Collected Stories of Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  “It sounds goofy, but it worked. After the cops stopped milling around I parked in the alley and went in the back way. I knew which apartment the broad had but I hadn’t seen her. I thought I’d make some kind of a stall and see how she was makin’ out. I knocked on her door, but she wouldn’t answer. I could hear her movin’ around inside, and in a minute I could hear a telephone bein’ dialed. I went back along the hall and tried the service door. It opened and I went in. It fastened with one of them screw bolts that get out of line and don’t fasten when you think they do.”

  Dalmas nodded, said: “I get the idea, Denny.”

  The big man drank out of his glass and rubbed the edge of it up and down on his lower lip. He went on.

  “She was phoning a guy named Gayn Donner. Know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Dalmas said. “So she has that kind of connections.”

  “She was callin’ him by name and she sounded mad,” Denny said. “That’s how I knew. Donner has that place on Mariposa Canyon Drive—the Mariposa Club. You hear his band over the air—Hank Munn and his boys.”

  Dalmas said: “I’ve heard it, Denny.”

  “Okey. When she hung up I went in on her. She looked snowed, weaved around funny, didn’t seem to know much what was going on. I looked around and there was a photo of John Sutro, the Councilman, in a desk there. I used that for a stall. I said that Sutro wanted her to duck out for a while and that I was one of his boys and she was to come along. She fell for it. Screwy. She wanted some liquor. I said I had some in the car. She got her little hat and coat.”

  Dalmas said softly: “It was that easy, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Denny said. He finished his drink and put the glass somewhere. “I bottle-fed her in the car to keep her quiet and we came out here. She went to sleep and that’s that. What do you figure? Tough downtown?”

  “Tough enough,” Dalmas said. “I didn’t fool the boys much.”

  “Anything on the Walden kill?”

  Dalmas shook his head slowly.

  “I guess the Jap didn’t get home yet, Denny.”

  “Want to talk to the broad?”

  The radio was playing a waltz. Dalmas listened to it for a moment before he answered. Then he said in a tired voice: “I guess that’s what I came out here for.”

  Denny got up and went out of the room. There was the sound of a door opening and muffled voices.

  Dalmas took his gun out from under his arm and put it down in the chair beside his leg.

  The blonde staggered a little too much as she came in. She stared around, giggled, made vague motions with her long hands. She blinked at Dalmas, stood swaying a moment, then slid down into the chair Denny had been sitting in. The big man kept near her and leaned against a library table that stood by the Inside wall.

  She said drunkenly: “My old pal the dick. Hey, hey, stranger! How about buyin’ a lady a drink?”

  Dalmas stared at her without expression. He said slowly: “Got any new ideas about that gun? You know, the one we were talking about when Johnny Sutro crashed in…The filed gun…The gun that killed Derek Walden.”

  Denny stiffened, then made a sudden motion towards his hip. Dalmas brought his Colt up and came to his feet with it. Denny looked at it and became still, relaxed. The girl had not moved at all, but the drunkenness dropped away from her like a dead leaf. Her face was suddenly tense and bitter.

  Dalmas said evenly: “Keep the hands in sight, Denny, and everything’ll be jake…Now suppose you two cheap crossers tell me what I’m here for.”

  The big man said thickly: “For gawd’s sake! What’s eatin’ you? You scared me when you said ‘Walden’ to the girl.”

  Dalmas grinned, “That’s all right, Denny. Maybe she never heard of him. Let’s get this ironed Out in a hurry. I have an idea I’m here for trouble.”

  “You’re crazy as hell!” the big man snarled.

  Dalmas moved the gun slightly. He put his back against the end wall of the room, leaned over and turned the radio off with his left hand, Then he spoke bitterly: “You sold out, Denny. That’s easy. You’re too big for a tail and I’ve spotted you following me around half a dozen times lately. When you horned in on the deal tonight I was pretty sure…And when you told me that funny story about how you got baby out here I was damn sure…Hell’s sake, do you think a guy that’s stayed alive as long as I have would believe that one? Come on, Denny, be a sport and tell me who you’re working for…I might let you take a powder…Who you working for? Donner? Sutro? Or somebody I don’t know? And why the plant out here in the woods?”

  The girl shot to her feet suddenly and sprang at him. He threw her off with his free hand and she sprawled on the floor. She yelled: “Get him, you big punk? Get him!”

  Denny didn’t move. “Shut up, snow-bird!” Dalmas snapped. “Nobody’s getting anybody. This is just a talk between friends. Get up on your feet and stop throwing curves!”

  The blonde stood up slowly.

  Denny’s face had a stony, immovable look in the dimness. His voice came with a dull rasp. He said: “I sold out. It was lousy. Okey, that’s that. I got fed up with watchin’ a bunch of extra girls trying to pinch each other’s lipstick…You can take a plug at me, if you feel like it.”

  He still didn’t move. Dalmas nodded slowly and said again: “Who is it, Denny? Who you working for?”

  Denny said: “I don’t know. I call a number, get orders, and report that way. I get dough in the mail. I tried to break the twist here, but no luck…I don’t think you’re on the spot and I don’t know a damn thing about that shootin’ in the street.”

  Dalmas stared at him. He said slowly: “You wouldn’t be stalling—to keep me here—would you, Denny?”

  The big man raised his head slowly. The room suddenly seemed to get very still. A car had stopped outside. The faint throbbing of its motor died.

  A red spotlight hit the top of the screens.

  It was blinding. Dalmas slid down on one knee, shifted his position sidewise very quickly, silently. Denny’s harsh voice in the silence said: “Cops, for gawd’s sake!”

  The red light dissolved the wire mesh of the screens into a rosy glow, threw a great splash of vivid color on the oiled finish of the inside wall. The girl made a choked sound and her face was a red mask for an instant before she sank down out of the fan of light. Dalmas looked into the light, his head low behind the sill of the end window. The leaves of the bushes were black spear-points in the red glare.

  Steps sounded on the walk.

  A harsh voice rasped: “Everybody out! Mitts in the air!”

  There was a sound of movement inside the house. Dalmas swung his gun—uselessly. A switch clicked and a porch light went on. For a moment, before they dodged back, two men in blue police uniforms showed up in the cone of the porch light. One of them held a sub-machine gun and the other had a long Luger with a special magazine fitted to it.

  There was a grating sound. Denny was at the door, opening the peep panel. A gun came up in his hand and crashed.

  Something heavy clattered on the cement and a man swayed forward into the light, swayed back again. His hands were against his middle. A stiff-vizored cap fell down and rolled on the walk.

  Dalmas hit the floor low down against the baseboard as the machine gun cut loose. He ground his face into the wood of the floor. The girl screamed behind him.

  The chopper raked the room swiftly from end to end and the air filled with plaster and splinters. A wall mirror crashed down. A sharp stench of powder fought with the sour smell of the plaster dust. This seemed to go on for a very long time. Something fell across Dalmas’ legs. He kept his eyes shut and his face pressed against the floor.

  The stuttering and crashing stopped. The rain of plaster inside the wails kept on. A voice yelled: “How d’you like it, pals?”

  Another voice far back snapped angrily: “Come on—let’s go!”

  Steps sounded again, and a dragging sound. More steps. The motor of the car roared into life.
A door slammed heavily. Tires screeched on the gravel of the road and the song of the motor swelled and died swiftly.

  Dalmas got up on his feet. His ears boomed and his nostrils were dry. He got his gun off the floor, unclipped a thin flash from an inside pocket, snapped it on. It probed weakly through the dusty air. The blonde lay on her back with her eyes wide open and her mouth twisted into a sort of grin. She was sobbing. Dalmas bent over her. There didn’t seem to be a mark on her.

  He went on down the room. He found his hat untouched beside the chair that had half the top shot off. The bottle of bourbon lay beside the hat. He picked them both up. The man with the chopper had raked the room waist-high, back and forth, without lowering it far enough. Dalmas went on farther, came to the door.

  Denny was on his knees in front of the door. He was swaying backwards and forwards and holding one of his hands in the other. Blood dribbled between his thick fingers.

  Dalmas got the door open and went out. There was a smear of blood and a litter of shells on the walk. There was nobody in sight. He stood there with the blood beating in his face, like little hammers. The skin around his nose prickled.

  He drank some whiskey out of the bottle and turned and went back into the house. Denny was up on his feet now. He had a handkerchief out and was tying it around his bloody hand. He looked dazed, drunk. He swayed on his feet. Dalmas put the beam of the flash on his face.

  He said: “Hurt much?”

  “No. Clipped on the hand,” the big man said thickly. His fingers were clumsy on the handkerchief.

  “The blonde’s scared blind,” Dalmas said. “It’s your party, boy. Nice pals you have. They meant to get all three of us. You rattled them when you took a pot out of the peephole. I guess I owe you something for that, Denny…The gunner wasn’t so good.”

  Denny said: “Where you goin’?”

  “Where d’you think?”

  Denny looked at him. “Sutro’s your man,” he said slowly. “I’m through—washed up. They can all go to hell.”

  Dalmas went through the door again, down the path to the street. He got into his car and drove away without lights. When he had turned corners and gone some distance he switched the lights on and got out and dusted himself off.

  9

  Black and silver curtains opened in an inverted V against a haze of cigarette and cigar smoke. The brasses of the dance band shot brief flashes of color through the haze. There was a smell of food and liquor and perfume and face powder. The dance floor was an empty splash of amber light and looked slightly larger than a screen star’s bath mat.

  Then the band started up and the lights went down, and a headwaiter came up the carpeted steps tapping a gold pencil against the satin stripe of his trousers. He had narrow, lifeless eyes and blond-white hair sleeked back off a bony forehead.

  Dalmas said: “I’d like to see Mister Donner.”

  The headwaiter tapped his teeth with his gold pencil. “I’m afraid he’s busy. What name?”

  “Dalmas. Tell him I’m a special friend of Johnny Sutro’s.”

  The headwaiter said: “I’ll try.”

  He went across to a panel that had a row of buttons on it and a small one-piece phone. He took it off the hook and put it to his ear, staring at Dalmas across the cup with the impersonal stare of a stuffed animal.

  Dalmas said: “I’ll be in the lobby.”

  He went back through the curtains and prowled over to the Men’s Room. Inside he got out the bottle of bourbon and drank what was left of it, tilting his head back and standing splay-legged in the middle of the tiled floor. A wizened Negro in a white jacket fluttered at him, said anxiously: “No drinkin’ in here, boss.”

  Dalmas threw the empty bottle into a receptacle for towels. He took a clean towel off the glass shelf, wiped his lips with it, put a dime down on the edge of the basin and went out.

  There was a space between an inner and outer door. He leaned against the outer door and took a small automatic about four inches long out of his vest pocket. He held it with three fingers against the inside of his hat and went on out, swinging the hat gently beside his body.

  After a while a tall Filipino with silky black hair came into the lobby and looked around. Dalmas went towards him. The headwaiter looked out through the curtains and nodded at the Filipino.

  The Filipino spoke to Dalmas: “This way, boss.”

  They went down a long, quiet corridor. The sound of the dance band died away behind them. Some deserted green-topped tables showed through an open door. The corridor turned into another that was at right angles, and at the end of this one some light came out through a doorway.

  The Filipino paused in mid-stride and made a graceful, complicated movement, at the end of which he had a big, black automatic in his hand. He prodded it politely into Dalmas’ ribs.

  “Got to frisk you, boss. House rules.”

  Dalmas stood still and held his arms out from his sides. The Filipino took Dalmas’ Colt away from him and dropped it into his pocket. He patted the rest of Dalmas’ pockets, stepped back and holstered his own cannon.

  Dalmas lowered his arms and let his hat fall on the floor and the little automatic that had been inside the hat peered neatly at the Filipino’s belly. The Filipino looked down at it with a shocked grin.

  Dalmas said: That was fun, spig. Let me do it.

  He put his Colt back where it belonged, took the big automatic from under the Filipino’s arm, slipped the magazine out of it and ejected the shell that was in the chamber. He gave the empty gun back to the Filipino.

  “You can still use it for a sap. If you stay in front of me, your boss don’t have to know that’s all it’s good for.”

  The Filipino licked his lips. Dalmas felt him for another gun, and they went on along the corridor, went in at the door that was partly open. The Filipino went first.

  It was a big room with walls paneled in diagonal strips of wood. A yellow Chinese rug on the floor, plenty of good furniture, countersunk doors that told of soundproofing, and no windows. There were several gilt gratings high up and a built-in ventilator fan made a faint, soothing murmur. Four men were in the room. Nobody said anything.

  Dalmas sat down on a leather divan and stared at Ricchio, the smooth boy who had walked him out of Walden’s apartment. Ricchio was tied to a high-backed chair. His arms were pulled around behind it and fastened together at the wrists. His eyes were mad and his face was a welter of blood and bruises. He had been pistol whipped. The sandy-haired man, Noddy, who had been with him at the Kilmarnock sat on a sort of stool in the corner, smoking.

  John Sutro was rocking slowly in a red leather rocker, staring down at the floor. He did not look up when Dalmas came into the room.

  The fourth man sat behind a desk that looked as if it had cost a lot of money. He had soft brown hair parted in the middle and brushed back and down; thin lips and reddish-brown eyes that had hot lights in them. He watched Mallory while he sat down and looked around. Then he spoke, glancing at Ricchio.

  “The punk got a little out of hand. We’ve been telling him about it. I guess you’re not sorry.”

  Dalmas laughed shortly, without mirth. “All right as far as it goes, Donner. How about the other one? I don’t see any marks on him.”

  “Noddy’s all right. He worked under orders,” Donner said evenly. He picked up a long-handled file and began to file one of his nails. “You and I have things to talk about. That’s why you got in here. You look all right to me—if you don’t try to cover too much ground with your private-dick racket.”

  Dalmas’ eyes widened a little. He said: “I’m listening, Donner.”

  Sutro lifted his eyes and stared at the back of Donner’s head. Donner went on talking in a smooth indifferent voice.

  “I know all about the play at Derek Walden’s place and I know about the shooting on Kenmore. If I’d thought Ricchio would go that crazy, I’d have stopped him before. As it is, I figure it’s up to me to straighten things out…And when we get through
here Mister Ricchio will go downtown and speak his piece.

  “Here’s how it happened. Ricchio used to work for Walden when the Hollywood crowd went in for bodyguards. Walden bought his liquor in Ensenada—still does, for all I know—and brought it in himself. Nobody bothered him. Ricchio saw a chance to bring in some white goods under good cover. Walden caught him at it. He didn’t want a scandal, so he just showed Ricchio the gate. Ricchio took advantage of that by trying to shake Walden down, on the theory that he wasn’t clean enough to stand the working-over the Feds would give him. Walden didn’t shake fast enough to suit Ricchio, so he went hog-wild and decided on a strong-arm play. You and your driver messed it up and Ricchio went gunning for you.”

  Donner put down his file and smiled. Dalmas shrugged and glanced at the Filipino, who was standing by the wall, at the end of the divan.

  Dalmas said: “I don’t have your organization, Donner, but I get around. I think that’s a smooth story and it would have got by—with a little co-operation downtown. But it won’t fit the facts as they are now.”

  Donner raised his eyebrows. Sutro began to swing the tip of his polished shoe up and down in front of his knee.

  Dalmas said: “How does Mister Sutro fit into all this?”

  Sutro stared at him and stopped rocking. He made a swift, impatient movement. Donner smiled “He’s a friend of Walden’s. Walden talked to him a little and Sutro knows Ricchio worked for me. But being a councilman he didn’t want to tell Walden everything he knew.”

  Dalmas said grimly: “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with your story, Donner. There’s not enough fear in it. Walden was too scared to help me even when I was working for him…And this afternoon somebody was so scared of him that he got shot.”

  Donner leaned forward and his eyes got small and tight. His hands balled into fists on the desk before him.

  “Walden is—dead?” he almost whispered.

  Dalmas nodded. “Shot in the right temple…with a thirty-two. It looks like suicide. It isn’t.”