Free The High Window by Raymond Chandler Page B
Authors: Raymond Chandler
be into things. The whole face was a trained face, a face that would know how to keep a secret, a face that held the effortless composure of a corpse in the morgue.
He wore his vest open, no coat, a woven hair watch-guard, and round blue sleeve garters with metal clasps.
I said: “Mr. Anson?”
“Two-o-four.”
“He’s not in.”
“What should I do—lay an egg?”
“Neat,” I said. “You have them all the time, or is this your birthday?”
“Beat it,” he said. “Drift.” He started to close the door. He opened it again to say: “Take the air. Scram. Push off.” Having made his meaning clear he started to close the door again.
I leaned against the door. He leaned against it on his side. That brought our faces close together. “Five bucks,” I said.
It rocked him. He opened the door very suddenly and I had to take a quick step forward in order not to butt his chin with my head.
“Come in,” he said.
A living room with a wallbed, everything strictly to specifications, even to the shirred paper lampshade and the glass ashtray. This room was painted egg-yolk yellow. All it needed was a few fat black spiders painted on the yellow to be anybody’s bilious attack.
“Sit down,” he said, shutting the door.
I sat down. We looked at each other with the clear innocent eyes of a couple of used car salesmen.
“Beer?” he said.
“Thanks.”
He opened two cans, filled the smeared glass he had been holding, and reached for another like it. I said I would drink out of the can. He handed me the can.
“A dime,” he said.
I gave him a dime.
He dropped it into his vest and went on looking at me. He pulled a chair over and sat in it and spread his bony upjutting knees and let his empty hand droop between them.
“I ain’t interested in your five bucks,” he said.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I wasn’t really thinking of giving it to you.”
“A wisey,” he said. “What gives? We run a nice respectable place here. No funny stuff gets pulled.”
“Quiet too,” I said. “Upstairs you could almost hear an eagle scream.”
His smile was wide, about three quarters of an inch. “I don’t amuse easy,” he said.
“Just like Queen Victoria,” I said.
“I don’t get it.”
“I don’t expect miracles,” I said. The meaningless talk had a sort of cold bracing effect on me, making a mood with a hard gritty edge.
I got my wallet out and selected a card from it. It wasn’t my card. It read:
James B. Pollock, Reliance lndemnity Company, Field Agent.
I tried to remember what James B. Pollock looked like and where I had met him. I couldn’t. I handed the carroty man the card.
He read it and scratched the end of his nose with one of the corners. “Wrong john?” he asked, keeping his green eyes plastered to my face.
“Jewelry,” I said and waved a hand.
He thought this over. While he thought it over I tried to make up my mind whether it worried him at all. It didn’t seem to.
“We get one once in a while,” he conceded. “You can’t help it. He didn’t look like it to me, though. Soft looking.”
“Maybe I got a bum steer.” I said. I described George Anson Phillips to him, George Anson Phillips alive, in his brown suit and his dark glasses and his cocoa straw hat with the brown and yellow print band. I wondered what had happened to the hat. It hadn’t been up there. He must have got rid of it, thinking it was too conspicuous. His blond head was almost, but not quite, as bad.
“That sound like him?”
The carroty man took his time making up his mind. Finally he nodded yes, green eyes watching me carefully, lean hard hand holding the card up to his mouth and running the card along his teeth like a stick along the palings of a picket fence.
“I didn’t figure him for no crook,” he said. “But hell, they come all sizes and shapes. Only been here a month. If he looked like a wrong gee, wouldn’t have been here at all.”
I did a good job of not laughing in his face.
He wore his vest open, no coat, a woven hair watch-guard, and round blue sleeve garters with metal clasps.
I said: “Mr. Anson?”
“Two-o-four.”
“He’s not in.”
“What should I do—lay an egg?”
“Neat,” I said. “You have them all the time, or is this your birthday?”
“Beat it,” he said. “Drift.” He started to close the door. He opened it again to say: “Take the air. Scram. Push off.” Having made his meaning clear he started to close the door again.
I leaned against the door. He leaned against it on his side. That brought our faces close together. “Five bucks,” I said.
It rocked him. He opened the door very suddenly and I had to take a quick step forward in order not to butt his chin with my head.
“Come in,” he said.
A living room with a wallbed, everything strictly to specifications, even to the shirred paper lampshade and the glass ashtray. This room was painted egg-yolk yellow. All it needed was a few fat black spiders painted on the yellow to be anybody’s bilious attack.
“Sit down,” he said, shutting the door.
I sat down. We looked at each other with the clear innocent eyes of a couple of used car salesmen.
“Beer?” he said.
“Thanks.”
He opened two cans, filled the smeared glass he had been holding, and reached for another like it. I said I would drink out of the can. He handed me the can.
“A dime,” he said.
I gave him a dime.
He dropped it into his vest and went on looking at me. He pulled a chair over and sat in it and spread his bony upjutting knees and let his empty hand droop between them.
“I ain’t interested in your five bucks,” he said.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I wasn’t really thinking of giving it to you.”
“A wisey,” he said. “What gives? We run a nice respectable place here. No funny stuff gets pulled.”
“Quiet too,” I said. “Upstairs you could almost hear an eagle scream.”
His smile was wide, about three quarters of an inch. “I don’t amuse easy,” he said.
“Just like Queen Victoria,” I said.
“I don’t get it.”
“I don’t expect miracles,” I said. The meaningless talk had a sort of cold bracing effect on me, making a mood with a hard gritty edge.
I got my wallet out and selected a card from it. It wasn’t my card. It read:
James B. Pollock, Reliance lndemnity Company, Field Agent.
I tried to remember what James B. Pollock looked like and where I had met him. I couldn’t. I handed the carroty man the card.
He read it and scratched the end of his nose with one of the corners. “Wrong john?” he asked, keeping his green eyes plastered to my face.
“Jewelry,” I said and waved a hand.
He thought this over. While he thought it over I tried to make up my mind whether it worried him at all. It didn’t seem to.
“We get one once in a while,” he conceded. “You can’t help it. He didn’t look like it to me, though. Soft looking.”
“Maybe I got a bum steer.” I said. I described George Anson Phillips to him, George Anson Phillips alive, in his brown suit and his dark glasses and his cocoa straw hat with the brown and yellow print band. I wondered what had happened to the hat. It hadn’t been up there. He must have got rid of it, thinking it was too conspicuous. His blond head was almost, but not quite, as bad.
“That sound like him?”
The carroty man took his time making up his mind. Finally he nodded yes, green eyes watching me carefully, lean hard hand holding the card up to his mouth and running the card along his teeth like a stick along the palings of a picket fence.
“I didn’t figure him for no crook,” he said. “But hell, they come all sizes and shapes. Only been here a month. If he looked like a wrong gee, wouldn’t have been here at all.”
I did a good job of not laughing in his face.