The Hunter and Other Stories

by Dashiell Hammett

  He rises, yawns, stretches, and goes to the window. A tiny point of light shows through shrubbery down on the grounds, and then Richmond and Ann, walking slowly arm in arm become visible as they pass through an open space. Richmond’s cigarette glows again.

  Buck turns his head over his shoulder to tell his companions: “Sherlock’s got the dame out in the bushes.”

  Neely pushes four chips into the center of the table: “Up a couple.”

  Happy pushes out four: “And a couple more.”

  The Kid turns his cards face down. “Ain’t worth it,” he says. He stands up, takes his coat from the back of his chair, puts it on. “Deal me out awhile,” he says. He gets his hat and leaves the room, moving silently, unhurriedly. When the door shuts behind him, Buck grins at it. The others do not look up from their cards.

  The garden. Richmond and Ann are seated on a bench some distance away. The Dis-and-Dat Kid moves silently toward them, going swiftly from shadow of tree to bush to hedge until he is close behind their bench. As he crouches there, ready to hear what they are saying, they rise and move on slowly. He follows, stalking them from shadow to shadow.

  Ann is saying: “But what are you doing here if Father is not in danger?” She raises her voice a little, tensely. “He is. I know it. I can feel it. It’s those four horrible men. I’ve felt it ever since they’ve been here.”

  Richmond smiles at her earnestness. “I can understand your not liking them,” he says.

  “Liking them?” she repeats, and shudders. Then, both hands on his arm, peering up at his face, she asks: “You are here on their account, aren’t you?”

  “Part of my business here is with them,” he admits, “but your father is not in danger, there is nothing for you to be afraid of. Believe me.”

  The Kid, moving into the shadow of a tree, startles a cat, which goes hastily up the tree, its claws rasping against the bark.

  Ann clings to Richmond, her terrified face twisted around toward the noise, gasping: “What is that?”

  Richmond, his arms around her, looking down at her, paying no attention to the noise: “Nothing to be afraid of. You’re trembling.” He strokes her upper arm with a soothing hand.

  The Kid is flat against the tree, out of their sight. His eyes shift from side to side. He is breathing silently through his mouth.

  The girl slowly extricates herself from Richmond’s arms, though she continues to hold one of them. She looks around uneasily, “Let’s go back to the house,” she says.

  Richmond nods. They go back, arm in arm, the girl now and then glancing apprehensively around. The Kid follows them back—from shadow to shadow.

  In the library they find Pomeroy, alone; Ann kisses him, says, “Good night, Father,” then holds out her hand to Richmond. “Good night, Mr. Richmond.”

  He bows and says, “Good night,” as she leaves the room. Pomeroy, impressed by his daughter’s ready acceptance of Richmond, smiles at him more cordially than heretofore and says: “Smoke a cigar with me.” He opens a box on the table beside him.

  Richmond says: “Thanks. Where’s Kavanaugh?”

  Pomeroy: “Gone to bed. He wants to catch the early train back to the city.”

  Richmond: “Swell.” He goes over and shuts the door, then takes a seat facing Pomeroy. “It’s just as well to keep him out of it as much as we can.”

  Pomeroy draws his brows together a little. “I don’t understand you,” he says a bit coldly. “Mr. Kavanaugh was my father’s best friend, has been almost a second father to me. He is, in my opinion, the best lawyer in—”

  “I know,” Richmond agrees evenly, “but like a lot of top-notch lawyers he’s probably never been in a criminal court in his life. All he knows about civil and corporation and this and that kind of law’s not going to help you here, Pomeroy—not even criminal law. We don’t need law, we need tricks. And maybe we’ll be doing Kavanaugh a favor by sparing his conscience knowledge of some of the tricks we’ll have to use. If we need legal advice, I’ve got the man for you—he hasn’t looked into a law book for twenty years, but juries don’t hang his clients.”

  Pomeroy winces at the word “hang,” then nods doubtfully, partly convinced.

  Richmond rises. “I think I’ll get some sleep.” He looks down at Pomeroy. “Kavanaugh told you I wanted twenty-five thousand dollars down, of course. Will you phone your office in the morning and have them send the check over to my office?”

  Pomeroy nods again.

  Richmond says, “Thanks. Good night,” and goes out.

  A corridor. The Dis-and-Dat Kid steps swiftly through a doorway and shuts the door. Richmond comes into sight, passes the door behind which the Kid is standing, opens another door farther down, and goes into his bedroom.

  The Kid comes out, looks up and down the corridor, and goes quietly to another door, putting the side of his face to it, listening while his eyes and fingers fidget.

  Inside the room, Ann Pomeroy, in night clothes, is brushing her hair, humming, smiling as if pleased with her thoughts.

  The Kid listens for a while, then takes a deep breath, exhales it, grins crookedly, licks his lips, and goes away.

  Richmond, beginning to undress in his bedroom, takes a typewritten piece of paper from his pocket and looks thoughtfully at it, pursing his lips.

  It reads:

  Herbert Pomeroy.

  Age 45.

  Widower.

  One daughter: Ann, 21.

  Residence: Pasadena & Green Lake.

  Major Partner Pomeroy & Co. Stocks and Bonds.

  Large timber holdings Northern California.

  Director: K.C. & W.R.R.; Shepherds’ National Bank; Pan-American Inv. Co.

  Bank Accounts: Shepherds’; Sou. Trust Co.; Fourth Nat’l Bank.

  Large real estate holdings vicinity Los Angeles.

  Reputed worth $10,000,000 to $12,000,000.

  Richmond’s finger, traveling down this list, hesitates longest at the fourth item and the last.

  He returns the list to his pocket and continues undressing.

  The next morning. Richmond’s roadster is standing in front of the house. He comes out of the house just as Ann rounds the corner.

  She looks at the car and at him and asks, somewhat dismayed: You’re not going away?”

  “Just to the city for a few hours,” he assures her. “I’ll be back this evening.”

  Her face brightens. She gives him her hand, saying: “Be sure you are.”

  “It’s a promise,” he says as he gets into the car.

  She waves at him from the steps as he rides swiftly away.

  An unclean, shabbily furnished housekeeping room. The bed is not made. There are dirty dishes, an empty gin bottle, glasses, cigarette butts on an unclothed deal table. In one end of the room a bedraggled youngish woman in a shabby soiled kimono is frying eggs on a small gas stove on the drain-board beside a sink. Barney, in pants, undershirt, and stocking feet, is sitting on the side of the bed.

  “Aw, stop bellyaching,” he says irritably. “I told you I got a trick up my sleeve that’ll have us sweating against silk when I pull it off, but I need two-three days more to get set. I—”

  The woman turns around, snarls at him: “I heard that before. You ain’t got anything up your sleeve but a dirty arm. I’m sick and tired of having to bring in all the dough while you lay around and—”

  There is a knock at the door.

  They look at one another. Barney rises from the side of the bed, glances swiftly around the room as if to see that nothing is visible that should not be, and goes to the door. “Who is it?” he asks.

  “Richmond.”

  “All right.” Barney opens the door.

  Richmond comes in saying: “Hello, Barney. Hello, May.”

  The woman nods without saying anything and turns around to her eggs.

  Barney shuts and locks the door, saying: “Set down.”

  Richmond remains standing. He has not taken off his hat. “What’s new?” he asks.


  Barney’s eyes move sidewise to focus sullenly on May’s back. Then he steps closer to Richmond and mutters: “They had the junk all right—ten pounds of C. They delivered it to Rags Davis.” He puts a hand to the lapel of Richmond’s coat, “Keep me covered on this, Gene,” he begs. “I wouldn’t last an hour if—”

  With a gloved hand, Richmond removes Barney’s hand from his lapel.

  “I’ll keep you covered, Barney,” he promises. “Where’s Rags’ hang out now?”

  “Sutherland Hotel—five eleven.”

  Richmond nods, asks: “Got anything else? Find out who the guy they killed was?”

  Barney shakes his head, then says: “But he was a narcotic undercover man, all right.”

  Richmond: “State, city, or federal?”

  Barney: “I don’t know.”

  Richmond says: “Stick around. I may want to get in touch with you today or tomorrow.” He turns toward the door.

  Barney touches his elbow. “Slip me a piece of change, Gene? I’m kind of on the nut right now.”

  Richmond takes two bills from his pocket, gives them to Barney, says, “Don’t forget to earn it,” drily, and goes out.

  The woman at the stove turns around, looks contemptuously at Barney, spits noisily on the floor between them and says: “That’s all you’re good for—ratting!”

  Barney has finished locking the door. He takes a step toward her, snarls viciously: “Shut up! I’ll pop a tooth out of your face!”

  The woman, frightened, begins to scoop the eggs out on plates.

  Richmond goes to his office. Tommy jumps up from his book to open the gate for him, saying: “Good afternoon, Mr. Richmond.”

  Richmond says, “Hello, Tommy,” leans over to look at Tommy’s book, says humorously, “The Murder in the Telephone Booth—good Lord, what next?” rumples the boy’s hair, nods to Miss Crane, saying, “Will you come in for a moment,” and passes into his private office.

  He hangs up his hat and coat and sits down at his desk.

  Miss Crane comes in with some papers in her hand, also her notebook and pencil. She seems nervous, her face strained.

  He is looking through his mail. “Anything new?” he asks without looking up.

  “No,” she says. Her voice is a trifle hoarse. “Here are the reports of the two men we’re supposed to have working on the Fields job.”

  He takes the papers from her, runs his gaze over them rapidly. “Swell,” he says as he hands them back to her, “but if you make the one that’s supposed to be shadowing Kennedy—what do you call him? Harper?—watch his house until after the street cars stop running we can add taxi fare to his expenses.”

  She says, “All right,” and goes out with the reports.

  He picks up the telephone, says: “Get me Joe King, Narcotic Agents’ Office in the Federal Building.”

  He reads his mail until the telephone rings. Then, into the instrument, still looking through his mail: “Hello, Joe; this is Gene Richmond.”

  The other end of the wire—a grey-haired man with a strong-featured, keen-eyed, clean-cut face. “Yes, Gene?”

  Richmond: “I want to swap some information with you.”

  King: “Yes?”

  Richmond: “Was the fellow they killed down the beach the other night one of your men?”

  King’s eyes narrow. He says: “I thought you wanted to swap. I didn’t know you just wanted to get information.”

  Richmond: “Well, if he wasn’t, say so, because then nothing I can say will be any good to you.”

  King, after a moment of thinking, replies: “All right—suppose we talk as if he were.”

  Richmond pushes his mail aside and gives all his attention to the telephone: “Fair enough. Know who killed him?”

  King, softly: “Yes.”

  Richmond draws his brows together a little in disappointment. Before he speaks King is saying: “I’m hoping what you can tell me is where they are now.”

  Richmond’s face clears. A faint smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “I’ll be able to, Joe,” he says, “inside of three days.”

  Joe King says: “That’ll be—”

  Richmond: “Have you got enough on them to swing them for the job?”

  King: “I’ve got enough to hold them on while I get the rest.”

  Richmond: “Would it help to know the dealer they delivered the junk to, and what they delivered?”

  King, keeping his interest from showing in his voice, but not in his face: “It wouldn’t hurt any.”

  Richmond: “Ten pounds of cocaine to Rags Davis. He’s living at the Sutherland Hotel, room five eleven.”

  King: “Thanks, Gene.”

  Richmond: “Have I held up my side of the swap?”

  King: “You have.”

  Richmond: “Good. Now I want to ask a favor.”

  King, cautiously: “What is it?”

  Richmond: “If you pinch Davis, just tell the papers he’s being held as a dealer—keep the killing angle out of it until we’ve got the others.”

  King: “That’s no favor—we’re playing it that way ourselves. We haven’t gone in for any publicity on the murder.” He pauses, looking sharply at the phone, then asks casually: “How do you get in on this, Gene?”

  Richmond, easily: “Oh, it’s just an off-shoot of another job I’ve been working on. Let me know how you make out with Rags, will you?”

  King: “Yes. You’re sure of him, are you?”

  Richmond: “Absolutely.”

  King: “Right. Thanks.”

  Richmond: “O.K.”

  They hang up.

  King scowls thoughtfully at his telephone as he pushes it back, then picks up another phone and says: “Come in will you, Pete.”

  A hard-mouthed man of forty in quiet clothes comes in.

  King addresses him: “Gene Richmond’s got a finger in this Neely business somewhere.”

  Pete makes a mouth, rubs his chin with a thumb, says: “That’s un-nice.”

  King: “He just phoned, promised to turn Neely and his mob up inside of three days, said they had ten pounds of coke that night and delivered it to Rags Davis.”

  Pete scowls, says: “There’s a lot of things I’d rather have than Richmond messing around. What do you suppose his angle is?”

  King shakes his head. “Too hard for me. Might be anything—that’s got money in it. Better send somebody out to try to keep tabs on him. You and I’ll go up against Rags.”

  “Try is right,” Pete says glumly as he moves toward the door.

  Gene Richmond’s private office. He is standing shaking hands with a small middle-aged man dressed in neat, conservative clothes, and is saying: “We’ll find him. Don’t worry about it. Things seldom happen to youngsters of that age.”

  The man says, “Thank you, Mr. Richmond, thank you, sir,” as if very much relieved. Richmond smiles and ushers him out through the corridor door.

  Richmond returns to his desk and pushes the button. Helen Crane comes in.

  “This man who was just in—Wood—wants us to find his fifteen-year-old kid—ran away yesterday. There’s no occasion for secrecy. The police can do more than we can. Get in touch with them; they’ll do their usual routine broadcasting, telegraphing, and so on.” He picks up a piece of paper. “Here’s the kid’s description and the rest of the dope.” He picks up a check. “I took fifty dollars from him. Charge him with one man’s time till the police find the boy or he comes home.”

  Helen Crane takes the paper and check with a trembling hand. He glances curiously at her, but goes on in the same business-like tone: “This Pomeroy job is getting a little ticklish. I could wind it up now, but I think I can swing a big-money angle by holding off a day or two. But I’d better tell you that Neely and his crew are up there—at Green Lake—so in case— Let’s see. I’ll either phone you or be here twice a day. If I don’t—you’d better turn in the alarm—to Joe King and the sheriff’s office up there. It’s best to—”

  Her ag
itation has increased to such an extent that he cannot ignore it. “What’s the matter, Helen?” he asks.

  Her lips are quivering. “I don’t want to go to prison again,” she wails.

  He rises, puts an arm around her, attempts to soothe her. “Sh-h-h. Nobody’s going to prison. I know what I’m doing and—”

  “That’s what Mr. Queeble used to say,” she moans, clinging to his lapels, “and both of us went to prison.” Tears are running down her cheeks now.

  The door opens and Babe Holliday halts in the doorway, her eyes large. Neither of them see her.

  Richmond is stroking Helen Crane’s shoulder and back, speaking softly to her: “There’s nothing to be afraid of, but if you’re that frightened, why don’t you quit. You’re all right and—”

  Babe, who has recovered from her astonishment by now, advances swiftly into the room, saying angrily to Richmond: “Let her alone! She’s not your kind!” She puts her arms around Helen, leading her toward the door, murmuring: “There, there, don’t cry. He’s not worth it.”

  Helen moans: “It’s not his f-fault. I’m just a silly fool.”

  Richmond stares at them. Bewilderment and amusement are mixed in his face.

  Babe, having deposited the weeping girl in the outer office returns and shuts the door.

  “Aren’t you a pip!” she says angrily. “Can’t you let anything in dresses alone?” Suddenly her face and voice change, and she goes into peals of laughter that is merry and without rancor. “Good old On-the-Make Gene,” she laughs. “He takes his fun where he finds it, no matter how queer they are.” She affectionately takes his face between her hands and kisses him on the mouth.

  The telephone rings. Richmond, grinning half-shamefacedly at Babe, wipes his face with a handkerchief, goes to the phone, and says: “Gene Richmond speaking.”

  The other end of the wire. King in a hotel lobby phone booth. He says: “This is King, Gene. You sure Rags is our baby?”

  Richmond: “I was there at the birth.”

  King: “Well, we’ve been pushing him around for an hour and a half and haven’t been able to crack him.”

  Richmond: “Search his place?”

  King: “Frisked it from floor to ceiling, found nothing.”

  Richmond’s eyes narrow. He purses his lips, then says: “Bring him over here. I’ll take him apart for you.”