Collected Stories of Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  “He’d have to be that to throw his party in here,” the gray-haired dick said.

  McChesney’s long face was serious, not hard. “Got a permit for the gun, Targo?”

  Targo said: “Yes. Benny got me one two weeks ago. I been getting a lot of threats.”

  “Listen, Lieutenant,” Cyrano chirped, “some gamblers try to scare him into a dive, see? He wins nine straight fights by knockouts so they get a swell price. I told him he should take one at that maybe.”

  “I almost did,” Targo said sullenly.

  “So they sent the redhot to him,” Cyrano said.

  McChesney said: “I wouldn’t say no. How’d you beat his draw, Targo? Where was your gun?”

  “On my hip.”

  “Show me.”

  Targo put his hand back into his right hip pocket and jerked a handkerchief out quickly, stuck his finger through it like a gun barrel.

  “That handkerchief in the pocket?” McChesney asked. “With the gun?”

  Targo’s big reddish face clouded a little. He nodded. McChesney leaned forward casually and twitched the handkerchief from his hand. He sniffed at it, unwrapped it, sniffed at it again, folded it and put it away in his own pocket. His face said nothing.

  “What did he say, Targo?”

  “He said: ‘I got a message for you, punk, and this is it.’ Then he went for the gat and it stuck a little in the clip. I got mine out first.”

  McChesney smiled faintly and leaned far back, teetering on his heels. His faint smile seemed to slide off the end of his long nose. He looked Targo up and down.

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’d call it damn nice shooting with a twenty-two. But you’re fast for a big guy…Who got these threats?”

  “I did,” Targo said. “Over the phone.”

  “Know the voice?”

  “It might have been this same guy. I’m not just positive.”

  McChesney walked stiff-legged to the other end of the office, stood a moment looking at a hand-tinted sporting print. He came back slowly, drifted over to the door.

  “A guy like that don’t mean a lot,” he said quietly, “but we got to do our job. The two of you will have to come downtown and make statements. Let’s go.”

  He went out. The two dicks stood up, with Duke Targo between them. The gray-haired one snapped: “You goin’ to act nice, bo?”

  Targo sneered: “If I get to wash my face.”

  They went out. The blond dick waited for Jean Adrian to pass in front of him. He swung the door, snarled back at Carmady: “As for you—nuts!”

  Carmady said softly: “I like them. It’s the squirrel in me, copper.”

  Gus Neishacker laughed, then shut the door and went to the desk.

  “I’m shaking like Benny’s third chin,” he said. “Let’s all have a shot of cognac.”

  He poured three glasses a third full, took one over to the striped sofa and spread his long legs out on it, leaned his head back and sipped the brandy.

  Carmady stood up and downed his drink. He got a cigarette out and rolled it around in his fingers, staring at Cyrano’s smooth white face with an up-from-under look.

  “How much would you say changed hands on that fight tonight?” he asked softly. “Bets.”

  Cyrano blinked, massaged his lips with a fat hand. “A few grand. It was just a regular weekly show. It don’t listen, does it?”

  Carmady put the cigarette in his mouth and leaned over the desk to strike a match. He said: “If it does, murder’s getting awfully cheap in this town.”

  Cyrano didn’t say anything. Gus Neishacker sipped the last of his brandy and carefully put the empty glass down on a round cork table beside the sofa. He stared at the ceiling, silently.

  After a moment Carmady nodded at the two men, crossed the room and went out, closed the door behind him. He went along a corridor off which dressing rooms opened, dark now. A curtained archway let him out at the back of the stage.

  In the foyer the headwaiter was standing at the glass doors, looking out at the rain and the back of a uniformed policeman. Carmady went into the empty cloakroom, found his hat and coat, put them on, came out to stand beside the headwaiter.

  He said: “I guess you didn’t notice what happened to the kid I was with?”

  The headwaiter shook his head and reached forward to unlock the door.

  “There was four hundred people here—and three hundred scrammed before the law checked in. I’m sorry.”

  Carmady nodded and went out into the rain. The uniformed man glanced at him casually. He went along the street to where the car had been left. It wasn’t there. He looked up and down the street, stood for a few moments in the rain, then walked towards Melrose.

  After a little while he found a taxi.

  6

  The ramp of the Carondelet garage curved down into semi-darkness and chilled air. The dark bulks of stalled cars looked ominous against the whitewashed walls, and the single droplight in the small office had the relentless glitter of the death house.

  A big Negro in stained overalls came out rubbing his eyes, then his face split in an enormous grin.

  “Hello, there, Mistuh Carmady. You kinda restless tonight?” Carmady said: “I get a little wild when it rains. I bet my heap isn’t here.”

  “No, it ain’t, Mistuh Carmady. I been all around wipin’ off and yours ain’t here at all.”

  Carmady said woodenly: “I lent it to a pal. He probably wrecked it.”

  He flicked a half-dollar through the air and went back up the ramp to the side street. He turned towards the back of the hotel, came to an alley-like street one side of which was the rear wall of the Carondelet. The other side had two frame houses and a four-story brick building. Hotel Blaine was lettered on a round milky globe over the door.

  Carmady went up three cement steps and tried the door. It was locked. He looked through the glass panel into a small dim empty lobby. He got out two passkeys; the second one moved the lock a little. He pulled the door hard towards him, tried the first one again. That snicked the bolt far enough for the loosely fitted door to open.

  He went in and looked at an empty counter with a sign “Manager” beside a plunger bell. There was an oblong of empty numbered pigeonholes on the wall. Carmady went around behind the counter and fished a leather register out of a space under the top. He read names back three pages, found the boyish scrawl: “Tony Acosta,” and a room number in another writing.

  He put the register away and went past the automatic elevator and upstairs to the fourth floor.

  The hallway was very silent. There was weak light from a ceiling fixture. The last door but one on the left-hand side had a crack of light showing around its transom. That was the door—411. He put his hand out to knock, then withdrew it without touching the door.

  The doorknob was heavily smeared with something that looked like blood.

  Carmady’s eyes looked down and saw what was almost a pool of blood on the stained wood before the door, beyond the edge of the runner.

  His hand suddenly felt clammy inside his glove. He took the glove off, held the hand stiff, clawlike for a moment, then shook it slowly. His eyes had a sharp strained light in them.

  He got a handkerchief out, grasped the doorknob inside it, turned it slowly. The door was unlocked. He went in.

  He looked across the room and said very softly: “Tony, oh, Tony.”

  Then he shut the door behind him and turned a key in it, still with the handkerchief.

  There was light from the bowl that hung on three brass chains from the middle of the ceiling. It shone on a made-up bed, some painted, light-colored furniture, a dull green carpet, a square writing desk of eucalyptus wood.

  Tony Acosta sat at the desk. His head was slumped forward on his left arm. Under the chair on which he sat, between the legs of the chair and his feet, there was a glistening brownish pool.

  Carmady walked across the room so rigidly that his ankles ached after the second step. He reached the desk, touch
ed Tony Acosta’s shoulder.

  “Tony,” he said thickly, in a low, meaningless voice. “My God, Tony!”

  Tony didn’t move. Carmady went around to his side. A blood-soaked bath towel glared against the boy’s stomach, across his pressed-together thighs. His right hand was crouched against the front edge of the desk, as if he was trying to push himself up. Almost under his face there was a scrawled envelope.

  Carmady pulled the envelope towards him slowly, lifted it like a thing of weight, read the wandering scrawl of words.

  “Tailed him…woptown…28 Court Street…over garage…shot me…think I got…him…your car…”

  The line trailed over the edge of the paper, became a blot there. The pen was on the floor. There was a bloody thumbprint on the envelope.

  Carmady folded it meticulously to protect the print, put the envelope in his wallet. He lifted Tony’s head, turned it a little towards him. The neck was still warm; it was beginning to stiffen. Tony’s soft dark eyes were open and they held the quiet brightness of a cat’s eyes. They had that effect the eyes of the new-dead have of almost, but not quite, looking at you.

  Carmady lowered the head gently on the outstretched left arm. He stood laxly, his head on one side, his eyes almost sleepy. Then his head jerked back and his eyes hardened.

  He stripped off his raincoat and the suitcoat underneath, rolled his sleeves up, wet a face towel in the basin in the corner of the room and went to the door. He wiped the knobs off, bent down and wiped up the smeared blood from the floor outside.

  He rinsed the towel and hung it up to dry, wiped his hands carefully, put his coat on again. He used his handkerchief to open the transom, to reverse the key and lock the door from the outside. He threw the key in over the top of the transom, heard it tinkle inside.

  He went downstairs and out of the Hotel Blame. It still rained. He walked to the corner, looked along a tree-shaded block. His car was a dozen yards from the intersection, parked carefully, the lights off, the keys in the ignition. He drew them out, felt the seat under the wheel. It was wet, sticky. Carmady wiped his hand off, ran the windows up and locked the car. He left it where it was.

  Going back to the Carondelet he didn’t meet anybody. The hard slanting rain still pounded down into the empty streets.

  7

  There was a thin thread of light under the door of 914. Carmady knocked lightly, looking up and down the hall, moved his gloved fingers softly on the panel while he waited. He waited a long time. Then a voice spoke wearily behind the wood of the door.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Carmady, angel. I have to see you. It’s strictly business.”

  The door clicked, opened. He looked at a tired white face, dark eyes that were slate-like, not violet-blue. There were smudges under them as though mascara had been rubbed into the skin. The girl’s strong little hand twitched on the edge of the door.

  “You,” she said wearily. “It would be you. Yes…Well, I’ve simply got to have a shower. I smell of policemen.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” Carmady asked casually, but his eyes were very sharp on her face.

  She shrugged slowly, then nodded. The closing door seemed to jump at him. He went along to his own rooms, threw off his hat and coat, poured whiskey into a glass and went into the bathroom to get ice water from the small tap over the basin.

  He drank slowly, looking out of the windows at the dark breadth of the boulevard. A car slid by now and then, two beams of white light attached to nothing, emanating from nowhere.

  He finished the drink, stripped to the skin, went under a shower. He dressed in fresh clothes, refilled his big flask and put it in his inner pocket, took a snub-nosed automatic out of a suitcase and held it in his hand for a minute staring at it. Then he put it back in the suitcase, lit a cigarette and smoked it through.

  He got a dry hat and a tweed coat and went back to 914.

  The door was almost insidiously ajar. He slipped in with a light knock, shut the door, went on into the living room and looked at Jean Adrian.

  She was sitting on the davenport with a freshly scrubbed look, in loose plum-colored pajamas and a Chinese coat. A tendril of damp hair drooped over one temple. Her small even features had the cameo-like clearness that tiredness gives to the very young.

  Carmady said: “Drink?”

  She gestured emptily. “I suppose so.”

  He got glasses, mixed whiskey and ice water, went to the davenport with them.

  “Are they keeping Targo on ice?”

  She moved her chin an eighth of an inch, staring into her glass.

  “He cut loose again, knocked two cops halfway through the wall. They love that boy.”

  Carmady said: “He has a lot to learn about cops. In the morning the cameras will be all set for him. I can think of some nice headlines, such as: ‘Well-known Fighter Too Fast for Gunman.’ ‘Duke Targo Puts Crimp in Underworld Hot Rod.”

  The girl sipped her drink. “I’m tired,” she said. “And my foot itches. Let’s talk about what makes this your business.”

  “Sure.” He flipped his cigarette case open, held it under her chin. Her hand fumbled at it and while it still fumbled he said: “When you light that tell me why you shot him.”

  Jean Adrian put the cigarette between her lips, bent her head to the match, inhaled and threw her head back. Color awakened slowly in her eyes and a small smile curved the line of her pressed lips. She didn’t answer.

  Carmady watched her for a minute, turning his glass in his hands. Then he stared at the floor, said: “It was your gun—the gun I picked up here in the afternoon. Targo said he drew it from his hip pocket, the slowest draw in the world. Yet he’s supposed to have shot twice, accurately enough to kill a man, while the man wasn’t even getting his gun loose from a shoulder holster. That’s hooey. But you, with the gun in a bag in your lap, and knowing the hood, might just have managed it. He would have been watching Targo.”

  The girl said emptily: “You’re a private dick, I hear. You’re the son of a boss politician. They talked about you downtown. They act a little afraid of you, of people you might know. Who sicked you on me?”

  Carmady said: “They’re not afraid of me, angel. They just talked like that to see how you’d react, if I was involved, so on. They don’t know what it’s all about.”

  “They were told plainly enough what it was all about.”

  Carmady shook his head. “A cop never believes what he gets without a struggle. He’s too used to cooked-up stories. I think McChesney’s wise you did the shooting. He knows by now if that handkerchief of Targo’s had been in a pocket with a gun.”

  Her limp fingers discarded her cigarette half-smoked. A curtain eddied at the window and loose flakes of ash crawled around in the ash tray. She said slowly: “All right. I shot him. Do you think I’d hesitate after this afternoon?”

  Carmady rubbed the lobe of his ear. “I’m playing this too light,” he said softly. “You don’t know what’s in my heart. Something has happened, something nasty. Do you think the hood meant to kill Targo?”

  “I thought so—or I wouldn’t have shot a man.”

  “I think maybe it was just a scare, angel. Like the other one. After all a night club is a poor place for a getaway.”

  She said sharply: “They don’t do many low tackles on forty-fives. He’d have got away all right. Of course he meant to kill somebody. And of course I didn’t mean Duke to front for me. He just grabbed the gun out of my hand and slammed into his act. What did it matter? I knew it would all come out in the end.”

  She poked absently at the still burning cigarette in the tray, kept her eyes down. After a moment she said, almost in a whisper: “Is that all you wanted to know?”

  Carmady let his eyes crawl sidewise, without moving his head, until he could just see the firm curve of her cheek, the strong line of her throat. He said thickly: “Shenvair was in on it. The fellow I was with at Cyrano’s followed Shenvair to a hideout. Shenvair shot him. He’s dead. He’s
dead, angel—just a young kid that worked here in the hotel. Tony, the bell captain. The cops don’t know that yet.”

  The muffled clang of elevator doors was heavy through the silence. A horn tooted dismally out in the rain on the boulevard. The girl sagged forward suddenly, then sidewise, fell across Carmady’s knees. Her body was half turned and she lay almost on her back across his thighs, her eyelids flickering. The small blue veins in them stood out rigid in the soft skin.

  He put his arms around her slowly, loosely, then they tightened, lifted her. He brought her face close to his own face. He kissed her on the side of the mouth.

  Her eyes opened, stared blankly, unfocused. He kissed her again, tightly, then pushed her upright on the davenport.

  He said quietly: “That wasn’t just an act, was it?”

  She leaped to her feet, spun around. Her voice was low, tense and angry.

  “There’s something horrible about you! Something—satanic. You come here and tell me another man has been killed—and then you kiss me. It isn’t real.”

  Carmady said dully: “There’s something horrible about any man that goes suddenly gaga over another man’s woman.”

  “I’m not his woman!” she snapped. “I don’t even like him—and I don’t like you.”

  Carmady shrugged. They stared at each other with bleak hostile eyes. The girl clicked her teeth shut, then said almost violently: “Get out! I can’t talk to you any more. I can’t stand you around. Will you get out?”

  Carmady said: “Why not?” He stood up, went over and got his hat and coat.

  The girl sobbed once sharply, then she went in light quick strides across the room to the windows, became motionless with her back to him.

  Carmady looked at her back, went over near her and stood looking at the soft hair low down on her neck. He said: “Why the hell don’t you let me help? I know there’s something wrong. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  The girl spoke to the curtain in front of her face, savagely: “Get out! I don’t want your help. Go away and stay away. I won’t be seeing you—ever.”