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

SIX
The ramp of the Carondelet garage curved down into semidarkness and chilled air. The dark bulks of stalled cars looked ominous
against the whitewashed walls, and the single droplight in the small office had the relentless glitter of the death house.
A big Negro in stained overalls came out rubbing his eyes, then his face split in an enormous grin.
"Hello, there, Mistuh Carmady. You kinda restless tonight?" Carmady said: "I get a little wlld when it rains. I bet my heap isn't here."
"No, it ain't, Mistuh Carmady. I been all around wipin' off and yours ain't here aytall."
Carmady said woodenly: "I lent it to a pal. He probably wrecked it .
He flicked a half-dollar through the air and went back up the ramp to the side street. He turned towards the back of the hotel, came
to an alleylike street one side of which was the rear wall of the Carondelet. The other side had two frame houses and a four-story brick
building. Hotel Blaine was lettered on a round milky globe over the door.
Carmady went up three cement steps and tried the door. It was locked. He looked through the glass panel into a small dim empty
lobby. He got out two passkeys; the second one moved the lock a little. He pulled the door hard towards him, tried the first one again.
That snicked the bolt far enough for the loosely fitted door to open.
He went in and looked at an empty counter with a sign "Manager" beside a plunger bell. There was an oblong of empty numbered
pigeonholes on the wall. Carmady went around behind the counter and fished a leather register out of a space under the top. He read
names back three pages, found the boyish scrawl: "Tony Acosta," and a room number in another writing.
He put the register away and went past the automatic elevator and upstairs to the fourth floor.
The hallway was very silent. There was weak light from a ceiling fixture. The last door but one on the left-hand side had a crack of
light showing around its transom. That was the door--411. He put his hand out to knock, then withdrew it without touching the door.
The doorknob was heavily smeared with something that looked like blood.
Carmady's eyes looked down and saw what was almost a pool of blood on the stained wood before the door, beyond the edge of
the runner.
His hand suddenly felt clammy inside his glove. He took the glove off, held the hand stiff, clawlike for a moment, then shook it
slowly. His eyes had a sharp strained light in them.
He got a handkerchief out, grasped the doorknob inside it, turned it slowly. The door was unlocked. He went in.
He looked across the room and said very softly: "Tony . oh, Tony."
Then he shut the door behind him and turned a key in it, still with the handkerchief.
There was light from the bowl that hung on three brass chains from the middle of the ceiling. It shone on a made-up bed, some
painted, light-colored furniture, a dull green carpet, a square writing desk of eucalyptus wood.
Tony Acosta sat at the desk. His head was slumped forward on his left arm. Under the chair on which he sat, between the legs of
the chair and his feet, there was a glistening brownish pool.
Carmady walked across the room so rigidly that his ankles ached after the second step. He reached the desk, touched Tony
Acosta's shoulder.
"Tony," he said thickly, in a low, meaningless voice. "My God, Tony!"
Tony didn't move. Carmady went around to his side. A blood-soaked bath towel glared against the boy's stomach, across his
pressed-together thighs. His right hand was crouched against the front edge of the desk, as if he was trying to push himself up. Almost
under his face there was a scrawled envelope.
Carmady pulled the envelope towards him slowly, lifted it like a thing of weight, read the wandering scrawl of words.
"Tailed him ... woptown . . . 28 Court Street . . . over garage . . . shot me . . . think I got . . . him . . . your car .
The line trailed over the edge of the paper, became a blot there. The pen was on the floor. There was a bloody thumbprint on the
envelope.
Carmady folded it meticulously to protect the print, put the envelope in his wallet. He lifted Tony's head, turned it a little towards him.
The neck was still warm; it was beginning to stiffen. Tony's soft dark eyes were open and they held the quiet brightness of a cat's eyes.
They had that effect the eyes of the new-dead have of almost, but not quite, looking at you.
Carmady lowered the head gently on the outstretched left arm. He stood laxly, his head on one side, his eyes almost sleepy. Then
his head jerked back and his eyes hardened.
He stripped off his raincoat and the suitcoat underneath, rolled his sleeves up, wet a face towel in the basin in the corner of the
room and went to the door. He wiped the knobs off, bent down and wiped up the smeared blood from the floor outside.
He rinsed the towel and hung it up to dry, wiped his hands carefully, put his coat on again. He used his handkerchief to open the
transom, to reverse the key and lock the door from the outside. He threw the key in over the top of the transom, heard it tinkle inside.
He went downstairs and out of the Hotel Blame. It still rained. He walked to the corner, looked along a tree-shaded block. His car
was a dozen yards from the intersection, parked carefully, the lights off, the keys in the ignition. He drew them out, felt the seat under the
wheel. It was wet, sticky. Carmady wiped his hand off, ran the windows up and locked the car. He left it where it was.
Going back to the Carondelet he didn't meet anybody. The hard slanting rain still pounded down into the empty streets.
SEVEN
There was a thin thread of light under the door of 914. Carmady knocked lightly, looking up and down the hall, moved his gloved
fingers softly on the panel while he waited. He waited a long time. Then a voice spoke wearily behind the wood of the door.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Carmady, angel. I have to see you. It's strictly business."
The door clicked, opened. He looked at a tired white face, dark eyes that were slatelike, not violet-blue. There were smudges under
them as though mascara had been rubbed into the skin. The girl's strong little hand twitched on the edge of the door.
"You," she said wearily. "It would be you. Yes ... Well, I've simply got to have a shower. I smell of policemen."
"Fifteen minutes?" Carmady asked casually, but his eyes were very sharp on her face.
She shrugged slowly, then nodded. The closing door seemed to jump at him. He went along to his own rooms, threw off his hat
and coat, poured whiskey into a glass and went into the bathroom to get ice water from the small tap over the basin.
He drank slowly, looking out of the windows at the dark breadth of the boulevard. A car slid by now and then, two beams of white
light attached to nothing, emanating from nowhere.
He finished the drink, stripped to the skin, went under a shower. He dressed in fresh clothes, refilled his big flask and put it in his
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