“ ’Night, Sam. Tell him to go on home.”
The doorman touched his cap, shut the door, and relayed the orders to the driver, who nodded without turning his head. The car moved off in the rain.
The rain came down slantingly and at the intersection sudden gusts blew it rattling against the glass of the limousine. The street corners were clotted with people trying to get across Sunset without being splashed. Hugo Candless grinned out at them, pityingly.
The car went out Sunset, through Sherman, then swung towards the hills. It began to go very fast. It was on a boulevard where traffic was thin now.
It was very hot in the car. The windows were all shut and the glass partition behind the driver’s seat was shut all the way across. The smoke of Hugo’s cigar was heavy and choking in the tonneau of the limousine.
Candless scowled and reached out to lower a window. The window lever didn’t work. He tried the other side. That didn’t work either. He began to get mad. He grabbed for the little telephone dingus to bawl his driver out. There wasn’t any little telephone dingus.
The car turned sharply and began to go up a long straight hill with eucalyptus trees on one side and no houses. Candless felt something cold touch his spine, all the way up and down his spine. He bent forward and banged on the glass with his fist. The driver didn’t turn his head. The car went very fast up the long dark hill road.
Hugo Candless grabbed viciously for the door handle. The doors didn’t have any handles—either side. A sick, incredulous grin broke over Hugo’s broad moon face.
The driver bent over to the right and reached for something with his gloved hand. There was a sudden sharp hissing noise. Hugo Candless began to smell the odor of almonds.
Very faint at first—very faint, and rather pleasant. The hissing noise went on. The smell of almonds got bitter and harsh and very deadly. Hugo Candless dropped his cigar and banged with all his strength on the glass of the nearest window. The glass didn’t break.
The car was up in the hills now, beyond even the infrequent street lights of the residential sections.
Candless dropped back on the seat and lifted his foot to kick hard at the glass partition in front of him. The kick was never finished. His eyes no longer saw. His face twisted into a snarl and his head went back against the cushions, crushed down against his thick shoulders. His soft white felt hat was shapeless on his big square skull.
The driver looked back quickly, showing a lean, hawklike face for a brief instant. Then he bent to his right again and the hissing noise stopped.
He pulled over to the side of the deserted road, stopped the can, switched off all the lights. The rain made a dull noise pounding on the roof.
The driver got out in the rain and opened the rear door of the car, then backed away from it quickly, holding his nose.
He stood a little way off for a while and looked up and down the road.
In the back of the limousine Hugo Candless didn’t move.
TWO
Francine Ley sat in a low red chair beside a small table on which there was an alabaster bowl. Smoke from the cigarette she had just discarded into the bowl floated up and made patterns in the still, warm air. Her hands were clasped behind her head and her smoke-blue eyes were lazy, inviting. She had dank auburn hair set in loose waves. There were bluish shadows in the troughs of the waves.
George Dial leaned oven and kissed her on the lips, hard. His own lips were hot when he kissed her, and he shivered. The girl didn’t move. She smiled up at him lazily when he straightened again.
In a thick, clogged voice Dial said: “Listen, Francy. When do you ditch this gambler and let me set you up?”
Francine Ley shrugged, without taking her hands from behind her head. “He’s a square gambler, George,” she drawled. “That’s something nowadays and you don’t have enough money.”
“I can get it.”
“How?” her voice was low and husky. It moved George Dial like a cello.
“From Candless. I’ve got plenty on that bind.”
“As for instance?” Francine Ley suggested lazily.
Dial grinned softly down at her. He widened his eyes in a deliberately innocent expression. Francine Ley thought the whites of his eyes were tinged even so faintly with some color that was not white.
Dial flourished an unlighted cigarette. “Plenty—like he sold out a tough boy from Reno last year. The tough boy’s half-brother was under a murder rap here and Candless took twenty-five grand to get him off. He made a deal with the D.A. on another case and let the tough boy’s brother go up.”
“And what did the tough boy do about all that?” Francine Ley asked gently.
“Nothing—yet. He thinks it was on the up and up, I guess. You can’t always win.”
“But he might do plenty, if he knew.” Francine Ley said, nodding. “Who was the tough boy, Georgie?”
Dial lowered his voice and leaned down oven her again. “I’m a sap to tell you that. A man named Zapparty. I’ve never met him.”
“And never want to—if you’ve got sense, Georgie. No, thanks. I’m not walking myself into any jam like that with you.”
Dial smiled lightly, showing even teeth in a dank, smooth face. “Leave it to me, Francy. Just forget the whole thing except how I’m nuts about you.”
“Buy us a drink,” the girl said.
The room was a living room in a hotel apartment. It was all red and white, with embassy decorations, too stiff. The white walls had red designs painted on them, the white venetian blinds were framed in white box drapes, there was a half-round red rug with a white bonder in front of the gas fine. There was a kidney-shaped white desk against one wall, between the windows.
Dial went oven to the desk and poured Scotch into two glasses, added ice and charged water, carried the glasses back across the room to where a thin wisp of smoke still plumed upward from the alabaster bowl.
“Ditch the gambler,” Dial said, handing her a glass. “He’s the one will get you in a jam.”
She sipped the drink, nodded. Dial took the glass out of her hand, sipped from the same place on the rim, leaned over holding both glasses and kissed her on the lips again.
There were red curtains over a door to a short hallway. They were parted a few inches and a man’s face appeared in the opening, cool gray eyes stared in thoughtfully at the kiss. The curtains fell together again without sound.
After a moment a door shut loudly and steps came along the hallway. Johnny De Ruse came through the curtains into the room. By that time Dial was lighting his cigarette.
Johnny De Ruse was tall, lean, quiet, dressed in dark clothes dashingly cut. His cool gray eyes had fine laughter wrinkles at the corners. His thin mouth was delicate but not soft, and his long chin had a cleft in it.
Dial stared at him, made a vague motion with his hand. De Ruse walked over to the desk without speaking, poured some whiskey into a glass and drank it straight.
He stood a moment with his back to the room, tapping on the edge of the desk. Then he turned around, smiled faintly, said: “ ’Lo, people,” in a gentle, rather drawling voice and went out of the room through an inner door.
He was in a big overdecorated bedroom with twin beds. He went to a closet and got a tan calfskin suitcase out of it, opened it on the nearest bed. He began to rob the drawers of a highboy and put things in the suitcase, arranging them carefully, without haste. He whistled quietly through his teeth while he was doing it.
When the suitcase was packed he snapped it shut and lit a cigarette. He stood for a moment in the middle of the room without moving. His gray eyes looked at the wall without seeing it.
After a little while he went back into the closet and came out with a small gun in a soft leather harness with two short straps. He pulled up the left leg of his trousers and strapped the holster on his leg. Then he picked up the suitcase and went back to the living room.
Francine Ley’s eyes narrowed swiftly when she saw the suitcase.
“Going some
place?” she asked in her low, husky voice.
“Uh-huh. Where’s Dial?”
“He had to leave.”
“That’s too bad,” De Ruse said softly. He put the suitcase down on the floor and stood beside it, moving his cool gray eyes over the girl’s face, up and down her slim body, from her ankles to her auburn head. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I like to see him around. I’m kind of dull for you.”
“Maybe you are, Johnny.”
He bent to the suitcase, but straightened without touching it and said casually: “Remember Mops Parisi? I saw him in town today.”
Her eyes widened and then almost shut. Her teeth clicked lightly. The line of her jawbone stood out very distinctly for a moment.
De Ruse kept moving his glance up and down her face and body.
“Going to do anything about it?” she asked.
“I thought of taking a trip,” De Ruse said. “I’m not so scrappy as I was once.”
“A powder,” Francine Ley said softly. “Where do we go?”
“Not a powder—a trip,” De Ruse said tonelessly. “And not we—me. I’m going alone.”
She sat still, watching his face, not moving a muscle.
De Ruse reached inside his coat and got out a long wallet that opened like a book. He tossed a tight sheaf of bills into the girl’s lap, put the wallet away. She didn’t touch the bills.
“That’ll hold you for longer than you’ll need to find a new playmate,” he said, without expression. “I wouldn’t say I won’t send you more, if you need it.”
She stood up slowly and the sheaf of bills slid down her skirt to the floor. She held her arms straight down at the sides, the hands clenched so that the tendons on the backs of them were sharp. Her eyes were as dull as slate.
“That means we’re through, Johnny?”
He lifted his suitcase. She stepped in front of him swiftly, with two long steps. She put a hand against his coat. He stood quite still, smiling gently with his eyes, but not with his lips. The perfume of Shalimar twitched at his nostrils.
“You know what you are, Johnny?” Her husky voice was almost a lisp.
He waited.
“A pigeon, Johnny. A pigeon.”
He nodded slightly. “Check. I called copper on Mops Parisi. I don’t like the snatch racket, baby. I’d call copper on it any day. I might even get myself hurt blocking it. That’s old stuff. Through?”
“You called copper on Mops Parisi and you don’t think he knows it, but maybe he does. So you’re running away from him . . . That’s a laugh, Johnny. I’m kidding you. That’s not why you’re leaving me.”
“Maybe I’m just tired of you, baby.”
She put her head back and laughed sharply, almost with a wild note. De Ruse didn’t budge.
“You’re not a tough boy, Johnny. You’re soft. George Dial is harder than you are; Gawd, how soft you are, Johnny!”
She stepped back, staring at his face. Some flicker of almost unbearable emotion came and went in her eyes.
“You’re such a handsome pup, Johnny. Gawd, but you’re handsome. It’s too bad you’re soft.”
De Ruse said gently, without moving: “Not soft, baby—just a bit sentimental. I like to clock the ponies and play seven-card stud and mess around with little red cubes with white spots on them. I like games of chance, including women. But when I lose I don’t get sore and I don’t chisel. I just move on to the next table. Be seein’ you.”
He stooped, hefted the suitcase, and walked around hen. He went across the room and through the red curtains without looking back.
Francine Ley stared with stiff eyes at the floor.
THREE
Standing under the scalloped glass canopy of the side entrance to the Chatterton, De Ruse looked up and down Irolo, towards the flashing lights of Wilshire and towards the dank quiet end of the side street.
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 can. A lean hawklike face on which some reflected light fell without making it distinct. He felt a gun hard against his chest, hunting his breast-bone. 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 dankness, 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 hand. 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 oven 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.”
&n
bsp; “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 oven 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 driven 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 driven 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 oven 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.
The Simple Art of Murder Page 35