Red Wind by Raymond Chandler

dropped again. The man made no other movement.
    I went on along the hall to the elevator and rode up to my floor. I soft-footed along the hallway, unlocked my door, pushed it wide and reached in for the light-switch.
    A chain-switch tinkled and light glared from a standing-lamp by the easy chair, beyond the card table on which my chessmen were still scattered.
    Copernik sat there with a stiff unpleasant grin on his face. The short dark man, Ybarra, sat across the room from him, on my left, silent, half-smiling as usual.
    Copernik showed more of his big yellow horse teeth and said: “Hi. Long time no see. Been out with the girls?”
    I shut the door and took my hat off and wiped the back of my neck slowly, over and over again. Copernik went on grinning. Ybarra looked at nothing with his soft dark eyes.
    “Take a seat, pal,” Copernik drawled. “Make yourself to home. We got pow-wow to make. Boy, do I hate this night sleuthing. Did you know you were all out of hooch?”
    “I could have guessed it,” I said. I leaned against the wall.
    Copernik kept on grinning. “I always did hate private dicks,” he said, “but I never had a chance to twist one like I got tonight.”
    He reached down lazily beside his chair and picked up a printed bolero jacket, tossed it on the card table. He reached down again and put a wide-brimmed hat beside it.
    “I bet you look cuter than all hell with these on,” he said.
    I took hold of a straight chair, twisted it around and straddled it, leaned my folded arms on the chair and looked at Copernik.
    He got up very slowly—with an elaborate slowness, walked across the room and stood in front of me smoothing his coat down. Then he lifted his open right hand and hit me across the face with it—hard. It stung but I didn’t move.
    Ybarra looked at the wall, looked at the floor, looked at nothing.
    “Shame on you, pal,” Copernik said lazily. “The way you was taking care of this nice exclusive merchandise. Wadded down behind your old shirts. You punk peepers always did make me sick.”
    He stood there over me for a moment. I didn’t move or speak. I looked into his glazed drinker’s eyes. He doubled a fist at his side, then shrugged and turned and went back to the chair.
    “O.K.,” he said. “The rest will keep. Where did you get these things?”
    “They belong to a lady.”
    “Do tell. They belong to a lady. Ain’t you the light-hearted —! I’ll tell you what lady they belong to. They belong to the lady a guy named Waldo asked about in a bar across the street—about two minutes before he got shot kind of dead. Or would that have slipped your mind?”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “You was curious about her yourself,” Copernik sneered on. “But you were smart, pal. You fooled me.”
    “That wouldn’t make me smart,” I said.
    His face twisted suddenly and he started to get up. Ybarra laughed, suddenly and softly, almost under his breath. Copernik’s eyes swung on him, hung there. Then he faced me again, blank-eyed.
    “The guinea likes you,” he said. “He thinks you’re good.”
    The smile left Ybarra’s face, but no expression took its place. No expression at all.
    Copernik said: “You knew who the dame was all the time. You knew who Waldo was and where he lived. Right across the hall a floor below you. You knew this Waldo person had bumped a guy off and started to lam, only this broad came into his plans somewhere and he was anxious to meet up with her before he went away. Only he never got the chance. A heist guy from back East named Al Tessilore took care of that by taking care of Waldo. So you met the gal and hid her clothes and sent her on her way and kept your trap glued. That’s the way guys like you make your beans. Am I right?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Except that I only knew these things very recently. Who was Waldo?”
    Copernik bared his teeth at me. Red spots burned high on his sallow cheeks. Ybarra, looking down at the floor, said very softly: “Waldo