THE SIMPLE ART OF MURDER by Raymond Chandler Copyright ...

He said something vaguely, after a moment said goodbye and hung up. He stared at the wall over the writing desk. There was a
fresh light in his eyes, a hard glint. His whole face was tight, not doubtful any more.
He went back to the bedroom for his coat and straw hat. On the way out he picked up the three telephone slips with the name "Joey
Chill" on them, tore them into small pieces and burned the pieces in an ash tray.
SEVEN
Pete Marcus, the big, sandy-haired dick, sat sidewise at a small littered desk in a bare office in which there were two such desks,
faced to opposite walls. The other desk was neat and tidy, had a green blotter with an onyx pen set, a small brass calendar and an
abalone shell for an ash tray.
A round straw cushion that looked something like a target was propped on end in a straight chair by the window. Pete Marcus had a
handful of bank pens in his left hand and he was flipping them at the cushion, like a Mexican knife thrower. He was doing it absently,
without much skill.
The door opened and Delaguerra came in. He shut the door and leaned against it, looking woodenly at Marcus. The sandyhaired
man creaked his chair around and tilted it back against the desk, scratched his chin with a broad thumbnail.
"Hi, Spanish. Nice trip? The Chief's yappin' for you."
Delaguerra grunted, stuck a cigarette between his smooth brown lips.
"Were you in Marr's office when those photos were found, Pete?"
"Yeah, but I didn't find them. The Commish did. Why?"
"Did you see him find them?"
Marcus stared a moment, then said quietly, guardedly: "He found them all right, Sam. He didn't plant them--if that's what you mean."
Delaguerra nodded, shrugged. "Anything on the slugs?"
"Yeah. Not thirty-twos--twenty-fives. A damn vest-pocket rod. Copper-nickel slugs. An automatic, though, and we didn't find any
shells."
"Imlay remembered those," Delaguerra said evenly, "but he left without the photos he killed for."
Marcus lowered his feet to the floor and leaned forward, looking up past his tawny eyebrows.
"That could be. They give him a motive, but with the gun in Marr's hand they kind of knock a premeditation angle."
"Good headwork, Pete." Delaguerra walked over to the small window, stood looking out of it. After a moment Marcus said dully: "You
don't see me doin' any work, do you, Spanish?"
Delaguerra turned slowly, went over and stood close to Marcus, looking down at him.
"Don't be sore, kid. You're my partner, and I'm tagged as Marr's line into Headquarters. You're getting some of that. You're sitting still
and I was hiked up to Puma Lake for no good reason except to have a deer carcass planted in the back of my car and have a game
warden nick me with it."
Marcus stood up very slowly, knotting his fists at his sides. His heavy gray eyes opened very wide. His big nose was white at the
nostrils.
"Nobody here'd go _that_ far, Sam."
Delaguerra shook his head. "I,don't think so either. But they could take a hint to send me up there. And somebody outside the
department could do the rest."
Pete Marcus sat down again. He picked up one of the pointed bank pens and flipped it viciously at the round straw cushion. The
point stuck, quivered, broke, and the pen rattled to the floor.
"Listen," he said thickly, not looking up, "this is a job to me. That's all it is. A living. I don't have any ideals about this police work like
you have. Say the word and I'll heave the goddamn badge in the old boy's puss."
Delaguerra bent down, punched him in the ribs. "Skip it, copper. I've got ideas. Go on home and get drunk."
He opened the door and went out quickly, walked along a marble-faced corridor to a place where it widened into an alcove with
three doors. The middle one said: CHIEF OF DETECTIVES. ENTER. Dejaguerra went into a small reception room with a plain railing
across it. A police stenographer behind the railing looked up, then jerked his head at an inner door. Delaguerra opened a gate in the
railing and knocked at the inner door, then went in.
Two men were in the big office. Chief of Detectives Ted McKim sat behind a heavy desk, looked at Delaguerra hardeyed as he came
in. He was a big, loose man who had gone saggy. He had a long, petulantly melancholy face. One of his eyes was not quite straight in
his head.
The man who sat in a round-backed chair at the end of the desk was dandyishly dressed, wore spats. A pearl-gray hat and gray
gloves and an ebony cane lay beside him on another chair. He had a shock of soft white hair and a handsome dissipated face kept pink
by constant massaging. He smiled at Delaguerra, looked vaguely amused and ironical, smoked a cigarette in a long amber holder.
Delaguerra sat down opposite McKim. Then he looked at the white-haired man briefly and said: "Good evening, Commissioner."
Commisioner Drew nodded offhandedly, didn't speak.
McKim leaned forward and clasped blunt, nail-chewed fingers on the shiny desk top. He said quietly: "Took your time reporting
back. Find anything?"
Delaguerra stared at him, a level expressionless stare.
"I wasn't meant to--except maybe a doe carcass in the back of my car."
Nothing changed in McKim's face. Not a muscle of it moved. Drew dragged a pink and polished fingernail across the front of his
throat and made a tearing sound with his tongue and teeth.
"That's no crack to be makin' at your boss, lad."
Delaguerra kept on looking at McKim, waited. McKim spoke slowly, sadly: "You've got a good record, Delaguerra. Your grandfather
was one of the best sheriffs this county ever had. You've blown a lot of dirt on it today. You're charged with violating game laws,
interfering with a Toluca County Officer in the performance of his duty, and resisting arrest. Got anything to say to all that?"
Delaguerra said tonelessly: "Is there a tag out for me?"
McKim shook his head very slowly. "It's a department charge. There's no formal complaint. Lack of evidence, I guess." He smiled
dryly, without humor.
Delaguerra said quietly: "In that case I guess you'll want my badge."
McKim nodded, silent. Drew said: "You're a little quick on the trigger. Just a shade fast on the snap-up."
Delaguerra took his badge out, rubbed it on his sleeve, looked at it, pushed it across the smooth wood of the desk.
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