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

loose tappets. The alley was blind at one end, at the other turned at right angles toward the front of the building. Some of the light from
Central Avenue splashed on a brick wall at the end of the cross alley, beyond the waiting car, a small sedan that looked battered and
dirty even in the darkness.
Waltz reached his right hand into his overcoat pocket, took out Rufe's gun and held it down in the cloth of his overcoat. He walked to
the sedan soundlessly, went around to the righthand door, opened it to get in.
Two huge hands came out of the car and took hold of his throat. Hard hands, hands with enormous strength in them. Waltz made a
faint gurgling sound before his head was bent back and his almost blind eyes were groping at the sky.
Then his right hand moved, moved like a hand that had nothing to do with his stiff, straining body, his tortured neck, his bulging
blind eyes. It moved forward cautiously, delicately, until the muzzle of the gun it held pressed against something soft. It explored the
something soft carefully, without haste, seemed to be making sure just what it was.
Trimmer Waltz didn't see, he hardly felt. He didn't breathe. But his hand obeyed his brain like a detached force beyond the reach of
Rufe's terrible hands. Waltz's finger squeezed the trigger.
The hands fell slack on his throat, dropped away. He staggered back, almost fell across the alley, hit the far wall with his shoulder.
He straightened slowly, gasping deep down in his tortured lungs. He began to shake.
He hardly noticed the big gorilla's body fall out of the car and slam the concrete at his feet. It lay at his feet, limp, enormous, but no
longer menacing. No longer important.
Waltz dropped the gun on the sprawled body. He rubbed his throat gently for a little while. His breathing was deep, racking, noisy.
He searched the inside of his mouth with his tongue, tasted blood. His eyes looked up wearily at the indigo slit of the night sky above the
alley.
After a while he said husklly, "I thought of that, Rufe . You see, I thought of that."
He laughed, shuddered, adjusted his coat collar, went around the sprawled body to the car and reached in to switch the motor off.
He started back along the alley to the rear door of the Juggernaut Club.
A man stepped out of the shadows at the back of the car. Waltz's left hand flashed to his overcoat pocket. Shiny metal blinked at
him. He let his hand fall loosely at his side.
Pete Anglich said, "Thought that call would bring you out, Trimmer. Thought you might come this way. Nice going."
After a moment Waltz said thickly: "He choked me. It was self-defense."
"Sure. There's two of us with sore necks. Mine's a pip."
"What do you want, Pete?"
"You tried to frame me for bumping off a girl."
Waltz laughed suddenly, almost crazily. He said quietly: "When I'm crowded I get nasty, Pete. You should know that. Better lay off
little Token Ware."
Pete Anglich moved his gun so that the light flickered on the barrel. He came up to Waltz, pushed the gun against his stomach.
"Rufe's dead," he said softly. "Very convenient. Where's the girl?"
"What's it to you?"
"Don't be a bunny. I'm wise. You tried to pick some jack off John Vidaury. I stepped in front of Token. I want to know the rest of it."
Waltz stood very still with the gun pressing his stomach. His fingers twisted in the gloves.
"Okay," he said dully. "How much to button your lip--and keep it buttoned?"
"Couple of centuries. Rufe lifted my poke."
"What does it buy me?" Waltz asked slowly.
"Not a damn thing. I want the girl, too."
Waltz said very gently: "Five C's. But not the girl. Five C's is heavy dough for a Central Avenue punk. Be smart and take it, and forget
the rest."
The gun went away from his stomach, Pete Anglich circled him deftly, patted pockets, took the Savage, made a gesture with his left
hand, holding it.
"Sold," he said grudgingly. "What's a girl between pals? Feed it to me."
"Have to go up to the office," Waltz said.
Pete Anglich laughed shortly. "Better play ball, Trimmer. Lead on."
They went back along the upstairs hall. The dance band beyond the distant curtains was wailing a Duke Ellington lament, a forlom
monotone of stifled brasses, bitter violins, softly clicking gourds. Waltz opened his office door, snapped the light on, went across to his
desk and sat down. He tilted his hat back, smiled, opened a drawer with a key.
Pete Anglich watched him, reached back to turn the key in the door, went along the wall to the closet and looked into it, went behind
Waltz to the curtains that masked the windows. He still had his gun out.
He came back to the end of the desk. Waltz was pushing a loose sheaf of bills away from him.
Pete Anglich ignored the money, leaned down over the end of the desk.
"Keep that and give me the girl, Trimmer."
Waltz shook his head, kept on smiling.
"The Vidaury squeeze was a grand, Trimmer--or started with a grand. Noon Street is almost in your alley. Do you have to scare
women into doing your dirty work? I think you wanted something on the girl, so you could make her say uncle."
Waltz narrowed his eyes a little, pointed to the sheaf of bills.
Pete Anglich said slowly: "A shabby, lonesome, scared kid. Probably lives in a cheap furnished room. No friends, or she wouldn't be
working in your joint. Nobody would wonder about her, except me. You wouldn't have put her in a house, would you, Trimmer?"
"Take your money and beat it," Waltz said thinly. "You know what happens to rats in this district."
"Sure, they run night clubs," Pete Anglich said gently.
He put his gun down, started to reach for the money. His fist doubled, swept upward casually. His elbow went up with the punch, the
fist turned, landed almost delicately on the angle of Waltz's jaw.
Waltz became a loose bag of clothes. His mouth fell open. His hat fell off the back of his head. Pete Anglich stared at him,
grumbled: "Lot of good that does me."
The room was very still. The dance band sounded faintly, like a turned-down radio. Pete Anglich moved behind Waltz and reached
down under his coat into his breast pocket. He took a wallet out, shook out money, a driver's license, a police pistol permit, several
insurance cards.
He put the stuff back, stared morosely at the desk, rubbed a thumbnail on his jaw. There was a shiny buff memo pad in front of him.
Impressions of writing showed on the top blank sheet. He held it sideways against the light, then picked up a pencil and began to make
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