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

The dark man shook his head slowly.
"Wonder where the help was," the sandy-haired man went on. "A big shot like him would have more than one girl."
The dark man shook his head again. "That's all, I guess. She was out to lunch. He was a lone wolf, Pete. Sharp as a weasel. In a
few more years he'd have taken the town over."
The sandy-haired man was behind the desk now, almost leaning over the dead man's shoulder. He was looking down at a
leather-backed appointment pad with buff leaves. He said slowly: "Somebody named Imlay was due here at twelve-fifteen. Only date on
the pad."
He glanced at a cheap watch on his wrist. "One-thirty. Long gone. Who's Imlay? Say, wait a minute! There's an assistant D.A.
named Imlay. He's running for judge on the Master-Aage ticket. D'you figure--'
There was a sharp knock on the door. The office was so long that the two men had to think a moment before they placed which of
the three doors it was. Then the sandy-haired man went towards the most distant of them, saying over his shoulder: "M.E's man maybe.
Leak this to your favorite newshawk and you're out a job. Am I right?"
The dark man didn't answer. He moved slowly to the desk, leaned forward a little, spoke softly to the dead man.
"Goodbye, Donny. Just let it all go. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of Belle."
The door at the end of the office opened and a brisk man with a bag came in, trotted down the blue carpet and put his bag on the
desk. The sandy-haired man shut the door against a bulge of faces. He strolled back to the desk.
The brisk man cocked his head on one side, examining the corpse. "Two of them," he muttered. "Look like about .32's-- hard slugs.
Close to the heart but not touching. He must have died pretty soon. Maybe a minute or two."
The dark man made a disgusted sound and walked to the window, stood with his back to the room, looking out, at the tops of high
buildings and a warm blue sky. The sandy-haired man watched the examiner lift a dead eyelid. He said: "Wish the powder guy would get
here. I wanta use the phone. This Imlay--"
The dark man turned his head slightly, with a dull smile. "Use it. This isn't going to be any mystery."
"Oh I don't know," the M.E.'s man said, flexing a wrist, then holding the back of his hand against the skin of the dead man's face.
"Might not be so damn political as you think, Delaguerra. He's a good-looking stiff."
The sandy-haired man took hold of the phone gingerly, with a handkerchief, laid the receiver down, dialed, picked the receiver up
with the handkerchief and put it to his ear.
After a moment he snapped his chin down, said: "Pete Marcus. Wake the Inspector." He yawned, waited again, then spoke in a
different tone: "Marcus and Delaguerra, Inspector, from Donegan Marr's office. No print or camera men here yet . . . Huh? . . . Holding off
till the Commissioner gets here? . . . Okey . . . Yeah, he's here."
The dark man turned. The man at the phone gestured at him. "Take it, Spanish."
Sam Delaguerra took the phone, ignoring the careful handkerchief, listened. His face got hard. He said quietly: "Sure I knew
him--but I didn't sleep with him . . . Nobody's here but his secretary, a girl. She phoned the alarm in. There's a name on a pad--Imlay, a
twelve-fifteen appointment. No, we haven't touched anything yet . . . No . . . Okey, right away."
He hung up so slowly that the click of the instrument was barely audible. His hand stayed on it, then fell suddenly and heavily to his
side. His voice was thick.
"I'm called off it, Pete. You're to hold it down until Commissioner Drew gets here. Nobody gets in. White, black or Cherokee Indian."
"What you called in for?" the sandy-haired man yelped angrily.
"Don't know. It's an order," Delaguerra said tonelessly.
The M.E.'s man stopped writing on a form pad to look curiously at Delaguerra, with a sharp, sidelong look.
Delaguerra crossed the office and went through the communicating door. There was a smaller office outside, partly partitioned off
for a waiting room, with a group of leather chairs and a table with magazines. Inside a counter was a typewriter desk, a safe, some filing
cabinets. A small dark girl sat at the desk with her head down on a wadded handkerchief. Her hat was crooked on her head. Her
shoulders jerked and her thick sobs were like panting.
Delaguerra patted her shoulder. She looked up at him with a tear-bloated face, a twisted mouth. He smiled down at her questioning
face, said gently: "Did you call Mrs. Marr yet?"
She nodded, speechless, shaken with rough sobs. He patted her shoulder again, stood a moment beside her, then went on out,
with his mouth tight and a hard, dark glitter in his black eyes.
THREE
The big English house stood a long way back from the narrow, winding ribbon of concrete that was called De Neve Lane. The lawn
had rather long grass with a curving path of stepping stones half hidden in it. There was a gable over the front door and ivy on the wall.
Trees grew all around the house, close to it, made it a little dark and remote.
All the houses in De Neve Lane had that same calculated air of neglect. But the tall green hedge that hid the driveway and the
garages was trimmed as carefully as a French poodle, and there was nothing dark or mysterious about the mass of yellow and
flame-colored gladioli that flared at the opposite end of the lawn.
Delaguerra got out of a tan-colored Cadillac touring car that had no top. It was an old model, heavy and dirty. A taut canvas formed a
deck over the back part of the car. He wore a white linen cap and dark glasses and had changed his blue serge for a gray cloth outing
suit with a jerkin-style zipper jacket.
He didn't look very much like a cop. He hadn't looked very much like a cop in Donegan Marr's office. He walked slowly up the path of
stepping stones, touched a brass knocker on the front door of the house, then didn't knock with it. He pushed a bell at the side, almost
hidden by the ivy.
There was a long wait. It was very warm, very silent. Bees droned over the warm bright grass. There was the distant whirring of a
lawnmower.
The door opened slowly and a black face looked out at him, a long, sad black face with tear streaks on its lavender face powder.
The black face almost smiled, said haltingly: "Hello there, Mistah Sam. It's sure good to see you."
Delaguerra took his cap off, swung the dark glasses at his side. He said: "Hello, Minnie. I'm sorry. I've got to see Mrs. Marr."
"Sure. Come right in, Mistah Sam."
The maid stood aside and he went into a shadowy hall with a tile floor. "No reporters yet?"
The girl shook her head slowly. Her warm brown eyes were stunned, doped with shock.
"Ain't been nobody yet . . . She ain't been in long. She ain't said a word. She just stand there in that there sun room that ain't got no
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