The Dashiell Hammett Megapack: 20 Classic Stories

by Dashiell Hammett

  The judge sat between desk and table, with his feet on the latter. They were small feet, and he was a small man. His face was filled with little irritable lines, his lips were thin and tight, and he had the bright, lidless eyes of a bird.

  “Well, what’s he charged with?” His voice was thin, harshly metallic. He kept his feet on the table.

  The marshal drew a deep breath, and recited:

  “Driving on the wrong side of the street, exceeding the speed limit, driving while under the influence of liquor, driving without a driver’s license, endangering the lives of pedestrians by taking his hands off the wheel, and I parking improperly—on the sidewalk up against the bank.”

  The marshal took another breath, and added, with manifest regret:

  “There was a charge of attempted assault, too, but that Vallance girl won’t appear, so that’ll have to be dropped.”

  The justice’s bright eyes turned upon Steve.

  “What’s your name?” he growled.

  “Steve Threefall.”

  “Is that your real name?” the marshal asked.

  “Of course it is,” the justice snapped. “You don’t think anybody’d be damn fool enough to give a name like that unless it was his, do you?” Then to Steve: “What have you got to say—guilty or not?”

  “I was a little—”

  “Are you guilty or not?”

  “Oh, I suppose I did—”

  “That’s enough! You’re fined a hundred and fifty dollars and costs. The costs are fifteen dollars and eighty cents, making a total of a hundred and sixty-five dollars and eighty cents. Will you pay it or will you go to jail?”

  “I’ll pay it if I’ve got it,” Steve said, turning to the marshal. “You took my money. Have I got that much?”

  The marshal nodded his massive head.

  “You have,” he said, “exactly—to the nickel. Funny it should have come out like that—huh?”

  “Yes—funny,” Steve repeated.

  While the justice of the peace was making out a receipt for the fine, the marshal restored Steve’s watch, tobacco and matches, pocket-knife, keys, and last of all the black walking-stick. The big man weighed the stick in his hand and examined it closely before he gave it up. It was thick and of ebony, but heavy even for that wood, with a balanced weight that hinted at loaded ferrule and knob. Except for a space the breadth of a man’s hand in its middle, the stick was roughened, cut and notched with the marks of hard use—marks that much careful polishing had failed to remove or conceal. The unscarred hand’s-breadth was of a softer black than the rest—as soft a black as the knob—as if it had known much contact with a human palm.

  “Not a bad weapon in a pinch,” the marshal said meaningfully as he handed the stick to its owner. Steve took it with the grasp a man reserves for a favorite and constant companion.

  “Not bad,” he agreed. “What happened to the flivver?”

  “It’s in the garage around the corner on Main Street. Pete said it wasn’t altogether ruined, and he thinks he can patch it up if you want.”

  The justice held out the receipt.

  “Am I all through here now?” Steve asked.

  “I hope so,” Judge Denvir said sourly.

  “Both of us,” Steve echoed. He put on his hat, tucked the black stick under his arm, nodded to the big marshal, and left the room.

  Steve Threefall went down the wooden stairs toward the street in as cheerful a frame of mind as his body—burned out inwardly with white liquor and outwardly by a day’s scorching desert-riding—would permit. That justice had emptied his pockets of every last cent disturbed him little. That, he knew, was the way of justice everywhere with the stranger, and he had left the greater part of his money with the hotel proprietor in Whitetufts. He had escaped a jail sentence, and he counted himself lucky. He would wire Harris to send him some of his money, wait here until the Ford was repaired, and then drive back to Whitetufts—but not on a whisky ration this time.

  “You will not!” a voice cried in his ear.

  He jumped, and then laughed at his alcohol-jangled nerves. The words had not been meant for him. Beside him, at a turning of the stairs, was an open window, and opposite it, across a narrow alley, a window in another building was open. This window belonged to an office in which two men stood facing each other across a flat-topped desk.

  One of them was middle-aged and beefy, in a black broadcloth suit out of which a white-vested stomach protruded. His face was purple with rage. The man who faced him was younger—a man of perhaps thirty, with a small dark mustache, finely chiseled features, and satiny brown hair. His slender athlete’s body was immaculately clothed in gray suit, gray shirt, gray and silver tie, and on the desk before him lay a Panama hat with gray band. His face was as white as the other’s was purple.

  The beefy man spoke—a dozen words pitched too low to catch.

  The younger man slapped the speaker viciously across the face with an open hand—a hand that then flashed back to its owner’s coat and flicked out a snub-nosed automatic pistol.

  “You big lard-can,” the younger man cried, his voice sibilant; “you’ll lay off or I’ll spoil your vest for you!”

  He stabbed the protuberant vest with the automatic, and laughed into the scared fat face of the beefy man—laughed with a menacing flash of even teeth and dark slitted eyes. Then he picked up his hat, pocketed the pistol, and vanished from Steve’s sight. The fat man sat down.

  Steve went on down to the street.

  Steve unearthed the garage to which the Ford had been taken, found a greasy mechanic who answered to the name of Pete, and was told that Whiting’s automobile would be in condition to move under its own power within two days.

  “A beautiful snootful you had yesterday,” Pete grinned.

  Steve grinned back and went on out. He went down to the telegraph office, next door to the Izzard Hotel, pausing for a moment on the sidewalk to look at a glowing, cream-colored Vauxhall-Velox roadster that stood at the curb—as out of place in this grimy factory town as a harlequin opal in a grocer’s window.

  In the doorway of the telegraph office Steve paused again, abruptly.

  Behind the counter was a girl in tan flannel—the girl he had nearly run down twice the previous afternoon—the “Vallance girl” who had refrained from adding to justice’s account against Steve Threefall. In front of the counter, leaning over it, talking to her with every appearance of intimacy was one of the two men he had seen from the staircase window half an hour before—the slender dandy in gray who had slapped the other’s face and threatened him with an automatic.

  The girl looked up, recognized Steve, and stood very erect. He took off his hat, and advanced smiling.

  “I’m awfully sorry about yesterday,” he said. “I’m a crazy fool when I—”

  “Do you wish to send a telegram?” she asked frigidly.

  “Yes,” Steve said; “I also wish to—”

  “There are blanks and pencils on the desk near the window,” and she turned her back on him.

  Steve felt himself coloring, and since he was one of the men who habitually grin when at a loss, he grinned now, and found himself looking into the dark eyes of the man in gray.

  That one smiled back under his little brown mustache, and said:

  “Quite a time you had yesterday.”

  “Quite,” Steve agreed, and went to the table the girl had indicated. He wrote his telegram:

  Henry Harris

  Harris Hotel, Whitetufts:

  Arrived right side up, but am in hock. Wire me two hundred dollars. Will be back Saturday.

  Threefall. T.

  But he did not immediately get up from the desk. He sat there holding the piece of paper in his fingers, studying the man and girl, who were again engaged i
n confidential conversation over the counter. Steve studied the girl most.

  She was quite a small girl, no more than five feet in height, if that; and she had that peculiar rounded slenderness which gives a deceptively fragile appearance. Her face was an oval of skin whose fine whiteness had thus far withstood the grimy winds of Izzard; her nose just missed being upturned, her violet-black eyes just missed being too theatrically large, and her black-Brown hair just missed being too bulky for the small head it crowned; but in no respect did she miss being as beautiful as a figure from a Monticelli canvas.

  All these things Steve Threefall, twiddling his telegram in sun-brown fingers, considered and as he considered them he came to see the pressing necessity of having his apologies accepted. Explain it as you will—he carefully avoided trying to explain it to himself—the thing was there. One moment there was nothing, in the four continents he knew, of any bothersome importance to Steve Threefall; the next moment he was under an inescapable compulsion to gain the favor of this small person in tan flannel with brown ribbons at wrists and throat.

  At this point the man in gray leaned farther over the counter, to whisper something to the girl. She flushed, and her eyes flinched. The pencil in her hand fell to the counter, and she picked it up with small fingers that were suddenly incongruously awkward. She made a smiling reply, and went on with her writing, but the smile seemed forced.

  Steve tore up his telegram and composed another:

  I made it, slept it off in the cooler, and I am going to settle here a while. There are things about the place I like. Wire my money and send my clothes to hotel here. Buy Whiting’s Ford from him as cheap as you can for me.

  He carried the blank to the counter and laid it down.

  The girl ran her pencil over it, counting the words.

  “Forty-seven,” she said, in a tone that involuntarily rebuked the absence of proper telegraphic brevity.

  “Long, but it’s all right,” Steve assured her. “I’m sending it collect.”

  She regarded him icily.

  “I can’t accept a collect message unless I know that the sender can pay for it if the addressee refuses it. It’s against the rules.”

  “You’d better make an exception this time,” Steve told her solemnly, “because if you don’t you’ll have to lend me the money to pay for it.”

  “I’ll have—?”

  “You will,” he insisted. “You got me into this jam, and it’s up to you to help me get out. The Lord knows you’ve cost me enough as it is—nearly two hundred dollars! The whole thing was your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “It was! Now I’m giving you a chance to square yourself. Hurry it off, please, because I’m hungry and I need a shave. I’ll be waiting on the bench outside.” And he spun on his heel and left the office.

  One end of the bench in front of the telegraph office was occupied when Steve, paying no attention to the man who sat there, made himself comfortable on the other. He put his black stick between his legs and rolled a cigarette with thoughtful slowness, his mind upon the just completed scene in the office.

  Why, he wondered, whenever there was some special reason for gravity, did he always find himself becoming flippant? Why, whenever he found himself face to face with a situation that was important, that meant something to him, did he slip uncontrollably into banter—play the clown? He lit his cigarette and decided scornfully—as he had decided a dozen times before—that it all came from a childish attempt to conceal his self-consciousness; that for all his thirty-three years of life and his eighteen years of rubbing shoulders with the world—its rough corners as well as its polished—he was still a green boy underneath—a big kid.

  “A neat package you had yesterday,” the man who sat on the other end of the bench remarked.

  “Yeah,” Steve admitted without turning his head. He supposed he’d be hearing about his crazy arrival as long as he stayed in Izzard.

  “I reckon old man Denvir took you to the cleaner’s as usual?”

  “Uh-huh!” Steve said, turning now for a look at the other.

  He saw a very tall and very lean man in rusty brown, slouched down on the small of his back, angular legs thrust out across the sidewalk. A man past forty, whose gaunt, melancholy face was marked with lines so deep that they were folds in the skin rather than wrinkles. His eyes were the mournful chestnut eyes of a basset hound, and his nose was as long and sharp as a paper-knife. He puffed on a black cigar, getting from it a surprising amount of smoke, which he exhaled upward, his thin nose splitting the smoke into two gray plumes.

  “Ever been to our fair young city before?” this melancholy individual asked next. His voice held a monotonous rhythm that was not unpleasant to the ear.

  “No, this is my first time.”

  The thin man nodded ironically.

  “You’ll like it if you stay,” he said. “It’s very interesting.”

  “What’s it all about?” Steve asked, finding himself mildly intrigued by his bench-mate.

  “Soda niter. You scoop it up off the desert, and boil and otherwise cook it, and sell it to fertilizer manufacturers, and nitric acid manufacturers, and any other kind of manufacturers who can manufacture something out of soda niter. The factory in which, for which, and from which you do all this lies yonder, beyond the railroad tracks.”

  He waved a lazy arm down the street, to where a group of square concrete buildings shut out the desert at the end of the thoroughfare.

  “Suppose you don’t play with this soda?” Steve asked, more to keep the thin man talking than to satisfy any thirst for local knowledge. “What do you do then?”

  The thin man shrugged his sharp shoulders.

  “That depends,” he said, “on who you are. If you’re Dave Brackett”—he wiggled a finger at the red bank across the street—“you gloat over your mortgages, or whatever it is a banker does; if you’re Grant Fernie, and too big for a man without being quite big enough for a horse, you pin a badge on your bosom and throw rough-riding strangers into the can until they sober up; or if you’re Larry Ormsby, and your old man owns the soda works, then you drive trick cars from across the pond”—nodding at the cream Vauxhall—“and spend your days pursuing beautiful telegraph operators. But I take it that you’re broke, and have just wired for money, and are waiting for the more or less doubtful results. Is that it?”

  “It is,” Steve answered absent-mindedly. So the dandy in gray was named Larry Ormsby and was the factory owner’s son.

  The thin man drew in his feet and stood up on them.

  “In that case it’s lunchtime, and my name is Roy Kamp, and I’m hungry, and I don’t like to eat alone, and I’d be glad to have you face the greasy dangers of a meal at the Finn’s with me.”

  Steve got up and held out his hand.

  “I’ll be glad to,” he said. “The coffee I had for breakfast could stand company. My name’s Steve Threefall.”

  They shook hands, and started up the street together. Coming toward them were two men in earnest conversation; one of them was the beefy man whose face Larry Ormsby had slapped. Steve waited until they had passed, and then questioned Kamp casually:

  “And who are those prominent-looking folks?”

  “The little round one in the checkered college-boy suit is Conan Elder, real estate, insurance, and securities. The Wallingford-looking personage at his side is W. W. himself—the town’s founder, owner, and whatnot—W. W. Ormsby, the Hon. Larry’s papa.”

  The scene in the office, with its slapping of a face and flourish of a pistol, had been a family affair, then; a matter between father and son, with the son in the more forcible rôle. Steve, walking along with scant attention just now for the words Kamp’s baritone voice was saying, felt a growing dissatisfaction in the memory of the girl and Larry Ormsby talking over the counter
with their heads close together.

  The Finn’s lunchroom was little more than a corridor squeezed in between a poolroom and a hardware store, of barely sufficient width for a counter and a row of revolving stools. Only one customer was there when the two men entered. “Hello, Mr. Rymer,” said Kamp.

  “How are you, Mr. Kamp?” the man at the counter said, and as he turned his head toward them, Steve saw that he was blind. His large blue eyes were filmed over with a gray curtain which gave him the appearance of having dark hollows instead of eyes.

  He was a medium-sized man who looked seventy, but there was a suggestion of fewer years in the suppleness of his slender white hands. He had a thick mane of white hair about a face that was crisscrossed with wrinkles, but it was a calm face, the face of a man at peace with his world. He was just finishing his meal, and left shortly, moving to the door with the slow accuracy of the blind man in familiar surroundings.

  “Old man Rymer,” Kamp told Steve, “lives in a shack behind where the new fire house is going to be, all alone. Supposed to have tons of gold coins under his floor—thus local gossip. Some day we’re going to find him all momicked up. But he won’t listen to reason. Says nobody would hurt him. Says that in a town as heavy with assorted thugs as this!”

  “A tough town, is it?” Steve asked.

  “Couldn’t help being! It’s only three years old—and a desert boom town draws the tough boys.”

  Kamp left Steve after their meal, saying he probably would run across him later in the evening, and suggesting that there were games of a sort to be found in the next-door poolroom.

  “I’ll see you there then,” Steve said, and went back to the telegraph office. The girl was alone. “Anything for me?” he asked her.

  She put a green check and a telegram on the counter and returned to her desk. The telegram read: