Red Wind by Raymond Chandler Page A

for me,” he said.
    Atkinson stopped, heaved a little, made a choked sound in his throat. His eyes were wide and startled. Mallory moved the Luger up, put the cold muzzle into the flesh of Atkinson’s throat, just above the V of his wing collar. The lawyer partly lifted one arm, as though to make a sweep of the gun. Then he stood quite still, holding the arm up in the air.
    Mallory said: “Don’t talk. Just think. You’re sold out. Macdonald has ratted on you. Costello and two other boys are taped up at Westwood. We want Rhonda Farr.”
    Atkinson’s eyes were dull blue, opaque, without interior light. The mention of Rhonda Farr’s name did not seem to make much impression on him. He squirmed against the gun and said:
    “Why do you come to me?”
    “We think you know where she is,” Mallory said tonelessly. “But we won’t talk about it here. Let’s go outside.”
    Atkinson jerked, sputtered. “No… no, I have guests.”
    Mallory said coldly: “The guest we want isn’t here.” He pressed on the gun.
    A sudden wave of emotion went over Atkinson’s face. He took a short step back and snatched at the gun. Mallory’s lips tightened. He twisted his wrist in a tight circle, and the gun sight flicked across Atkinson’s mouth. Blood came out on his lips. His mouth began to puff. He got very pale.
    Mallory said: “Keep your head, fat boy, and you may live through the night.”
    Atkinson turned and walked straight out of the open door, swiftly, blindly.
    Mallory took his arm and jerked him to the left, on to the grass. “Make it slow, mister,” he said gratingly.
    They rounded the pergola. Atkinson put his hands out in front of him and floundered at the car. A long arm came out of the open door and grabbed him. He went in, fell against the seat. Macdonald clapped a hand over his face and forced him back against the upholstery. Mallory got in and slammed the car door.
    Tires squealed as the car circled rapidly and shot away. The driver drove a block before he switched the lights on again. Then he turned his head a little, said: “Where to, boss?”
    Mallory said: “Anywhere. Back to town. Take it easy.”
    The Cadillac turned on to the highway again and began to drop down the long grade. Lights showed in the valley once more, little white lights that moved ever so slowly along the floor of the valley. Headlights.
    Atkinson heaved up in the seat, got a handkerchief out and dabbed at his mouth. He peered at Macdonald and said in a composed voice:
    “What’s the frame, Mac? Shakedown?”
    Macdonald laughed gruffly. Then he hiccoughed. He was a little drunk. He said thickly:
    “Hell, no. The boys hung a snatch on the Farr girl tonight. Her friends here don’t like it. But you wouldn’t know anything about it, would you, big shot?” He laughed again, jeeringly.
    Atkinson said slowly: “It’s funny… but I wouldn’t.” He lifted his white head higher, went on: “Who are these men?”
    Macdonald didn’t answer him. Mallory lit a cigarette, guarding the match flame with cupped hands. He said slowly:
    “That’s not important, is it? Either you know where Rhonda Farr was taken, or you can give us a lead. Think it out. There’s lots of time.”
    Landrey turned his head and looked back. His face was a pale blur in the dark.
    “It’s not much to ask, Mr. Atkinson,” he said gravely. His voice was cool, suave, pleasant . He tapped on the seat-back with his gloved fingers.
    Atkinson stared towards him for a while, then put his head back against the upholstery. “Suppose I don’t know anything about it,” he said wearily.
    Macdonald lifted his hand and hit him in the face. The lawyer’s head jerked against the cushions. Mallory said in a cold, unpleasant voice:
    “A little less of your crap, copper.”
    Macdonald swore at him, turned his head away. The car went on.
    They were down in the valley now. A three-colored airport beacon swung through the sky not far away. There began to be wooded slopes and