Collected Stories of Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  Sutro put his hand up quickly and covered his face. The sandy-haired man got rigid on his stool in the corner.

  Dalmas said: “Want to hear a good honest guess, Donner?…We’ll call it a guess…Walden was in the dope smuggling racket himself—and not all by his lonesome. But after Repeal he wanted to quit. The coast guards wouldn’t have to spend so much time watching liquor ships, and dope-smuggling up the coast wasn’t going to be gravy any more. And Walden got sweet on a gal that had good eyes and could add up to ten. So he wanted to walk out on the dope racket.”

  Donner moistened his lips and said: “What dope racket?”

  Dalmas eyed him. “You wouldn’t know about anything like that, would you, Donner? Hell, no, that’s something for the bad boys to play with. And the bad boys didn’t like the idea of Walden quitting that way. He was drinking too much—and he might start to broadcast to his girl friend. They wanted him to quit the way he did—on the receiving end of a gun.”

  Donner turned his head slowly and stared at the bound man on the high-backed chair. He said very softly: “Ricchio.”

  Then he got up and walked around his desk. Sutro took his hand down from his face and watched with his lips shaking.

  Donner stood in front of Ricchio. He put his hand out against Ricchio’s head and jarred it back against the chair. Ricchio moaned. Donner smiled down at him.

  “I must be slowing up. You killed Walden, you bastard! You went back and croaked him. You forgot to tell us about that part, baby.”

  Ricchio opened his mouth and spit a stream of blood against Donner’s hand and wrist. Donner’s face twitched and he stepped back and away, holding the hand straight out in front of him. He took out a handkerchief and wiped it off carefully, dropped the handkerchief on the floor.

  “Lend me your gun, Noddy,” he said quietly, going towards the sandy-haired man.

  Sutro jerked and his mouth fell open. His eyes looked sick. The tall Filipino flicked his empty automatic into his hand as if he had forgotten it was empty. Noddy took a blunt revolver from under his right arm, held it out to Donner.

  Donner took it from him and went back to Ricchio. He raised the gun.

  Dalmas said: Ricchio didn’t kill Walden.”

  The Filipino took a quick step forward and slashed at him with his big automatic. The gun hit Dalmas on the point of the shoulder, and a wave of pain billowed down his arm. He rolled away and snapped his Colt into his hand. The Filipino swung at him again, missed.

  Dalmas slid to his feet, side-stepped and laid the barrel of the Colt along the side of the Filipino’s head, with all his strength. The Filipino grunted, sat down on the floor, and the whites showed all around his eyes. He fell over slowly, clawing at the divan.

  There was no expression on Donner’s face and he held his blunt revolver perfectly still. His long upper lip was beaded with sweat.

  Dalmas said: “Ricchio didn’t kill Walden. Walden was killed with a filed gun and the gun was planted in his hand. Ricchio wouldn’t go within a block of a filed gun.”

  Sutro’s face was ghastly. The sandy-haired man had got down off his stool and stood with his right hand swinging at his side.

  “Tell me more,” Donner said evenly.

  “The filed gun traces to a broad named Helen Dalton or Burwand,” Dalmas said. “It was her gun. She told me that she hocked it long ago. I didn’t believe her. She’s a good friend of Sutro’s and Sutro was so bothered by my going to see her that he pulled a gat on me himself. Why do you suppose Sutro was bothered, Donner, and how do you suppose he knew I was likely to go see the broad?”

  Donner said: “Go ahead and tell me.” He looked at Sutro very quietly.

  Dalmas took a step closer to Donner and held his Colt down at his side, not threateningly.

  “I’ll tell you how and why. I’ve been tailed ever since I started to work for Walden—tailed by a clumsy ox of a studio dick I could spot a mile off. He was bought, Donner. The guy that killed Walden bought him. He figured the studio dick had a chance to get next to me, and I let him do just that—to give him rope and spot his game. His boss was Sutro. Sutro killed Walden—with his own hand. It was that kind of a job. An amateur job—a smart-aleck kill. The thing that made it smart was the thing that gave it away—the suicide plant, with a filed gun that the killer thought couldn’t be traced because he didn’t know most guns have numbers inside.”

  Donner swung the blunt revolver until it pointed midway between the sandy-haired man and Sutro. He didn’t say anything. His eyes were thoughtful and interested.

  Dalmas shifted his weight a little, on to the balls of his feet. The Filipino on the floor put a hand along the divan and his nails scratched on the leather.

  “There’s more of it, Donner, but what the hell! Sutro was Walden’s pal, and he could get close to him, close enough to stick a gun to his head and let go. A shot wouldn’t be heard on the penthouse floor of the Kilmarnock, one little shot from a thirty-two. So Sutro put the gun in Walden’s hand and went on his way. But he forgot that Walden was left-handed and he didn’t know the gun could be traced. When it was—and his bought man wised him up—and I tapped the girl—he hired himself a chopper squad and angled all three of us out to a house in Palms to button our mouths for good…Only the chopper squad, like everything else in this play, didn’t do its stuff so good.”

  Donner nodded slowly. He looked at a spot in the middle of Sutro’s stomach and lined his gun on it.

  “Tell us about it, Johnny,” he said softly. “Tell us how you got clever in your old age—”

  The sandy-haired man moved suddenly. He dodged down behind the desk and as he went down his right hand swept for his other gun. It roared from behind the desk. The bullet came through the kneehole and pinged into the wall with a sound of striking metal behind the paneling.

  Dalmas jerked his Colt and fired twice into the desk. A few splinters flew. The sandy-haired man yelled behind the desk and came up fast with his gun flaming in his hand. Donner staggered. His gun spoke twice, very quickly. The sandy-haired man yelled again, and blood jumped straight out from one of his cheeks. He went down behind the desk and stayed quiet.

  Donner backed until he touched the wall. Sutro stood up and put his hands in front of his stomach and tried to scream.

  Donner said: “Okey, Johnny. Your turn.”

  Then Donner coughed suddenly and slid down the wall with a dry rustle of cloth. He bent forward and dropped his gun and put his hands on the floor and went on coughing. His face got gray.

  Sutro stood rigid, his hands in front of his stomach, and bent back at the wrists, the fingers curved clawlike. There was no light behind his eyes. They were dead eyes. After a moment his knees buckled and he fell down on the floor on his back.

  Donner went on coughing quietly.

  Dalmas crossed swiftly to the door of the room, listened at it, opened it and looked out. He shut it again quickly.

  “Soundproof—and how!” he muttered.

  He went back to the desk and lifted the telephone off its prongs. He put his Colt down and dialed, waited, said into the phone: “Captain Cathcart…Got to talk to him…Sure, it’s important…very important.”

  He waited, drumming on the desk, staring hard-eyed around the room. He jerked a little as a sleepy voice came over the wire.

  “Dalmas, Chief. I’m at the Casa Mariposa, in Gayn Donner’s private office. There’s been a little trouble, but nobody hurt bad…ye got Derek Walden’s killer for you…Johnny Sutro did it…Yeah, the councilman…Make it fast, Chief…I wouldn’t want to get in a fight with the help, you know.”

  He hung up and picked his Colt off the top of the desk, held it on the flat of his hand and stared across at Sutro.

  “Get off the floor, Johnny,” he said wearily. “Get up and tell a poor dumb dick how to cover this one up—smart guy!”

  10

  The light above the big oak table at Headquarters was too bright. Dalmas ran a finger along the wood, looked at it, wiped it off on
his sleeve. He cupped his chin in his lean hands and stared at the wall above the roll-top desk that was beyond the table. He was alone in the room.

  The loudspeaker on the wall droned: “Calling Car 71W in 72’s district…at Third and Berendo…at the drugstore…meet a man…”

  The door opened and Captain Cathcart came in, shut the door carefully behind him. He was a big, battered man with a wide, moist face, a strained mustache, gnarled hands.

  He sat down between the oak table and the roll-top desk and fingered a cold pipe that lay in the ashtray.

  Dalmas raised his head from between his hands. Cathcart said: “Sutro’s dead.”

  Dalmas stared, said nothing.

  “His wife did it. He wanted to stop by his house a minute. The boys watched him good but they didn’t watch her. She slipped him the dose before they could move.”

  Cathcart opened and shut his mouth twice. He had strong, dirty teeth.

  “She never said a damn word. Brought a little gun around from behind her and fed him three slugs. One, two, three. Win, place, show. Just like that. Then she turned the gun around in her hand as nice as you could think of and handed it to the boys…What in hell she do that for?”

  Dalmas said: “Get a confession?”

  Cathcart stared at him and put the cold pipe in his mouth. He sucked on it noisily. “From him? Yeah—not on paper, though…What you suppose she done that for?”

  “She knew about the blonde,” Dalmas said. “She thought it was her last chance. Maybe she knew about his rackets.”

  The captain nodded slowly. “Sure,” he said. “That’s it. She figured it was her last chance. And why shouldn’t she bop the bastard? If the D.A. ‘s smart, he’ll let her take a manslaughter plea. That’d be about fifteen months at Tehachapi. A rest cure.”

  Dalmas moved in his chair. He frowned.

  Cathcart went on: “It’s a break for all of us. No dirt your way, no dirt on the administration. If she hadn’t done it, it would have been a kick in the pants all around. She ought to get a pension.”

  “She ought to get a contract from Eclipse Films,” Dalmas said. “When I got to Sutro I figured I was licked on the publicity angle. I might have gunned Sutro myself—if he hadn’t been so yellow—and if he hadn’t been a councilman.”

  “Nix on that, baby. Leave that stuff to the law,” Cathcart growled. “Here’s how it looks. I don’t figure we can get Walden on the book as a suicide. The filed gun is against it and we got to wait for the autopsy and the gun-shark s report. And a paraffin test of the hand ought to show he didn’t fire the gun at all. On the other hand, the case is closed on Sutro and what has to come out ought not to hurt too bad. Am I right?”

  Dalmas took out a cigarette and rolled it between his fingers. He lit it slowly and waved the match until it went out.

  “Walden was no lily,” he said. “It’s the dope angle that would raise hell—but that’s cold. I guess we’re jake, except for a few loose ends.”

  “Hell with the loose ends,” Cathcart grinned. “Nobody’s getting away with any fix that I can see. That sidekick of yours, Denny, will fade in a hurry and if I ever get my paws on the Dalton frail, I’ll send her to Mendocino for the cure. We might get something on Donner—after the hospital gets through with him. We’ve got to put the rap on those hoods, for the stick-up and the taxi driver, whichever of ‘em did that, but they won’t talk. They still got a future to think about, and the taxi driver ain’t so bad hurt. That leaves the chopper squad.” Cathcart yawned. “Those boys must be from Frisco. We don’t run to choppers around here much.”

  Dalmas sagged in his chair. “You wouldn’t have a drink, would you, Chief?” he said dully.

  Cathcart stared at him. “There’s just one thing,” he said grimly. “I want you to stay told about that. It was okey for you to break that gun—if you didn’t spoil the prints. And I guess it was okey for you not to tell me, seein’ the jam you were in. But I’ll be damned if it’s okey for you to beat our time by chiselin’ on our own records.”

  Dalmas smiled thoughtfully at him. “You’re right all the way, Chief,” he said humbly. “It was the job—and that’s all a guy can say.”

  Cathcart rubbed his cheeks vigorously. His frown went away and he grinned. Then he bent over and pulled out a drawer and brought up a quart bottle of rye. He put it on the desk and pressed a buzzer. A very large uniformed torso came part way into the room.

  “Hey, Tiny!” Cathcart boomed. “Loan me that corkscew you swiped out of my desk.” The torso disappeared and came back.

  “What’ll we drink to?” the captain asked a couple of minutes later.

  Dalmas said: “Let’s just drink.”

  FINGER MAN

  1

  I got away from the Grand Jury a little after four, and then sneaked up the back stairs to Fenweather’s office. Fenweather, the D.A., was a man with severe, chiseled features and the gray temples women love. He played with a pen on his desk and said: “I think they believed you. They might even indict Manny Tinnen for the Shannon kill this afternoon. If they do, then is the time you begin to watch your step.”

  I rolled a cigarette around in my fingers and finally put it in my mouth. “Don’t put any men on me, Mr. Fenweather. I know the alleys in this town pretty well, and your men couldn’t stay close enough to do me any good.”

  He looked towards one of the windows. “How well do you know Frank Dorr?” he asked, with his eyes away from me.

  “I know he’s a big politico, a fixer you have to see if you want to open a gambling hell or a bawdy house—or if you want to sell honest merchandise to the city.”

  “Right.” Fenweather spoke sharply, and brought his head around towards me. Then he lowered his voice. “Having the goods on Tinnen was a surprise to a lot of people. If Frank Dorr had an interest in getting rid of Shannon who was the head of the Board where Dorr’s supposed to get his contracts, it’s close enough to make him take chances. And I’m told he and Manny Tinnen had dealings. I’d sort of keep an eye on him, if I were you.”

  I grinned. “I’m just one guy,” I said. “Frank Dorr covers a lot of territory. But I’ll do what I can.”

  Fenweather stood up and held his hand across the desk. He said: “I’ll be out of town for a couple of days, I’m leaving tonight, if this indictment comes through. Be careful—and if anything should happen to go wrong, see Bernie Ohls, my chief investigator.”

  I said: “Sure.”

  We shook hands and I went out past a tired-looking girl who gave me a tired smile and wound one of her lax curls up on the back of her neck as she looked at me. I got back to my office soon after four-thirty. I stopped outside the door of the little reception room for a moment, looking at it. Then I opened it and went in, and of course there wasn’t anybody there.

  There was nothing there but an old red davenport, two odd chairs, a bit of carpet, and a library table with a few old magazines on it. The reception room was left open for visitors to come in and sit down and wait—if I had any visitors and they felt like waiting.

  I went across and unlocked the door into my private office, lettered “Philip Marlowe…Investigations.”

  Lou Harger was sitting on a wooden chair on the side of the desk away from the window. He had bright yellow gloves clamped on the crook of a cane, a green snap-brim hat set too far back on his head. Very smooth black hair showed under the hat and grew too low on the nape of his neck.

  “Hello. I’ve been waiting,” he said, and smiled languidly.

  “’Lo, Lou. How did you get in here?”

  “The door must have been unlocked. Or maybe I had a key that fitted. Do you mind?”

  I went around the desk and sat down in the swivel chair. I put my hat down on the desk, picked up a bulldog pipe out of an ash tray and began to fill it up.

  “It’s all right as long as it’s you,” I said. “I just thought I had a better lock.”

  He smiled with his full red lips. He was a very good-looking boy. He said: “A
re you still doing business, or will you spend the next month in a hotel room drinking liquor with a couple of Headquarters boys?”

  “I’m still doing business—if there’s any business for me to do.”

  I lit a pipe, leaned back and stared at his clear olive skin, straight, dark eyebrows.

  He put his cane on top of the desk and clasped his yellow gloves on the glass. He moved his lips in and out.

  “I have a little something for you. Not a hell of a lot. But there’s carfare in it.”

  I waited.

  “I’m making a little play at Las Olindas tonight,” he said. “At Canales’ place.”

  “The white smoke?”

  “Uh-huh. I think I’m going to be lucky—and I’d like to have a guy with a rod.”

  I took a fresh pack of cigarettes out of a top drawer and slid them across the desk. Lou picked them up and began to break the pack open.

  I said: “What kind of a play?”

  He got a cigarette halfway out and stared down at it. There was a little something in his manner I didn’t like.

  “I’ve been closed up for a month now. I wasn’t makin’ the kind of money it takes to stay open in this town. The Headquarters boys have been putting the pressure on since repeal. They have bad dreams when they see themselves trying to live on their pay.”

  I said: “It doesn’t cost any more to operate here than anywhere else. And here you pay it all to one organization. That’s something.”

  Lou Harger jabbed the cigarette in his mouth. “Yeah—Frank Dorr,” he snarled. “That fat, bloodsuckin’ sonofabitch!”

  I didn’t say anything. I was way past the age when it’s fun to swear at people you can’t hurt. I watched Lou light his cigarette with my desk lighter. He went on, through a puff of smoke: “It’s a laugh, in a way. Canales bought a new wheel—from some grafters in the sheriff’s office. I know Pina, Canales’ head croupier, pretty well. The wheel is one they took away from me. It’s got bugs—and I know the bugs.”

  “And Canales don’t…That sounds just like Canales,” I said.