The Simple Art of Murder

by Raymond Chandler

  The thumping noise got louder.

  De Ruse went across the living room and through a door framed in a valance into another hallway, thence into a beautifully paneled bedroom. The thumping noise came from a closet. De Ruse opened the door of the closet and saw a man.

  He was sitting on the floor with his back in a forest of dresses on hangers. A towel was tied around his face. Another held his ankles together. His wrists were tied behind him. He was a very bald man, as bald as the croupier at the Club Egypt.

  De Ruse stared down at him harshly, then suddenly grinned, bent and cut him loose.

  The man spit a washcloth out of his mouth, swore hoarsely and dived into the clothes at the back of the closet. He came up with something furry clutched in his hand, straightened it out, and put it on his hairless head.

  That made him Kuvalick, the house dick.

  He got up still swearing and backed away from De Ruse, with a stiff alert grin on his fat face. His right hand shot to his hip holster.

  De Ruse spread his hands, said: “Tell it,” and sat down in a small chintz-covered slipper chair.

  Kuvalick stared at him quietly for a moment, then took his hand away from his gun.

  “There’s lights,” he said, “So I push the buzzer. A tall dark guy opens. I seen him around here a lot. That’s Dial. I say to him there’s a guy outside in the lobby wants to see him hush-hush, won’t give a name.”

  “That made you a sap,” De Ruse commented dryly.

  “Not yet, but soon,” Kuvalick grinned, and spit a shred of cloth out of his mouth. “I describe you. That makes me a sap. He smiled kind of funny and asks me to come in a minute. I go in past him and he shuts the door and sticks a gun in my kidney. He says: ‘Did you say he wore all dark clothes?’ I say: ‘Yes. And what’s that gat for?’ He says: ‘Does he have gray eyes and sort of crinkly black hair and is he hard around the teeth?’ I say: ‘Yes, you bastard and what’s the gat for?’

  “He says: ‘For this,’ and lets me have it on the back of the head, I go down, groggy, but not out. Then the Candless broad comes out from a doorway and they tie me up and shove me in the closet and that’s that. I hear them fussin’ around for a little while and then I hear silence. That’s all until you ring the bell.”

  De Ruse smiled lazily, pleasantly. His whole body was lax in the chair. His manner had become indolent and unhurried.

  “They faded,” he said softly. “They got tipped off. I don’t think that was very bright.”

  Kuvalick said: “I’m an old Wells Fargo dick and I can stand a shock. What they been up to?”

  “What kind of woman is Mrs. Candless?”

  “Dark, a looker, Sex hungry, as the fellow says. Kind of worn and tight. They get a new chauffeur every three months. There’s a couple guys in the Casa she likes too. I guess there’s this gigolo that bopped me.”

  De Ruse looked at his watch, nodded, leaned forward to get up. “I guess it’s about time for some law. Got any friends downtown you’d like to give a snatch story to?”

  A voice said: “Not quite yet.”

  George Dial came quickly into the room from the hallway and stood quietly inside it with a long, thin, silenced automatic in his hand. His eyes were bright and mad, but his lemon-colored finger was very steady on the trigger of the small gun.

  “We didn’t fade,” he said. “We weren’t quite ready. But it might not have been a bad idea—for you two.”

  Kuvalick’s pudgy hand swept for his hip holster.

  The small automatic with the black tube on it made two flat dull sounds.

  A puff of dust jumped from the front of Kuvalick’s coat. His hands jerked sharply away from the sides and his small eyes snapped very wide open, like seeds bursting from a pod. He fell heavily on his side against the wall, lay quite still on his left side, with his eyes half open and his back against the wall. His toupee was tipped over rakishly.

  De Ruse looked at him swiftly, looked back at Dial. No emotion showed in his face, not even excitement.

  He said: “You’re a crazy fool, Dial. That kills your last chance. You could have bluffed it out. But that’s not your only mistake.”

  Dial said calmly: “No. I see that now. I shouldn’t have sent the boys after you. I did that just for the hell of it. That comes of not being a professional.”

  De Ruse nodded slightly, looked at Dial almost with friendliness. “Just for the fun of it—who tipped you off the game had gone smash?”

  “Francy—and she took her damn time about it,” Dial said savagely. “I’m leaving, so I won’t be able to thank her for a while.”

  “Not ever,” De Ruse said. “You won’t get out of the state. You won’t ever touch a nickel of the big boy’s money. Not you or your sidekicks or your woman. The cops are getting the story—right now.”

  Dial said: “We’ll get clear. We have enough to tour on, Johnny. So long.”

  Dial’s face tightened and his hand jerked up, with the gun in it. De Ruse half closed his eyes, braced himself for the shock. The little gun didn’t go off. There was a rustle behind Dial and a tall dark woman in a gray fur coat slid into the room. A small hat was balanced on dark hair knotted on the nape of her neck. She was pretty, in a thin, haggard sort of way. The lip rouge on her mouth was as black as soot; there was no color in her cheeks.

  She had a cool lazy voice that didn’t match with her taut expression. “Who is Francy?” she asked coldly.

  De Ruse opened his eyes wide and his body got stiff in the chair and his right hand began to slide up towards his chest.

  “Francy is my girl friend,” he said. “Mister Dial has been trying to get her away from me. But that’s all right. He’s a handsome lad and ought to be able to pick his spots.”

  The tall woman’s face suddenly became dark and wild and furious. She grabbed fiercely at Dial’s arm, the one that held the gun.

  De Ruse snatched for his shoulder holster, got his .38 loose. But it wasn’t his gun that went off. It wasn’t the silenced automatic in Dial’s hand. It was a huge frontier Colt with an eight-inch barrel and a boom like an exploding bomb. It went off from the floor, from beside Kuvalick’s right hip, where Kuvalick’s plump hand held it.

  It went off just once. Dial was thrown back against the wall as if by a giant hand. His head crashed against the wall and instantly his darkly handsome face was a mask of blood.

  He fell laxly down the wall and the little automatic with the black tube on it fell in front of him. The dark woman dived for it, down on her hands and knees in front of Dial’s sprawled body.

  She got it, began to bring it up. Her face was convulsed, her lips were drawn back over thin wolfish teeth that shimmered.

  Kuvalick’s voice said: “I’m a tough guy. I used to be a Wells Fargo dick.”

  His great cannon slammed again. A shrill scream was torn from the woman’s lips. Her body was flung against Dial’s. Her eyes opened and shut, opened and shut. Her face got white and vacant.

  “Shoulder shot. She’s okay,” Kuvalick said, and got up on his feet. He jerked open his coat and patted his chest.

  “Bullet-proof vest,” he said proudly. “But I thought I’d better lie quiet for a while or he’d popped me in the face.”

  TWELVE

  Francine Ley yawned and stretched out a long green pajama-clad leg and looked at a slim green slipper on her bare foot. She yawned again, got up and walked nervously across the room to the kidney-shaped desk. She poured a drink, drank it quickly, with a sharp nervous shudder. Her face was drawn and tired, her eyes hollow; there were dark smudges under her eyes.

  She looked at the tiny watch on her wrist. It was almost four o’clock in the morning. Still with her wrist up she whirled at a sound, put her back to the desk and began to breathe very quickly, pantingly.

  De Ruse came in through the red curtains. He stopped and looked at her without expression, then slowly took off his hat and overcoat and dropped them on a chair. He took off his suit coat and his tan shoulder harness and
walked over to the drinks.

  He sniffed at a glass, filled it a third full of whiskey, put it down in a gulp.

  “So you had to tip the louse off,” he said somberly, looking down into the empty glass he held.

  Francine Ley said: “Yes. I had to phone him. What happened?”

  “You had to phone the louse,” De Ruse said in exactly the same tone. “You knew damn well he was mixed up in it. You’d rather he got loose, even if he cooled me off doing it.”

  “You’re all right, Johnny?” She asked softly, tiredly.

  De Ruse didn’t speak, didn’t look at her. He put the glass down slowly and poured some more whiskey into it, added charged water, looked around for some ice. Not finding any he began to sip the drink with his eyes on the white top of the desk.

  Francine Ley said: “There isn’t a guy in the world that doesn’t rate a start on you, Johnny. It wouldn’t do him any good, but he’d have to have it, if I knew him.”

  De Ruse said slowly: “That’s swell. Only I’m not quite that good. I’d be a stiff right now except for a comic hotel dick that wears a Buntline Special and a bullet-proof vest to work.”

  After a little while Francine Ley said: “Do you want me to blow?”

  De Ruse looked at her quickly, looked away again. He put his glass down and walked away from the desk. Over his shoulder he said: “Not so long as you keep on telling me the truth.”

  He sat down in a deep chair and leaned his elbows on the arms of it, cupped his face in his hands. Francine Ley watched him for a moment, then went over and sat on an arm of the chair. She pulled his head back gently until it was against the back of the chair. She began to stroke his forehead.

  De Ruse closed his eyes. His body became loose and relaxed. His voice began to sound sleepy.

  “You saved my life over at the Club Egypt maybe. I guess that gave you the right to let handsome have a shot at me.”

  Francine Ley stroked his head, without speaking.

  “Handsome is dead,” De Ruse went on. “The peeper shot his face off.”

  Francine Ley’s hand stopped. In a moment it began again, stroking his head.

  “The Candless frau was in on it. Seems she’s a hot number. She wanted Hugo’s dough, and she wanted all the men in the world except Hugo. Thank heaven she didn’t get bumped. She talked plenty. So did Zapparty.”

  “Yes, honey,” Francine Ley said quietly.

  De Ruse yawned. “Candless is dead. He was dead before we started. They never wanted him anything else but dead. Parisi didn’t care one way or the other, as long as he got paid.”

  Francine Ley said: “Yes, honey.”

  “Tell you the rest in the morning,” De Ruse said thickly. “I guess Nicky and I are all square with the law . . . Let’s go to Reno, get married . . . I’m sick of this tomcat life . . . Get me ’nother drink, baby.”

  Francine Ley didn’t move except to draw her fingers softly and soothingly across his forehead and back over his temples. De Ruse moved lower in the chair. His head rolled to one side.

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Don’t call me honey,” De Ruse said thickly. “Just call me pigeon.”

  When he was quite asleep she got off the arm of the chair and went and sat down near him. She sat very still and watched him, her face cupped in her long delicate hands with the cherry-colored nails.

  Raymond Chandler

  Raymond Chandler was born in 1888 and published his first story in 1933 in the pulp magazine Black Mask. By the time he published his first novel, The Big Sleep (1939), featuring, as did all his major works, the iconic private eye Philip Marlowe, it was clear that he had not only mastered a genre but had set a standard to which others could only aspire. Chandler created a body of work that ranks with the best of twentieth-century literature. He died in 1959.

  OTHER BOOKS BY

  RAYMOND CHANDLER

  AVAILABLE AS VINTAGE eBOOKS

  The Big Sleep

  The High Window

  Farewell, My Lovely

  The Lady in the Lake

  The Little Sister

  Trouble Is My Business

  The Long Goodbye

  Playback

  The Simple Art of Murder (1950)

  Prefaced by the famous Atlantic Monthly essay of the same name, in which he argues the virtues of the hard-boiled detective novel, this collection mostly drawn from stories he wrote for the pulps demonstrates Chandler’s imaginative, entertaining facility with the form.

  Copyright 1934, 1935, 1936, 1938, 1939, 1944, 1950 by Raymond Chandler

  Copyright 1939 by The Curtis Publishing Company

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Chandler, Raymond, 1888–1959.

  The simple art of murder.

  1. Detective and mystery stories, American.

  2. Detective and mystery stories—Authorship.

  I. Title.

  PS3505.H3224S56 1988 813’.52 87-45923

  The stories in this book appeared in The Simple Art of Murder, Houghton Mifflin, 1950. The material in that edition originally appeared in the following magazines: Black Mask, Dime Detective, Detective Fiction Weekly, The Saturday Evening Post, Atlantic Monthly and The Saturday Review of Literature.

  This book is available in a print edition from Vintage Books: ISBN 0-394-75765-3.

  eISBN: 978-1-4000-3022-4

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