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

drew in a harsh breath and blew it out and almost whispered: "Tell it, copper. Tell it fast, or by God I'll--"
Delaguerra's voice cut in on him coldly, without any emotion at all: "Imlay went to see Marr all right. Why wouldn't he? He didn't know
he was double-crossed. Only he went to see him last night, not today. He rode up to the cabin at Puma Lake with him, to talk things over
in a friendly way. That was the gag, anyhow. Then, up there, they had their fight and Imlay got killed, got dumped off the end of the porch,
got his head smashed open on some rocks. He's dead as last Christmas, in the woodshed of Marr's cabin . . . Okey, Marr hid him and
came back to town. Then today he got a phone call, mentioning the name Imlay, making a date for twelve-fifteen. What would Marr do?
Stall, of course, send his office girl off to lunch, put a gun where he could reach it in a hurry. He was all set for trouble then. Only the
visitor fooled him and he didn't use the gun."
Masters said gruffly: "Hell, man, you're just cracking wise. You couldn't know all those things."
He looked back at Drew. Drew was gray-faced, taut. Aage came a little farther away from the wall and stood close to Drew. The
blonde girl didn't move a muscle.
Delaguerra said wearily: "Sure, I'm guessing, but I'm guessing to fit the facts. It had to be like that. Marr was no slouch with a gun
and he was on edge, all set. Why didn't he get a shot in? Because it was a woman that called on him."
He lifted an arm, pointed at the blonde. "There's your killer. She loved Imlay even though she framed him. She's a junkie and junkies
are like that. She got sad and sorry and she went after Marr herself. Ask her!"
The blonde stood up in a smooth lunge. Her right hand jerked up from the cushions with a small automatic in it, the one she had
shot Delaguerra with. Her green eyes were pale and empty and staring. Masters whirled around, flailed at her arm with the shiny
revolver.
She shot him twice, point-blank, without a flicker of hesitation. Blood spurted from the side of his thick neck, down the front of his
coat. He staggered, dropped the shiny revolver, almost at Delaguerra's feet. He fell outwards towards the wall behind Delaguerra's
chair, one arm groping out for the wall. His hand hit the wall and trailed down it as he fell. He crashed heavily, didn't move again.
Delaguerra had the shiny revolver almost in his hand.
Drew was on his feet yelling. The girl turned slowly towards Aage, seemed to ignore Delaguerra. Aage jerked a Luger from under
his arm and knocked Drew out of the way with his arm. The small automatic and the Luger roared at the same time. The small gun
missed. The girl was flung down on the davenport, her left hand clutching at her breast. She rolled her eyes, tried to lift the gun again.
Then she fell sidewise on the cushions and her left hand went lax, dropped away from her breast. The front of her dress was a sudden
welter of blood. Her eyes opened and shut, opened and stayed open.
Aage swung the Luger towards Delaguerra. His eyebrows were twisted up into a sharp grin of intense strain. His smoothly
combed, sand-colored hair flowed down his bony scalp as tightly as though it were painted on it.
Delaguerra shot him four times, so rapidly that the explosions were like the rattle of a machine gun.
In the instant of time before he fell Aage's face became the thin, empty face of an old man, his eyes the vacant eyes of an idiot. Then
his long body jackknifed to the floor, the Luger still in his hand. One leg doubled under him as if there was no bone in it.
Powder smell was sharp in the air. The air was stunned by the sound of guns. Delaguerra got to his feet slowly, motioned to Drew
with the shiny revolver.
"Your party, Commissioner. Is this anything like what you wanted?"
Drew nodded slowly, white-faced, quivering. He swallowed, moved slowly across the floor, past Aage's sprawled body. He looked
down at the girl on the davenport, shook his head. He went over to Masters, went down on one knee, touched him. He stood up again.
"All dead, I think," he muttered.
Delaguerra said: "That's swell. What happened to the big boy? The bruiser?"
"They sent him away. I--I don't think they meant to kill you, Delaguerra."
Delaguerra nodded a little. His face began to soften, the rigid lines began to go out of it. The side that was not a bloodstained mask
began to look human again. He soppeci at his face with a handkerchief. It came away bright red with blood. He threw it away and lightly
fingered his matted hair into place. Some of it was caught in the dried blood.
"The hell they didn't," he said.
The house was very still. There was no noise outside. Drew listened, sniffed, went to the front door and looked out. The street
outside was dark, silent. He came back close to Delaguerra. Very slowly a smile worked itself on to his face.
"It's a hell of a note," he said, "when a commissioner of police has to be his own undercover man--and a square cop had to be
framed off the force to help him."
Delaguerra looked at him without expression. "You want to play it that way?"
Drew spoke calmly now. The pink was back in his face. "For the good of the department, man, and the city--and ourselves, it's the
only way to play it."
Delaguerra looked him straight in the eyes.
"I like it that way too," he said in a dead voice. "If it gets played--exactly that way."
THIRTEEN
Marcus braked the car to a stop and grinned admiringly at the big tree-shaded house.
"Pretty nice," he said. "I could go for a long rest there myself."
Delaguerra got out of the car slowly, as if he was stiff and very tired. He was hatless, carried his straw under his arm. Part of the left
side of his head was shaved and the shaved part covered by a thick pad of gauze and tape, over the stitches. A wick of wiry black hair
stuck up over one edge of the bandage, with a ludicrous effect.
He said: "Yeah--but I'm not staying here, sap. Wait for me."
He went along the path of stones that wound through the grass. Trees speared long shadows across the lawn, through the
morning sunlight. The house was very still, with drawn blinds, a dark wreath on the brass knocker. Delaguerra didn't go up to the door.
He turned off along another path under the windows and went along the side of the house past the gladioli beds.
There were more trees at the back, more lawn, more flowers, more sun and shadow. There was a pond with water lilies in it and a
big stone bullfrog. Beyond was a half-circle of lawn chairs around an iron table with a tile top. In one of the chairs Belle Marr sat.
She wore a black-and-white dress, loose and casual, and there was a wide-brimmed garden hat on her chestnut hair. She sat very
still, looking into the distance across the lawn. Her face was white. The make-up glared on it.
She turned her head slowly, smiled a dull smile, motioned to a chair beside her. Delaguerra didn't sit down. He took his straw from
under his arm, snapped a finger at the brim, said: "The case is closed. There'll be inquests, investigations, threats, a lot of people
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