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

hitting a guy that way."
Vidaury stepped back and shook his head, looked at his thumb. His face lost its whiteness. His smile stole back.
"I'm sorry," he said contritely. "I am very sorry. I'm not used to being insulted. As I don't know this man, perhaps you'd better take him
away, Lieutenant. Handcuffed, too. Not very sporting, was it?"
"Tell that to your polo ponies," Pete Anglich said. "I don't bruise so easy."
Angus walked over to him, tapped his shoulder. "Up on the dogs, bo. Let's drift. You're not used to nice people, are you?"
"No. I like bums," Pete Anglich said.
He stood up slowly, scuffed at the pile of the carpet.
The two dicks against the wall fell in beside him, and they walked away down the huge room, under an arch. Angus and the other
man came behind. They waited in the small private lobby for the elevator to come up.
"What was the idea?" Angus snapped. "Getting gashouse with him?"
Pete Anglich laughed. "Jumpy," he said, "Just jumpy."
The elevator came up and they rode down to the huge, silent lobby of the Chester Towers. Two house detectives lounged at the end
of the marble desk, two clerks stood alert behind it.
Pete Anglich lifted his manacled hands in the fighter's salute. "What, no newshawks yet?" he jeered. "Vidaury won't like hush-hush
on this."
"Keep goin', smartie," one of the dicks snapped, jerking his arm.
They went down a corridor and out of a side entrance to a narrow street that dropped almost sheer to treetops. Beyond the treetops
the lights of the city were a vast golden carpet, stitched with brilliant splashes of red and green and blue and purple.
Two starters whirred. Pete Anglich was pushed into the back seat of the first car. Angus and another man got in on either side of
him. The cars drifted down the hill, turned east on Fountain, slid quietly through the evening for mile after mile. Fountain met Sunset, and
the cars dropped downtown toward the tall, white tower of the City Hall. At the plaza the first car swung over to Los Angeles Street and
went south. The other car went on.
After a while Pete Anglich dropped the corners of his mouth and looked sideways at Angus.
"Where you taking me? This isn't the way to headquarters."
Angus' dark, austere face turned toward him slowly. After a moment the big detective leaned back and yawned at the night. He didn't
answer.
The car slid along Los Angeles to Fifth, east to San Pedro, south again for block after block, quiet blocks and loud blocks, blocks
where silent men sat on shaky front porches and blocks where noisy young toughs of both colors snarled and wisecracked at one
another in front of cheap restaurants and drugstores and beer parlors full of slot machines.
At Santa Barbara the police car turned east again, drifted slowly along the curb to Noon Street. It stopped at the corner above the
lunch wagon. Pete Anglichs face tightened again, but he didn't say anything.
"Okey," Angus drawled. "Take the flippers off."
The dick on Pete Anglich's other side dug a key out of his vest, unlocked the handcuffs, jangled them pleasantly before he put them
away on his hip. Angus swung the door open and stepped out of the car.
"Out," he said over his shoulder.
Pete Anglich got out. Angus walked a little way from the street light, stopped, beckoned. His hand moved under his coat, came out
with a gun. He said softly: "Had to play it this way. Otherwise we'd tip the town. Pearson's the only one that knows you. Any ideas?"
Pete Anglich took his gun, shook his head slowly, slid the gun under his own coat, keeping his body between it and the car at the
curb behind.
"The stake-out was spotted, I guess," he said slowly. "There was a girl hanging around there, but maybe that just happened, too."
Angus stared at him silently for a moment, then nodded and went back to the car. The door slammed shut, and the car drifted off
down the street and picked up speed.
Pete Anglich walked along Santa Barbara to Central, south on Central. After a while a bright sign glared at him in violet
letters--Juggernaut Club. He went up broad carpeted stairs toward noise and dance music.
FOUR
The girl had to go sideways to get between the close-set tables around the small dance floor. Her hips touched the back of a man's
shoulder and he reached out and grabbed her hand, grinning. She smiled mechanically, pulled her hand away and came on.
She looked better in the bronze metal-cloth dress with bare arms and the brown hair curling low on her neck; better than in the
shabby polo coat and cheap felt hat, better even than in skyscraper heels, bare legs and thighs, the irreducible minimum above the
waistline, and a dull gold opera hat tipped rakishly over one ear.
Her face looked haggard, small, pretty, shallow. Her eyes had a wide stare. The dance band made a sharp racket over the clatter of
dishes, the thick hum of talk, the shuffling feet on the dance floor. The girl came slowly up to Pete Anglich's table, pulled the other chair
out and sat down.
She propped her chin on the backs of her hands, put her elbows on the tablecloth, stared at him.
"Hello there," she said in a voice that shook a little.
Pete Anglich pushed a pack of cigarettes across the table, watched her shake one loose and get it between her lips. He struck a
match. She had to take it out of his hand to light her cigarette.
"Drink?"
"I'll say."
He signaled the fuzzy-haired, almond-eyed waiter, ordered a couple of sidecars. The waiter went away. Pete Anglich leaned back on
his chair and looked at one of his blunt fingertips.
The girl said very softly: "I got your note, mister."
"Like it?" His voice was stiffly casual. He didn't look at her.
She laughed off key. "We've got to please the customers."
Pete Anglich looked past her shoulder at the corner of the band shell. A man stood there smoking, beside a small microphone. He
was heavily built, old for an m.c., with slick gray hair and a big nose and the thickened complexion of a steady drinker. He was smiling at
everything and everybody. Pete Anglich looked at him a little while, watching the direction of his glances. He said stiffly, in the same
casual voice, "But you'd be here anyway."
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