Collected Stories of Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  “I was just thinking,” I said.

  “Yeah? What?”

  “This Waldo knew just how the girl was dressed. So he must already have been with her tonight.”

  “So, what? Maybe he had to go to the can. And when he came back she’s gone. Maybe she changed her mind about him.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  But that wasn’t what I was thinking at all. I was thinking that Waldo had described the girl’s clothes in a way the ordinary man wouldn’t know how to describe them. Printed bolero jacket over blue crÍpe silk dress. I didn’t even know what a bolero jacket was, And I might have said blue dress or even blue silk dress, but never blue crÍpe silk dress.

  After a while two men came with a basket. Lew Petrolle was still polishing his glass and talking to the short dark dick.

  We all went down to Headquarters.

  Lew Petrolle was all right when they checked on him. His father had a grape ranch near Antioch in Contra Costa County. He had given Lew a thousand dollars to go into business and Lew had opened the cocktail bar, neon sign and all, on eight hundred flat.

  They let him go and told him to keep the bar closed until they were sure they didn’t want to do any more printing. He shook hands all around and grinned and said he guessed the killing would be good for business after all, because nobody believed a newspaper account of anything and people would come to him for the story and buy drinks while he was telling it.

  “There’s a guy won’t ever do any worrying,” Copernik said, when he was gone. “Over anybody else.”

  “Poor Waldo,” I said. “The prints any good?”

  “Kind of smudged,” Copernik said sourly. “But we’ll get a classification and teletype it to Washington some time tonight. If it don’t click, you’ll be in for a day on the steel picture racks downstairs.”

  I shook hands with him and his partner, whose name was Ybarra, and left. They didn’t know who Waldo was yet either. Nothing in his pockets told.

  2

  I got back to my street about 9 P.M. I looked up and down the block before I went into the Berglund. The cocktail bar was farther down on the other side, dark, with a nose or two against the glass, but no real crowd. People had seen the law and the morgue wagon, but they didn’t know what had happened. Except the boys playing pinball games in the drugstore on the corner. They know everything, except how to hold a job.

  The wind was still blowing, oven-hot, swirling dust and torn paper up against the walls.

  I went into the lobby of the apartment house and rode the automatic elevator up to the fourth floor. I unwound the doors and stepped out and there was a tall girl standing there waiting for the car.

  She had brown wavy hair under a wide-brimmed straw hat with a velvet band and loose bow. She had wide blue eyes and eyelashes that didn’t quite reach her chin. She wore a blue dress that might have been crÍpe silk, simple in lines but not missing any curves. Over it she wore what might have been a print bolero jacket.

  I said: “Is that a bolero jacket?”

  She gave me a distant glance and made a motion as if to brush a cobweb out of the way.

  “Yes. Would you mind—I’m rather in a hurry. I’d like—”

  I didn’t move. I blocked her off from the elevator. We stared at each other and she flushed very slowly.

  “Better not go out on the street in those clothes,” I said.

  “Why, how dare you—”

  The elevator clanked and started down again. I didn’t know what she was going to say. Her voice lacked the edgy twang of a beer-parlor frill. It had a soft light sound, like spring rain.

  “It’s not a make,” I said. “You’re in trouble. If they come to this floor in the elevator, you have just that much time to get off the hall. First take off the hat and jacket—and snap it up!”

  She didn’t move. Her face seemed to whiten a little behind the not-too-heavy make-up.

  “Cops,” I said, “are looking for you. In those clothes. Give me the chance and I’ll tell you why.”

  She turned her head swiftly and looked back along the corridor. With her looks I didn’t blame her for trying one more bluff.

  “You’re impertinent, whoever you are. I’m Mrs. Leroy in Apartment Thirty-one. I can assure—”

  “That you’re on the wrong floor,” I said. “This is the fourth.” The elevator had stopped down below. The sound of doors being wrenched open came up the shaft.

  “Off!” I rapped. “Now!”

  She switched her hat off and slipped out of the bolero jacket, fast. I grabbed them and wadded them into a mess under my arm. I took her elbow and turned her and we were going down the hall.

  “I live in Forty-two. The front one across from yours, just a floor up. Take your choice. Once again—I’m not on the make.”

  She smoothed her hair with that quick gesture, like a bird preening itself. Ten thousand years of practice behind it.

  “Mine,” she said, and tucked her bag under her arm and strode down the hall fast. The elevator stopped at the floor below. She stopped when it stopped. She turned and faced me.

  “The stairs are back by the elevator shaft,” I said gently.

  “I don’t have an apartment,” she said.

  “I didn’t think you had.”

  “Are they searching for me?”

  “Yes, but they won’t start gouging the block stone by stone before tomorrow. And then only if they don’t make Waldo.”

  She stared at me. “Waldo?”

  “Oh, you don’t know Waldo,” I said.

  She shook her head slowly. The elevator started down in the shaft again. Panic flicked in her blue eyes like a ripple on water.

  “No,” she said breathlessly, “but take me out of this hall.”

  We were almost at my door. I jammed the key in and shook the lock around and heaved the door inward. I reached in far enough to switch lights on. She went in past me like a wave. Sandalwood floated on the air, very faint.

  I shut the door, threw my hat into a chair and watched her stroll over to a card table on which I had a chess problem set out that I couldn’t solve. Once inside, with the door locked, her panic had left her.

  “So you’re a chess player,” she said, in that guarded tone, as if she had come to look at my etchings. I wished she had.

  We both stood still then and listened to the distant clang of elevator doors and then steps—going the other way.

  I grinned, but with strain, not pleasure, went out into the kitchenette and started to fumble with a couple of glasses and then realized I still had her hat and bolero jacket under my arm. I went into the dressing room behind the wall bed and stuffed them into a drawer, went back out to the kitchenette, dug out some extra-fine Scotch and made a couple of highballs.

  When I went in with the drinks she had a gun in her hand. It was a small automatic with a pearl grip. It jumped up at me and her eyes were full of horror.

  I stopped, with a glass in each hand, and said: “Maybe this hot wind has got you crazy too. I’m a private detective. I’ll prove it if you let me.”

  She nodded slightly and her face was white. I went over slowly and put a glass down beside her, and went back and set mine down and got a card out that had no bent corners. She was sitting down, smoothing one blue knee with her left hand, and holding the gun on the other. I put the card down beside her drink and sat with mine.

  “Never let a guy get that close to you,” I said. “Not if you mean business. And your safety catch is on.”

  She flashed her eyes down, shivered, and put the gun back in her bag. She drank half the drink without stopping, put the glass down hard and picked the card up.

  “I don’t give many people that liquor,” I said. “I can’t afford to.”

  Her lips curled. “I supposed you would want money.”

  “Huh?”

  She didn’t say anything. Her hand was close to her bag again.

  “Don’t forget the safety catch,” I said. Her hand stopped.
I went on: “This fellow I called Waldo is quite tall, say five eleven, slim, dark, brown eyes with a lot of glitter. Nose and mouth too thin. Dark suit, white handkerchief showing, and in a hurry to find you. Am I getting anywhere?”

  She took her glass again. “So that’s Waldo,” she said. “Well, what about him?” Her voice seemed to have a slight liquor edge now.

  “Well, a funny thing. There’s a cocktail bar across the street…Say, where have you been all evening?”

  “Sitting in my car,” she said coldly, “most of the time.”

  “Didn’t you see a fuss across the street up the block?”

  Her eyes tried to say no and missed. Her lips said: “I knew there was some kind of disturbance. I saw policemen and red searchlights. I supposed someone had been hurt.”

  “Someone was. And this Waldo was looking for you before that. In the cocktail bar. He described you and your clothes.”

  Her eyes were set like rivets now and had the same amount of expression. Her mouth began to tremble and kept on trembling.

  “I was in there,” I said, “talking to the kid that runs it. There was nobody in there but a drunk on a stool and the kid and myself. The drunk wasn’t paying any attention to anything. Then Waldo came in and asked about you and we said no, we hadn’t seen you and he started to leave.”

  I sipped my drink. I like an effect as well as the next fellow. Her eyes ate me.

  “Just started to leave. Then this drunk that wasn’t paying any attention to anyone called him Waldo and took a gun out. He shot him twice—I snapped my fingers twice—”like that. Dead.”

  She fooled me. She laughed in my face. “So my husband hired you to spy on me,” she said. “I might have known the whole thing was an act. You and your Waldo.”

  I gawked at her.

  “I never thought of him as jealous,” she snapped. “Not of a man who had been our chauffeur anyhow. A little about Stan, of course—that’s natural. But Joseph Coates—”

  I made motions in the air. “Lady, one of us has this book open at the wrong page,” I grunted. “I don’t know anybody named Stan or Joseph Coates. So help me, I didn’t even know you had a chauffeur. People around here don’t run to them. As for husbands—yeah, we do have a husband once in a while. Not often enough.”

  She shook her head slowly and her hand stayed near her bag and her blue eyes had glitters in them.

  “Not good enough, Mr. Marlowe. No, not nearly good enough. I know you private detectives. You’re all rotten. You tricked me into your apartment, if it is your apartment. More likely it’s the apartment of some horrible man who will swear anything for a few dollars. Now you’re trying to scare me. So you can blackmail me—as well as get money from my husband. All right,” she said breathlessly, “how much do I have to pay?”

  I put my empty glass aside and leaned back. “Pardon me if I light a cigarette,” I said. “My nerves are frayed.”

  I lit it while she watched me without enough fear for any real guilt to be under it. “So Joseph Coates is his name,” I said. “The guy that killed him in the cocktail bar called him Waldo.”

  She smiled a bit disgustedly, but almost tolerantly. “Don’t stall. How much?”

  “Why were you trying to meet this Joseph Coates?”

  “I was going to buy something he stole from me, of course. Something that’s valuable in the ordinary way too. Almost fifteen thousand dollars. The man I loved gave it to me. He’s dead. There! He’s dead! He died in a burning plane. Now, go back and tell my husband that, you slimy little rat!”

  “I’m not little and I’m not a rat,” I said.

  “You’re still slimy. And don’t bother about telling my husband. I’ll tell him myself. He probably knows anyway.”

  I grinned. “That’s smart. Just what was I supposed to find out?”

  She grabbed her glass and finished what was left of her drink. “So he thinks I’m meeting Joseph. Well, perhaps I was. But not to make love. Not with a chauffeur. Not with a bum I picked off the front step and gave a job to. I don’t have to dig down that far, if I want to play around.”

  “Lady,” I said, “you don’t indeed.”

  “Now, I’m going,” she said. “You just try and stop me.” She snatched the pearl-handled gun out of her bag. I didn’t move.

  “Why, you nasty little string of nothing,” she stormed. “How do I know you’re a private detective at all? You might be a crook. This card you gave me doesn’t mean anything. Anybody can have cards printed.”

  “Sure,” I said. “And I suppose I’m smart enough to live here two years because you were going to move in today so I could blackmail you for not meeting a man named Joseph Coates who was bumped off across the street under the name of Waldo. Have you got the money to buy this something that cost fifteen grand?”

  “Oh! You think you’ll hold me up, I suppose!”

  “Oh!” I mimicked her, “I’m a stick-up artist now, am I? Lady, will you please either put that gun away or take the safety catch off? It hurts my professional feelings to see a nice gun made a monkey of that way.”

  “You’re a full portion of what I don’t like,” she said. “Get out of my way.”

  I didn’t move. She didn’t move. We were both sitting down—and not even close to each other.

  “Let me in on one secret before you go,” I pleaded. “What in hell did you take the apartment down on the floor below for? Just to meet a guy down on the street?”

  “Stop being silly,” she snapped. “I didn’t. I lied. It’s his apartment.”

  “Joseph Coates’?”

  She nodded sharply.

  “Does my description of Waldo sound like Joseph Coates?”

  She nodded sharply again.

  “All right. That’s one fact learned at last. Don’t you realize Waldo described your clothes before he was shot—when he was looking for you—that the description was passed on to the police—that the police don’t know who Waldo is—and are looking for somebody in those clothes to help tell them? Don’t you get that much?”

  The gun suddenly started to shake in her hand. She looked down at it, sort of vacantly, and slowly put it back in her bag.

  “I’m a fool,” she whispered, “to be even talking to you.” She stared at me for a long time, then pulled in a deep breath. “He told me where he was staying. He didn’t seem afraid. I guess blackmailers are like that. He was to meet me on the street, but I was late. It was full of police when I got here. So I went back and sat in my car for a while. Then I came up to Joseph’s apartment and knocked. Then I went back to my car and waited again. I came up here three times in all. The last time I walked up a flight to take the elevator. I had already been seen twice on the third floor. I met you. That’s all.”

  “You said something about a husband,” I grunted. “Where is he?”

  “He’s at a meeting.”

  “Oh, a meeting,” I said, nastily.

  “My husband’s a very important man. He has lots of meetings. He’s a hydroelectric engineer. He’s been all over the world. I’d have you know—”

  “Skip it,” I said. “I’ll take him to lunch some day and have him tell me himself. Whatever Joseph had on you is dead stock now. Like Joseph.”

  “He’s really dead?” she whispered. “Really?”

  “He’s dead,” I said. “Dead, dead, dead. Lady, he’s dead.”

  She believed it at last. I hadn’t thought she ever would somehow. In the silence, the elevator stopped at my floor.

  I heard steps coming down the hall. We all have hunches. I put my finger to my lips. She didn’t move now. Her face had a frozen look. Her big blue eyes were as black as the shadows below them. The hot wind boomed against the shut windows. Windows have to be shut when a Santa Ana blows, heat or no heat.

  The steps that came down the hall were the casual ordinary steps of one man. But they stopped outside my door, and somebody knocked.

  I pointed to the dressing room behind the wall bed. She stood up without
a sound, her bag clenched against her side. I pointed again, to her glass. She lifted it swiftly, slid across the carpet, through the door, drew the door quietly shut after her.

  I didn’t know just what I was going to all this trouble for.

  The knocking sounded again. The backs of my hands were wet. I creaked my chair and stood up and made a loud yawning sound. Then I went over and opened the door—without a gun. That was a mistake.

  3

  I didn’t know him at first. Perhaps for the opposite reason Waldo hadn’t seemed to know him. He’d had a hat on all the time over at the cocktail bar and he didn’t have one on now. His hair ended completely and exactly where his hat would start. Above that line was hard white sweatless skin almost as glaring as scar tissue. He wasn’t just twenty years older. He was a different man.

  But I knew the gun he was holding, the .22 target automatic with the big front sight. And I knew his eyes. Bright, brittle, shallow eyes like the eyes of a lizard.

  He was alone. He put the gun against my face very lightly and said between his teeth: “Yeah, me. Let’s go on in.”

  I backed in just far enough and stopped. Just the way he would want me to, so he could shut the door without moving much. I knew from his eyes that he would want me to do just that.

  I wasn’t scared. I was paralyzed.

  When he had the door shut he backed me some more, slowly, until there was something against the back of my legs. His eyes looked into mine.

  “That’s a card table,” he said. “Some goon here plays chess. You?”

  I swallowed. “I don’t exactly play it. I just fool around.”

  “That means two,” he said with a kind of hoarse softness, as if some cop had hit him across the windpipe with a blackjack once, in a third-degree session.

  “It’s a problem,” I said. “Not a game. Look at the pieces.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Well, I’m alone,” I said, and my voice shook just enough.

  “It don’t make any difference,” he said. “I’m washed up anyway. Some nose puts the bulls on me tomorrow, next week, what the hell? I just didn’t like your map, pal. And that smug-faced pansy in the bar coat that played left tackle for Fordham or something. To hell with guys like you guys.”