Читать книгу The Simple Art of Murder - Raymond Chandler - Страница 14

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Joey Chill, who jerked the door open, held a short, worn gun without a foresight. He was a small man, hardbitten, with a tight, worried face. He needed a shave and a clean shirt. A harsh animal smell came out of the room behind him.

He lowered the gun, grinned sourly, stepped back into the room.

“Okey, copper. Took your sweet time gettin’ here.”

Delaguerra went in and shut the door. He pushed his straw hat far back on his wiry hair, and looked at Joey Chill without any expression. He said: “Am I supposed to remember the address of every punk in town? I had to get it from Max.”

The small man growled something and went and lay down on the bed, shoved his gun under the pillow. He clasped his hands behind his head and blinked at the ceiling.

“Got a C note on you, copper?”

Delaguerra jerked a straight chair in front of the bed and straddled it. He got his bulldog pipe out, filled it slowly, looking with distaste at the shut window, the chipped enamel of the bed frame, the dirty, tumbled bedclothes, the wash bowl in the corner with two smeared towels hung over it, the bare dresser with half a bottle of gin planked on top of the Gideon Bible.

“Holed up?” he inquired, without much interest.

“I’m hot, copper. I mean I’m hot. I got something see. It’s worth a C note.”

Delaguerra put his pouch away slowly, indifferently, held a lighted match to his pipe, puffed with exasperating leisure. The small man on the bed fidgeted, watching him with sidelong looks. Delaguerra said slowly: “You’re a good stoolie, Joey. I’ll always say that for you. But a hundred bucks is important money to a copper.”

“Worth it, guy. If you like the Marr killing well enough to want to break it right.”

Delaguerra’s eyes got steady and very cold. His teeth clamped on the pipe stem. He spoke very quietly, very grimly.

“I’ll listen, Joey. I’ll pay if it’s worth it. It better be right, though.”

The small man rolled over on his elbow. “Know who the girl was with Imlay in those pajama-pajama snaps?’

“Know her name,” Delaguerra said evenly. “I haven’t seen the pictures.”

“Stella La Motte’s a hoofer name. Real name Stella Chill. My kid sister.”

Delaguerra folded his arms on the back of the chair. “That’s nice,” he said. “Go on.”

“She framed him, copper. Framed him for a few bindles of heroin from a slant-eyed Flip.”

“Flip?” Delaguerra spoke the word swiftly, harshly. His face was tense now.

“Yeah, a little brown brother. A looker, a neat dresser, a snow peddler. A goddamn dodo. Name, Toribo. They call him the Caliente Kid. He had a place across the hall from Stella. He got to feedin’ her the stuff. Then he works her into the frame. She puts heavy drops in Imlay’s liquor and he passes out. She lets the Flip in to shoot pictures with a Minny camera. Cute, huh? . . . And then, just like a broad, she gets sorry and spills the whole thing to Max and me.”

Delaguerra nodded, silent, almost rigid.

The little man grinned sharply, showed his small teeth. “What do I do? I take a plant on the Flip. I live in his shadow, copper. And after a while I tail him bang into Dave Aage’s skyline apartment in the Vendome . . . I guess that rates a yard.”

Delaguerra nodded slowly, shook a little ash into the palm of his hand and blew it off. “Who else knows this?”

“Max. He’ll back me up, if you handle him right. Only he don’t want any part of it. He don’t play those games. He gave Stella dough to leave town and signed off. Because those boys are tough.”

“Max couldn’t know where you followed the Filipino to, Joey.”

The small man sat up sharply, swung his feet to the floor. His face got sullen.

“I’m not kidding you, copper. I never have.”

Delaguerra said quietly, “I believe you, Joey. I’d like more proof, though. What do you make of it?”

The little man snorted. “Hell, it sticks up so hard it hurts. Either the Flip’s working for Masters and Aage before or he makes a deal with them after he gets the snaps. Then Marr gets the pictures and it’s a cinch he don’t get them unless they say so and he don’t know they had them, Imlay was running for judge, on their ticket. Okey, he’s their punk, but he’s still a punk. It happens he’s a guy who drinks and has a nasty temper. That’s known.”

Delaguerra’s eyes glistened a little. The rest of his face was like carved wood. The pipe in his mouth was as motionless as though set in cement.

Joey Chill went on, with his sharp little grin: “So they deal the big one. They get the pictures to Marr without Marr’s knowing where they came from. Then Imlay gets tipped off who has them, what they are, that Marr is set to put the squeeze on him. What would a guy like Imlay do? He’d go hunting, copper—and Big John Masters and his sidekick would eat the ducks.”

“Or the venison,” Delaguerra said absently.

“Huh? Well, does it rate?”

Delaguerra reached for his wallet, shook the money out of it, counted some bills on his knee. He rolled them into a tight wad and flipped them on to the bed.

“I’d like a line to Stella pretty well, Joey. How about it?”

The small man stuffed the money in his shirt pocket, shook his head. “No can do. You might try Max again. I think she’s left town, and me, I’m doin’ that too, now I’ve got the scratch. Because those boys are tough like I said—and maybe I didn’t tail so good . . . Because some mugg’s been tailin’ me.” He stood up, yawned, added: “Snort of gin?”

Delaguerra shook his head, watched the little man go over to the dresser and lift the gin bottle, pour a big dose into a thick glass. He drained the glass, started to put it down.

Glass tinkled at the window. There was a sound like the loose slap of a glove. A small piece of the window glass dropped to the bare stained wood beyond the carpet, almost at Joey Chill’s feet.

The little man stood quite motionless for two or three seconds. Then the glass fell from his hand, bounced and rolled against the wall. Then his legs gave. He went down on his side, slowly, rolled slowly over on his back.

Blood began to move sluggishly down his cheek from a hole over his left eye. It moved faster. The hole got large and red. Joey Chill’s eyes looked blankly at the ceiling, as if those things no longer concerned him at all.

Delaguerra slipped quietly down out of the chair to his hands and knees. He crawled along the side of the bed, over to the wall by the window, reached out from there and groped inside Joey Chill’s shirt. He held fingers against his heart for a little while, took them away, shook his head. He squatted down low, took his hat off, and pushed his head up very carefully until he could see over a lower corner of the window.

He looked at the high blank wall of a storage warehouse, across an alley. There were scattered windows in it, high up, none of them lighted. Delaguerra pulled his head down again, said quietly, under his breath: “Silenced rifle, maybe. And very sweet shooting.”

His hand went forward again, diffidently, took the little roll of bills from Joey Chill’s shirt. He went back along the wall to the door, still crouched, reached up and got the key from the door, opened it, straightened and stepped through quickly, locked the door from the outside.

He went along a dirty corridor and down four flights of steps to a narrow lobby. The lobby was empty. There was a desk and a bell on it, no one behind it. Delaguerra stood behind the plate-glass street door and looked across the street at a frame rooming house where a couple of old men rocked on the porch, smoking. They looked very peaceful. He watched them for a couple of minutes.

He went out, searched both sides of the block quickly with sharp glances, walked along beside parked cars to the next corner. Two blocks over he picked up a cab and rode back to Stoll’s Billiard Parlors on Newton Street.

Lights were lit all over the poolroom now. Balls clicked and spun, players weaved in and out of a thick haze of cigarette smoke. Delaguerra looked around, then went to where a chubby-faced man sat on a high stool beside a cash register.

“You Stoll?”

The chubby-faced man nodded.

“Where did Max Chill get to?”

“Long gone, brother. They only played a hundred up. Home, I guess.”

“Where’s home?”

The chubby-faced man gave him a swift, flickering glance that passed like a finger of light.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Delaguerra lifted a hand to the pocket where he carried his badge. He dropped it again—tried not to drop it too quickly. The chubby-faced man grinned.

“Flattie, eh? Okey, he lives at the Mansfield, three blocks west on Grand.”