Red Wind by Raymond Chandler

looking at Costello.
    “Too noisy. You know how these places are built. Atkinson is the boy to see. Always see the head man—if you can get to him.”
    Jim opened his eyes, flapped his hands on the floor, tried to get up. Macdonald lifted a large foot and planted it carelessly in the gray-haired man’s face. Jim lay down again. His face was a muddy gray color.
    Mallory glanced at the red-haired man and went over to the telephone stand. He lifted the instrument down and dialed a number awkwardly, with his left hand.
    He said: “I’m calling the man who hired me… He has a big fast car… We’ll put these boys in soak for a while.”

IV
     
    LANDREY’S big black Cadillac rolled soundlessly up the long grade to Montrose. Lights shone low on the left, in the lap of the valley. The air was cool and clear, and the stars were very bright. Landrey looked back from the front seat, draped an arm over the back of the seat, a long black arm that ended in a white glove.
    He said, for the third or fourth time: “So it’s her own mouthpiece shaking her down. Well, well, well.”
    He smiled smoothly, deliberately. All his movements were smooth and deliberate. Landrey was a tall, pale man with white teeth and jet-black eyes that sparkled under the dome light.
    Mallory and Macdonald sat in the back seat. Mallory said nothing; he stared out of the car window. Macdonald took a pull at his square bottle of Scotch, lost the cork on the floor of the car, and swore as he bent over to grope for it. When he found it he leaned back and looked morosely at Landrey’s clear, pale face above the white silk scarf.
    He said: “You still got that place on Highland Drive?”
    Landrey said: “Yes, copper, I have. And it’s not doin’ so well.”
    Macdonald growled. He said: “That’s a damn’ shame, Mr. Landrey.” Then he put his head back against the upholstery and closed his eyes.
    The Cadillac turned off the highway. The driver seemed to know just where he was going. He circled around into a landscaped subdivision of rambling elaborate homes. Tree frogs sounded in the darkness, and there was a smell of orange blossoms.
    Macdonald opened his eyes and leaned forward. “The house on the corner,” he told the driver.
    The house stood well back from a wide curve. It had a lot of tiled roof, an entrance like a Norman arch, and wrought iron lanterns lit on either side of the door. By the sidewalk there was a pergola covered with climbing roses. The driver cut his lights and drifted expertly up to the pergola.
    Mallory yawned and opened the car door. Cars were parked along the street around the corner. The cigarette tips of a couple of lounging chauffeurs spotted the soft bluish dark.
    “Party,” he said. “That makes it nice.”
    He got out, stood a moment looking across the lawn. Then he walked over soft grass to a pathway of dull bricks spaced so that the grass grew between them. He stood between the wrought iron lanterns and rang the bell.
    A maid in cap and apron opened the door. Mallory said:
    “Sorry to disturb Mr. Atkinson, but it’s important. Macdonald is the name.”
    The maid hesitated, then went back into the house, leaving the front door open a crack. Mallory pushed it open carelessly, looked into a roomy hallway with Indian rugs on the floor and walls. He went in.
    A few yards down the hallway a doorway gave on a dim room lined with books, smelling of good cigars. Hats and coats were spread around on the chairs. From the back of the house a radio droned dance music.
    Mallory took his Luger out and leaned against the jamb of the door, inside.
    A man in evening dress came along the hall. He was a plump man with thick white hair above a shrewd, pink, irritable face. Beautifully tailored shoulders failed to divert attention from rather too much stomach. His heavy eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. He walked fast and looked mad.
    Mallory stepped out of the doorway and put his gun in Atkinson’s stomach.
    “You’re looking