Читать книгу The Simple Art of Murder - Raymond Chandler - Страница 8

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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 sun.”

Delaguerra nodded, said: “Don’t talk to anybody, Minnie. They’re trying to keep this quiet for a while, out of the papers.”

“Ah sure won’t, Mistah Sam. Not nohow.”

Delaguerra smiled at her, walked noiselessly on crêpe soles along the tiled hall to the back of the house, turned into another hall just like it at right angles. He knocked at a door. There was no answer. He turned the knob and went into a long narrow room that was dim in spite of many windows. Trees grew close to the windows, pressing their leaves against the glass. Some of the windows were masked by long cretonne drapes.

The tall girl in the middle of the room didn’t look at him. She stood motionless, rigid. She stared at the windows. Her hands were tightly clenched at her sides.

She had red-brown hair that seemed to gather all the light there was and make a soft halo around her coldly beautiful face. She wore a sportily cut blue velvet ensemble with patch pockets. A white handkerchief with a blue border stuck out of the breast pocket, arranged carefully in points, like a foppish man’s handkerchief.

Delaguerra waited, letting his eyes get used to the dimness. After a while the girl spoke through the silence, in a low, husky voice.

“Well . . . they got him, Sam. They got him at last. Was he so much hated?”

Delaguerra said softly: “He was in a tough racket, Belle. I guess he played it as clean as he could, but he couldn’t help but make enemies.”

She turned her head slowly and looked at him. Lights shifted in her hair. Gold glinted in it. Her eyes were vividly, startlingly blue. Her voice faltered a little, saying: “Who killed him, Sam? Have they any ideas?”

Delaguerra nodded slowly, sat down in a wicker chair, swung his cap and glasses between his knees.

“Yeah. We think we know who did it. A man named Imlay, an assistant in the D.A.’s office.”

“My God!” the girl breathed. “What’s this rotten city coming to?”

Delaguerra went on tonelessly: “It was like this—if you’re sure you want to know . . . yet.”

“I do, Sam. His eyes stare at me from the wall, wherever I look. Asking me to do something. He was pretty swell to me, Sam. We had our trouble, of course, but . . . they didn’t mean anything.”

Delaguerra said: “This Imlay is running for judge with the backing of the Masters-Aage group. He’s in and the gay forties and it seems he’s been playing house with a night-club number called Stella La Motte. Somehow, someway, photos were taken of them together, very drunk and undressed. Donny got the photos, Belle. They were found in his desk. According to his desk pad he had a date with Imlay at twelve-fifteen. We figure they had a row and Imlay beat him to the punch.”

“You found those photos, Sam?” the girl asked, very quietly.

He shook his head, smiled crookedly. “No. If I had, I guess I might have ditched them. Commissioner Drew found them—after I was pulled off the investigation.”

Her head jerked at him. Her vivid blue eyes got wide. “Pulled off the investigation? You—Donny’s friend?”

“Yeah. Don’t take it too big. I’m a cop, Belle. After all I take orders.”

She didn’t speak, didn’t look at him any more. After a little while he said: “I’d like to have the keys to your cabin at Puma Lake. I’m detailed to go up there and look around, see if there’s any evidence. Donny had conferences there.”

Something changed in the girl’s face. It got almost contemptuous. Her voice was empty. “I’ll get them. But you won’t find anything there. If you’re helping them to find dirt on Donny—so they can clear this Imlay person. . . .”

He smiled a little, shook his head slowly. His eyes were very deep, very sad.

“That’s crazy talk, kid. I’d turn my badge in before I did that.”

“I see.” She walked past him to the door, went out of the room. He sat quite still while she was gone, looked at the wall with an empty stare. There was a hurt look on his face. He swore very softly, under his breath.

The girl came back, walked up to him and held her hand out. Something tinkled into his palm.

“The keys, copper.”

Delaguerra stood up, dropped the keys into a pocket. His face got wooden. Belle Marr went over to a table and her nails scratched harshly on a cloisonné box, getting a cigarette out of it. With her back turned she said: “I don’t think you’ll have any luck, as I said. It’s too bad you’ve only got blackmailing on him so far.”

Delaguerra breathed out slowly, stood a moment, then turned away. “Okey,” he said softly. His voice was quite offhand now, as if it was a nice day, as if nobody had been killed.

At the door he turned again. “I’ll see you when I get back, Belle. Maybe you’ll feel better.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t move. She held the unlighted cigarette rigidly in front of her mouth, close to it. After a moment Delaguerra went on: “You ought to know how I feel about it. Donny and I were like brothers once. I—I heard you were not getting on so well with him . . . I’m glad as all hell that was wrong. But don’t let yourself get too hard, Belle. There’s nothing to be hard about—with me.”

He waited a few seconds, staring at her back. When she still didn’t move or speak he went on out.