The Hunter and Other Stories

by Dashiell Hammett

  “In the bowl I prepared some shaving lather, and when that was all ready I was all set for making off with the prince’s necklace and that other one—if it came.

  “I’ll admit I was nervous. I was considering the whole plot as a rather absurd enterprise, and all I could think of was the probably alert eyes and ears of the two or more suspicious employees on the glove box.”

  IV

  “They arrived at twenty-five minutes to four. There were only two of them. I hastily lathered the edges of my spreading beard, and called out sharply for them to enter. The boy showed in Armand and a dapper individual who was evidently a house detective of Berthier’s. Armand was all solicitude. I shook hands with him with two dry fingers, holding a towel with the other hand, as I had wished to make it apparent that I was deep in a shaving operation.

  “‘Just edging off my beard a little.’

  “The two men were quite complacent.

  “‘And the necklace?’ I asked eagerly.

  “Armand drew the case from inside his coat and opened it before my eyes. We all moved toward the window. I was effusive in my admiration of the gems. I fluttered about much like the old fool that I probably am, and finally urged them to sit down.

  “I then brought the glove box and showed the prince’s necklace to both of them, and continued raving about both necklaces.

  “We compared the two. The Indian was, of course, even more magnificent by contrast. The detective laid the smaller necklace back in the box, while I asked Armand to lay the big one over it in the box into which I was going to pack some cotton. My glove box was smaller and therefore easier and safer to carry, I said. I held the box open while Armand laid the necklace gingerly inside. I was careful to avoid getting the soap on the box, so I replaced it gently on the table near the hat, getting the end squarely against the hole. It seemed I had plenty of time.

  “I even lingered over the box and wiped off a wayward fleck of soapsuds. The trap was set. I could not believe that the rest would be so easy, and I had to make an effort to conceal my nervousness.

  “The two men sat near each other. I explained that as soon as I could clear the soap off my face I would get the sack of money and transact the business. I took Armand’s blue box from Berthier’s and threw it in the top tray of the trunk. They appeared to be the most unsuspecting creatures. They took proffered cigarettes and lighted up, whereupon I went directly into the bathroom, still carrying my towel. I dropped that towel. My briquette was there on the washstand. I hummed lightly as I turned on the hot water in the tub. It spouted out in a steaming, gushing stream. Quickly I held the lighted briquette at the hole, caught the gleam of the warped mother-of-pearl, and pulled at it with the wire.

  “It brought the end down noiselessly on the folded napkin in the hole. The jewels blazed like fire. My hand shook as I made one savage jab at the pile with the long hook and felt the ineffable resistance of the two necklaces being pulled out together. I was afraid I might have to hook one at a time, but I caught just the right loops, and they came forward almost noiselessly along the napkin to where my left hand waited.

  “I touched the first stone. It was the big necklace, the smaller one being underneath. My heart leaped as I saw the big pendant on one side of the heap not far from the cabochon emerald. I laid down the wire and drew them out deftly with my fingers, the gems piling richly in my spread-out left hand, until the glittering pile was free. I thrust them with one movement of my clutching fingers deep into the left pocket of my trousers. The water was churning in my ears like a cascade.

  “I shut off the tap and purposely knocked the soap into the tub to make a noise, and walked into the bedroom, grabbing my cravat off the rack as I went. That was a glorious moment. The bedroom was dark. The door was unlatched. The diamonds were in my pocket. The way was clear.

  “I pulled up my shirt collar, stuck on the cravat, and fixed it neatly as I reached the chair where my coat and vest lay. I plunged into them, buttoned the vest with one hand, and reached for my long coat and cap with the other. In a second I was slipping noiselessly through the door into the hall, my cap on my head, my coat over my arm.

  “I had to restrain myself from running down that hall. I was in flight. It was a great thrill, to be moving away, each second taking me farther away from the enemy in that salon. Even if they are investigating at this moment, I thought, I should escape easily.

  “I was gliding down those six flights of steps gleefully, released from the most tense moments I had ever gone through, when suddenly a horrible thought assailed me. What if Berthier’s had posted a detective at the hotel door. I could see my plans crashing ignominiously. I stopped and reflected. The hotel has two entrances; therefore the third person, if he is there, must be in the lobby and therefore not far from the elevator and stairway.

  “I thought fast, and it was a good thing I did. I was then on the second floor. I called the floor boy, turning around quickly as if mounting instead of descending.

  “‘Will you go to the lobby and ask if there is a man from Berthier’s waiting? If he is there, will you tell him to come up to apartment 615 immediately?’

  “I stressed the last word and, slipping a tip into the boy’s hand, started up toward the third floor. With the boy gone, I turned toward the second floor, walked quickly down to the far end, where I knew the service stairway of the hotel was located. As I plunged into this door I saw the boy and a stout individual rushing up the steps toward the third floor. I sped down this stairway, braving possible suspicion of the employees. I came out in a kind of pantry, much to the surprise of a young waiter, and I commenced a tirade against the hotel’s service that must have burned his ears. I simulated fierce indignation.

  “‘Where is that good-for-nothing trunkman?’ I demanded. ‘I’m leaving for Genoa at five, and my trunk is still unmoved.’ Meanwhile I glared at him as if making up my mind whether I would kill him or let him live.

  “‘The trunkmen are through there,’ said the waiter, pointing to a door. I rushed through.

  “Inside this basement I called out: ‘Where in hell is the porter of this hotel?’

  “An excited trunkman left his work. I repeated fiercely the instructions about my trunk, and then asked how to get out of this foul place. I spotted an elevator and a small stairway, and without another word was up these steps and out in a side street off the Rue de Rivoli.

  “I fancied the whole hotel was swarming with excited people by this time, and I jumped into a cruising taxicab.

  “‘Trocadero,’ I ordered, and in one heavenly jolt I fell back into the seat while the driver sped on, up the Seine embankment to a section of quiet and reposeful streets.

  “I breathed the free air. I realized what a fool I was; then I experienced a feeling of triumph, as I felt the lump of gems in my pocket. I got out and walked slowly to my apartment, went to the bath and trimmed my beard to the thinnest point, shaving my cheeks clean. I put on a high crown hat, a long fur-lined coat, took a stick, and sauntered out, myself once more, Mr. West, the retired diplomat, who would never think of getting mixed up in such an unsightly brawl as was now going on between the hotel and the respected and venerable institution known as Berthier’s.”

  West shrugged his shoulders.

  “That’s all. Berthier was right. It was not so easy to rob a Rue de la Paix jeweler, especially of four million francs’ worth of diamonds. I had returned to my apartment, and was hardly through my dinner when the telephone rang.

  “‘This is Berthier,’ came the excited voice. He told me of this awful Hazim person. He asked if he might see me.

  “That night Berthier sat in my library and expounded a dozen theories. ‘It’s a gang, a clever gang, but we’ll catch them,’ he said. ‘One of them duped our man in the hotel lobby by calling him upstairs.’

  “‘But if you catch the men, will you catch your four millions?’ I asked, fingering the pile of stones in my pocket.

  “‘No,’ he moaned. ‘A necklace is so ea
sy to dispose of, stone by stone. It’s probably already divided up among that bunch of criminals.’

  “I really felt flattered, but not so much then as when I read the newspapers the next day. It was amusing. I have them all in my scrapbook now.”

  “‘How did you confess?” I asked West.

  “Simple, indeed, but only with the utmost reluctance. I found the police were completely off the trail. At six o’clock the next afternoon I went to Berthier’s, rather certain that I would be recognized. I walked past the doorman into the store, where Armand hardly noticed me. He was occupied with some wise men. I heard him saying: ‘He was not so tall, as he was heavily built, thick body, large feet, and square head, with a shapeless mass of whiskers. He was from some Balkan extraction, hardly what you’d call a gentleman.’

  “I asked to see Berthier, who was still overwrought and irritable.

  “‘Hello, West,’ he said to me. ‘You’re just the man I want. Please come down and talk with these detectives. You must help me.’

  “‘Nothing doing,’ I said. ‘Your man Armand has just been very offensive.’

  “Berthier stared at me in amazement.

  “‘Armand!’ he repeated. ‘Armand has been offensive!’

  “‘He called me a Balkan, said I had big feet, and that I had a square head, and that I was hardly what one would call a gentleman.’

  “Berthier’s eyes popped out like saucers.

  “‘It’s unthinkable,’ he said. ‘He must have been describing that crook we’re after.’

  “I could see that Berthier took this robbery seriously.

  “‘I thought you never fell for those old gags,’ I said.

  “‘Old gags!’ he retorted, his voice rising. ‘Hardly a gag, that!’

  “‘Old as the hills!’ I assured him. ‘The basis of most of the so-called magic one sees on the stage.’ I paused. ‘And what will you do with these nice people when you catch them?’

  “‘Ten years in jail, at least,’ he growled.

  “I looked at my watch. The twenty-four hours were well over. Berthier had talked himself out of adjectives concerning this gang of thieves; he could only sit and clench his fists and bite his lips.

  “‘Four million,’ he muttered. ‘It could have been avoided. That man Armand—’

  “I took my cue. ‘That man Berthier,’ I said crisply, accusingly, ‘should run his establishment better. Besides, my wager concerned you, and not Armand—’

  “Berthier looked up sharply, his brain struggling with some dark clew. I mechanically put my hand in my trousers pocket and very slowly drew out a long iridescent string of crystallized carbon ending in a great square pendant.

  “Berthier’s jaw dropped. He leaned forward. His hand raised and slowly dropped to his side.

  “‘You!’ he whispered. ‘You, West!’

  “I thought he would collapse. I laid the necklace on his desk, a hand on his shoulder. He found his voice.

  “‘Was it you who got those necklaces?’

  “‘No. It was I who stole that necklace, and I who win the wager. Please hand over the yellow diamond.’

  “I think it took Berthier ten minutes to regain his composure. He didn’t know whether to curse me or to embrace me. I told him the whole story, beginning with our dinner at Ciro’s. The proof of it was that the necklace was there on his desk.

  “And I am sure Armand thinks I am insane. He was there when Berthier gave me this ring, this fine yellow diamond.”

  West settled back in his chair, holding his glass in the same hand that wore the gem.

  “Not so bad, eh?” he asked.

  I admitted that it was a bit complicated. I was curious about one point, and that was his make-up. He explained: “You see, the broad low-crowned hat reduces one inch from my height; the wide whiskers, instead of the pointed beard, another inch; the bulgy coat, another inch; the trousers, high at the shoes, another inch. That’s four inches off my stature with an increase of girth about one-sixth my height—an altogether different figure. A visit to a pharmacy changed my complexion from that of a Nordic to a Semitic.”

  “And the hotel?” I asked.

  “Very simple. I had Berthier go around and pay the damages for plugging that hole. He’ll do anything I say now.”

  I regarded West in the waning firelight.

  He was supremely content.

  “You must have hated to give up those Indian gems after what you went through to get them?”

  West smiled.

  “That was the hardest of all. It was like giving away something that was mine, mine by right of conquest. And I’ll tell you another thing—if they had not belonged to a friend, I would have kept them.”

  And knowing West as I do, I am sure he spoke the truth.

  ACTION AND THE QUIZ KID

  Lots of kids used to hero-worship Action. At eighteen, he could never navigate the sidewalks without a coterie of awestruck ten year olds swarming around him. They worshipped him for his round black derby and the fat cigar that left a wavering trace of smoke over the route to the poolroom. But none of them had the great crush of Vittorio Corregione.

  Action had entered the City College Business School. His high school marks had been poor and he had been forced to take an entrance exam to make the college. I drilled and coached him for a solid two-week period and his voracious brain devoured and held everything I fed it. He passed the exam with highest marks.

  The successful entrance was only the beginning of his troubles. To pick out a course that would lead to a money-making profession was the real problem. Uncle Myron volunteered the advice. Having stashed away the most loot in the family, Uncle Myron was entitled to offer advice to young college entrees.

  “Take a course in accounting,” pontificated Uncle Myron, “and when you get out you’ll find a wide-open field. I personally will guarantee you placement in an accounting job.”

  The money man had spoken, so Action followed through. Years later, when Action had staggered past the course without having cracked a single book, he came to Uncle Myron for the promised job. Myron told him to enlist in the army. Our uncle always held patriotism above all.

  Action found the business administration course a complete bore. The usual shortage of cash at home forced him to get a job delivering dog medicine to Park Ave. homes but he grew tired of seeing the dogs wearing finer sweaters than he had and he quit. He had refrained from betting for a couple of months after starting school, but the old lure was too strong and after he located a bookmaker and ticker near the college he was back in the old-time groove. He hung around the Board, noting scores and getting in an occasional small bet when he met the kid.

  Vittorio Corregione was a skinny little runt of fourteen with snapping black eyes, and a hungry wet red mouth that puckered in a perpetual pout. He was a bright bundle of brain and attended the honor school that was housed in the college building. Action failed to discover why he shunned his home and the kid wouldn’t volunteer the information, but the kid never did want to return at night. He adored Action and saw in the little schemes and plots that my brother wove, the manifestations of genius.

  Action had noted the kid hanging around the poolroom but had never bothered to say too much to him until one day, when the runt came over with a five-dollar bill and asked Action to wager it for him. He placed the bet as per the request and the money rode safely home. Thereafter, Vittorio would seek out Action for all of his wagers and even allow him to hold the cash winnings.

  The following term the kid was moved to the afternoon session and couldn’t make the poolroom during the action hours. He’d hand my brother a small roll and give him carte blanche to pick winners for him, phoning later in the afternoon to discover how he had made out. I was spending the afternoon with Action one day when the kid called. Action eyed the incomplete scores on the Board and rattled off some names. Each one was a stiff and the kid was sure to drop some twenty bucks.

  “What’s the pitch here,” I asked, after
he had hung up the phone. “You grabbed the boy a bundle of blanks.”

  Action looked out the window and his ruddy face took on an even darker shade of red.

  “I didn’t pick any blanks,” he muttered, half to himself. “Things haven’t been breaking right for me lately and I’ve been dipping into the kid’s dough. As a matter of fact, I didn’t make any bets at all today.”

  “You mean,” I gasped, “you’re suckering the kid out of his dough?”

  “If not me, some other sonova bitch.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

  Action was not always as brutal as on this day. If he was doing well, he’d give the kid a fair shake. But somehow he didn’t make out too often and the kid suffered. A wide swath was cut in the kid’s roll but he never complained and he took it regularly on the chin. One day the apparently limitless wad began to thin out and the kid dropped the play.

  “Action,” he said, “I want your advice on a business venture.”

  “What kind of business, kid?”

  Vittorio blushed. “I know you’ll laugh at me but I’ll tell you anyway. I want to book small bets like laying ten to one against a guy hitting a homer in a particular game. Herb Roddes has been drawing a fat take with that pitch in my math class.”

  Action smiled gently, “It’s your dough, Vit, and your life. To show you I have no ill will towards you, call me tomorrow and I’ll feed you a bet.”

  The kid almost purred at Action’s gesture and floated out of the poolroom on an inflated cloud of if-money. He called Action at three the following afternoon, right after the ticker had announced a homer for J. DiMaggio.

  “At ten to one, Vit, I’ll put a deuce on J. DiMag to hit a homer today. Thank you kid and good luck.”