Collected Stories of Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  He locked the door from the outside and walked down the stairs to the lobby.

  The bald-headed clerk’s eyes jumped at him, then dropped. The skin of his face turned gray. Pete Anglich leaned on the counter and opened his hand to let two keys tinkle on the scarred wood. The clerk stared at the keys, shuddered.

  Pete Anglich said in his slow, husky voice: “Hear any funny noises?”

  The clerk shook his head, gulped.

  “Creep joint, eh?” Pete Anglich said.

  The clerk moved his head painfully, twisted his neck in his collar. His bald head winked darkly under the ceiling light.

  “Too bad,” Pete Anglich said. “What name did I register under last night?”

  “You ain’t registered,” the clerk whispered.

  “Maybe I wasn’t here even,” Pete Anglich said softly.

  “Never saw you before, mister.”

  “You’re not seeing me now. You never will see me—to know me—will you, Doe?”

  The clerk moved his neck and tried to smile.

  Pete Anglich drew his wallet out and shook three dollar bills from it.

  “I’m a guy that likes to pay his way,” he said slowly. “This pays for Room 349—till way in the morning, kind of late. The lad you gave the passkey to looks like a heavy sleeper.” He paused, steadied his cool eyes on the clerk’s face, added thoughtfully: “Unless, of course, he’s got friends who would like to move him out.”

  Bubbles showed on the clerk’s lips. He stuttered: “He ain’t—ain’t—”

  “Yeah,” Pete Anglich said. “What would you expect?”

  He went across to the street door, carrying his suitcase, stepped out under the stencil sign, stood a moment looking toward the hard white glare of Central Avenue.

  Then he walked the other way. The street was very dark, very quiet. There were four blocks of frame houses before he came to Noon Street. It was all a Negro quarter.

  He met only one person on the way, a brown girl in a green hat, very sheer stockings, and four-and-a-half-inch heels, who smoked a cigarette under a dusty palm tree and stared back toward the Surprise Hotel.

  2

  The lunch wagon was an old buffet car without wheels, set end to the Street in a space between a machine shop and a rooming house. The name Bella Donna was lettered in faded gold on the sides. Pete Anglich went up the two iron steps at the end, into a smell of fry grease.

  The Negro cook’s fat white back was to him. At the far end of the low counter a white girl in a cheap brown felt hat and a shabby polo coat with a high turned-up collar was sipping coffee, her cheek propped in her left hand. There was nobody else in the car.

  Pete Anglich put his suitcase down and sat on a stool near the door, saying: “Hi, Mopsy!”

  The fat cook turned a shiny black face over his white shoulder. The face split in a grin. A thick bluish tongue came out and wiggled between the cook’s thick lips.

  “How’s a boy? W’at you eat?”

  “Scramble two light, coffee, toast, no spuds.”

  “Dat ain’t no food for a he-guy,” Mopsy complained.

  “I been drunk,” Pete Anglich said.

  The girl at the end of the counter looked at him sharply, looked at the cheap alarm clock on the shelf, at the watch on her gloved wrist. She drooped, stared into her coffee cup again.

  The fat cook broke eggs into a pan, added milk, stirred them around. “You want a shot, boy?”

  Pete Anglich shook his head.

  “I’m driving the wagon, Mopsy.”

  The cook grinned. He reached a brown bottle from under the counter, and poured a big drink into a water glass, set the glass down beside Pete Anglich.

  Pete Anglich reached suddenly for the glass, jerked it to his lips, drank the liquor down.

  “Guess I’ll drive the wagon some other time.” He put the glass down empty.

  The girl stood up, came along the stools, put a dime on the counter. The fat cook punched his cash register, put down a nickel change. Pete Anglich stared casually at the girl. A shabby, innocent-eyed girl, brown hair curling on her neck, eyebrows plucked clean as a bone and startled arches painted above the place where they had been.

  “Not lost, are you, lady?” he asked in his softly husky voice.

  The girl had fumbled her bag open to put the nickel away. She started violently, stepped back and dropped the bag. It spilled its contents on the floor. She stared down at it, wide-eyed.

  Pete Anglich went down on one knee and pushed things into the bag. A cheap nickel compact, cigarettes, a purple match folder lettered in gold: The Juggernaut Club. Two colored handkerchiefs, a crumpled dollar bill and some silver and pennies.

  He stood up with the closed bag in his hand, held it out to the girl.

  “Sorry,” he said softly. “I guess I startled you.”

  Her breath made a rushing sound. She caught the bag out of his hand, ran out of the car, and was gone.

  The fat cook looked after her. ‘That doll don’t belong in Tough Town,” he said slowly.

  He dished up the eggs and toast, poured coffee in a thick cup, put them down in front of Pete Anglich.

  Pete Anglich touched the food, said absently: “Alone, and matches from the Juggernaut. Trimmer Waltz’s spot. You know what happens to girls like that when he gets hold of them.”

  The cook licked his lips, reached under the counter for the whiskey bottle. He poured himself a drink, added about the same amount of water to the bottle, put it back under the counter.

  “I ain’t never been a tough guy, and don’ want to start,” he said slowly. “But I’se all tired of white boys like dat guy. Some day he gonna get cut.”

  Pete Anglich kicked his suitcase.

  “Yeah. Keep the keister for me, Mopsy.”

  He went out.

  Two or three cars flicked by in the crisp fall night, but the sidewalks were dark and empty. A colored night watchman moved slowly along the street, trying the doors of a small row of dingy stores. There were frame houses across the street, and a couple of them were noisy.

  Pete Anglich went on past the intersection. Three blocks from the lunch wagon he saw the girl again.

  She was pressed against a wall, motionless. A little beyond her, dim yellow light came from the stairway of a walk-up apartment house. Beyond that a small parking lot with billboards across most of its front. Faint light from somewhere touched her hat, her shabby polo coat with the turned-up collar, one side of her face. He knew it was the same girl.

  He stepped into a doorway, watched her. Light flashed on her upraised arm, on something bright, a wrist watch. Somewhere not far off a clock struck eight, low, pealing notes.

  Lights stabbed into the street from the corner behind. A big car swung slowly into view and as it swung its headlights dimmed. It crept along the block, a dark shininess of glass and polished paint.

  Pete Anglich grinned sharply in his doorway. A custom-built Duesenberg, six blocks from Central Avenue! He stiffened at the sharp sound of running steps, clicking high heels.

  The girl was running toward him along the pavement. The car was not near enough for its dimmed lights to pick her up. Pete Anglich stepped out of the doorway, grabbed her arm, dragged her back into the doorway. A gun snaked from under his coat.

  The girl panted at his side.

  The Duesenberg passed the doorway slowly. No shots came from it. The uniformed driver didn’t slow down.

  “I can’t do it. I’m scared,” the girl gasped in Pete Anglich’s ear. Then she broke away from him and ran farther along the pavement, away from the car.

  Pete Anglich looked after the Duesenberg. It was opposite the row of billboards that screened the parking lot. It was barely crawling now. Something sailed from its left front window, fell with a dry slap on the pavement. The car picked up speed soundlessly, purred off into the darkness. A block away its head lights flashed up full again.

  Nothing moved. The thing that had been thrown out of the car lay on the inner edge o
f the pavement, almost under one of the billboards.

  Then the girl was coming back again, a step at a time, haltingly. Pete Anglich watched her come, without moving. When she was level with him he said softly: “What’s the racket? Could a fellow help?”

  She spun around with a choked sound, as though she had forgotten all about him. Her head moved in the darkness at his side. There was a swift shine as her eyes moved. There was a pale flicker across her chin. Her voice was low, hurried, scared.

  “You’re the man from the lunch wagon. I saw you.”

  “Open up. What is it—a pay-off?”

  Her head moved again in the darkness at his side, up and down.

  “What’s in the package?” Pete Anglich growled. “Money?”

  Her words came in a rush. “Would you get it for me? Oh, would you please? I’d be so grateful. I’d—”

  He laughed. His laugh had a low growling sound. “Get it for you, baby? I use money in my business, too. Come on, what’s the racket? Spill.”

  She jerked away from him, but he didn’t let go of her arm. He slid the gun out of sight under his coat, held her with both hands. Her voice sobbed as she whispered: “He’ll kill me, if I don’t get it.”

  Very sharply, coldly, Pete Anglich said, “Who will? Trimmer Waltz?”

  She started violently, almost tore out of his grasp. Not quite. Steps shuffled on the pavement. Two dark forms showed in front of the billboards, didn’t pause to pick anything up. The steps came near, cigarette tips glowed.

  A voice said softly: “ ‘Lo there, sweets. Yo’ want to change yo’r boy frien’, honey?”

  The girl shrank behind Pete Anglich. One of the Negroes laughed gently, waved the red end of his cigarette.

  “Hell, it’s a white gal,” the other one said quickly. “Le’s dust.”

  They went on, chuckling. At the corner they turned, were gone.

  “There you are,” Pete Anglich growled. “Shows you where you are.” His voice was hard, angry. “Oh, hell, stay here and I’ll get your damn pay-off for you.”

  He left the girl and went lightly along close to the front of the apartment house. At the edge of the billboards he stopped, probed the darkness with his eyes, saw the package. It was wrapped in dark material, not large but large enough to see. He bent down and looked under the billboards. He didn’t see anything behind them.

  He went on four steps, leaned down and picked up the package, felt cloth and two thick rubber bands. He stood quite still, listening.

  Distant traffic hummed on a main street. A light burned across the street in a rooming house, behind a glass-paneled door. A window was open and dark above it.

  A woman’s voice screamed shrilly behind him.

  He stiffened, whirled, and the light hit him between the eyes. It came from the dark window across the street, a blinding white shaft that impaled him against the billboard.

  His face leered in it, his eyes blinked. He didn’t move any more.

  Shoes dropped on cement and a smaller spot stabbed at him sideways from the end of the billboards. Behind the spot a casual voice spoke: “Don’t shift an eyelash, bud. You’re all wrapped up in law.”

  Men with revolvers out closed in on him from both ends of the line of billboards. Heels clicked far off on concrete. Then it was silent for a moment. Then a car with a red spotlight swung around the corner and bore down on the group of men with Pete Anglich in their midst.

  The man with the casual voice said: “I’m Angus, detective lieutenant. I’ll take the packet, if you don’t mind. And if you’ll just keep your hands together a minute—”

  The handcuffs clicked dryly on Pete Anglich’s wrists.

  He listened hard for the sound of the heels far off, running away. But there was too much noise around him now.

  Doors opened and dark people began to boil out of the houses.

  3

  John Vidaury was six feet two inches in height and had the most perfect profile in Hollywood. He was dark, winsome, romantic, with an interesting touch of gray at his temples. His shoulders were wide, his hips narrow. He had the waist of an English guards officer, and his dinner clothes fit him so beautifully that it hurt.

  So he looked at Pete Anglich as if he was about to apologize for not knowing him. Pete Anglich looked at his handcuffs, at his worn shoes on the thick rug, at the tall chiming clock against the wall. There was a flush on his face and his eyes were bright.

  In a smooth, clear, modulated voice Vidaury said, “No, I’ve never seen him before.” He smiled at Pete Anglich.

  Angus, the plainclothes lieutenant, leaned against one end of a carved library table and snapped a finger against the brim of his hat. Two other detectives stood near a side wall. A fourth sat at a small desk with a stenographer’s notebook in front of him.

  Angus said, “Oh, we just thought you might know him. We can’t get much of anything out of him.”

  Vidaury raised his eyebrows, smiled very faintly. “Really I’m surprised at that.” He went around collecting glasses, and took them over to a tray, started to mix more drinks.

  “It happens,” Angus said.

  “I thought you had ways,” Vidaury said delicately, pouring Scotch into the glasses.

  Angus looked at a fingernail. ‘When I say he won’t tell us anything, Mr. Vidaury, I mean anything that counts. He says his name is Pete Anglich, that he used to be a fighter, but hasn’t fought for several years. Up to about a year ago he was a private detective, but has no work now. He won some money in a crap game and got drunk, and was just wandering about. That’s how he happened to be on Noon Street. He saw the package tossed out of your car and picked it up. We can vag him, but that’s about all.”

  “It could happen that way,” Vidaury said softly. He carried the glasses two at a time to the four detectives, lifted his own, and nodded slightly before he drank. He drank gracefully, with a superb elegance of movement, “No, I don’t know him,” he said again. “Frankly, he doesn’t look like an acid-thrower to me.” He waved a hand. “So I’m afraid bringing him here—”

  Pete Anglich lifted his head suddenly, stared at Vidaury. His voice sneered.

  “It’s a great compliment, Vidaury. They don’t often use up the time of four coppers taking prisoners around to call on people.”

  Vidaury smiled amiably. “That’s Hollywood,” he smiled. “After all, one had a reputation.”

  “Had,” Pete Anglich said. “Your last picture was a pain where you don’t tell the ladies.”

  Angus stiffened. Vidaury’s face went white. He put his glass down slowly, let his hand fall to his side. He walked springily across the rug and stood in front of Pete Anglich.

  “That’s your opinion,” he said harshly, “but I warn you—”

  Pete Anglich scowled at him. “Listen, big shot. You put a grand on the line because some punk promised to throw acid at you if you didn’t. I picked up the grand, but I didn’t get any of your nice, new money. So you got it back. You get ten grand worth of publicity and it won’t cost you a nickel. I call that pretty swell.”

  Angus said sharply, “That’s enough from you, mug.”

  “Yeah?” Pete Anglich sneered. “I thought you wanted me to talk. Well, I’m talking, and I hate pikers, see?”

  Vidaury breathed hard. Very suddenly he balled his fist and swung at Pete Anglich’s jaw. Pete Anglich’s head rolled under the blow, and his eyes blinked shut, then wide open. He shook himself and said coolly: “Elbow up and thumb down, Vidaury. You break a hand hitting a guy that way.”

  Vidaury stepped back and shook his head, looked at his thumb. His face lost its whiteness. His smile stole back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “I am very sorry. I’m not used to being insulted. As I don’t know this man, perhaps you’d better take him away, Lieutenant. Handcuffed, too. Not very sporting, was it?”

  “Tell that to your polo ponies,” Pete Anglich said. “I don’t bruise so easy.”

  Angus walked over to him, tapped
his shoulder. “Up on the dogs, bo. Let’s drift. You’re not used to nice people, are you?”

  “No. I like bums,” Pete Anglich said.

  He stood up slowly, scuffed at the pile of the carpet.

  The two dicks against the wall fell in beside him, and they walked away down the huge room, under an arch. Angus and the other man came behind. They waited in the small private lobby for the elevator to come up.

  “What was the idea?” Angus snapped. “Getting gashouse with him?”

  Pete Anglich laughed. “Jumpy,” he said, “Just jumpy.”

  The elevator came up and they rode down to the huge, silent lobby of the Chester Towers. Two house detectives lounged at the end of the marble desk, two clerks stood alert behind it.

  Pete Anglich lifted his manacled hands in the fighter’s salute. “What, no newshawks yet?” he jeered. “Vidaury won’t like hush-hush on this.”

  “Keep goin’, smartie,” one of the dicks snapped, jerking his arm.

  They went down a corridor and out of a side entrance to a narrow street that dropped almost sheer to treetops. Beyond the treetops the lights of the city were a vast golden carpet, stitched with brilliant splashes of red and green and blue and purple.

  Two starters whirred. Pete Anglich was pushed into the back seat of the first car. Angus and another man got in on either side of him. The cars drifted down the hill, turned east on Fountain, slid quietly through the evening for mile after mile. Fountain met Sunset, and the cars dropped downtown toward the tall, white tower of the City Hall. At the plaza the first car swung over to Los Angeles Street and went south. The other car went on.

  After a while Pete Anglich dropped the corners of his mouth and looked sideways at Angus.

  “Where you taking me? This isn’t the way to headquarters.”

  Angus’ dark, austere face turned toward him slowly. After a moment the big detective leaned back and yawned at the night. He didn’t answer.

  The car slid along Los Angeles to Fifth, east to San Pedro, south again for block after block, quiet blocks and loud blocks, blocks where silent men sat on shaky front porches and blocks where noisy young toughs of both colors snarled and wisecracked at one another in front of cheap restaurants and drugstores and beer parlors full of slot machines.