Philip Marlowe

He was alone and lonely. Sadness swept his eyes before he jabbed at me with his cynical sarcasm. He slowly lit his Camel. It was a simple act of murder and he was a scholar of sorts – a player of chess, a fan of poetry. I knew I was under his scrutiny. I agree it looked rather suspicious. After all, the body was there and I was found holding the knife. I squirmed under his hard eye but leaned back into the chair in front of his desk knowing he had a soft spot for women. A hard drinker, he took a bottle from his cabinet and offered a glass to me. I didn’t accept as I knew I should stay alert. “It was a man, a squabby man, with a glimmer of glee in his eye,” I said. “He looked at me, then threw down the knife and ran.” Marlowe said, “I don’t think you did it. There was no blood on your clothes. Your shoes would have soaked in the blood and crusted.” I relaxed a little and offered a smile. I knew I was home free. I was glad I had changed my shoes. “I’ll take that drink now.” She took the bait… Inspired by but not entered in Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest