The Simple Art of Murder

by Raymond Chandler

  De Ruse bent down and touched Francine Ley’s shoulder. “All right, baby?”

  She drew her legs under her and got up, stood looking down at Parisi. Her body shook with a nervous chill.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” De Ruse said softly beside her. “I guess I had a wrong idea about you.”

  He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and moistened it with his lips, then rubbed his left cheek lightly and looked at blood on the handkerchief.

  Nicky said: “I guess Big George went to sleep again. I was a sap not to blast at him.”

  De Ruse nodded a little, and said:

  “Yeah. The whole play was lousy. Where’s your hat and coat, Mister Zapparty? We’d like to have you go riding with us.”

  NINE

  In the shadows under the pepper trees De Ruse said: “There it is, Nicky. Over there. Nobody’s bothered it. Better take a look around.”

  The blond man got out from under the wheel of the Packard and went off under the trees. He stood a little while on the same side of the street as the Packard, then he slipped across to where the big Lincoln was parked in front of the brick apartment house on North Kenmore.

  De Ruse leaned forward across the back of the front seat and pinched Francine Ley’s check. “You’re going home now, baby—with this bus. I’ll see you later.”

  “Johnny”—she clutched at his arm—“what are you going to do? For Pete’s sake, can’t you stop having fun for tonight?”

  “Not yet, baby. Mister Zapparty wants to tell us things. I figure a little ride in that gas car will pep him up. Anyway I need it for evidence.”

  He looked sidewise at Zapparty in the corner of the back seat. Zapparty made a harsh sound in his throat and stared in front of him with a shadowed face.

  Nicky came back across the road, stood with one foot on the running board.

  “No keys,” he said. “Got’em?”

  De Ruse said: “Sure.” He took keys out of his pocket and handed them to Nicky. Nicky went around to Zapparty’s side of the car and opened the door.

  “Out, mister.”

  Zapparty got out stiffly, stood in the soft, slanting rain, his mouth working. De Ruse got out after him.

  “Take it away, baby.”

  Francine Ley slid along the scat under the steering wheel of the Packard and pushed the starter. The motor caught with a soft whirr.

  “So long, baby,” De Ruse said gently. “Get my slippers warmed for me. And do me a big favor, honey. Don’t phone anyone.”

  The Packard went off along the dark street, under the big pepper trees. De Ruse watched it turn a corner. He prodded Zapparty with his elbow.

  “Let’s go. You’re going to ride in the back of your gas car. We can’t feed you much gas on account of the hole in the glass, but you’ll like the smell of it. We’ll go off in the country somewhere. We’ve got all night to play with you.”

  “I guess you know this is a snatch,” Zapparty said harshly.

  “Don’t I love to think it,” De Ruse purred.

  They went across the street, three men walking together without haste. Nicky opened the good rear door of the Lincoln. Zapparty got into it. Nicky banged the door shut, got under the wheel and fitted the ignition key in the lock. De Ruse got in beside him and sat with his legs straddling the tank of gas.

  The whole car still smelled of the gas.

  Nicky started the car, turned it in the middle of the block and drove north to Franklin, back over Los Feliz towards Glendale. After a little while Zapparty leaned forward and banged on the glass. De Ruse put his ear to the hole in the glass behind Nicky’s head.

  Zapparty’s harsh voice said: “Stone house—Castle Road—in the La Crescenta flood area.”

  “Jeeze, but he’s a softy,” Nicky grunted, his eyes on the road ahead.

  De Ruse nodded, said thoughtfully: “There’s more to it than that. With Parisi dead he’d clam up unless he figured he had an out.”

  Nicky said: “Me, I’d rather take a beating and keep my chin buttoned. Light me a pill, Johnny.”

  De Ruse lit two cigarettes and passed one to the blond man. He glanced back at Zapparty’s long body in the corner of the car. Passing light touched up his taut face, made the shadows on it look very deep.

  The big car slid noiselessly through Glendale and up the grade towards Montrose. From Montrose over to the Sunland highway and across that into the almost deserted flood area of La Crescenta.

  They found Castle Road and followed it towards the mountains. In a few minutes they came to the stone house.

  It stood back from the road, across a wide space which might once have been lawn but which was now packed sand, small stones and a few large boulders. The road made a square turn just before they came to it. Beyond it the road ended in a clean edge of concrete chewed off by the flood of New Year’s Day, 1934.

  Beyond this edge was the main wash of the flood. Bushes grew in it and there were many huge stones. On the very edge a tree grew with half its roots in the air eight feet above the bed of the wash.

  Nicky stopped the car and turned off the lights and took a big nickeled flash out of the car pocket. He handed it to De Ruse.

  De Ruse got out of the car and stood for a moment with his hand on the open door, holding the flash. He took a gun out of his overcoat pocket and held it down at his side.

  “Looks like a stall,” he said. “I don’t think there’s anything stirring here.”

  He glanced in at Zapparty, smiled sharply and walked off across the ridges of sand, towards the house. The front door stood half open, wedged that way by sand. De Ruse went towards the corner of the house, keeping out of line with the door as well as he could. He went along the side wall, looking at boarded-up windows behind which there was no trace of light.

  At the back of the house was what had been a chicken house. A piece of rusted junk in a squashed garage was all that remained of the family sedan. The back door was nailed up like the windows. De Ruse stood silent in the rain, wondering why the front door was open. Then he remembered that there had been another flood a few months before, not such a bad one. There might have been enough water to break open the door on the side towards the mountains.

  Two stucco houses, both abandoned, loomed on the adjoining lots. Farther away from the wash, on a bit of higher ground, there was a lighted window. It was the only light anywhere in the range of De Ruse’s vision.

  He went back to the front of the house and slipped through the open door, stood inside it and listened. After quite a long time he snapped the flash on.

  The house didn’t smell like a house. It smelled like out of doors. There was nothing in the front room but sand, a few pieces of smashed furniture, some marks on the walls, above the dark line of the flood water, where pictures had hung.

  De Ruse went through a short hall into a kitchen that had a hole in the floor where the sink had been and a rusty gas stove stuck in the hole. From the kitchen he went into a bedroom. He had not heard any whisper of sound in the house so far.

  The bedroom was square and dark. A carpet stiff with old mud was plastered to the floor. There was a metal bed with a rusted spring, and a waterstained mattress over part of the spring.

  Feet stuck out from under the bed.

  They were large feet in walnut brown brogues, with purple socks above them. The socks had gray clocks down the sides. Above the socks were trousers of black and white check.

  De Ruse stood very still and played the flash down on the feet. He made a soft sucking sound with his lips. He stood like that for a couple of minutes, without moving at all. Then he stood the flash on the floor, on its end, so that the light it shot against the ceiling was reflected down to make dim light all over the room.

  He took hold of the mattress and pulled it off the bed. He reached down and touched one of the hands of the man who was under the bed. The hand was ice cold. He took hold of the ankles and pulled, but the man was large and heavy.

  It was easier to move the bed from ov
er him.

  TEN

  Zapparty leaned his head back against the upholstery and shut his eyes and turned his head away a little. His eyes were shut very tight and he tried to turn his head far enough so that the light from the big flash wouldn’t shine through his eyelids.

  Nicky held the flash close to his face and snapped it on, off again, on, off again, monotonously, in a kind of rhythm.

  De Ruse stood with one foot on the running board by the open door and looked off through the rain. On the edge of the murky horizon an airplane beacon flashed weakly.

  Nicky said carelessly: “You never know what’ll get a guy. I saw one break once because a cop held his fingernail against the dimple in his chin.”

  De Ruse laughed under his breath. “This one is tough,” he said. “You’ll have to think of something better than a flashlight.”

  Nicky snapped the flash on, off, on, off. “I could,” he said, “But I don’t want to get my hands dirty.”

  After a little while Zapparty raised his hands in front of him and let them fall slowly and began to talk. He talked in a low monotonous voice, keeping his eyes shut against the flash.

  “Parisi worked the snatch. I didn’t know anything about it until it was done. Parisi muscled in on me about a month ago, with a couple of tough boys to back him up. He had found out somehow that Candless beat me out of twenty-five grand to defend my half-brother on a murder rap, then sold the kid out. I didn’t tell Parisi that. I didn’t know he knew until tonight.

  “He came into the club about seven or a little after and said: ‘We’ve got a friend of yours, Hugo Candless. It’s a hundred-grand job, a quick turnover. All you have to do is help spread the pay-off across the tables here, get it mixed up with a bunch of other money. You have to do that because we give you a cut—and because the caper is right up your alley, if anything goes sour.’ That’s about all. Parisi sat around then and chewed his fingers and waited for his boys. He got pretty jumpy when they didn’t show. He went out once to make a phone call from a beer parlor.”

  De Ruse drew on a cigarette he held cupped inside a hand.

  He said: “Who fingered the job, and how did you know Candless was up here?”

  Zapparty said: “Mops told me. But I didn’t know he was dead.”

  Nicky laughed and snapped the flash several times quickly.

  De Ruse said: “Hold it steady for a minute.” Nicky held the beam steady on Zapparty’s white face. Zapparty moved his lips in and out. He opened his eyes once. They were blind eyes, like the eyes of a dead fish.

  Nicky said: “It’s damn cold up here. What do we do with his nibs?”

  De Ruse said: “We’ll take him into the house and tie him to Candless. They can keep each other warm. We’ll come up again in the morning and see if he’s got any fresh ideas.”

  Zapparty shuddered. The gleam of something like a tear showed in the corner of his nearest eye. After a moment of silence he said: “Okey. I planned the whole thing. The gas car was my idea. I didn’t want the money. I wanted Candless, and I wanted him dead. My kid brother was hanged in Quentin a week ago Friday.”

  There was a little silence. Nicky said something under his breath. De Ruse didn’t move or make a sound.

  Zapparty went on: “Mattick, the Candless driver, was in on it. He hated Candless. He was supposed to drive the ringer car to make everything look good and then take a powder. But he lapped up too much corn getting set for the job and Parisi got leery of him, had him knocked off. Another boy drove the car. It was raining and that helped.”

  De Ruse said: “Better—but still not all of it, Zapparty.”

  Zapparty shrugged quickly, slightly opened his eyes against the flash, almost grinned.

  “What the hell do you want? Jam on both sides?”

  De Ruse said: “I want a finger put on the bird that had me grabbed . . . Let it go. I’ll do it myself.”

  He took his foot off the running board and snapped his butt away into the darkness. He slammed the car door shut, got in the front. Nicky put the flash away and slid around under the wheel, started the engine.

  De Ruse said: “Somewhere where I can phone for a cab, Nicky. Then you take this riding for another hour and then call Francy. I’ll have a word for you there.”

  The blond man shook his head slowly from side to side. “You’re a good pal, Johnny, and I like you. But this has gone far enough this way. I’m taking it down to Headquarters. Don’t forget I’ve got a private-dick license under my old shirts at home.

  De Ruse said: “Give me an hour, Nicky. Just an hour.”

  The car slid down the hill and crossed the Sunland Highway, started down another hill towards Montrose. After a while Nicky said: “Check.”

  ELEVEN

  It was twelve minutes past one by the stamping clock on the end of the desk in the lobby of the Casa dc Oro. The lobby was antique Spanish, with black and red Indian rugs, nail-studded chairs with leather cushions and leather tassels on the corners of the cushions; the gray-green olivewood doors were fitted with clumsy wrought-iron strap hinges.

  A thin, dapper clerk with a waxed blond mustache and a blond pompadour leaned on the desk and looked at the clock and yawned, tapping his teeth with the backs of his bright fingernails.

  The door opened from the street and De Ruse came in. He took off his hat and shook it, put it on again and yanked the brim down. His eyes looked slowly around the deserted lobby and he went to the desk, slapped a gloved palm on it.

  “What’s the number of the Hugo Candless bungalow?” he asked.

  The clerk looked annoyed. He glanced at the clock, at De Ruse’s face, back at the clock. He smiled superciliously, spoke a slight accent.

  “Twelve C. Do you wish to be announced—at this hour?”

  De Ruse said: “No.”

  He turned away from the desk and went towards a large door with a diamond of glass in it. It looked like the door of a very high-class privy.

  As he put his hand out to the door a bell rang sharply behind him.

  De Ruse looked back over his shoulder, turned and went back to the desk. The clerk took his hand away from the bell, rather quickly.

  His voice was cold, sarcastic, insolent, saying: “It’s not that kind of apartment house, if you please.”

  Two patches above De Ruse’s cheekbones got a dusky red. He leaned across the counter and took hold of the braided lapel of the clerk’s jacket, pulled the man’s chest against the edge of the desk.

  “What was that crack, nance?”

  The clerk paled but managed to bang his bell again with a flailing hand.

  A pudgy man in a baggy suit and a seal-brown toupee came around the corner of the desk, put out a plump finger and said: “Hey.”

  De Ruse let the clerk go. He looked expressionlessly at cigar ash on the front of the pudgy man’s coat.

  The pudgy man said: “I’m the house man. You gotta see me if you want to get tough.”

  De Ruse said: “You speak my language. Come over in the corner.”

  They went over in the corner and sat down beside a palm. The pudgy man yawned amiably and lifted the edge of his toupee and scratched under it.

  “I’m Kuvalick,” he said. “Times I could bop that Swiss myself. What’s the beef?”

  De Ruse said: “Are you a guy that can stay clammed?”

  “No. I like to talk. It’s all the fun I get around this dude ranch.” Kuvalick got half of a cigar out of a pocket and burned ,his nose lighting it.

  De Ruse said: “This is one time you stay clammed.”

  He reached inside his coat, got his wallet out, took out two tens. He rolled them around his forefinger, then slipped them off in a tube and tucked the tube into the outside pocket of the pudgy man’s coat.

  Kuvalick blinked, but didn’t say anything.

  De Ruse said: “There’s a man in the Candless apartment named George Dial. His car’s outside, and that’s where he would be. I want to see him and I don’t want to send a name in. You can tak
e me in and stay with me.”

  The pudgy man said cautiously: “It’s kind of late. Maybe he’s in bed.”

  “If he is, he’s in the wrong bed,” De Ruse said. “He ought to get up.”

  The pudgy man stood up. “I don’t like what I’m thinkin’, but I like your tens,” he said. “I’ll go in and see if they’re up. You stay put.”

  De Ruse nodded. Kuvalick went along the wall and slipped through a door in the corner. The clumsy square butt of a hip holster showed under the back of his coat as he walked. The clerk looked after him, then looked contemptuously towards De Ruse and got out a nail file.

  Ten minutes went by, fifteen. Kuvalick didn’t come back. De Ruse stood up suddenly, scowled and marched towards the door in the corner. The clerk at the desk stiffened, and his eyes went to the telephone on the desk, but he didn’t touch it.

  De Ruse went through the door and found himself under a roofed gallery. Rain dripped softly off the slanting tiles of the roof. He went along a patio the middle of which was an oblong pool framed in a mosaic of gaily colored tiles. At the end of that, other patios branched off. There was a window light at the far end of the one to the left. He went towards it, at a venture, and when he came close to it made out the number 12C on the door.

  He went up two flat steps and punched a bell that rang in the distance. Nothing happened. In a little while he rang again, then tried the door. It was locked. Somewhere inside he thought he heard a faint muffled thumping sound.

  He stood in the rain a moment, then went around the corner of the bungalow, down a narrow, very wet passage to the back. He tried the service door; locked also. De Ruse swore, took his gun out from under his arm, held his hat against the glass panel of the service door and smashed the pane with the butt of the gun. Glass fell tinkling lightly inside.

  He put the gun away, straightened his hat on his head and reached in through the broken pane to unlock the door.

  The kitchen was large and bright with black and yellow tiling, looked as if it was used mostly for mixing drinks. Two bottles of Haig and Haig, a bottle of Hennessy, three or four kinds of fancy cordial bottles stood on the tiled drainboard. A short hall with a closed door led to the living room. There was a grand piano in the corner with a lamp lit beside it. Another lamp on a low table with drinks and glasses. A wood fire was dying on the hearth.