CHAPTER 3
The apartment house stood on a hill above Westward Village, and was new and rather cheap-looking. Macdonald and Mallory and Jim got out in front of it, and the touring car went on around the corner, disappeared.
The three men went through a quiet lobby past a switchboard where no one sat at the moment, up to the seventh floor in the automatic elevator. They went along a corridor, stopped before a door. Macdonald took a loose key out of his pocket, unlocked the door. They went in.
It was a very new room, very bright, very foul with cigarette smoke. The furniture was upholstered in loud colors, the carpet was a mess of fat green and yellow lozenges. There was a mantel with bottles on it.
Two men sat at an octagonal table with tall glasses at their elbows. One had red hair, very dark eyebrows, and a dead white face with deep-set dark eyes. The other one had a ludicrous big bulbous nose, no eyebrows at all, hair the color of the inside of a sardine can. This one put some cards down slowly and came across the room with a wide smile. He had a loose, good-natured mouth, an amiable expression.
“Have any trouble, Mac?” he said.
Macdonald rubbed his chin, shook his head sourly. He looked at the man with the nose as if he hated him. The man with the nose went on smiling. He said:
“Frisk him?”
Macdonald twisted his mouth to a thick sneer and stalked across the room to the mantel and the bottles. He said in a nasty tone:
“Bright boy don’t pack a gun. He works with his head. He’s smart.”
He re-crossed the room suddenly and smacked the back of his rough hand across Mallory’s mouth. Mallory smiled thinly, did not stir. He stood in front of a big bile-colored davenport spotted with angry-looking red squares. His hands hung down at his sides, and cigarette smoke drifted up from between his fingers to join the haze that already blanketed the rough, arched ceiling.
“Keep your pants on, Mac,” the man with the nose said. “You’ve done your act. You and Jim check out now. Oil the wheels and check out.”
Macdonald snarled: “Who you givin’ orders to, big shot? I’m stickin’ around till this chiseler gets what’s coming to him, Costello.”
The man called Costello shrugged his shoulders briefly. The red-haired man at the table turned a little in his chair and looked at Mallory with the impersonal air of a collector studying an impaled beetle. Then he took a cigarette out of a neat black case and lit it carefully with a gold lighter.
Macdonald went back to the mantel, poured some whiskey out of a square bottle into a glass, and drank it raw. He leaned, scowling, with his back to the mantel.
Costello stood in front of Mallory, cracking the joints of long, bony fingers.
He said: “Where do you come from?”
Mallory looked at him dreamily and put his cigarette in his mouth. “McNeil’s Island,” he said with vague amusement.
“How long since?”
“Ten days.”
“What were you in for?”
“Forgery.” Mallory gave the information in a soft, pleased voice.
“Been here before?”
Mallory said: “I was born here. Didn’t you know?”
Costello’s voice was gentle, almost soothing. “No-o, I didn’t know that,” he said. “What did you come for—ten days ago?”
Macdonald heaved across the room again, swinging his thick arms. He slapped Mallory across the mouth a second time, leaning past Costello’s shoulder to do it. A red mark showed on Mallory’s face. He shook his head back and forth. Dull fire was in his eyes.
“Jeeze, Costello, this crumb ain’t from McNeil. He’s ribbin’ you.” His voice blared. “Bright boy’s just a cheap chiseler from Brooklyn or K.C.—one of those hot towns where the cops are all cripples.”
Costello put a hand up and pushed gently at Macdonald’s shoulder. He said: “You’re not needed in this, Mac,” in a flat, toneless voice.
Macdonald balled his fist angrily Then he laughed, lunged forward and ground his heel on Mallory’s foot. Mallory said: “—— damn!” and sat down hard on the davenport.
The air in the room was drained of oxygen. Windows were in one wall only, and heavy net curtains hung straight and still across them. Mallory got out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, patted his lips.
Costello said: “You and Jim check out, Mac,” in the same flat voice.
Macdonald lowered his head, stared at him steadily through a fringe of eyebrow. His face was shiny with sweat. He had not taken his shabby, crumpled overcoat off. Costello didn’t even turn his head. After a moment Macdonald barged back to the mantel, elbowed the gray-haired cop out of the way and grabbed at the square bottle of Scotch.
“Call the boss, Costello,” he blared over his shoulder. “You ain’t got the brains for this deal. For —— sake do something besides talk!” He turned a little towards Jim, thumped him on the back, said sneeringly: “Did you want just one more drink, copper?”
“What did you come here for?” Costello asked Mallory again.
“Looking for a connection.” Mallory stared up at him lazily. The fire had died out of his eyes.
“Funny way you went about it, boy.”
Mallory shrugged. “I thought if I made a play I might get in touch with the right people.”
“Maybe you made the wrong kind of play,” Costello said quietly. He closed his eyes and rubbed his nose with a thumbnail. “These things are hard to figure sometimes.”
Macdonald’s harsh voice boomed across the close room. “Bright boy don’t make mistakes, mister. Not with his brains.”
Costello opened his eyes and glanced back over his shoulder at the red-haired man. The red-haired man swiveled loosely in his chair. His right hand lay along his leg, slack, half closed. Costello turned the other way, looked straight at Macdonald.
“Move out!” he snapped coldly. “Move out now. You’re drunk, and I’m not arguing with you.”
Macdonald ground his shoulders against the mantel and put his hands in the side pockets of his suit coat. His hat hung formless and crumpled on the back of his big, square head. Jim, the gray-haired cop, moved a little away from him, stared at him strainedly, his mouth working.
“Call the boss, Costello!” Macdonald shouted. “You ain’t givin’ me orders. I don’t like you well enough to take ’em.”
Costello hesitated, then moved across to the telephone. His eyes stared at a spot high up on the wall. He lifted the instrument off the prongs and dialed with his back to Macdonald. Then he leaned against the wall, smiling thinly at Mallory over the cup. Waiting.
“Hello … yes … Costello. Everything’s oke except Mac’s loaded. He’s pretty hostile … won’t move out. Don’t know yet … some out-of-town boy. Okay.”
Macdonald made a motion, said: “Hold it …”
Costello smiled and put the phone aside without haste. Macdonald’s eyes gleamed at him with a greenish fire. He spit on the carpet, in the corner between a chair and the wall. He said:
“That’s lousy. Lousy. You can’t dial Montrose from here.” Costello moved his hands vaguely. The red-haired man got to his feet. He moved away from the table and stood laxly, tilting his head back so that the smoke from his cigarette rose clear of his eyes.
Macdonald rocked angrily on his heels. His jawbone was a hard white line against his flushed face. His eyes had a deep, hard glitter.
“I guess we’ll play it this way,” he stated. He took his hands out of his pockets in a casual manner, and his blued service revolver moved in a tight, businesslike arc.
Costello looked at the red-haired man and said: “Take him, Andy.”
The red-haired man stiffened, spit his cigarette straight out from between his pale lips, flashed a hand up like lightning.
Mallory said: “Not fast enough. Look at this one.”
He had moved so quickly and so little that he had not seemed to move at all. He leaned forward a little on the davenport. The long black Luger lined itself evenly on the red-haired m
an’s belly.
The red-haired man’s hand came down slowly from his lapel, empty. The room was very quiet. Costello looked once at Macdonald with infinite disgust, then he put his hands out in front of him, palms up, and looked down at them with a blank smile.
Macdonald spoke slowly, bitterly. “The kidnapping is one too many for me, Costello. I don’t want any part of it. I’m takin’ a powder from this toy mob. I took a chance that bright boy might side me.”
Mallory stood up and moved sideways towards the red-haired man. When he had gone about half the distance the gray-haired cop, Jim, let out a strangled sort of yell and jumped for Macdonald, clawing at his pocket. Macdonald looked at him with quick surprise. He put his big left hand out and grabbed both lapels of Jim’s overcoat tight together, high up. Jim flailed at him with both fists, hit him in the face twice. Macdonald drew his lips back over his teeth. Calling to Mallory, “Watch those birds,” he very calmly laid his gun down on the mantel, reached down into the pocket of Jim’s coat and took out the woven leather blackjack. He said:
“You’re a louse, Jim. You always were a louse.”
He said it rather thoughtfully, without rancor. Then he swung the blackjack and hit the gray-haired man on the side of the head. The gray-haired man sagged slowly to his knees. He clawed freely at the skirts of Macdonald’s coat. Macdonald stooped over and hit him again with the blackjack, in the same place, very hard.
Jim crumpled down sideways and lay on the floor with his hat off and his mouth open. Macdonald swung the blackjack slowly from side to side. A drop of sweat ran down the side of his nose.
Costello said: “Rough boy, ain’t you, Mac?” He said it dully, absently, as though he had very little interest in what went on.
Mallory went on towards the red-haired man. When he was behind him he said:
“Put the hands way up, wiper.”
When the red-haired man had done this, Mallory put his free hand over his shoulder, down inside his coat. He jerked a gun loose from a shoulder-holster and dropped it on the floor behind him. He felt the other side, patted pockets. He stepped back and circled to Costello. Costello had no gun.
Mallory went to the other side of Macdonald, stood where everyone in the room was in front of him. He said:
“Who’s kidnapped?”
Macdonald picked up his gun and glass of whiskey. “The Farr girl,” he said. “They got her on her way home, I guess. It was planned when they knew from the wop bodyguard about the date at the Bolivar. I don’t know where they took her.”
Mallory planted his feet wide apart and wrinkled his nose. He held his Luger easily, with a slack wrist. He said:
“What does your little act mean?”
Macdonald said grimly: “Tell me about yours. I gave you a break.”
Mallory nodded, said: “Sure—for your own reasons. I was hired to look for some letters that belong to Rhonda Farr.” He looked at Costello. Costello showed no emotion.
Macdonald said: “Okay by me. I thought it was some kind of a plant. That’s why I took the chance. Me, I want an out from this connection, that’s all.” He waved his hand around to take in the room and everything in it.
Mallory picked up a glass, looked into it to see if it was clean, then poured a little Scotch into it and drank it in sips, rolling his tongue around in his mouth.
“Let’s talk about kidnapping,” he said. “Who was Costello phoning to?”
“Atkinson. Big Hollywood lawyer. Front for the boys. He’s the Farr girl’s lawyer, too. Nice guy, Atkinson. A louse.”
“He in on the kidnapping?”
Macdonald laughed and said: “Sure.”
Mallory shrugged, said: “It seems like a dumb trick—for him.”
He went past Macdonald, along the wall to where Costello stood. He stuck the muzzle of the Luger against Costello’s chin, pushed his head back against the rough plaster.
“Costello’s a nice old boy,” he said thoughtfully. “He wouldn’t kidnap a girl. Would you, Costello? A little quiet extortion maybe, but nothing rough. That right, Costello?”
Costello’s eyes went blank. He swallowed. He said between his teeth: “Can it. You’re not funny.”
Mallory said: “It gets funnier as it goes on. But perhaps you don’t know it all.”
He lifted the Luger and drew the muzzle down the side of Costello’s big nose, hard. It left a white mark that turned to a red weal. Costello looked a little worried.
Macdonald finished pushing a nearly full bottle of Scotch into his overcoat pocket, and said:
“Let me work on the ——!”
Mallory shook his head gravely from side to side, looking at Costello.
“Too noisy. You know how these places are built. Atkinson is the boy to see. Always see the head man—if you can get to him.”
Jim opened his eyes, flapped his hands on the floor, tried to get up. Macdonald lifted a large foot and planted it carelessly in the gray-haired man’s face. Jim lay down again. His face was a muddy gray color.
Mallory glanced at the red-haired man and went over to the telephone stand. He lifted the instrument down and dialed a number awkwardly, with his left hand.
He said: “I’m calling the man who hired me … He has a big fast car … We’ll put these boys in soak for a while.”
CHAPTER 4
Landrey’s big black Cadillac rolled soundlessly up the long grade to Montrose. Lights shone low on the left, in the lap of the valley. The air was cool and clear, and the stars were very bright. Landrey looked back from the front seat, draped an arm over the back of the seat, a long black arm that ended in a white glove.
He said, for the third or fourth time: “So it’s her own mouthpiece shaking her down. Well, well, well.”
He smiled smoothly, deliberately. All his movements were smooth and deliberate. Landrey was a tall, pale man with white teeth and jet-black eyes that sparkled under the dome light.
Mallory and Macdonald sat in the back seat. Mallory said nothing; he stared out of the car window. Macdonald took a pull at his square bottle of Scotch, lost the cork on the floor of the car, and swore as he bent over to grope for it. When he found it he leaned back and looked morosely at Landrey’s clear, pale face above the white silk scarf.
He said: “You still got that place on Highland Drive?”
Landrey said: “Yes, copper, I have. And it’s not doin’ so well.”
Macdonald growled. He said: “That’s a damn shame, Mr. Landrey.”
Then he put his head back against the upholstery and closed his eyes.
The Cadillac turned off the highway. The driver seemed to know just where he was going. He circled around into a landscaped subdivision of rambling elaborate homes. Tree frogs sounded in the darkness, and there was a smell of orange blossoms.
Macdonald opened his eyes and leaned forward. “The house on the corner,” he told the driver.
The house stood well back from a wide curve. It had a lot of tiled roof, an entrance like a Norman arch, and wrought-iron lanterns lit on either side of the door. By the sidewalk there was a pergola covered with climbing roses. The driver cut his lights and drifted expertly up to the pergola.
Mallory yawned and opened the car door. Cars were parked along the street around the corner. The cigarette tips of a couple of lounging chauffeurs spotted the soft bluish dark.
“Party,” he said. “That makes it nice.”
He got out, stood a moment looking across the lawn. Then he walked over soft grass to a pathway of dull bricks spaced so that the grass grew between them. He stood between the wrought-iron lanterns and rang the bell.
A maid in cap and apron opened the door. Mallory said:
“Sorry to disturb Mr. Atkinson, but it’s important. Macdonald is the name.”
The maid hesitated, then went back into the house, leaving the front door open a crack. Mallory pushed it open carelessly, looked into a roomy hallway with Indian rugs on the floor and walls. He went in.
A few yards down t
he hallway a doorway gave on a dim room lined with books, smelling of good cigars. Hats and coats were spread around on the chairs. From the back of the house a radio droned dance music.
Mallory took his Luger out and leaned against the jamb of the door, inside.
A man in evening dress came along the hall. He was a plump man with thick white hair above a shrewd, pink, irritable face. Beautifully tailored shoulders failed to divert attention from rather too much stomach. His heavy eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. He walked fast and looked mad.
Mallory stepped out of the doorway and put his gun in Atkinson’s stomach.
“You’re looking for me,” he said.
Atkinson stopped, heaved a little, made a choked sound in his throat. His eyes were wide and startled. Mallory moved the Luger up, put the cold muzzle into the flesh at Atkinson’s throat, just above the V of his wing collar. The lawyer partly lifted one arm, as though to make a sweep of the gun. Then he stood quite still, holding the arm up in the air.
Mallory said: “Don’t talk. Just think. You’re sold out. Macdonald has ratted on you. Costello and two other boys are taped up at Westwood. We want Rhonda Farr.”
Atkinson’s eyes were dull blue, opaque, without interior light. The mention of Rhonda Farr’s name did not seem to make much impression on him. He squirmed against the gun and said:
“Why do you come to me?”
“We think you know where she is,” Mallory said tonelessly. “But we won’t talk about it here. Let’s go outside.”
Atkinson jerked, sputtered. “No … no, I have guests.”
Mallory said coldly: “The guest we want isn’t here.” He pressed on the gun.
A sudden wave of emotion went over Atkinson’s face. He took a short step back and snatched at the gun. Mallory’s lips tightened. He twisted his wrist in a tight circle, and the gun sight flicked across Atkinson’s mouth. Blood came out on his lips. His mouth began to puff. He got very pale.
Mallory said: “Keep your head, fat boy, and you may live through the night.”
Atkinson turned and walked straight out of the open door, swiftly, blindly.
Mallory took his arm and jerked him to the left, on to the grass. “Make it slow,” he said softly.
The Collected Raymond Chandler Page 164