Capering

By R.Z. Sheppard

POODLE SPRINGS

by Raymond Chandler and Robert B. Parker

Putnam; 268 pages; $18.95

Raymond Chandler influenced the American detective novel so strongly that even his imitators have imitators. Among the best of the second-generation models is Robert B. Parker, 57, whose private investigator, Spenser, shares Philip Marlowe's gruff chivalry and, like Chandler's "Galahad of the gutter," bears the surname of an Elizabethan literary figure.

So it is not surprising that Parker was hired to complete Poodle Springs, a Marlowe caper unfinished when the author died in 1959. Complete is an understatement. Only the first four chapters (scenes really) belong to the master; the remaining 37 are Parker's. Readers who use their ears as well as their eyes will notice rhythmic differences. Chandler's sentences are usually punchier than Parker's. R.C.: "It was a very handsome house except that it stank decorator." R.P.: "I found an office finally, as close to a dump as Poodle Springs gets, south of Ramon Drive, upstairs over a filling station."

Moreover, Parker's Marlowe can seem like an anachronism in search of a time frame. He drinks rye, smokes Camels and charges only $100 a day plus expenses. But there are contemporary touches. Women wear tank tops and police uniforms, and pornography has gone public.

Parker's problem is how to throw in the tank tops and still have a Marlowe who is 42, not 72. After all, he lives on mostly butts and alcohol and commutes between Los Angeles and Poodle (read Palm) Springs , where he beds down with his new wife. She is beautiful, rich and dead set on getting an obstinate Marlowe to give up his grubby profession.

Parker's ploy is to distract year counters and prop watchers with a nifty plot and vintage dialogue. His solution to the marriage dilemma is resolved in a thoroughly modern manner that requires neither a long goodbye nor a farewell, my lovely.