The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler Page B

in the hand means a world by the tail. Put it down and don’t be silly, Joe.”
    His eyebrows came together and he pushed his chin at me. His eyes were mean.
    “The other guy’s name is Eddie Mars,” I said. “Ever hear of him?”
    “No.” Brody kept the gun pointed at me.
    “If he ever gets wise to where you were last night in the rain, he’ll wipe you off the way a check raiser wipes a check.”
    “What would I be to Eddie Mars?” Brody asked coldly. But he lowered the gun to his knee.
    “Not even a memory,” I said.
    We stared at each other. I didn’t look at the pointed black slipper that showed under the plush curtain on the doorway to my left.
    Brody said quietly: “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a tough guy—just careful. I don’t know hell’s first whisper about you. You might be a lifetaker for all I know.”
    “You’re not careful enough,” I said. “That play with Geiger’s books was terrible.”
    He drew a long slow breath and let it out silently. Then he leaned back and crossed his long legs and held the Colt on his knee.
    “Don’t kid yourself I won’t use this heat, if I have to,” he said. “What’s your story?”
    “Have your friend with the pointed slippers come on in. She gets tired holding her breath.”
    Brody called out without moving his eyes off my stomach. “Come on in, Agnes.”
    The curtain swung aside and the green-eyed, thigh-swinging ash blonde from Geiger’s store joined us in the room. She looked at me with a kind of mangled hatred. Her nostrils were pinched and her eyes had darkened a couple of shades. She looked very unhappy.
    “I knew damn well you were trouble,” she snapped at me. “I told Joe to watch his step.”
    “It’s not his step, it’s the back of his lap he ought to watch,” I said.
    “I suppose that’s funny,” the blonde squealed.
    “It has been,” I said. “But it probably isn’t any more.”
    “Save the gags,” Brody advised me. “Joe’s watchin’ his step plenty. Put some light on so I can see to pop this guy, if it works out that way.”
    The blonde snicked on a light in a big square standing lamp. She sank down into a chair beside the lamp and sat stiffly, as if her girdle was too tight. I put my cigar in my mouth and bit the end off. Brody’s Colt took a close interest in me while I got matches out and lit the cigar. I tasted the smoke and said:
    “The sucker list I spoke of is in code. I haven’t cracked it yet, but there are about five hundred names. You got twelve boxes of books that I know of. You should have at least five hundred books. There’ll be a bunch more out on loan, but say five hundred is the full crop, just to be cautious. If it’s a good active list and you could run it even fifty per cent down the line, that would be one hundred and twenty-five thousand rentals. Your girl friend knows all about that. I’m only guessing. Put the average rental as low as you like, but it won’t be less than a dollar. That merchandise costs money. At a dollar a rental you take one hundred and twenty-five grand and you still have your capital. I mean, you still have Geiger’s capital. That’s enough to spot a guy for.”
    The blonde yelped: “You’re crazy, you goddam eggheaded—!”
    Brody put his teeth sideways at her and snarled: “Pipe down, for Chrissake. Pipe down!”
    She subsided into an outraged mixture of slow anguish and bottled fury. Her silvery nails scraped on her knees.
    “It’s no racket for bums,” I told Brody almost affectionately. “It takes a smooth worker like you, Joe. You’ve got to get confidence and keep it. People who spend their money for second-hand sex jags are as nervous as dowagers who can’t find the rest room. Personally I think the blackmail angles are a big mistake. I’m for shedding all that and sticking to legitimate sales and rentals.”
    Brody’s dark brown stare moved up and down my face. His Colt went on hungering for my vital organs. “You’re a funny guy,”