The Simple Art of Murder
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Prefaced by the famous Atlantic Monthly essay of the same name, in which he argues the virtues of the hard-boiled detective novel, this collection mostly drawn from stories he wrote for the pulps demonstrates Chandler's imaginative, entertaining facility with the form.
ice-cream coat is Targo, the fighter. He got himself in a shooting scrape at a night spot and acted so wild downtown they fed him sleep tablets to quiet him. The other guy is Carmady, old Marcus Carmady’s boy. I don’t figure him yet.” Carmady said dryly: “I’m a private detective, Senator. I’m here in the interests of my client, Miss Adrian.” He laughed. The girl looked at him suddenly, then looked at the floor. Conant said gruffly. “Shenvair, the one you know about, got himself bumped off. Not
other door. He reached for his card Stoyanoff had left lying on the drainboard and slipped it back into his pocket. Then he took a short-barreled Detective Special out of his left breast pocket where he wore it nose down, as in a holster. He had got that far when the shots roared beyond the wall—muffled a little, but still loud—four of them blended in a blast of sound. Steve stepped back and hit the kitchen door with his leg out straight. It held and jarred him to the top of his head and in his
ejected the shell that was in the breech, picked that up and pressed it into the magazine. He forked two fingers of his left hand over the barrel, held the cocking piece back, twisted the breech block and broke the gun apart. He took the butt piece over to the window. The number that was duplicated on the inside of the stock had not been filed off. He reassembled the gun quickly, put the empty shell into the chamber, pushed the magazine home, cocked the gun and fitted it back into Derek
it. You gotta have some kind of a hunch who it could be. It’s a cinch the gun was for you.” Dalmas said: “Why? The hack driver was hit and I wasn’t. Those lads get around a lot. One of them might be in wrong with some tough boys.” “Like you,” Lonergan said. He went on staring out of the window. Weinkassel frowned at Lonergan’s back and said patiently: “The car was outside while you was still inside. The hack driver was outside. If the guy with the gun had wanted him, he didn’t have to wait for
widened a little. He said: “I’m listening, Donner.” Sutro lifted his eyes and stared at the back of Donner’s head. Donner went on talking in a smooth indifferent voice. “I know all about the play at Derek Walden’s place and I know about the shooting on Kenmore. If I’d thought Ricchio would go that crazy, I’d have stopped him before. As it is, I figure it’s up to me to straighten things out . . . And when we get through here Mister Ricchio will go downtown and speak his piece. “Here’s how it