Murder, My Sweet (1944)
Philip Marlowe: She was a charming middle-aged lady with a face like a bucket of mud. I gave her a drink. She was a gal who'd take a drink, if she had to knock you down to get the bottle.
Lt. Randall: Let's get it on the record... from the beginning.
Philip Marlowe: With Malloy, then. Oh, it was about seven o'clock. Anyway it was dark.
Lt. Randall: What were you doing at the office that late?
Philip Marlowe: I'm a homing pigeon. I always come back to the stinking coop, no matter how late it is. I'd been out peeking under old Sunday sections for a barber named Dominick whose wife wanted him back - I forget why. Only reason I took the job was because my bank account was trying to crawl under a duck.
Lindsay Marriott: I'm afraid I don't like your manner.
Philip Marlowe: Yeah, I've had complaints about it, but it keeps getting worse.
Philip Marlowe: "'Okay Marlowe,' I said to myself. 'You're a tough guy. You've been sapped twice, choked, beaten silly with a gun, shot in the arm until you're crazy as a couple of waltzing mice. Now let's see you do something really tough - like putting your pants on.'"
Philip Marlowe: I caught the blackjack right behind my ear. A black pool opened up at my feet. I dived in. It had no bottom. I felt pretty good - like an amputated leg.
Philip Marlowe: [about his gun] That's just part of my clothes. I hardly ever shoot anybody with it.
Philip Marlowe: Now this is beginning to make sense, in a screwy sort of a way. I get dragged in and get money shoved at me. I get pushed out and get money shoved at me. Everybody pushes me in, everybody pushes me out. Nobody wants me to DO anything. Okay, put a check in the mail. I cost a lot not to do anything. I get restless. Throw in a trip to Mexico.
Philip Marlowe: He died in 1940, in the middle of a glass of beer. His wife Jessie finished it for him.
Philip Marlowe: It was a nice little front yard. Cozy, okay for the average family. Only you'd need a compass to go to the mailbox. The house was all right, too, but it wasn't as big as Buckingham Palace.
Lt. Randall: You're not a detective, you're a slot machine. You'd slit your own throat for 6 bits plus tax.
Helen Grayle: I hadn't supposed there were enough murders these days to make detecting very attractive to a young man.
Philip Marlowe: I stir up trouble on the side.
Ann Grayle: You know, I think you're nuts. You go barging around without a very clear idea of what you're doing. Everybody bats you down, smacks you over the head, fills you full of stuff... and you keep right on hitting between tackle and end. I don't think you even know which SIDE you're on.
Philip Marlowe: I don't know which side anybody's on. I don't even know who's playing today.
Lt. Randall: [during an interrogation] How do you feel?
Philip Marlowe: Like a duck in a shooting gallery.
Philip Marlowe: My throat felt sore, but the fingers feeling it didn't feel anything. They were just a bunch of bananas that looked like fingers.
Philip Marlowe: She had more than a figure too. Not a beautiful face, but a good face. She had a face like a Sunday School picnic. You have any idea what kind of face that is, Nulty?
Detective Nulty: I wouldn't know.
Helen Grayle: [after Mr. Grayle takes Marlowe's gun] You know, this'll be the first time I've ever killed anyone I knew so little and liked so well. What's your first name?
Philip Marlowe: Philip, for short.
Helen Grayle: Philip. Philip Marlowe... named for a duke. You're just a nice mug. I've got a name for a duchess: Mrs. Leuwen Lockridge Grayle. Just a couple of mugs - we could have got along.
Helen Grayle: It's a long story and not pretty.
Philip Marlowe: I got lots of time and I'm not squeamish.
Philip Marlowe: [about Moose Malloy] I tried to picture him in love with somebody, but it didn't work.
Philip Marlowe: My feet hurt. And my mind felt like a plumbers handkerchief.
Philip Marlowe: Either book me, or let me go home and go to bed.
Philip Marlowe: Skip the water. Make that one with scotch. It'll save time.
Helen Grayle: You shouldn't kiss a girl when you're wearing that gun... leaves a bruise.
Ann Grayle: [to private detective Philip Marlowe] Sometimes I hate men. ALL men. Old men, young men... beautiful young men who use rosewater and... almost heels who are private detectives.
Helen Grayle: [hidden in the shadows, laughs - then she comes out] Oh, I'm sorry, darling, I couldn't help laughing; but you should know by now that men play rough. They soften you up, throw you off guard, and then belt you one.
Helen Grayle: [to Marlowe] That was a dirty trick, but maybe it'll teach you not to overplay a good hand. Now she doesn't like you. She hates men.
Ann Grayle: That was only the first half of the speech. The rest of it goes like this: I hate their women, too - especially the "big league blondes". Beautiful, expensive babes who know what they've got... all bubble bath, and dewy morning, and moonlight. And inside: blue steel, cold - cold like that... only not that clean.
Helen Grayle: Your slip shows, dear.
[Ann runs out of the beach house]
Philip Marlowe: He was doubled up on his face in that bag-of-old-clothes position that always means the same thing: he had been killed by an amateur. Or, by somebody who wanted it to look like an amateur job. Nobody else would hit a man that many times with a sap.
Helen Grayle: Let's dispense with the polite drinking, shall we?
Philip Marlowe: I don't know what you talked him into. Was it murder or something serious?
Lindsay Marriott: How would you like a swift punch on the nose?
Philip Marlowe: I tremble at the thought of such violence.
Philip Marlowe: What were you saying?
Dr. Sonderborg: I made no remark.
Philip Marlowe: Remarks want you to make them. They got their tongues hanging out waiting to be said.
[Moose has taken Marlowe to Florian's to look for Velma]
Philip Marlowe: I tried to picture him in love with somebody, but it didn't work.
Moose Malloy: They changed it a lot. There was a stage where she worked... and some booths... pink flowers was in the slatwork. She was cute as lace pants.
Philip Marlowe: That's what happens when you let a cop go to college. He gets too smart.
Jules Amthor: Your thinking is untidy like most so-called thinking today. You depress me.