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

Her words came in a rush. "Would you get it for me? Oh, would you please? I'd be so grateful. I'd--"
He laughed. His laugh had a low growling sound. "Get it for you, baby? I use money in my business, too. Come on, what's the
racket? Spill."
She jerked away from him, but he didn't let go of her arm. He slid the gun out of sight under his coat, held her with both hands. Her
voice sobbed as she whispered: "He'll kill me, if I don't get it."
Very sharply, coldly, Pete Anglich said, "Who will? Trimmer Waltz?"
She started violently, almost tore out of his grasp. Not quite. Steps shuffled on the sidewalk. Two dark forms showed in front of the
billboards, didn't pause to pick anything up. The steps came near, cigarette tips glowed.
A voice said softly: " 'Lo there, sweets. Yo' want to change yo'r boy frien', honey?"
The girl shrank behind Pete Anglich. One of the Negroes laughed gently, waved the red end of his cigarette.
"Hell, it's a white gal," the other one said quickly. "Le's dust."
They went on, chuckling. At the corner they turned, were gone.
"There you are," Pete Anglich growled. "Shows you where you are." His voice was hard, angry. "Oh, hell, stay here and I'll get your
damn pay-off for you."
He left the girl and went lightly along close to the front of the apartment house. At the edge of the billboards he stopped, probed the
darkness with his eyes, saw the package. It was wrapped in dark material, not large but large enough to see. He bent down and looked
under the billboards. He didn't see anything behind them.
He went on four steps, leaned down and picked up the package, felt cloth and two thick rubber bands. He stood quite still, listening.
Distant traffic hummed on a main street. A light burned across the street in a rooming house, behind a glass-paneled door. A
window was open and dark above it.
A woman's voice screamed shrilly behind him.
He stiffened, whirled, and the light hit him between the eyes. It came from the dark window across the street, a blinding white shaft
that impaled him against the billboard.
His face leered in it, his eyes blinked. He didn't move any more.
Shoes dropped on cement and a smaller spot stabbed at him sideways from the end of the billboards. Behind the spot a casual
voice spoke: "Don't shift an eyelash, bud. You're all wrapped up in law."
Men with revolvers out closed in on him from both ends of the line of billboards. Heels clicked far off on concrete. Then it was silent
for a moment. Then a car with a red spotlight swung around the corner and bore down on the group of men with Pete Anglich in their
midst.
The man with the casual voice said: "I'm Angus, detectivelieutenant. I'll take the packet, if you don't mind. And if you'll just keep your
hands together a minute--"
The handcuffs clicked dryly on Pete Anglich's wrists.
He listened hard for the sound of the heels far off, running away. But there was too much noise around him now.
Doors opened and dark people began to boil out of the houses.
THREE
John Vidaury was six feet two inches in height and had the most perfect profile in Hollywood. He was dark, winsome, romantic, with
an interesting touch of gray at his temples. His shoulders were wide, his hips narrow. He had the waist of an English guards officer, and
his dinner clothes fit him so beautifully that it hurt.
So he looked at Pete Anglich as if he was about to apologize for not knowing him. Pete Anglich looked at his handcuffs, at his worn
shoes on the thick rug, at the tall chiming clock against the wall. There was a flush on his face and his eyes were bright.
In a smooth, clear, modulated voice Vidaury said, "No, I've never seen him before." He smiled at Pete Anglich.
Angus, the plainclothes lieutenant, leaned against one end of a carved library table and snapped a finger against the brim of his
hat. Two other detectives stood near a side wall. A fourth sat at a small desk with a stenographer's notebook in front of him.
Angus said, "Oh, we just thought you might know him. We can't get much of anything out of him."
Vidaury raised his eyebrows, smiled very faintly. "Really I'm surprised at that." He went around collecting glasses, and took them
over to a tray, started to mix more drinks.
"It happens," Angus said.
"I thought you had Ways," Vidaury said delicately, pouring Scotch into the glasses.
Angus looked at a fingernail. 'When I say he won't tell us anything, Mr. Vidaury, I mean anything that counts. He says his name is
Pete Anglich, that he used to be a fighter, but hasn't fought for several years. Up to about a year ago he was a private detective, but has
no work now. He won some money in a crap game and got drunk, and was just wandering about. That's how he happened to be on
Noon Street. He saw the package tossed out of your car and picked it up. We can vag him, but that's about all."
"It could happen that way," Vidaury said softly. He carried the glasses two at a time to the four detectives, lifted his own, and nodded
slightly before he drank. He drank gracefully, with a superb elegance of movement, "No, I don't know him," he said again. "Frankly, he
doesn't look like an acid-thrower to me." He waved a hand. "So I'm afraid bringing him here--"
Pete Anglich lifted his head suddenly, stared at Vidaury. His voice sneered.
"It's a great compliment, Vidaury. They don't often use up the time of four coppers taking prisoners around to call on people."
Vidaury smiled amiably. "That's Hollywood," he smiled. "After all, one had a reputation."
"Had," Pete Anglich said. "Your last picture was a pain where you don't tell the ladies."
Angus stiffened. Vidaury's face went white. He put his glass down slowly, let his hand fall to his side. He walked springily across the
rug and stood in front of Pete Anglich.
"That's your opinion," he said harshly, "but I warn you--"
Pete Anglicli scowled at him. "Listen, big shot. You put a grand on the line because some punk promised to throw acid at you if you
didn't. I picked up the grand, but I didn't get any of your nice, new money. So you got it back. You get ten grand worth of publicity and it
won't cost you a nickel. I call that pretty swell."
Angus said sharply, "That's enough from you, mug."
"Yeah?" Pete Anglich sneered. "I thought you wanted me to talk. Well, I'm talking, and I hate pikers, see?"
Vidaury breathed hard. Very suddenly he balled his fist and swung at Pete Anglich's jaw. Pete Anglich's head rolled under the blow,
and his eyes blinked shut, then wide open. He shook himself and said coolly: "Elbow up and thumb down, Vidaury. You break a hand
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