beyond them
a wide sweep of emerald grass to
a white garage, in front ofwhich
a slim dark young chauffeur in
shiny black leggings was dusting
a maroon Packard convertible.
Beyond the garage were some
decorative trees trimmed as
carefully as poodle dogs. Beyond
them alarge greenhouse with a
domed roof. Then more trees and
beyond everything the solid, un-
even, comfortable line of the
foothills.
El sueño eterno (1939) by R. Chandler
Trad. de José Luis LópezMuñoz, 2001
Alianza Editorial, S.A., Madrid, 2001
Uno
Eran más o menos las once de un día nu-
blado de mediados de octubre, y se tenía la
sensación de que podía empezar a llover con
fuerza pese ala limpidez del cielo en las
estribaciones de la sierra. Me había puesto el
traje azul añil, con camisa azul marino, cor-
bata y pañuelo a juego en el bolsillo del pe-
cho, zapatos negros,...