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

inner pocket, took a snub-nosed automatic out of a suitcase and held it in his hand for a minute staring at it. Then he put it back in the
suitcase, lit a cigarette and smoked it through.
He got a dry hat and a tweed coat and went back to 914.
The door was almost insidiously ajar. He slipped in with a light knock, shut the door, went on into the living room and looked at
Jean Adrian.
She was sitting on the davenport with a freshly scrubbed look, in loose plum-colored pajamas and a Chinese coat. A tendril of
damp hair drooped over one temple. Her small even features had the cameo-like clearness that tiredness gives to the very young.
Carmady said: "Drink?"
She gestured emptily. "I suppose so."
He got glasses, mixed whiskey and ice water, went to the davenport with them.
"Are they keeping Targo on ice?"
She moved her chin an eighth of an inch, staring into her glass.
"He cut loose again, knocked two cops halfway through the wall. They love that boy.',
Carmady said: "He has a lot to learn about cops. In the morning the cameras will be all set for him. I can think of some nice
headlines, such as: "Well-known Fighter Too Fast for Gunman." "Duke Targo Puts Crimp in Underworld Hot Rod."
The girl sipped her drink. "I'm tired," she said. "And my foot itches. Let's talk about what makes this your business."
"Sure." He flipped his cigarette case open, held it under her chin. Her hand fumbled at it and while it still fumbled he said: "When
you light that tell me why you shot him."
Jean Adrian put the cigarette between her lips, bent her head to the match, inhaled and threw her head back. Color awakened
slowly in her eyes and a small smile curved the line of her pressed lips. She didn't answer.
Carmady watched her for a minute, turning his glass in his hands. Then he stared at the floor, said: "It was your gun-- the gun I
picked up here in the afternoon. Targo said he drew it from his hip pocket, the slowest draw in the world. Yet he's supposed to have shot
twice, accurately enough to kill a man, while the man wasn't even getting his gun loose from a shoulder holster. That's hooey. But you,
with the gun in a bag in your lap, and knowing the hood, might just have managed it. He would have been watching Targo."
The girl said emptily: "You're a private dick, I hear. You're the son of a boss politician. They talked about you downtown. They act a
little afraid of you, of people you might know. Who sicked you on me?"
Carmady said: "They're not afraid of me, angel. They just talked like that to see how you'd react, if I was involved, so on. They don't
know what it's all about."
"They were told plainly enough what it was all about."
Carmady shook his head. "A cop never believes what he gets without a struggle. He's too used to cooked-up stories. I think
McChesney's wise you did the shooting. He knows by now if that handkerchief of Targo's had been in a pocket with a gun."
Her limp fingers discarded her cigarette half-smoked. A curtain eddied at the window and loose flakes of ash crawled around in the
ash tray. She said slowly: "All right. I shot him. Do you think I'd hesitate after this afternoon?"
Carmady rubbed the lobe of his ear. "I'm playing this too light," he said softly. "You don't know what's in my heart. Something has
happened, something nasty. Do you think the hood meant to kill Targo?"
"I thought so--or I wouldn't have shot a man."
"I think maybe it was just a scare, angel. Like the other one. After all a night club is a poor place for a getaway."
She said sharply: "They don't do many low tackles on fortyfives. He'd have got away all right. Of course he meant to kill somebody.
And of course I didn't mean Duke to front for me. He just grabbed the gun out of my hand and slammed into his act. What did it matter? I
knew it would all come out in the end."
She poked absently at the still burning cigarette in the tray, kept her eyes down. After a moment she said, almost in a whisper: "Is
that all you wanted to know?"
Carmady let his eyes crawl sidewise, without moving his head, until he could just see the firm curve of her cheek, the strong line of
her throat. He said thickly: "Shenvair was in on it. The fellow I was with at Cyrano's followed Shenvair to a hideout. Shenvair shot him.
He's dead. He's dead, angel--just a young kid that worked here in the hotel. Tony, the bell captain. The cops don't know that yet."
The muffled clang of elevator doors was heavy through the silence. A horn tooted dismally out in the rain on the boulevard. The girl
sagged forward suddenly, then sidewise, fell across Carmady's knees. Her body was half turned and she lay almost on her back
across his thighs, her eyelids flickering. The small blue veins in them stood out rigid in the soft skin.
He put his arms around her slowly, loosely, then they tightened, lifted her. He brought her face close to his own face. He kissed her
on the side of the mouth.
Her eyes opened, stared blankly, unfocused. He kissed her again, tightly, then pushed her upright on the davenport.
He said quietly: "That wasn't just an act, was it?"
She leaped to her feet, spun around. Her voice was low, tense and angry.
"There's something horrible about you! Something--satanic. You come here and tell me another man has been killed--and then you
kiss me. It isn't real."
Carmady said dully: "There's something horrible about any man that goes suddenly gaga over another man's woman."
"I'm not his woman!" she snapped. "I don't even like him--and I don't like you."
Carmady shrugged. They stared at each other with bleak hostile eyes. The girl clicked her teeth shut, then said almost violently: "Get
out! I can't talk to you any more. I can't stand you around. Will you get out?"
Carmady said: "Why not?" He stood up, went over and got his hat and coat.
The girl sobbed once sharply, then she went in light quick strides across the room to the windows, became motionless with her
back to him.
Carmady looked at her back, went over near her and stood looking at the soft hair low down on her neck. He said: "Why the hell
don't you let me help? I know there's something wrong. I wouldn't hurt you."
The girl spoke to the curtain in front of her face, savagely: "Get out! I don't want your help. Go away and stay away. I won't be seeing
you--ever."
Carmady said slowly: "I think you've got to have help. Whether you like it or not. That man in the photo frame on the desk there--I
think I know who he is. And I don't think he's dead."
The girl turned. Her face now was as white as paper. Her eyes strained at his eyes. She breathed thickly, harshly. After what
seemed a long time she said: "I'm caught. Caught. There's nothing you can do about it."
Carmady lifted a hand and drew his fingers slowly down her cheek, down the angle of her tight jaw. His eyes held a hard brown
glitter, his lips a smile. It was cunning, almost a dishonest smile.
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