Ask Marlowe: Law and Ardor

An advice column for the romantically perplexed, the emotionally concussed and the terminally clueless — edited, against his will and doctor’s orders, by private investigator Philip Marlowe.

Dear Marlowe,

After staging my regrettable but theatrically impressive “death” at the Reichenbach Falls, I made a disturbing discovery: the mind that truly haunts me is not that of a certain clever woman, nor even that of my dear Watson, but of my erstwhile nemesis, Professor James Moriarty. Yes — that Moriarty. I cannot decide which is more vexing: that he is the only intellect equal to mine, or that my heart insists on performing a waltz every time I recall our final grapple. I ask you, as a rational man: is it possible to cherish one’s arch-villain? Truly, completely, passionately? — S.H., 221B Baker Street

Marlowe replies:

Sherlock, try injecting this seven per cent solution: when you fake your own death and the first person you think about isn’t your best friend, your landlady or even your violin, but the criminal mastermind who tried to yeet you off a cliff — congratulations, you’re in love. Face it, pal: the real crime wasn’t at Reichenbach. The real crime is how long it took you to notice all that pent-up, cape-flapping romantic tension. You see, but you do not observe. The little things are infinitely the most important. Write the guy a letter. Maybe start with something simple like, “Dear Jim, sorry about the waterfall.” If he tries to kill you again, hey — that’s basically flirting for you two.

Monsieur Marlowe,

Catastrophe! Sacre bleu! Mon dieu! Miss Marple — yes, that Miss Marple, knits like she’s interrogating the yarn — has delivered me an ultimatum most dire: either my glorious moustache goes, or she does. She claims it “obscures my facial expressions,” though I maintain it heightens them. How can I choose between a woman of unparalleled perception and the most elegant follicles ever cultivated by man? The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances. — H.P., London/Brussels/Wherever Fine Dining Occurs

Marlowe replies: Pouf, Poirot! I never thought I’d see the day someone gave you a clearer ultimatum than “please stop reorganizing the cutlery.” If Marple says it’s either her or the moustache, take a deep breath and remember this with those vaunted little grey cells of yours: you can always grow more hair. But you will never, ever find another woman who can solve a double-bluff-murder-suicide-alibi-swap before the tea even steeps. Shave the ’stache. Or don’t. Either way, one of you will write a memoir about it, and I’ll have to read it, so please make the choice entertaining. As someone once said, you cannot mix up sentiment and reason. And stop saying “zut!” On this side of the pond, it always sounds fey.

Dear Marlowe,

A troubling matter of the soul: I have found myself developing feelings for Sister Boniface — feelings of a nature which, owing to vows, propriety and ecclesiastical guidelines printed in a font no larger than six, may not be entirely appropriate. She is brilliant, kind, and rides a scooter with alarming speed. I am torn between duty and a love that dare not remove its tab collar (or any other liturgical vestments). In short, what I dread most … is a maze with no centre. — F.B., Kembleford

Marlowe replies: Father, if loving a scooter-riding forensic nun is wrong, I don’t want whatever the opposite of wrong is. But you’re right — you’ve got vows, rules and at least three bishops who probably sniff the air whenever romance occurs within a five-mile radius. So talk to somebody in the clerical chain of command. And remember: nuns who brew their own beer and solve crimes are statistically more forgiving than the average parish HR department. We were not made good people or bad people. We were made people.

Jeepers Mr. Marlowe,

I’m really confused. Frank Hardy just asked me to the prom, which should be ginchy — he’s nice, dependable and only occasionally knocked out by villains. But the problem is … I actually want to go with Joe. He’s funnier, cuter and he hasn’t been kidnapped nearly as often. Hasta la pasta!  What do I do? — N.D., River Heights

Marlowe replies:

Kid, you’re knee-deep in Hardy Boy triangulation — a classic teenage trap. Frank’s the safe bet; Joe’s the one who’ll help you investigate an abandoned amusement park at midnight and wind it up with a two-straw soda at Pop Tate’s. Here’s the angle: tell Frank the truth before one of you ends up tied to a pier while the tide rolls in. Teen romance is messy, but trust me — love triangles with boy detectives usually end with someone falling through a trapdoor. Better to choose now before someone’s mother gets a note from the principal about a hickey.

Marlowe,

I don’t usually write to advice columns — they’re for people who need advice. I solve my own problems. But this time it’s tricky: Sam Spade and I have both fallen for the same dame. She’s got a voice like a bent trumpet and nylons that go from here to next Wednesday. Spade swears he saw her first. I say I tripped over her reticule before he did. Discovered a tiny derringer inside. What’s the rule on two shamuses chasing one skirt?

— P.M., Bay City

Marlowe replies:

Marlowe here, replying to myself like a man searching for clues in his own cryptogram: You know, you’re the second guy I’ve met today that seems to think a gat in the hand means the world by the tail. Face facts: if Spade’s in the game, you’ve already lost. He collects femmes fatales like bottle caps. But if you insist, set some ground rules: no guns, no sap-shots and no using your snappy monologue voice to hypnotize her. But remember — dead men are heavier than broken hearts. Any woman who willingly hangs around two hardboiled detectives at once is planning something. Probably involving a missing diamond, a double-cross or your life insurance policy.

Uh, excuse me, sir…

I’m sorry to trouble you … I know you’re busy. Just one more thing — my wife. Always saying I’m the second smartest. After the 80 guys tied for first. And she might just be right about that. But now she says she’s Jessica Fletcher. The Jessica Fletcher. And she keeps insisting I ditch my trench coat, get my eyes checked and stop solving murders during dinner. She’s even threatened to rudely kill me off in her next book if I don’t “start dressing like a grown-up and stop popping up in restaurants smelling like cigar smoke and chalk dust.” She’s always making comments like: “There are three things you can never have enough of in life, Lieutenant: chocolate, friends and the theatre.” Sometimes I feel like offin’ the sanctimonious old bag myself. What should I do? — C., Los Angeles (sometimes Cabot Cove)

Marlowe replies:

Columbo, pal, if your wife is really Jessica Fletcher, my condolences — not because she isn’t great, but because every building she enters experiences a 200% increase in homicide. Keep the fleabitten trench coat if it matters so much to you. I’m partial to them myself. But get the eye exam. The way you squint at suspects makes you look like you’re reading fine print on a poison label. And maybe compromise: let her write you into one of her books, but only as a man who makes it to the last chapter alive. But know this. Rudeness is hardly grounds for murder. If it was, half the planet would be gone tomorrow.

That’s all for this week, folks.

If your heart’s a crime scene and you need it dusted for emotional fingerprints, send your letters to:

Marlowe’s Matters of the Heart

c/o The Bay City Beacon

1313 Bottlecap Alley

Bay City, USA

No ransom notes, please — unless they’re well-punctuated.