Only to Sleep by Lawrence Osborne
Published by Hogarth on July 24, 2018
Only to Sleep is a Philip Marlowe novel. To his credit, Lawrence Osborne gives the impression of Raymond Chandler without trying to ape his style. Robert Parker tried to emulate Chandler’s style in a couple of Marlowe novels and wasn’t up to the task. Osborne writes in an eloquent style of his own that doesn’t purport to be the second coming of Chandler.
Osborne also makes a wise choice in crafting a novel that takes place decades after the Chandler novels. Parker couldn’t quite capture the west coast noir that Chandler invented; Osborne wisely chose not to try. He does, I think, engage in a credible exploration of Marlowe’s soul as it might have evolved in the detective’s declining years, and he incorporates elements of noir without trying to recreate a literary time and place that belonged to Chandler alone.
Osborne’s Marlowe is 72, retired, living in Mexico and fighting boredom when two men from an insurance company ask him to investigate a death that might be suspicious. An American developer named Donald Zinn drowned near a remote coastal village in Mexico, leaving a good bit of debt and a big insurance policy behind. His widow, Dolores Araya, identified the body and had it cremated in Mexico. The insurance company wonders whether Zinn might have been involved in something illegal, which would give it an excuse not to pay the widow. The men ask Marlowe to find out what Zinn had been doing in Mexico in the days before his death.
Marlowe talks to the widow and to the federales and to local fishermen before he gets a tip that sends him inland to talk to the man who went into hiding after finding Zinn’s body. Marlowe later takes the reader on a tour of inland Mexico, to places “of lanterns on chains and dozing habitués perched on sofas.” The local color is convincing; perhaps Osborne drove around Mexico before he wrote the novel, conducting research while he swatted mosquitos and drank cerveza.
The plot of Only to Sleep is much simpler than the convoluted story Chandler told in The Big Sleep, from which it repeatedly draws the titular metaphor of death. Osborne’s story at least makes sense, and to that extent simplicity is a virtue. Most of the detecting is done in the novel’s first half. In fact, the mystery has been solved the novel’s midway point. The second half addresses a mystery about Marlowe: now that he knows the truth, what will he do about it? He’ll get himself into trouble, of course, because as often as Marlowe decides it is time to let something go, he finds himself incapable of letting loose ends dangle.
This version of Marlowe is worn down and made porous by a life filled with grit. He dreams about the victims of violent death, some of whom he watched or helped die. He carries a cane, both to help him walk and because it conceals a sword, a last line of defense for a man who can’t use his fists as ably as he did in younger days. Marlowe relishes the opportunity to feel alive, “not yet senile and not yet shelved,” one final time before he returns to retirement and the inevitability of slow decline. Readers should also welcome the opportunity to join the icon of noir in one last adventure. It isn’t Chandler, but it stands on its own merit.
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