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

nearer. She came along the edge of the booths to the place where Targo had been standing. She slipped in between the booths there,
disappeared.
Carmady said: "To hell with this place. Let's go Tony," in a low angry voice. Then very softly, in a tensed tone: "No-- wait a minute. I
see another guy I don't like."
The man was on the far side of the dance floor, which was empty at the moment. He was following its curve around, past the tables
that fringed it. He looked a little different without his hat. But he had the same flat white expressionless face, the same close-set eyes.
He was youngish, not more than thirty, but already having trouble with his bald spot. The slight bulge of a gun under his left arm was
barely noticeable. He was the man who had run away from Jean Adrian's apartment in the Carondelet.
He reached the aisle into which Targo had gone, into which a moment before Jean Adrian had gone. He went into it.
Carmady said sharply: "Wait here, Tony." He kicked his chair back and stood up.
Somebody rabbit-punched him from behind. He swiveled, close to Shenvair's grinning sweaty face.
"Back again, pal," the curly-haired man chortled, and hit him on the jaw.
It was a short jab, well placed for a drunk. It caught Carmady off balance, staggered him. Tony Acosta came to his feet snarling,
catlike. Carmady was still rocking when Shenvair let go with the other fist. That was too slow, too wide. Carmady slid inside it, uppercut
the curly-haired man's nose savagely, got a handful of blood before he could get his hand away. He put most of it back on Shenvair's
face.
Shenvair wobbled, staggered back a step and sat down on the floor, hard. He clapped a hand to his nose.
"Keep an eye on this bird, Tony," Carmady said swiftly.
Shenvair took hold of the nearest tablecloth and yanked it. It came off the table. Silver and glasses and china followed it to the floor.
A man swore and a woman squealed. A waiter ran towards them with a livid, furious face.
Carmady almost didn't hear the two shots.
They were small and flat, close together, a small-caliber gun. The rushing waiter stopped dead, and a deeply etched white line
appeared around his mouth as instantly as though the lash of a whip had cut it there.
A dark woman with a sharp nose opened her mouth to yell and no sound came from her. There was the instant when nobody
makes a sound, when it almost seems as if there will never again be any sound--after the sound of a gun. Then Carmady was running.
He bumped into people who stood up and craned their necks. He reached the entrance to the aisle into which the whitefaced man
had gone. The booths had high walls and swing doors not so high. Heads stuck out over the doors, but no one was in the aisle yet.
Carmady charged up a shallow carpeted slope, at the far end of which booth doors stood wide open.
Legs in dark cloth showed past the doors, slack on the floor, the knees sagged. The toes of black shoes were pointed into the
booth.
Carmady shook an arm off, reached the place.
The man lay across the end of a table, his stomach and one side of his face on the white cloth, his left hand dropped between the
table and the padded seat. His right hand on top of the table didn't quite hold a big black gun, a .45 with a cut barrel. The bald spot on
his head glistened under the light, and the oily metal of the gun glistened beside it.
Blood leaked from under his chest, vivid scarlet on the white cloth, seeping into it as into blotting paper.
Duke Targo was standing up, deep in the booth. His left arm in the white serge coat was braced on the end of the table. Jean Adrian
was sitting down at his side. Targo looked at Carmady blankly, as if he had never seen him before. He pushed his big right hand
forward.
A small white-handled automatic lay on his palm.
"I shot him," Targo said, He pulled a gun on us and I shot him."
Jean Adrian was scrubbing her hands together on a scrap of handkerchief. Her face was strained, cold, not scared. Her eyes were
dark.
"I shot him," Targo said. He threw the small gun down on the cloth. It bounced, almost hit the fallen man's head. "Let's--let's get out
of here."
Carmady put a hand against the side of the sprawled man's neck, held it there a second or two, took it away.
"He's dead," he said. "When a citizen drops a redhot--that's news."
Jean Adrian was staring at him stiff-eyed. He flashed a smile at her, put a hand against Targo's chest, pushed him back.
"Sit down, Targo. You're not going any place."
Targo said: "Well--okey. I shot him, see."
"That's all right," Carmady said. "Just relax."
People were close behind him now, crowding him. He leaned back against the press of bodies and kept on smiling at the girl's
white face.
FIVE
Benny Cyrano was shaped like two eggs, a little one that was his head on top of a big one that was his body. His small dapper legs
and feet in patent-leather shoes were pushed into the kneehole of a dark sheenless desk. He held a corner of a handkerchief tightly
between his teeth and pulled against it with his left hand and held his right hand out pudgily in front of him, pushing against the air. He
was saying in a voice muffled by the handkerchief: "Now wait a minute, boys. Now wait a minute."
There was a striped built-in sofa in one corner of the office, and Duke Targo sat in the middle of it, between two Headquarters dicks.
He had a dark bruise over one cheekbone, his thick blond hair was tousled and his black satin shirt looked as if somebody had tried to
swing him by it.
One of the dicks, the gray-haired one, had a split lip. The young one with hair as blond as Targo's had a black eye. They both looked
mad, but the blond one looked madder.
Carmady straddled a chair against the wall and looked sleepily at Jean Adrian, near him in a leather rocker. She was twisting a
handkerchief in her hands, rubbing her palms with it. She had been doing this for a long time, as if she had forgotten she was doing it.
Her small firm mouth was angry.
Gus Neishacker leaned against the closed door smoking. "Now wait a minute, boys," Cyrano said. "If you didn't get tough with him,
he wouldn't fight back. He's a good boy--the best I ever had. Give him a break."
Blood dribbled from one corner of Targo's mouth, in a fine thread down to his jutting chin. It gathered there and glistened. His face
was empty, expressionless.
83