Collected Stories (Everyman's Library)

by Raymond Chandler

  The rain fell softly, slantingly. A light drop blew in under the canopy and hit the red end of his cigarette with a sputter. He hefted the suitcase and went along Irolo towards his sedan. It was parked almost at the next corner, a shiny black Packard with a little discreet chromium here and there.

  He stopped and opened the door and a gun came up swiftly from inside the car. The gun prodded against his chest. A voice said sharply: “Hold it! The mitts high, sweets!”

  De Ruse saw the man dimly inside the car. A lean hawk-like face on which some reflected light fell without making it distinct. He felt a gun hard against his chest, hurting his breastbone. Quick steps came up behind him and another gun prodded his back.

  “Satisfied?” another voice inquired.

  De Ruse dropped the suitcase, lifted his hands and put them against the top of the car.

  “Okey,” he said wearily. “What is it—a heist?”

  A snarling laugh came from the man in the car. A hand smacked De Ruse’s hips from behind.

  “Back up—slow!”

  De Ruse backed up, holding his hands very high in the air.

  “Not so high, punk,” the man behind said dangerously. “Just shoulder high.”

  De Ruse lowered them. The man in the car got out, straightened. He put his gun against De Ruse’s chest again, put out a long arm and unbuttoned De Ruse’s overcoat. De Ruse leaned backwards. The hand belonging to the long arm explored his pockets, his armpits. A .38 in a spring holster ceased to make weight under his arm.

  “Got one, Chuck. Anything your side?”

  “Nothin’ on the hip.”

  The man in front stepped away and picked up the suitcase.

  “March sweets. We’ll ride in our heap.”

  They went farther along Irolo. A big Lincoln limousine loomed up, a blue car with a lighter stripe. The hawk-faced man opened the rear door.

  “In.”

  De Ruse got in listlessly, spitting his cigarette end into the wet darkness, as he stooped under the roof of the car. A faint smell assailed his nose, a smell that might have been overripe peaches or almonds. He got into the car.

  “In beside him, Chuck.”

  “Listen. Let’s all ride up front. I can handle—”

  “Nix. In beside him, Chuck,” the hawk-faced one snapped.

  Chuck growled, got into the back seat beside De Ruse. The other man slammed the door hard. His lean face showed through the closed window in a sardonic grin. Then he went around to the driver’s seat and started the car, tooled it away from the curb.

  De Ruse wrinkled his nose, sniffing at the queer smell.

  They spun at the corner, went east on Eighth to Normandie, north on Normandie across Wilshire, across other streets, up over a steep hill and down the other side to Melrose. The big Lincoln slid through the light rain without a whisper. Chuck sat in the corner, held his gun on his knee, scowled, Street lights showed a square, arrogant red face, a face that was not at ease.

  The back of the driver’s head was motionless beyond the glass partition. They passed Sunset and Hollywood, turned east on Franklin, swung north to Los Feliz and down Los Feliz towards the river bed.

  Cars coming up the hill threw sudden brief glares of white light into the interior of the Lincoln. De Ruse tensed, waited. At the next pair of lights that shot squarely into the car he bent over swiftly and jerked up the left leg of his trousers. He was back against the cushions before the blinding light was gone.

  Chuck hadn’t moved, hadn’t noticed movement. Down at the bottom of the hill, at the intersection of Riverside Drive, a whole phalanx of cars surged towards them as a light changed. De Ruse waited, timed the impact of the headlights. His body stooped briefly, his hand swooped down, snatched the small gun from the leg holster.

  He leaned back once more, the gun against the bulk of his left thigh, concealed behind it from where Chuck sat.

  The Lincoln shot over on to Riverside and passed the entrance to Griffith Park.

  “Where we going, punk?” De Ruse asked casually.

  “Save it,” Chuck snarled, “You’ll find out.”

  “Not a stick-up, huh?”

  “Save it,” Chuck snarled again.

  “Mops Parisi’s boys?” De Ruse asked thinly, slowly.

  The red-faced gunman jerked, lifted the gun off his knee. “I said—save it!”

  De Ruse said: “Sorry, punk.”

  He turned the gun over his thigh, lined it swiftly, squeezed the trigger left-handed. The gun made a small flat sound—almost an unimportant sound.

  Chuck yelled and his hand jerked wildly. The gun kicked out of it and fell on the floor of the car. His left hand raced for his right shoulder.

  De Ruse shifted the little Mauser to his right hand and put it deep into Chuck’s side.

  “Steady, boy, steady. Keep your hands out of trouble. Now—kick that cannon over this way—fast!”

  Chuck kicked the big automatic along the floor of the car. De Ruse reached down for it swiftly, got it. The lean-faced driver jerked a look back and the car swerved, then straightened again.

  De Ruse hefted the big gun. The Mauser was too light for a sap. He slammed Chuck hard on the side of the head. Chuck groaned, sagged forward, clawing.

  “The gas!” he bleated. “The gas! He’ll turn on the gas!” De Ruse hit him again, harder. Chuck was a tumbled heap on the floor of the car.

  The Lincoln swung off Riverside, over a short bridge and a bridle path, down a narrow dirt road that split a golf course. It went into darkness and among trees. It went fast, rocketed from side to side, as if the driver wanted it to do just that.

  De Ruse steadied himself, felt for the door handle. There wasn’t any door handle. His lips curled and he smashed at a window with the gun. The heavy glass was like a wall of stone.

  The hawk-faced man leaned over and there was a hissing sound. Then there was a sudden sharp increase of intensity of the smell of almonds.

  De Ruse tore a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his nose. The driver had straightened again now and was driving hunched over, trying to keep his head down.

  De Ruse held the muzzle of the big gun close to the glass partition behind the driver’s head, who ducked sidewise. He squeezed lead four times quickly, shutting his eyes and turning his head away, like a nervous woman.

  No glass flew. When he looked again there was a jagged round hole in the glass and the windshield in a line with it was starred but not broken.

  He slammed the gun at the edges of the hole and managed to knock a piece of glass loose. He was getting the gas now, through the handkerchief. His head felt like a balloon. His vision waved and wandered.

  The hawk-faced driver, crouched, wrenched the door open at his side, swung the wheel of the car the opposite way and jumped clear.

  The car tore over a low embankment, looped a little and smacked sidewise against a tree. The body twisted enough for one of the rear doors to spring open.

  De Ruse went through the door in a headlong dive. Soft earth smacked him, knocked some of the wind out of him. Then his lungs breathed clean air. He rolled up on his stomach and elbows, kept his head down, his gun hand up.

  The hawk-faced man was on his knees a dozen yards away. De Ruse watched him drag a gun out of his pocket and lift it.

  Chuck’s gun pulsed and roared in De Ruse’s hand until it was empty.

  The hawk-faced man folded down slowly and his body merged with the dark shadows and the wet ground. Cars went by distantly on Riverside Drive. Rain dripped off the trees. The Griffith Park beacon turned in the thick sky. The rest was darkness and silence.

  De Ruse took a deep breath and got upon his feet. He dropped the empty gun, took a small flash out of his overcoat pocket and pulled his overcoat up against his nose and mouth, pressing the thick cloth hard against his face. He went to the car, switched off the lights and threw the beam of the flash into the driver’s compartment. He leaned in quickly and turned a petcock on a copper cylinder like a fire e
xtinguisher. The hissing noise of the gas stopped.

  He went over to the hawk-faced man. He was dead. There was some loose money, currency and silver in his pockets, cigarettes, a folder of matches from the Club Egypt, no wallet, a couple of extra clips of cartridges, De Ruse’s .38. De Ruse put the last back where it belonged and straightened from the sprawled body.

  He looked across the darkness of the Los Angeles river bed towards the lights of Glendale. In the middle distance a green neon sign far from any other light winked on and off: Club Egypt.

  De Ruse smiled quietly to himself, and went back to the Lincoln. He dragged Chuck’s body out onto the wet ground. Chuck’s red face was blue now, under the beam of the small flash. His open eyes held an empty stare. His chest didn’t move. De Ruse put the flash down and went through some more pockets.

  He found the usual things a man carries, including a wallet showing a driver’s license issued to Charles Le Grand, Hotel Metropole, Los Angeles. He found more Club Egypt matches and a tabbed hotel key marked 809, Hotel Metropole.

  He put the key in his pocket, slammed the sprung door of the Lincoln, got in under the wheel. The motor caught. He backed the car away from the tree with a wrench of broken fender metal, swung it around slowly over the soft earth and got it back again on the road.

  When he reached Riverside again he turned the lights on and drove back to Hollywood. He put the car under some pepper trees in front of a big brick apartment house on Kenmore half a block north of Hollywood Boulevard, locked the ignition and lifted out his suitcase.

  Light from the entrance of the apartment house rested on the front license plate as he walked away. He wondered why gunmen would use a car with plate numbers reading 5A6, almost a privilege number.

  In a drugstore he phoned for a taxi. The taxi took him back to the Chatterton.

  4

  The apartment was empty. The smell of Shalimar and cigarette smoke lingered on the warm air, as if someone had been there not long before. De Ruse pushed into the bedroom, looked at clothes in two closets, articles on a dresser, then went back to the red and white living room and mixed himself a stiff highball.

  He put the night latch on the outside door and carried his drink into the bedroom, stripped off his muddy clothes and put on another suit of somber material but dandified cut. He sipped his drink while he knotted a black four-in-hand in the opening of a soft white linen shirt.

  He swabbed the barrel of the little Mauser, reassembled it, and added a shell to the small clip, slipped the gun back into the leg holster. Then he washed his hands and took his drink to the telephone.

  The first number he called was the Chronicle. He asked for the City Room, Werner.

  A drawly voice dripped over the wire: “Werner talkin’. Go ahead. Kid me.”

  De Ruse said: “This is John De Ruse, Claude. Look up California License 5A6 on your list for me.”

  “Must be a bloody politician,” the drawly voice said, and went away.

  De Ruse sat motionless, looking at a fluted white pillar in the corner. It had a red and white bowl of red and white artificial roses on top of it. He wrinkled his nose at it disgustedly.

  Werner’s voice came back on the wire: “1930 Lincoln limousine registered to Hugo Candless, Casa de Oro Apartments, 2942 Clearwater Street, West Hollywood.”

  De Ruse said in a tone that meant nothing: “That’s the mouthpiece, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. The big lip. Mister Take the Witness.” Werner’s voice came down lower. “Speaking to you, Johnny, and not for publication—a big crooked tub of guts that’s not even smart; just been around long enough to know who’s for sale…Story in it?”

  “Hell, no,” De Ruse said softly. “He just sideswiped me and didn’t stop.”

  He hung up and finished his drink, stood up to mix another. Then he swept a telephone directory onto the white desk and looked up the number of the Casa de Oro. He dialed it. A switchboard operator told him Mr. Hugo Candless was out of town.

  “Give me his apartment,” De Ruse said.

  A woman’s cool voice answered the phone. ‘Yes. This is Mrs. Hugo Candless speaking. What is it, please?”

  De Ruse said: “I’m a client of Mr. Candless, very anxious to get hold of him. Can you help me?”

  “I’m very sorry,” the cool, almost lazy voice told him. “My husband was called out of town quite suddenly. I don’t even know where he went, though I expect to hear from him later this evening. He left his club—”

  “What club was that?” De Ruse asked casually.

  “The Delmar Club. I say he left there without coming home. If there is any message—”

  De Ruse said: “Thank you, Mrs. Candless. Perhaps I may call you again later.”

  He hung up, smiled slowly and grimly, sipped his fresh drink and looked up the number of the Hotel Metropole. He called it and asked for “Mister Charles Le Grand in Room 809.”

  “Six-o-nine,” the operator said casually. “I’ll connect you.” A moment later: “There is no answer.”

  De Ruse thanked her, took the tabbed key out of his pocket, looked at the number on it. The number was 809.

  5

  Sam, the doorman at the Delmar Club, leaned against the buff stone of the entrance and watched the traffic swish by on Sunset Boulevard. The headlights hurt his eyes. He was tired and he wanted to go home. He wanted a smoke and a big slug of gin. He wished the rain would stop. It was dead inside the club when it rained.

  He straightened away from the wall and walked the length of the pavement canopy a couple of times, slapping together his big black hands in big white gloves. He tried to whistle the “Skaters Waltz,” couldn’t get within a block of the tune, whistled “Low Down Lady” instead. That didn’t have any tune.

  De Ruse came around the corner from Hudson Street and stood beside him near the wall.

  “Hugo Candless inside?” he asked, not looking at Sam.

  Sam clicked his teeth disapprovingly. “He ain’t.”

  “Been in?”

  “Ask at the desk side, please, mistah.”

  De Ruse took gloved hands out of his pocket and began to roll a five-dollar bill around his left forefinger.

  “What do they know that you don’t know?”

  Sam grinned slowly, watched the bill being wound tightly around the gloved finger.

  “That’s a fac’, boss. Yeah—he was in. Comes most every day.”

  “What time he leave?”

  “He leave ‘bout six-thirty, Ah reckon.”

  “Drive his blue Lincoln limousine?”

  “Shuah. Only he don’t drive it hisseif. What for you ask?”

  “It was raining then,” De Ruse said calmly. “Raining pretty hard. Maybe it wasn’t the Lincoln.”

  ‘Twas, too, the Lincoln,” Sam protested. “Ain’t I tucked him in? He never rides nothin’ else.”

  “License 5A6?” De Ruse bored on relentlessly.

  “That’s it,” Sam chortled. “Just like a councilman’s number that number is.”

  “Know the driver?”

  “Shuah—” Sam began, and then stopped cold. He raked a black jaw with a white finger the size of a banana. “Well, Ah’ll be a big black slob if he ain’t got hisself a new driver again. I ain’t know that man, sure’nough.”

  De Ruse poked the rolled bill into Sam’s big white paw. Sam grabbed it but his large eyes suddenly got suspicious.

  “Say, for what you ask all of them questions, mistah man?”

  De Ruse said: “I paid my way, didn’t I?”

  He went back around the corner to Hudson and got into his black Packard sedan. He drove it out on to Sunset, then west on Sunset almost to Beverly Hills, then turned towards the foothills and began to peer at the signs on street corners. Clearwater Street ran along the flank of a hill and had a view of the entire city. The Casa de Oro, at the corner of Parkinson, was a tricky block of high-class bungalow apartments surrounded by an adobe wall with red tiles on top. It had a lobby in a separate building,
a big private garage on Parkinson, opposite one length of the wall.

  De Ruse parked across the street from the garage and sat looking through the wide window into a glassed-in office where an attendant in spotless white coveralls sat with his feet on the desk, reading a magazine and spit over his shoulder at an invisible cuspidor.

  De Ruse got out of the Packard, crossed the street farther up, came back and slipped into the garage without the attendant seeing him.

  The cars were in four rows. Two rows backed against the white walls, two against each other in the middle. There were plenty of vacant stalls, but plenty of cars had gone to bed also. They were mostly big, expensive closed models, with two or three flashy open jobs.

  There was only one limousine. It had License No. 5A6.

  It was a well-kept car, bright and shiny; royal blue with a buff trimming. De Ruse took a glove off and rested his hand on the radiator shell. Quite cold. He felt the tires, looked at his fingers. A little fine dry dust adhered to the skin. There was no mud in the treads, just bone-dry dust.

  He went back along the row of dark car bodies and leaned in the open door of the little office. After a moment the attendant looked up, almost with a start.

  “Seen the Candless chauffeur around?” De Ruse asked him.

  The man shook his head and spat deftly into a copper spittoon.

  “Not since I came on—three o’clock.”

  “Didn’t he go down to the club for the old man?”

  “Nope. I guess not. The big hack ain’t been out. He always takes that.”

  “Where does he hang his hat?”

  “Who? Mattick? They got servants’ quarters in back of the jungle. But I think I heard him say he parks at some hotel. Let’s see—” A brow got furrowed.

  “The Metropole?” De Ruse suggested.

  The garage man thought it over while De Ruse stared at the point of his chin.

  “Yeah. I think that s it. I ain’t just positive though. Mattick don’t open up much.”

  De Ruse thanked him and crossed the street and got into the Packard again. He drove downtown.