The Simple Art of Murder

by Raymond Chandler

  He spread his hands and looked down at them. A faint metallic smile showed at the corners of his lips.

  Francine Ley said: “I didn’t have anything to do with it, Johnny.” Her voice was as dead as the summer before last.

  De Ruse said: “The guy that rode in the car before I did probably didn’t have a gun. He was Hugo Candless. The car was a ringer for his car—same model, same paint job, same plates—but it wasn’t his car. Somebody took a lot of trouble. Candless left the Delmar Club in the wrong car about six-thirty. His wife says he’s out of town. I talked to her an hour ago. His car hasn’t been out of the garage since noon . . . Maybe his wife knows he’s snatched by now, maybe not.”

  Francine Ley’s nails clawed at her skirt. Her lips shook.

  De Ruse went on calmly, tonelessly: “Somebody gunned the Candless chauffeur in a downtown hotel tonight or this afternoon. The cops haven’t found it yet. Somebody took a lot of trouble, Francy. You wouldn’t want to be in on that kind of a set-up, would you, precious?”

  Francine Ley bent her head forward and stared at the floor. She said thickly: “I need a drink. What I had is dying in me. I feel awful.”

  De Ruse stood up and went to the white desk. He drained a bottle into a glass and brought it across to her. He stood in front of her, holding the glass out of her reach.

  “I only get tough once in a while, baby, but when I get tough I’m not so easy to stop, if I say it myself. If you know anything about all this, now would be a good time to spill it.”

  He handed her the glass. She gulped the whiskey and a little more light came into her smoke-blue eyes. She said slowly: “I don’t know anything about it, Johnny. Not in the way you mean. But George Dial made me a love-nest proposition tonight and he told me he could get money out of Candless by threatening to spill a dirty trick Candless played on some tough boy from Reno.”

  “Damn clever, these greasers,” De Ruse said. “Reno’s my town, baby. I know all the tough boys in Reno. Who was it?”

  “Somebody named Zapparty.”

  De Ruse said very softly: “Zapparty is the name of the man who runs the Club Egypt.”

  Francine Ley stood up suddenly and grabbed his arm. “Stay out of it, Johnny! For Christ sake, can’t you stay out of it for just this once?”

  De Ruse shook his head, smiled delicately, lingeringly at her. Then he lifted her hand off his arm and stepped back.

  “I had a ride in their gas car, baby, and I didn’t like it. I smelled their Nevada gas. I left my lead in somebody’s gun punk. That makes me call copper or get jammed up with the law. If someody’s snatched and I call copper, there’ll be another kidnap victim bumped off, more likely than not. Zapparty’s a tough boy from Reno and that could tic in with what Dial told you, and if Mops Parisi is playing with Zapparty, that could make a reason to pull me into it. Parisi loathes my guts.”

  “You don’t have to be a one-man riot squad, Johnny,” Francine Ley said desperately.

  He kept on smiling, with tight lips and solemn eyes. “There’ll be two of us, baby. Get yourself a long coat. It’s still raining a little.”

  She goggled at him. Her outstretched hand, the one that had been on his arm, spread its fingers stiffly, bent back from the palm, straining back. Her voice was hollow with fear.

  “Me, Johnny? . . . Oh, please, not . . .”

  De Ruse said gently: “Get that coat, honey. Make yourself look nice. It might be the last time we’ll go out together.”

  She staggered past him. He touched her arm softly, held it a moment, said almost in a whisper:

  “You didn’t put the finger on me, did you, Francy?”

  She looked back stonily at the pain in his eyes, made a hoarse sound under her breath and jerked her arm loose, went quickly into the bedroom.

  After a moment the pain went out of De Ruse’s eyes and the metallic smile came back to the corners of his lips.

  SEVEN

  De Ruse half closed his eyes and watched the croupier’s fingers as they slid back across the table and rested on the edge. They were round, plump, tapering fingers, graceful fingers. De Ruse raised his head and looked at the croupier’s face. He was a bald-headed man of no particular age, with quiet blue eyes. He had no hair on his head at all, not a single hair.

  De Ruse looked down at the croupier’s hands again. The right hand turned a little on the edge of the table. The buttons on the sleeve of the croupier’s brown velvet coat—cut like a dinner coat—rested on the edge of the table. De Ruse smiled his thin metallic smile.

  He had three blue chips on the red. On that play the ball stopped at Black 2. The croupier paid off two of the four other men who were playing.

  De Ruse pushed five blue chips forward and settled them on the red diamond. Then he turned his head to the left and watched a huskily built blond young man put three red chips on the zero.

  De Ruse licked his lips and turned his head farther, looked towards the side of the rather small room. Francine Ley was sitting on a couch backed to the wall, with her head leaning against it.

  “I think I’ve got it, baby,” De Ruse said to her. “I think I’ve got it.”

  Francine Ley blinked and lifted her head away from the wall. She reached for a drink on a low round table in front of her.

  She sipped the drink, looked at the floor, didn’t answer.

  De Ruse looked back at the blond man. The three other men had made bets. The croupier looked impatient and at the same time watchful.

  De Ruse said: “How come you always hit zero when I hit red, and double zero when I hit black?”

  The blond young man smiled, shrugged, said nothing.

  De Ruse put his hand down on the layout and said very softly: “I asked you a question, mister.”

  “Maybe I’m Jesse Livermore,” the blond young man grunted. “I like to sell short.”

  “What is this—slow motion?” one of the other men snapped.

  “Make your plays, please, gentlemen,” the croupier said.

  De Ruse looked at him, said: “Let it go.”

  The croupier spun the wheel left-handed, flicked the ball with the same hand the opposite way. His right hand rested on the edge of the table.

  The ball stopped at black 28, next to zero. The blond man laughed. “Close,” he said, “close.”

  De Ruse checked his chips, stacked them carefully. “I’m down six grand,” he said. “It’s a little raw, but I guess there’s money in it. Who runs this clip joint?”

  The croupier smiled slowly and stared straight into De Ruse’s eyes. He asked quietly: “Did you say clip joint?”

  De Ruse nodded. He didn’t bother to answer.

  “I thought you said clip joint,” the croupier said, and moved one foot, put weight on it.

  Three of the men who had been playing picked their chips up quickly and went over to a small bar in the corner of the room. They ordered drinks and leaned their backs against the wall by the bar, watching De Ruse and the croupier. The blond man stayed put and smiled sarcastically at De Ruse.

  “Tsk, tsk,” he said thoughtfully. “Your manners.”

  Francine Ley finished her drink and leaned her head back against the wall again. Her eyes came down and watched De Ruse furtively, under the long lashes.

  A paneled door opened after a moment and a very big man with a black mustache and very rough black eyebrows came in. The croupier moved his eyes to him, then to De Ruse, pointing with his glance.

  “Yes, I thought you said clip joint,” he repeated tonelessly.

  The big man drifted to De Ruse’s elbow, touched him with his own elbow.

  “Out,” he said impassively.

  The blond man grinned and put his hands in the pockets of his dark gray suit. The big man didn’t look at him.

  De Ruse glanced across the layout at the croupier and said: “I’ll take back my six grand and call it a day.”

  “Out,” the big man said wearily, jabbing his elbow into De Ruse’s side.

  The bald-
headed croupier smiled politely.

  “You,” the big man said to De Ruse, “ain’t goin’ to get tough, are you?”

  De Ruse looked at him with sarcastic surprise.

  “Well, well, the bouncer,” he said softly. “Take him, Nicky.” The blond man took his right hand out of his pocket and swung it. The sap looked black and shiny under the bright lights. It hit the big man on the back of the head with a soft thud. The big man clawed at De Ruse, who stepped away from him quickly and took a gun out from under his arm. The big man clawed at the edge of the roulette table and fell heavily on the floor.

  Francine Ley stood up and made a strangled sound in her throat.

  The blond man skipped sidewise, whirled and looked at the bartender. The bartender put his hands on top of the bar. The three men who had been playing roulette looked very interested, but they didn’t move.

  De Ruse said: “The middle button on his right sleeve, Nicky. I think it’s copper.”

  “Yeah.” The blond man drifted around the end of the table putting the sap back in his pocket. He went close to the croupier and took hold of the middle of three buttons on his right cuff, jerked it hard. At the second jerk it came away and a thin wire followed it out of the sleeve.

  “Correct,” the blond man said casually, letting the croupier’s arm drop.

  “I’ll take my six grand now,” De Ruse said. “Then we’ll go talk to your boss.”

  The croupier nodded slowly and reached for the rack of chips beside the roulette table.

  The big man on the floor didn’t move. The blond man put his right hand behind his hip and took a .45 automatic out from inside his waistband at the back.

  He swung it in his hand, smiling pleasantly around the room.

  EIGHT

  They went along a balcony that looked down over the dining room and the dance floor. The lisp of hot jazz came up to them from the lithe, swaying bodies of a high-yaller band. With the lisp of jazz came the smell of food and cigarette smoke and perspiration. The balcony was high and the scene down below had a patterned look, like an overhead camera shot.

  The bald-headed croupier opened a door in the corner of the balcony and went through without looking back. The blond man De Ruse had called Nicky went after him. Then De Ruse and Francine Ley.

  There was a short hall with a frosted light in the ceiling. The door at the end of that looked like painted metal. The croupier put a plump finger on the small push button at the side, rang it in a certain way. There was a buzzing noise like the sound of an electric door release. The croupier pushed on the edge and opened it.

  Inside was a cheerful room, half den and half office. There was a grate fire and a green leather davenport at right angles to it, facing the door. A man sitting on the davenport put a newspaper down and looked up and his face suddenly got livid. He was a small man with a tight round head, a tight round dark face. He had little lightless black eyes like buttons of jet.

  There was a big flat desk in the middle of the room and a very tall man stood at the end of it with a cocktail shaker in his hands. His head turned slowly and he looked over his shoulder at the four people who came into the room while his hands continued to agitate the cocktail shaker in gentle rhythm. He had a cavernous face with sunken eyes, loose grayish skin, and close-cropped reddish hair without shine or parting. A thin crisscross scar like a German Mensur scar showed on his left check.

  The tall man put the cocktail shaker down and turned his body around and stared at the croupier. The man on the davenport didn’t move. There was a crouched tensity in his not moving.

  The croupier said: “I think it’s a stick-up. But I couldn’t help myself. They sapped Big George.”

  The blond man smiled gaily and took his .45 out of his pocket. He pointed it at the floor.

  “He thinks it’s a stick-up,” he said. “Wouldn’t that positively slay you?”

  De Ruse shut the heavy door. Francine Ley moved away from him, towards the side of the room away from the fire. He didn’t look at her. The man on the davenport looked at her, looked at everybody.

  De Ruse said quietly: “The tall one is Zapparty. The little one is Mops Parisi.”

  The blond man stepped to one side, leaving the croupier alone in the middle of the room. The .45 covered the man on the davenport.

  “Sure, I’m Zapparty,” the tall man said. He looked at De Ruse curiously for a moment.

  Then he turned his back and picked the cocktail shaker up again, took out the plug and filled a shallow glass. He drained the glass, wiped his lips with a sheer lawn handkerchief and tucked the handkerchief back into his breast pocket very carefully, so that three points showed.

  DeRuse smiled his thin metallic smile and touched one end of his left eyebrow with his forefinger. His right hand was in his jacket pocket.

  “Nicky and I put on a little act,” he said. “That was so the boys outside would have something to talk about if the going got too noisy when we came in to see you.”

  “It sounds interesting,” Zapparty agreed. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “About that gas car you take people for rides in,” De Ruse said.

  The man on the davenport made a very sudden movement and his hand jumped off his leg as if something had stung it. The blond man said: “No . . . or yes, if you’d rather, Mister Parisi. It’s all a matter of taste.”

  Parisi became motionless again. His hand dropped back to his short thick thigh.

  Zapparty widened his deep eyes a little. “Gas car?” His tone was of mild puzzlement.

  De Ruse went forward into the middle of the room near the croupier. He stood balanced on the balls of his feet. His gray eyes had a sleepy glitter but his face was drawn and tired, not young.

  He said: “Maybe somebody just tossed it in your lap, Zapparty, but I don’t think so. I’m talking about the blue Lincoln, License 5A6, with the tank of Nevada gas in front. You know, Zapparty, the stuff they use on killers in our state.”

  Zapparty swallowed and his large Adam’s apple moved in and out. He puffed his lips, then drew them back against his teeth, then puffed them again.

  The man on the davenport laughed out loud, seemed to be enjoying himself.

  A voice that came from no one in the room said sharply: “Just drop that gat, blondie. The rest of you grab air.”

  De Ruse looked up towards an opened panel in the wall beyond the desk. A gun showed in the opening, and a hand, but no body or face. Light from the room lit up the hand and the gun.

  The gun seemed to point directly at Francine Ley. De Ruse said: “Okey,” quickly, and lifted his hands, empty.

  The blond man said: “That’ll be Big George—all rested and ready to go.” He opened his hand and let the .45 thud to the floor in front of him.

  Parisi stood up very swiftly from the davenport and took a gun from under his arm. Zapparty took a revolver out of the desk drawer, leveled it. He spoke towards the panel: “Get out, and stay out.”

  The panel clicked shut. Zapparty jerked his head at the bald-headed croupier, who had not seemed to move a muscle since he came into the room.

  “Back on the job, Louis. Keep the chin up.”

  The croupier nodded and turned and went out of the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

  Francine Ley laughed foolishly. Her hand went up and pulled the collar of her wrap close around her throat, as if it was cold in the room. But there were no windows and it was very warm, from the fire.

  Parisi made a whistling sound with his lips and teeth and went quickly to De Ruse and stuck the gun he was holding in De Ruse’s face, pushing his head back. He felt in De Ruse’s pockets with his left hand, took the Colt, felt under his arms, circled around him, touched his hips, came to the front again.

  He stepped back a little and hit De Ruse on the cheek with the flat of one gun. De Ruse stood perfectly still except that his head jerked a little when the hard metal hit his face.

  Parisi hit him again the same place. Blood began t
o run down De Ruse’s cheek from the cheekbone, lazily. His head sagged a little and his knees gave way. He went down slowly, leaned with his left hand on the floor, shaking his head. His body was crouched, his legs doubled under him. His right hand dangled loosely beside his left foot.

  Zapparty said: “All right, Mops. Don’t get blood-hungry. We want words out of these people.”

  Francine Ley laughed again, rather foolishly. She swayed along the wall, holding one hand up against it.

  Parisi breathed hard and backed away from De Ruse with a happy smile on his round swart face.

  “I been waitin’ a long time for this,” he said.

  When he was about six feet from De Ruse something small and darkly glistening seemed to slide out of the left leg of De Ruse’s trousers into his hand. There was a sharp, snapping explosion, a tiny orange-green flame down on the floor.

  Parisi’s head jerked back. A round hole appeared under his chin. It got large and red almost instantly. His hands opened laxly and the two guns fell out of them. His body began to sway. He fell heavily.

  Zapparty said: “Holy Christ!” and jerked up his revolver.

  Francine Ley screamed flatly and hurled herself at him—clawing, kicking, shrilling.

  The revolver went off twice with a heavy crash. Two slugs plunked into a wall. Plaster rattled.

  Francine Ley slid down to the floor, on her hands and knees. A long slim leg sprawled out from under her dress.

  The blond man, down on one knee with his .45 in his hand again, rasped: “She got the bastard’s gun!”

  Zapparty stood with his hands empty, a terrible expression on his face. There was a long red scratch on the back of his right hand. His revolver lay on the floor beside Francine Ley. His horrified eyes looked down at it unbelievingly.

  Parisi coughed once on the floor and after that was still.

  De Ruse got up on his feet. The little Mauser looked like a toy in his hand. His voice seemed to come from far away saying: “Watch that panel, Nicky

  There was no sound outside the room, no sound anywhere. Zapparty stood at the end of the desk, frozen, ghastly.