The Collected Raymond Chandler

by Raymond Chandler

  “Man trap,” he said softly, and dodged over to the booth, into it. He crouched and almost shut the door.

  Steps slammed on the porch and the front door squeaked open. The steps hammered into the hallway, stopped.

  A heavy voice said: “All quiet, huh? Maybe a phony.”

  Another voice said: “Four-B. Let’s give it the dust, anyway.”

  The steps went along the lower hall, came back. They sounded on the stairs going up. They drummed in the upper hall.

  Pete Anglich pushed the door of the booth back, slid over to the front door, crouched and squinted against the red glare.

  The prowl car at the curb was a dark bulk. Its headlights burned along the cracked sidewalk. He couldn’t see into it. He sighed, opened the door and walked quickly, but not too quickly, down the wooden steps from the porch.

  The prowl car was empty, with both front doors hanging open. Shadowy forms were converging cautiously from across the street. Pete Anglich marched straight to the prowl car and got into it. He shut the doors quietly, stepped on the starter, threw the car in gear.

  He drove off past the gathering crowd of neighbors. At the first corner he turned and switched off the red spot. Then he drove fast, wound in and out of blocks, away from Central, after a while turned back toward it.

  When he was near its lights and chatter and traffic he pulled over to the side of the dusty tree-lined street, left the prowl car standing.

  He walked towards Central.

  CHAPTER 6

  Trimmer Waltz cradled the phone with his left hand. He put his right index finger along the edge of his upper lip, pushed the lip out of the way, and rubbed his finger slowly along his teeth and gums. His shallow, colorless eyes looked across the desk at the big Negro in the checked suit.

  “Lovely,” he said in a dead voice. “Lovely. He got away before the law jumped him. A very swell job, Rufe.”

  The Negro took a cigar stub out of his mouth and crushed it between a huge flat thumb and a huge flat forefinger.

  “Hell, he was out cold,” he snarled. “The prowlies passed me before I got to Central. Hell, he can’t get away.”

  “That was him talking,” Waltz said lifelessly. He opened the top drawer of his desk and laid his heavy Savage in front of him.

  The Negro looked at the Savage. His eyes got dull and lightless, like obsidian. His lips puckered and gouged at each other.

  “That gal’s been cuttin’ corners on me with three, four other guys,” he grumbled. “I owed her the slug. Oky-doke.

  That’s jake. Now, I go out and collect me the smart monkey.”

  He started to get up. Waltz barely touched the butt of his gun with two fingers. He shook his head, and the Negro sat down again. Waltz spoke.

  “He got away, Rufe. And you called the buttons to find a dead woman. Unless they get him with the gun on him—one chance in a thousand—there’s no way to tie it to him. That makes you the fall guy. You live there.”

  The Negro grinned and kept his dull eyes on the Savage.

  He said: “That makes me get cold feet. And my feet are big enough to get plenty cold. Guess I take me a powder, huh?”

  Waltz sighed. He said thoughtfully: “Yeah, I guess you leave town for a while. From Glendale. The ’Frisco late train will be about right.”

  The Negro looked sulky. “Nix on ’Frisco, boss. I put my thumbs on a frail there. She croaked. Nix on ’Frisco, boss.”

  “You’ve got ideas, Rufe,” Waltz said calmly. He rubbed the side of his veined nose with one finger, then slicked his gray hair back with his palm. “I see them in your big brown eyes. Forget it. I’ll take care of you. Get the car in the alley. We’ll figure the angles on the way to Glendale.”

  The Negro blinked and wiped cigar ash off his chin with his huge hand.

  “And better leave your big shiny gun here,” Waltz added.

  “It needs a rest.”

  Rufe reached back and slowly drew his gun from a hip pocket. He pushed it across the polished wood of the desk with one finger. There was a faint, sleepy smile at the back of his eyes.

  “Okay, boss,” he said, almost dreamily.

  He went across to the door, opened it, and went out. Waltz stood up and stepped over to the closet, put on a dark felt hat and a light-weight overcoat, a pair of dark gloves. He dropped the Savage into his left-hand pocket, Rufe’s gun into the right. He went out of the room down the hall toward the sound of the dance band.

  At the end he parted the curtains just enough to peer through. The orchestra was playing a waltz. There was a good crowd, a quiet crowd for Central Avenue. Waltz sighed, watched the dancers for a moment, let the curtains fall together again.

  He went back along the hall past his office to a door at the end that gave on stairs. Another door at the bottom of the stairs opened on a dark alley behind the building.

  Waltz closed the door gently, stood in the darkness against the wall. The sound of an idling motor came to him, the light clatter of loose tappets. The alley was blind at one end, at the other turned at right angles toward the front of the building. Some of the light from Central Avenue splashed on a brick wall at the end of the cross alley, beyond the waiting car, a small sedan that looked battered and dirty even in the darkness.

  Waltz reached his right hand into his overcoat pocket, took out Rufe’s gun and held it down in the cloth of his overcoat. He walked to the sedan soundlessly, went around to the right-hand door, opened it to get in.

  Two huge hands came out of the car and took hold of his throat. Hard hands, hands with enormous strength in them. Waltz made a faint gurgling sound before his head was bent back and his almost blind eyes were groping at the sky.

  Then his right hand moved, moved like a hand that had nothing to do with his stiff, straining body, his tortured neck, his bulging blind eyes. It moved forward cautiously, delicately, until the muzzle of the gun it held pressed against something soft. It explored the something soft carefully, without haste, seemed to be making sure just what it was.

  Trimmer Waltz didn’t see, he hardly felt. He didn’t breathe. But his hand obeyed his brain like a detached force beyond the reach of Rufe’s terrible hands. Waltz’s finger squeezed the trigger.

  The hands fell slack on his throat, dropped away. He staggered back, almost fell across the alley, hit the far wall with his shoulder. He straightened slowly, gasping deep down in his tortured lungs. He began to shake.

  He hardly noticed the big gorilla’s body fall out of the car and slam the concrete at his feet. It lay at his feet, limp, enormous, but no longer menacing. No longer important.

  Waltz dropped the gun on the sprawled body. He rubbed his throat gently for a little while. His breathing was deep, racking, noisy. He searched the inside of his mouth with his tongue, tasted blood. His eyes looked up wearily at the indigo slit of the night sky above the alley.

  After a while he said huskily, “I thought of that, Rufe … You see, I thought of that.”

  He laughed, shuddered, adjusted his coat collar, went around the sprawled body to the car and reached in to switch the motor off. He started back along the alley to the rear door of the Juggernaut Club.

  A man stepped out of the shadows at the back of the car. Waltz’s left hand flashed to his overcoat pocket. Shiny metal blinked at him. He let his hand fall loosely at his side.

  Pete Anglich said, “Thought that call would bring you out, Trimmer. Thought you might come this way. Nice going.”

  After a moment Waltz said thickly: “He choked me. It was self-defense.”

  “Sure. There’s two of us with sore necks. Mine’s a pip.”

  “What do you want, Pete?”

  “You tried to frame me for bumping off a girl.”

  Waltz laughed suddenly, almost crazily. He said quietly:

  “When I’m crowded I get nasty, Pete. You should know that.

  Better lay off little Token Ware.”

  Pete Anglich moved his gun so that the light flickered on the barrel. He cam
e up to Waltz, pushed the gun against his stomach.

  “Rufe’s dead,” he said softly. “Very convenient. Where’s the girl?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Don’t be a bunny. I’m wise. You tried to pick some jack off John Vidaury. I stepped in front of Token. I want to know the rest of it.”

  Waltz stood very still with the gun pressing his stomach.

  His fingers twisted in the gloves.

  “Okay,” he said dully. “How much to button your lip—and keep it buttoned?”

  “Couple of centuries. Rufe lifted my poke.”

  “What does it buy me?” Waltz asked slowly.

  “Not a damn thing. I want the girl, too.”

  Waltz said very gently: “Five C’s. But not the girl. Five C’s is heavy dough for a Central Avenue punk. Be smart and take it, and forget the rest.”

  The gun went away from his stomach. Pete Anglich circled him deftly, patted pockets, took the Savage, made a gesture with his left hand, holding it.

  “Sold,” he said grudgingly. “What’s a girl between pals? Feed it to me.”

  “Have to go up to the office,” Waltz said.

  Pete Anglich laughed shortly. “Better play ball, Trimmer. Lead on.”

  They went back along the upstairs hall. The dance band beyond the distant curtains was wailing a Duke Ellington lament, a forlorn monotone of stifled brasses, bitter violins, softly clicking gourds. Waltz opened his office door, snapped the light on, went across to his desk and sat down. He tilted his hat back, smiled, opened a drawer with a key.

  Pete Anglich watched him, reached back to turn the key in the door, went along the wall to the closet and looked into it, went behind Waltz to the curtains that masked the windows.

  He still had his gun out.

  He came back to the end of the desk. Waltz was pushing a loose sheaf of bills away from him.

  Pete Anglich ignored the money, leaned down over the end of the desk.

  “Keep that and give me the girl, Trimmer.”

  Waltz shook his head, kept on smiling.

  “The Vidaury squeeze was a grand, Trimmer—or started with a grand. Noon Street is almost in your alley. Do you have to scare women into doing your dirty work? I think you wanted something on the girl, so you could make her say uncle.”

  Waltz narrowed his eyes a little, pointed to the sheaf of bills.

  Pete Anglich said slowly: “A shabby, lonesome, scared kid. Probably lives in a cheap furnished room. No friends, or she wouldn’t be working in your joint. Nobody would wonder about her, except me. You wouldn’t have put her in a house, would you, Trimmer?”

  “Take your money and beat it,” Waltz said thinly. “You know what happens to rats in this district.”

  “Sure, they run night clubs,” Pete Anglich said gently.

  He put his gun down, started to reach for the money. His fist doubled, swept upward casually. His elbow went up with the punch, the fist turned, landed almost delicately on the angle of Waltz’s jaw.

  Waltz became a loose bag of clothes. His mouth fell open. His hat fell off the back of his head. Pete Anglich stared at him, grumbled: “Lot of good that does me.”

  The room was very still. The dance band sounded faintly, like a turned-down radio. Pete Anglich moved behind Waltz and reached down under his coat into his breast pocket. He took a wallet out, shook out money, a driver’s license, a police pistol permit, several insurance cards.

  He put the stuff back, stared morosely at the desk, rubbed a thumbnail on his jaw. There was a shiny buff memo pad in front of him. Impressions of writing showed on the top blank sheet. He held it sideways against the light, then picked up a pencil and began to make light loose strokes across the paper. Writing came out dimly. When the sheet was shaded all over Pete Anglich read: 4623 Noon Street. Ask for Reno.

  He tore the sheet off, folded it into a pocket, picked his gun up and crossed to the door. He reversed the key, locked the room from the outside, went back to the stairs and down them to the alley.

  The body of the Negro lay as it had fallen, between the small sedan and the dark wall. The alley was empty. Pete Anglich stooped, searched the dead man’s pockets, came up with a roll of money. He counted the money in the dim light of a match, separated eighty-seven dollars from what there was, and started to put the few remaining bills back. A piece of torn paper fluttered to the pavement. One side only was torn, jaggedly.

  Pete Anglich crouched beside the car, struck another match, looked at a half-sheet from a buff memo pad on which was written, beginning with the tear: —— t. Ask for Reno.

  He clicked his teeth and let the match fall. “Better,” he said softly.

  He got into the car, started it and drove out of the alley.

  CHAPTER 7

  The number was on a front-door transom, faintly lit from behind, the only light the house showed. It was a big frame house, in the block above where the stakeout had been. The windows in front were closely curtained. Noise came from behind them, voices and laughter, the high-pitched whine of a colored girl’s singing. Cars were parked along the curb, on both sides of the street.

  A tall thin Negro in dark clothes and gold nose-glasses opened the door. There was another door behind him, shut.

  He stood in a dark box between the two doors.

  Pete Anglich said: “Reno?”

  The tall Negro nodded, said nothing.

  “I’ve come for the girl Rufe left, the white girl.”

  The tall Negro stood a moment quite motionless, looking over Pete Anglich’s head. When he spoke, his voice was a lazy rustle of sound that seemed to come from somewhere else.

  “Come in and shut the do’.”

  Pete Anglich stepped into the house, shut the outer door behind him. The tall Negro opened the inner door. It was thick, heavy. When he opened it sound and light jumped at them. A purplish light. He went through the inner door, into a hallway.

  The purplish light came through a broad arch from a long living-room. It had heavy velour drapes, davenports and deep chairs, a glass bar in the corner, and a white-coated Negro behind the bar. Four couples lounged about the room drinking; slim, slick-haired Negro sheiks and girls with bare arms, sheer silk legs, plucked eyebrows. The soft, purplish light made the scene unreal.

  Reno stared vaguely past Pete Anglich’s shoulder, dropped his heavy-lidded eyes, said wearily: “You says which?”

  The Negroes beyond the arch were quiet, staring. The barman stooped and put his hands down under the bar.

  Pete Anglich put his hand into his pocket slowly, brought out a crumpled piece of paper.

  “This any help?”

  Reno took the paper, studied it. He reached languidly into his vest and brought out another piece of the same color. He fitted the pieces together. His head went back and he looked at the ceiling.

  “Who send you?”

  “Trimmer.”

  “I don’ like it,” the tall Negro said. “He done write my name. I don’ like that. That ain’t sma’t. Apa’t from that I guess I check you.”

  He turned and started up a long, straight flight of stairs. Pete Anglich followed him. One of the Negro youths in the living-room snickered loudly.

  Reno stopped suddenly, turned and went back down the steps, through the arch. He went up to the snickerer.

  “This is business,” he said exhaustedly. “Ain’t no white folks comin’ heah. Git me?”

  The boy who had laughed said, “Okay, Reno,” and lifted a tall, misted glass.

  Reno came up the stairs again, talking to himself. Along the upper hall were many closed doors. There was faint pink light from flame-colored wall lamps. At the end Reno took a key out and unlocked the door.

  He stood aside. “Git her out,” he said tersely. “I don’ handle no white cargo heah.”

  Pete Anglich stepped past him into a bedroom.

  An orange floor lamp glowed in the far corner near a flounced, gaudy bed. The windows were shut, the air heavy, sickish.


  Token Ware lay on her side on the bed, with her face to the wall, sobbing quietly.

  Pete Anglich stepped to the side of the bed, touched her. She whirled, cringed. Her head jerked around at him, her eyes dilated, her mouth half open as if to yell.

  “Hello, there,” he said quietly, very gently. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  The girl stared back at him. Slowly all the fear went out of her face.

  CHAPTER 8

  The news photographer held the flashbulb holder high up in his left hand, leaned down over his camera.

  “Now, the smile, Mr. Vidaury,” he said. “The sad one—that one that makes ’em pant.”

  Vidaury turned in the chair and set his profile. He smiled at the girl in the red hat, then turned his face to the camera with the smile still on.

  The bulb flared and the shutter clicked.

  “Not bad, Mr. Vidaury. I’ve seen you do better.”

  “I’ve been under a great strain,” Vidaury said gently.

  “I’ll say. Acid in the face is no fun,” the photographer said.

  The girl in the red hat tittered, then coughed, behind a gauntleted glove with red stitching on the back.

  The photographer packed his stuff together. He was an oldish man in shiny blue serge, with sad eyes. He shook his gray head and straightened his hat.

  “No, acid in the puss is no fun,” he said. “Well, I hope our boys can see you in the morning, Mr. Vidaury.”

  “Delighted,” Vidaury said wearily. “Just tell them to ring me from the lobby before they come up. And have a drink on your way out.”

  “I’m crazy,” the photographer said. “I don’t drink.”

  He hoisted his camera bag over his shoulder and trudged down the room. A small Jap in a white coat appeared from nowhere and let him out, then went away.

  “Acid in the puss,” the girl in the red hat said. “Ha, ha, ha! That’s positively excruciating, if a nice girl may say so. Can I have a drink?”

  “Nobody’s stopping you,” Vidaury growled.

  “Nobody ever did, sweets.”

  She walked sinuously over to a table with a square Chinese tray on it. She mixed a stiff one. Vidaury said half absently: