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

proved to be a seedy hotel, conveniently close to the interurban car tracks and having its entrance adjoining a Chinese laundry. The
hotel was upstairs, the steps being covered--in places--with strips of decayed rubber matting to which were screwed irregular
fragments of unpolished brass. The smell of the Chinese laundry ceased about halfway up the stairs and was replaced by a smell of
kerosene, cigar butts, slept-in air and greasy paper bags. There was a register at the head of the stairs on a wooden shelf. The last
entry was in pencil, three weeks previous as to date, and had been written by someone with a very unsteady hand. I deduced from this
that the management was not over-particular.
There was a bell beside the book and a sign reading: MANAGER. I rang the bell and waited. Presently a door opened down the hall
and feet shuffled towards me without haste. A man appeared wearing frayed leather slippers and trousers of a nameless color, which
had the two top buttons unlatched to permit more freedom to the suburbs of his extensive stomach. He also wore red suspenders, his
shirt was darkened under the arms, and elsewhere, and his face badly needed a thorough laundering and trimming.
He said, "Full-up, bud," and sneered.
I said: "I am not looking for a room. I am looking for one Eichelberger, who, I am informed lives here, but who, I observe, has not
registered in your book. And this, as of course you know, is contrary to the law."
"A wise guy," the fat man sneered again. "Down the hall, bud. Two-eighteen." He waved a thumb the color and almost the size of a
burnt baked potato.
"Have the kindness to show me the way," I said. "Geez, the lootenant-governor," he said, and began to shake his stomach. His
small eyes disappeared in folds of yellow fat. "O.K., bud. Follow on."
We went into the gloomy depths of the back hall and came to a wooden door at the end with a closed wooden transom above it. The
fat man smote the door with a fat hand. Nothing happened.
"Out," he said.
"Have the kindness to unlock the door," I said. "I wish to go in and wait for Eichelberger."
"In a pig's valise," the fat man said nastily, "Who the hell you think you are, bum?"
This angered me. He was a fair-sized man, about six feet tall, but too full of the memories of beer. I looked up and down the dark
hall. The place seemed utterly deserted.
I hit the fat man in the stomach.
He sat down on the floor and belched and his right kneecap came into sharp contact with his jaw. He coughed and tears welled up
in his eyes.
"Cripes, bud," he whined. "You got twenty years on me. That ain't fair."
"Open the door," I said. "I have no time to argue with you."
"A buck," he said, wiping his eyes on his shirt. "Two bucks and no tip-off."
I took two dollars out of my pocket and helped the man to his feet. He folded the two dollars and produced an ordinary passkey
which I could have purchased for five cents.
"Brother, you sock," he said. "Where you learn it? Most big guys are muscle-bound." He unlocked the door.
"If you hear any noises later on," I said, "ignore them. If there is any damage, it will be paid for generously."
He nodded and I went into the room. He locked the door behind me and his steps receded. There was silence.
The room was small, mean and tawdry. It contained a brown chest of drawers with a small mirror hanging over it, a straight wooden
chair, a wooden rocking chair, a single bed of chipped enamel, with a much mended cottoncounterpane. The curtains at the single
window had fly marks on them and the green shade was without a slat at the bottom. There was a wash bowl in the corner with two
paper-thin towels hanging beside it. There was, of course, no bathroom, and there was no closet. A piece of dark figured material
hanging from a shelf made a substitute for the latter. Behind this I found a gray business suit of the largest size made, which would be
my size, if I wore ready-made clothes, which I do not. There was a pair of black brogues on the floor, size number twelve at least. There
was also a cheap fiber suitcase, which of course I searched, as it was not locked.
I also searched the bureau and was surprised to find that everything in it was neat and clean and decent. But there was not much in
it. Particularly there were no pearls in it. I searched in all other likely and unlikely places in the room but I found nothing of interest.
I sat on the side of the bed and lit a cigarette and waited. It was now apparent to me that Henry Eichelberger was either a very great
fool or entirely innocent. The room and the open trail he had left behind him did not suggest a man dealing in operations like stealing
pearl necklaces.
I had smoked four cigarettes, more than I usually smoke in an entire day, when approaching steps sounded. They were light quick
steps but not at all clandestine. A key was thrust into the door and turned and the door swung carelessly open. A man stepped through it
and looked at me.
I am six feet three inches in height and weigh over two hundred pounds. This man was tall, but he seemed lighter. He wore a blue
serge suit of the kind which is called neat for lack of anything better to say about it. He had thick wiry blond hair, a neck like a Prussian
corporal in a cartoon, very wide shoulders and large hard hands, and he had a face that had taken much battering in its time. His small
greenish eyes glinted at me with what I then took to be evil humor. I saw at once that he was not a man to trifle with, but I was not afraid
of him. I was his equal in size and strength, and, I had small doubt, his superior in intelligence.
I stood up off the bed calmly and said: "I am looking for one Eichelberger."
"How you get in here, bud?" It was a cheerful voice, rather heavy, but not unpleasant to the ear.
"The explanation of that can wait," I said stiffly. "I am looking for one Eichelberger. Are you he?"
"Haw," the man said. "A gut-buster. A comedian. Wait'll I loosen my belt." He took a couple of steps farther into the room and I took
the same number towards him.
"My name is Walter Gage," I said. "Are you Eichelberger?"
"Gimme a nickel," he said, "and I'll tell you."
I ignored that. "I am the fiancé of Miss Ellen Macintosh," I told him coldly. "I am informed that you tried to kiss her."
He took another step towards me and I another towards him. "Whaddaya mean--tried?" he sneered.
I led sharply with my right and it landed flush on his chin. It seemed to me a good solid punch, but it scarcely moved him. I then put
two hard left jabs into his neck and landed a second hard right at the side of his rather wide nose. He snorted and hit me in the solar
plexus.
I bent over and took hold of the room with both hands and spun it. When I had it nicely spinning I gave it a full swing and hit myself
on the back of the head with the floor. This made me lose my balance temporarily and while I was thinking about how to regain it a wet
towel began to slap at my face and I opened my eyes. The face of Henry Eichelberger was close to mine and bore a certain appearance
of solicitude.
"Bud," his voice said, "your stomach is as weak as a Chinaman's tea."
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