Red Wind

by Raymond Chandler

  I sat still for a moment, with the empty glass at my finger’s , ends, gathering my strength. Madder’s face began to get large and moony and vague. A fat smile jerked in and out under his Charlie Chan mustache as he watched me.

  I reached back into my hip pocket and pulled out a loosely wadded handkerchief. The small sap inside it didn’t seem to show. At least Madder didn’t move, after his first grab under the coat.

  I stood up and swayed forward drunkenly and smacked him square on the top of the head.

  He gagged. He started to get up. I tapped him on the jaw. He became limp and his hand sweeping down from under his coat knocked his glass over on the desk top. I straightened it, stood silent, listening, struggling with a rising wave of nauseous stupor.

  I went over to a communicating door and tried the knob. It was locked. I was staggering by now. I dragged an office chair to the entrance door and propped the back of it under the knob. I leaned against the door panting, gritting my teeth, cursing myself. I got handcuffs out and started back towards Madder.

  A very pretty black-haired, gray-eyed girl stepped out of the clothes closet and poked a .32 at me.

  She wore a blue suit cut with a lot of snap. An inverted saucer of a hat came down in a hard line across her forehead. Shiny black hair showed at the sides. Her eyes were slate-gray, cold, and yet light-hearted. Her face was fresh and young and delicate and as hard as a chisel.

  “All right, Carmady. Lie down and sleep it off. You’re through.”

  I stumbled towards her waving my sap. She shook her head. When her face moved it got large before my eyes. Its outlines changed and wobbled. The gun in her hand looked like anything from a tunnel to a toothpick.

  “Don’t be a goof, Carmady,” she said. “A few hours sleep for you, a few hours start for us. Don’t make me shoot. I would.”

  “Damn you,” I mumbled. “I believe you would.”

  “Right as rain, toots. I’m a lady that wants her own way. That’s fine. Sit down.”

  The floor rose up and bumped me. I sat on it as on a raft in a rough sea. I braced myself on flat hands. I could hardly feel the floor. My hands were numb. My whole body was numb.

  I tried to stare her down. “Ha-a! L-lady K-killer!” I giggled.

  She threw a chilly laugh at me which I only just barely heard. Drums were beating in my head now, war drums from a far off jungle. Waves of light were moving, and dark shadows and a rustle as of a wind in tree-tops. I didn’t want to lie down. I lay down.

  The girl’s voice came from very far off, an elfin voice.

  “Two-way split, eh? He doesn’t like my method, eh? Bless his big soft heart. We’ll see about him.”

  Vaguely as I floated off I seemed to feel a dull jar that might have been a shot. I hoped she had shot Madder, but she hadn’t. She had merely helped me on my way out—with my own sap.

  When I came around again it was night. Something clacked overhead with a heavy sound. Through the open window beyond the desk yellow light splashed on the high side walls of a building. The thing clacked again and the light went off. An advertising sign on the roof.

  I got up off the floor like a man climbing out of thick mud. I waded over to the washbowl, splashed water on my face, felt the top of my head and winced, waded back to the door and found the light switch.

  Strewn papers lay around the desk, broken pencils, envelopes, an empty brown whiskey bottle, cigarette ends and ashes. The debris of hastily emptied drawers. I didn’t bother going through any of it. I left the office, rode down to the street in the shuddering elevator, slid into a bar and had a brandy, then got my car and drove on home.

  I changed clothes, packed a bag, had some whiskey and answered the telephone. It was about nine-thirty.

  Kathy Home’s voice said: “So you’re not gone yet. I hoped you wouldn’t be.”

  “Alone?” I asked, still thick in the voice.

  “Yes, but I haven’t been. The house has been full of coppers for hours. They were very nice, considering. Old grudge of some kind, they figured.”

  “And the line is likely tapped now,” I growled. “Where was I supposed to be going?”

  “Well—you know. Your girl told me.”

  “Little dark girl? Very cool? Name of Carol Donovan?”

  “She had your card. Why, wasn’t it—”

  “I don’t have any girl,” I said simply. “And I bet that just very casually, without thinking at all, a name slipped past your lips—the name of a town up North. Did it?”

  “Ye-es,” Kathy Home admitted weakly.

  I caught the night plane north.

  It was a nice trip except that I had a sore head and a raging thirst for ice-water.

  VI

  THE Snoqualmie Hotel in Olympia was on Capitol Way, fronting on the usual square city block of park. I left by the coffee shop door and walked down a hill to where the last, loneliest reach of Puget Sound died and decomposed against a line of disused wharves. Corded firewood filled the foreground and old men pottered about in the middle of the stacks, or sat on boxes with pipes in their mouths and signs behind their heads reading: “Firewood and Split Kindling. Free Delivery.”

  Behind them a low cliff rose and the vast pines of the north loomed against a gray-blue sky.

  Two of the old men sat on boxes about twenty feet apart, ignoring each other. I drifted near one of them. He wore corduroy pants and what had been a red and black mackinaw. His felt hat showed the sweat of twenty summers. One of his hands clutched a short black pipe, and with the grimed fingers of the other he slowly, carefully, ecstatically jerked at a long curling hair that grew out of his nose.

  I set a box on end, sat down, filled my own pipe, lit it, puffed a cloud of smoke. I waved a hand at the water and said:

  “You’d never think that ever met the Pacific Ocean.”

  He looked at me.

  I said: “Dead end—quiet, restful, like your town. I like a town like this.” He went on looking at me.

  “I’ll bet,” I said, “that a man that’s been around a town like this knows everybody in it and in the country near it.”

  He said: “How much you bet?”

  I took a silver dollar out of my pocket. They still had a few up there. The old man looked it over, nodded, suddenly yanked the long hair out of his nose and held it up against the light.

  “You’d lose,” he said.

  I put the dollar down on my knee. “Know anybody around here that keeps a lot of goldfish?” I asked.

  He stared at the dollar. The other old man near by was wearing overalls and shoes without any laces. He stared at the dollar. They both spat at the same instant. The first old man turned his head and yelled at the top of his voice:

  “Know anybody keeps goldfish?”

  The other old man jumped up off his box and seized a big ax, set a log on end and whanged the ax down on it, splitting it evenly. He looked at the first old man triumphantly and screamed:

  “I ain’t neither.”

  The first old man said: “Leetle deef.” He got up slowly and went over to a shack built of old boards of uneven lengths. He went into it, banged the door.

  The second old man threw his ax down pettishly, spat in the direction of the closed door and went off among the stacks of cordwood.

  The door of the shack opened, the man in the mackinaw poked his head out of it.

  “Sewer crabs is all,” he said, and slammed the door again.

  I put my dollar in my pocket and went back up the hill. I figured it would take too long to learn their language.

  Capitol Way ran north and south. A dull green street car shuttled past on the way to a place called Tumwater. In the distance I could see the government buildings. Northward the street passed two hotels and some stores and branched right and left. Right went to Tacoma and Seattle. Left went over a bridge and out on to the Olympic Peninsula.

  Beyond this right and left turn the street suddenly became old and shabby, with broken asphalt paving, a Chinese restauran
t, a boarded up movie house, a pawnbroker’s establishment. A sign jutting over the dirty sidewalk said: “Smoke Shop,” and in small letters underneath, as if it hoped nobody was looking, “Pool.”

  I went in past a rack of gaudy magazines and a cigar showcase that had flies inside it. There was a long wooden counter on the left, a few slot machines, a single pool table. Three kids fiddled with the slot machines and a tall thin man with a long nose and no chin played pool all by himself, with a dead cigar in his face.

  I sat on a stool and a hard-eyed bald-headed man behind the counter got up from a chair, wiped his hands on a thick gray apron, showed me a gold tooth.

  “A little rye,” I said. “Know anybody that keeps goldfish?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “No.”

  He poured something behind the counter and shoved a thick glass across.

  “Two bits.”

  I sniffed the stuff, wrinkled my nose. “Was it the rye the ‘yeah’ was for?”

  The bald-headed man held up a large bottle with a label that said something about: “Cream of Dixie Straight Rye Whiskey Guaranteed at Least Four Months Old.”

  “Okey,” I said. “I see it just moved in.”

  I poured some water in it and drank it. It tasted like a cholera culture. I put a quarter on the counter. The bar-man showed me a gold tooth on the other side of his face and took hold of the counter with two hard hands and pushed his chin at me.

  “What was that crack?” he asked, almost gently.

  “I just moved in,” I said. “I’m looking for some goldfish for the front window. Goldfish.”

  The barman said very slowly: “Do I look like a guy would know a guy would have goldfish?” His face was a little white.

  The long nosed man who had been playing himself a round of pool racked his cue and strolled over to the counter beside me and threw a nickel on it.

  “Draw me a drink before you wet yourself,” he told the barman.

  The barman pried himself loose from the counter with a good deal of effort. I looked down to see if his fingers had made any dents in the wood. He drew a coke, stirred it with a swizzle-stick, dumped it on the bar top, took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, grunted and went away towards a door marked: “Toilet.”

  The long-nosed man lifted his coke and looked into the smeared mirror behind the bar. The left side of his mouth twitched briefly. A dim voice came from it, saying:

  “How’s Peeler?”

  I pressed my thumb and forefinger together, put them to my nose, sniffed, shook my head sadly.

  “Hitting it high, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t catch the name?”

  “Call me Sunset. I’m always movin’ west. Think he’ll stay clammed?”

  “He’ll stay clammed,” I said.

  “What’s your handle?”

  “Dodge Willis, El Paso” I said.

  “Got a room somewhere?”

  “Hotel.”

  He put his glass down empty. “Let’s dangle.”

  VII

  WE WENT up to my room and sat down and looked at each other over a couple of glasses of Scotch and ginger ale. Sunset studied me with his close-set expressionless eyes, a little at a time, but very thoroughly in the end, adding it all up.

  I sipped my drink and waited. At last he said in his lipless “stir” voice:

  “How come Peeler didn’t come hisself?”

  “For the same reason he didn’t stay when he was here.”

  “Meaning which?”

  “Figure it out for yourself,” I said.

  He nodded, just as though I had said something with a meaning. Then:

  “What’s the top price?”

  “Twenty-five grand.”

  “Nuts.” Sunset was emphatic, even rude.

  I leaned back and lit a cigarette, puffed smoke at the open window and watched the breeze pick it up and tear it to pieces.

  “Listen,” Sunset complained. “I don’t know you from last Sunday’s sports section. You may be all to the silk. I just don’t know.”

  “Why’d you brace me?” I asked.

  “You had the word, didn’t you?”

  This was where I took the dive. I grinned at him. “Yeah. Goldfish was the password. The Smoke Shop was the place.”

  His lack of expression told me I was right. It was one of those breaks you dream of, but don’t handle right even in dreams.

  “Well, what’s the next angle?” Sunset inquired, sucking a piece of ice out of his glass and chewing on it.

  I laughed. “Okey, Sunset. I’m satisfied you’re cagey. We could go on like this for weeks. Let’s put our cards on the table. Where is the old guy?”

  Sunset tightened his lips, moistened them, tightened them again. He set his glass down very slowly and his right hand hung lax on his thigh. I knew I had made a mistake, that Peeler knew where the old guy was, exactly. Therefore I should know.

  Nothing in Sunset’s voice showed I had made a mistake. He said crossly: “You mean why don’t I put my cards on the table and you just sit back and look ’em over. Nix.”

  “Then how do you like this?” I growled. “Peeler’s dead.”

  One eyebrow twitched, and one corner of his mouth. His eyes got a little blanker than before, if possible. His voice rasped lightly, like a finger on dry leather.

  “How come?”

  “Competition you two didn’t know about.” I leaned back, smiled.

  The gun made a soft metallic blur in the sunshine. I hardly saw where it came from. Then the muzzle was round and dark and empty looking at me.

  “You’re kidding the wrong guy,” Sunset said lifelessly. “I ain’t no soft spot for chiselers to lie on.”

  I folded my arms, taking care that my right hand was outside, in view.

  “I would be—if I was kidding. I’m not. Peeler played with a girl and she milked him—up to a point. He didn’t tell her where to find the old fellow. So she and her top man went to see Peeler where he lived. They used a hot iron on his feet. He died of the shock.”

  Sunset looked unimpressed. “I got a lot of room in my ears yet,” he said.

  “So have I,” I snarled, suddenly pretending anger. “Just what the hell have you said that means anything—except that you know Peeler?”

  He spun his gun on his trigger finger, watching it spin. “Old man Sype’s at Westport,” he said casually. “That mean anything to you?”

  “Yeah. Has he got the marbles?”

  “How the hell would I know?” He steadied the gun again, dropped it to his thigh. It wasn’t pointing at me now. “Where’s this competish you mentioned?”

  “I hope I ditched them,” I said. “I’m not too sure. Can I put my hands down and take a drink?”

  “Yeah, go ahead. How did you cut in?”

  “Peeler roomed with the wife of a friend of mine who’s in stir. A straight girl, one you can trust. He let her in and she passed it to me—afterwards.”

  “After the bump? How many cuts your side? My half is set.”

  I took my drink, shoved the empty glass away. “The hell it is.”

  The gun lifted an inch, dropped again. “How many altogether?” he snapped.

  “Three, now Peeler’s out. If we can hold off the competition.”

  “The feet-toasters? No trouble about that. What they look like?”

  “Man named Rush Madder, a shyster down south, fifty, fat, thin down-curving mustache, dark hair thin on top, five-nine, a hundred and eighty, not much guts. The girl, Carol Donovan, black hair, long bob, gray eyes, pretty, small features, twenty-five to eight, five-two, hundred twenty, last seen wearing blue, hard as they come. The real iron in the combination.”

  Sunset nodded indifferently and put his gun away. “We’ll soften her, if she pokes her snoot in,” he said. “I’ve got a heap at the house. Let’s take the air Westport way and look it over. You might be able to ease in on the goldfish angle. They say he’s nuts about them. I’ll stay under cover. He’s too
stir-wise for me. I smell of the bucket.”

  “Swell,” I said heartily. “I’m an old goldfish fancier myself.”

  Sunset reached for the bottle, poured two fingers of Scotch and put it down. He stood up, twitched his collar straight, then shot his chinless jaw forward as far as it would go.

  “But don’t make no error, bo. It’s goin’ to take pressure. It’s goin’ to mean a run out in the deep woods and some thumb twisting. Snatch stuff, likely.”

  “That’s okey,” I said. “The insurance people are behind us.”

  Sunset jerked down the points of his vest and rubbed the back of his thin neck. I put my hat on, locked the Scotch in the bag by the chair I’d been sitting in, went over and shut the window.

  We started towards the door. Knuckles rattled on it just as I reached for the knob. I gestured Sunset back along the wall. I stared at the door for a moment and then I opened it up.

  The two guns came forward almost on the same level, one small—a .32, one a big Smith and Wesson. They couldn’t come into the room abreast, so the girl came in first.

  “Okey, hot shot,” she said dryly. “Ceiling zero. See if you can reach it.”

  VIII

  I BACKED slowly into the room. The two visitors bored in on me, either side. I tripped over my bag and fell backwards, hit the floor and rolled on my side groaning. Sunset said casually: “H’ist ’em, folks. Pretty now!” Two heads jerked away from looking down at me and then I had my gun loose, down at my side. I kept on groaning.

  There was a silence. I didn’t hear any guns fall. The door of the room was still wide open and Sunset was flattened against the wall more or less behind it.

  The girl said between her teeth: “Cover the shamus, Rush—and shut the door. Skinny can’t shoot here. Nobody can.” Then, in a whisper I barely caught, she added: “Slam it!”

  Rush Madder waddled backwards across the room keeping the Smith and Wesson pointed my way. His back was to Sunset and the thought of that made his eyes roll. I could have shot him easily enough, but it wasn’t the play. Sunset stood with his feet spread and his tongue showing. Something that could have been a smile wrinkled his flat eyes.