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

light loose strokes across the paper. Writing came out dimly. When the sheet was shaded all over Pete Anglich read: 4623 Noon Street.
Ask for Reno.
He tore the sheet off, folded it into a pocket, picked his gun up and crossed to the door. He reversed the key, locked the room from
the outside, went back to the stairs and down them to the alley.
The body of the Negro lay as it had fallen, between the small sedan and the dark wall. The alley was empty. Pete Anglich stooped,
searched the dead man's pockets, came up with a roll of money. He counted the money in the dim light of a match, separated
eighty-seven dollars from what there was, and started to put the few remaining bills back. A piece of torn paper fluttered to the pavement.
One side only was torn, jaggedly.
Pete Anglich crouched beside the car, struck another match, looked at a half-sheet from a buff memo pad on which was written,
beginning with the tear: --t. Ask for Reno.
He clicked his teeth and let the match fall. "Better," he said softly.
He got into the car, started it and drove out of the alley.
SEVEN
The number was on a front-door transom, faintly lit from behind, the only light the house showed. It was a big frame house, in the
block above where the stakeout had been. The windows in front were closely curtained. Noise came from behind them, voices and
laughter, the high-pitched whine of a colored girl's singing. Cars were parked along the curb, on both sides of the street.
A tall thin Negro in dark clothes and gold nose-glasses opened the door. There was another door behind him, shut. He stood in a
dark box between the two doors.
Pete Anglich said: "Reno?"
The tall Negro nodded, said nothing.
"I've come for the girl Rufe left, the white girl."
The tall Negro stood a moment quite motionless, looking over Pete Anglich's head. When he spoke, his voice was a lazy rustle of
sound that seemed to come from somewhere else.
"Come in and shut the do'."
Pete Anglich stepped into the house, shut the outer door behind him. The tall Negro opened the inner door. It was thick, heavy.
When he opened it sound and light jumped at them. A purplish light. He went through the inner door, into a hallway.
The purplish light came through a broad arch from a long living room. It had heavy velour drapes, davenports and deep chairs, a
glass bar in the corner, and a white-coated Negro behind the bar. Four couples lounged about the room drinking; slim, slick-haired
Negro sheiks and girls with bare arms, sheer silk legs, plucked eyebrows. The soft, purplish light made the scene unreal.
Reno stared vaguely past Pete Anglich's shoulder, dropped his heavy-lidded eyes, said wearily: "You says which?"
The Negroes beyond the arch were quiet, staring. The barman stooped and put his hands down under the bar.
Pete Anglich put his hand into his pocket slowly, brought out a crumpled piece of paper.
"This any help?"
Reno took the paper, studied it. He reached languidly into his vest and brought out another piece of the same color. He fitted the
pieces together. His head went back and he looked at the ceiling.
"Who send you?"
"Trimmer."
"I don' like it," the tall Negro said. "He done write my name. I don' like that. That ain't sma't. Apa't from that I guess I check you."
He turned and started up a long, straight flight of stairs. Pete Anglich followed him. One of the Negro youths in the living room
snickered loudly.
Reno stopped suddenly, turned and went back down the steps, through the arch. He went up to the snickerer.
"This is business," he said exhaustedly. "Ain't no white folks comin' heah. Git me?"
The boy who had laughed said, "Okey, Reno," and lifted a tall, misted glass.
Reno came up the stairs again, talking to himself. Along the upper hall were many closed doors. There was faint pink light from
flame-colored wall lamps. At the end Reno took a key out and unlocked the door.
He stood aside. "Git her out," he said tersely. "I don' handle no white cargo heah."
Pete Anglich stepped past him into a bedroom. An orange floor lamp glowed in the far corner near a flounced, gaudy bed. The
windows were shut, the air heavy, sickish.
Token Ware lay on her side on the bed, with her face to the wall, sobbing quietly.
Pete Anglich stepped to the side of the bed, touched her. She whirled, cringed. Her head jerked around at him, her eyes dilated, her
mouth half open as if to yell.
"Hello, there," he said quietly, very gently. "I've been looking all over for you."
The girl stared back at him. Slowly all the fear went out of her face.
EIGHT
The News photographer held the flashbulb holder high up in his left hand, leaned down over his camera.
"Now, the smile, Mr. Vidaury," he said. "The sad one-- that one that makes 'em pant."
Vidaury turned in the chair and set his profile. He smiled at the girl in the red hat, then turned his face to the camera with the smile
still on.
The bulb flared and the shutter clicked.
"Not bad, Mr. Vidaury. I've seen you do better."
"I've been under a great strain," Vidaury said gently.
"I'll say. Acid in the face is no fun," the photographer said.
The girl in the red hat tittered, then coughed, behind a gauntleted glove with red stitching on the back.
The photographer packed his stuff together. He was an oldish man in shiny blue serge, with sad eyes. He shook his gray head and
straightened his hat.
"No, acid in the puss is no fun," he said. "Well, I hope our boys can see you in the morning, Mr. Vidaury."
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