Trouble Is My Business by Raymond Chandler Read Free Book Online

nodded. He held out his hand for it. Sebold came out of the dressing room. Finlayson sniffed at the Luger, snapped the magazine out, cleared the breech and held the gun so that a little light shone up through the magazine opening into the breech end of the barrel. He looked down the muzzle, squinting. He handed the gun to Sebold. Sebold did the same thing.
    “Don’t think so,” Sebold said. “Clean, but not that clean. Couldn’t have been cleaned within the hour. A little dust.”
    “Right.”
    Finlayson picked the ejected shell off the carpet, pressed it into the magazine and snapped the magazine back in place. He handed me the gun. I put it back under my arm.
    “Been out anywhere tonight?” he asked tersely.
    “Don’t tell me the plot,” I said. “I’m just a bit-player.”
    “Smart guy,” Sebold said dispassionately. He dusted his hair again and opened a desk drawer. “Funny stuff. Good for a column. I like ’em that way—with my blackjack.”
    Finlayson sighed. “Been out tonight, shamus?”
    “Sure. In and out all the time. Why?”
    He ignored the question. “Where you been?”
    “Out to dinner. Business call or two.”
    “Where at?”
    “I’m sorry, boys. Every business has its private files.”
    “Had company, too,” Sebold said, picking up George’s glass and sniffing it. “Recent—within the hour.”
    “You’re not that good,” I told him sourly.
    “Had a ride in a big Caddy?” Finlayson bored on, taking a deep breath. “Over West L. A. direction?”
    “Had a ride in a Chrysler–over Vine Street direction.”
    “Maybe we better just take him down,” Sebold said, looking at his fingernails.
    “Maybe you better skip the gang-buster stuff and tell me what’s stuck in your nose. I get along with cops—except when they act as if the law is only for citizens.”
    Finlayson studied me. Nothing I had said made an impression on him. Nothing Sebold said made any impression on him. He had an idea and he was holding it like a sick baby.
    “You know a little rat named Frisky Lavon?” he sighed. “Used to be a dummy-chucker, then found out he could bug his way outa raps. Been doing that for say twelve years. Totes a gun and acts simple. But he quit acting tonight at seven-thirty about. Quit cold—with a slug in his head.”
    “Never heard of him,” I said.
    “You bumped anybody off tonight?”
    “I’d have to look at my notebook.”
    Sebold leaned forward politely. “Would you care for a smack in the kisser?” he inquired.
    Finlayson held his hand out sharply. “Cut it, Ben. Cut it. Listen, Marlowe. Maybe we’re going at this wrong. We’re not talking about murder. Could have been legitimate. This Frisky Lavon got froze off tonight on Calvello Drive in Bel-Air. Out in the middle of the street. Nobody seen or heard anything. So we kind of want to know.”
    “All right,” I growled. “What makes it my business? And keep that piano tuner out of my hair. He has a nice suit and his nails are clean, but he bears down on his shield too hard.”
    “Nuts to you,” Sebold said.
    “We got a funny phone call,” Finlayson said. “Which is where you come in. We ain’t just throwing our weight around. And we want a forty-five. They ain’t sure what kind yet.”
    “He’s smart. He threw it under the bar at Levy’s,” Sebold sneered.
    “I never had a forty-five,” I said. “A guy who needs that much gun ought to use a pick.”
    Finlayson scowled at me and counted his thumbs. Then he took a deep breath and suddenly went human on me. “Sure, I’m just a dumb flatheel,” he said. “Anybody could pull my ears off and I wouldn’t even notice it. Let’s all quit horsing around and talk sense.
    “This Frisky was found dead after a no-name phone call to West L. A. police. Found dead outside a big house belonging to a man named Jeeter who owns a string of investment companies. He wouldn’t use a guy like Frisky for a penwiper, so there’s nothing in that. The servants