The Dashiell Hammett Megapack: 20 Classic Stories

by Dashiell Hammett

  The envelope was empty.

  Our agreement was wiped out.

  I sprang to the front window, threw it wide open, and leaned out. O’Gar saw me immediately—clearer than I could see him. I swung my arm in a wide gesture toward the rear of the house. O’Gar set out for the alley on the run. I dashed back through Ledwich’s flat to the kitchen, and stuck my head out of an already open window.

  I could see Ledwich against the white-washed fence—throwing the back gate open, plunging through it into the alley.

  O’Gar’s squat bulk appeared under a light at the end of the alley.

  Ledwich’s revolver was in his hand. O’Gar’s wasn’t—not quite.

  Ledwich’s gun swung up—the hammer clicked.

  O’Gar’s gun coughed fire.

  Ledwich fell with a slow, revolving motion over against the white fence, gasped once or twice, and went down in a pile.

  I walked slowly down the stairs to join O’Gar; slowly, because it isn’t a nice thing to look at a man you’ve deliberately sent to his death. Not even if it’s the surest way of saving an innocent life, and if the man who dies is a Jake Ledwich—altogether treacherous.

  “How come?” O’Gar asked, when I came into the alley, where he stood looking down at the dead man.

  “He got out on me,” I said simply.

  “He must’ve.”

  I stooped and searched the dead man’s pockets until I found the suicide note, still crumpled in the handkerchief. O’Gar was examining the dead man’s revolver.

  “Lookit!” he exclaimed. “Maybe this ain’t my lucky day! He snapped at me once, and his gun missed fire. No wonder! Somebody must’ve been using an ax on it—the firing pin’s broke clean off!”

  “Is that so?” I asked; just as if I hadn’t discovered, when I first picked the revolver up, that the bullet which had knocked it out of Ledwich’s hand had made it harmless.

  THE WAGES OF CRIME

  Originally published under the pseudonym “Peter Collinson”

  “Come along without any fuss and there won’t be trouble,” said the tall man with the protruding lower lip.

  “And remember, anything you say will—” the fat man under the stiff straw hat warned, the rest of the prescribed caution dying somewhere within the folds of his burly neck.

  A frown of perplexed interrogation reduced the none too ample area between Tom Doody’s eyebrows and the roots of his hair. He cleared his throat uneasily and asked, “But what’s it for?”

  The protruding lower lip overlapped the upper in a smile that tempered derision with indulgence. “You ought to be able to guess—but it ain’t a secret. You’re arrested for stealing sixty-five thousand dollars from the National Marine Bank. We found the dough where you hid it, and now we got you.”

  “That’s what,” the fat man corroborated.

  * * * *

  Tom Doody leaned across the plain table in the visitors’ room and bent his beady eyes on the tired, middle-aged eyes of the woman from the Morning Bulletin.

  “Miss Envers, I have served three and a half years here and I’ve got nearly ten more to do, taking in account what I expect to get off for good behavior. A long time, I guess you think; but I’m telling you that I don’t regret a minute of it.” He paused to let this startling assertion sink in, and then leaned forward again over hands that lay flat, palms down, fingers spread, on the top of the table.

  “I came in here, Miss Envers, a safe-burglar that had been caught for the first and only time in fifteen years of crime. I am going out of here completely reformed, and with only one aim in my life; and that’s to do all I can to keep other people from following in my footsteps. I’m studying, and the chaplain is helping me, so that when I get out I can talk and write so as to get my message across. I used to be pretty good at reciting and making speeches when I was a kid in school, and I guess it’ll come back to me all right. I’m going from one end of the country to the other, if I have to ride freights, telling of my experiences as a criminal, and the light that busted—burst on me here in prison. I know what it is, and lots of people that maybe wouldn’t listen to a preacher or anybody else will pay attention to me. They’ll know that I know what I am talking about, that I’ve been through it, that I’m the man who robbed the National Marine Bank and lots of others.”

  “You were very nearly acquitted, weren’t you?” Evelyn Envers asked.

  “Yes, nearly,” the convict said, “and as truly as I’m sitting here, Miss Envers, I thank God that I was convicted!”

  He stopped and tried to read surprise in the faded grey eyes across the table. Then he went on. “But for that—the chance for self-knowledge and thought that this place has gave—has given me—I might have gone on and on, might never have come to an understanding of what it means to be a Christian and know the difference between right and wrong. Here in prison I found for the first time in my life, liberty—yes, liberty!—freedom from the bonds of vice and crime and self-destruction!”

  With this paradox, he rested.

  “Have you made any other plans for your career after leaving here?” the woman asked.

  “No. That’s too far ahead. But I am going to spend the rest of my life spreading the truth about crime as I know it, if I have to sleep in gutters and live on stale bread!”

  * * * *

  “He’s a fraud, of course,” Evelyn Envers told her typewriter as she slid a sheet of paper into it, “but he’ll make as good a story as anything else.”

  So she wrote a column about Tom Doody and his high resolves, and because the thought behind his reformation was so evident to her, she took special pains with the story, gilding the shabbier of his mouthings and garnishing the man himself with no inconsiderable appeal.

  For several days after the story’s appearance, letters came to the Morning Bulletin Readers’ Forum, commenting on Tom Doody and tendering suggestions of various sorts.

  The Rev. Randall Gordon Rand made Tom Doody the subject of one of his informal Sunday talks.

  And then John J. Kelleher, 1322 Britton Street, was crushed to death by a furniture van after pushing little Fern Bier, five-year-old daughter to Louis Bier, 1304 Britton Street, to safety; and it developed that Kelleher had been convicted of burglary several years before, and was out on parole at the time of the accident.

  Evelyn Envers wrote a column about Kelleher and his dark-eyed little wife, and with doubtful relevance brought Tom Doody into the last paragraph. The Chronicle and the Intelligencer printed editorials in which Kelleher’s death was adduced as demonstrative of the parole system’s merit.

  On the afternoon before the next regular meeting of the State Parole Board, the football team of the state university—three members of the board were ardent alumni—turned a defeat into victory in the last quarter.

  Tom Doody was paroled.

  * * * *

  From his room on the third floor of the Chapham Hotel, Tom Doody could see one of the posters. Red and black letters across a fifteen-by-thirty field of glaring white gave notice that Tom Doody, a reformed safe-burglar of considerable renown, would talk at the Lyric Theatre each night for one week on the wages of sin.

  Tom Doody tilted his chair forward, rested his elbows on the sill, and studied the poster with fond eyes. That billboard was all right—though he had thought perhaps his picture would be on it. But Fincher had displayed no enthusiasm when a suggestion to that effect had been made, and whatever Fincher said went. Fincher was all right. There was the contract Fincher had given him—a good hundred dollars more a week than he had really expected.

  And then there was that young fellow Fincher had hired to put Tom Doody’s lecture in shape. There was no doubt that the lecture was all right now.

  The lecture began with his childhood in the bosom of a loving family, carried him th
rough the usual dance-hall and pool-room introductions to gay society, and then rose in a crescendo of vague but nevertheless increasingly vicious crime to a smashing climax with the burglary of the National Marine Bank’s $65,000, the resultant arrest and conviction, and the new life that had dawned as he bent one day over his machine in the prison jute-mill. Then a tapering off with a picture of the criminal’s inherent misery and the glory of standing four-square with the world. But the red meat of it was the thousand and one nights of crime—that was what the audience would come to hear.

  The young fellow who had been hired to mould and polish the Doody epic had wanted concrete facts—names and dates and amounts—about the earlier crimes; but Tom Doody had drawn the line there, protesting that such a course would lay him open to arrest for felonies with which the police had heretofore been unable to connect him, and Fincher had agreed with him.

  The truth of it was that there were no crimes prior to the National Marine Bank burglary—that unexpected conviction was the only picturesque spot in Tom Doody’s life. But he knew too much to tell Fincher that. At the time of his arrest the newspapers and the police—who, for quite perceptible reasons, pretend to see in every apprehended criminal an enormously adept and industrious fellow—had brought to light hundreds of burglaries, and even a murder or two, in which this Tom Doody might have been implicated. He felt that these fanciful accusations had helped expedite his conviction, but now the fanfare was to be of value to him—as witness the figure on his contract. As a burglar with but a single crime to his credit he would have been a poor attraction on the platform, but with the sable and crimson laurels the police and the press had hung upon him, that was another matter.

  For at least a year these black and red and white posters would accompany him wherever he went. His contract covered that period, and perhaps he could renew it for many years. Why not? The lecture was all right, and he knew he could deliver it creditably. He had rehearsed assiduously and Fincher had seemed pleased with his address. Of course he’d probably be a little nervous tomorrow night, when he faced an audience for the first time, but that would pass and he would soon feel at home in this new game. There was money in it—the ticket sales had been large, so Fincher said. Perhaps after a while…

  The door opened violently, and Fincher came into the room—an apoplectic Fincher, altogether unlike the usual smiling, mellow manager of Fincher’s International Lecture Bureau.

  “What’s up?” Tom Doody asked, consciously keeping his eyes from darting furtively towards the door.

  “What’s up?” Fincher repeated the words, but his voice was a bellow. “What’s up?” He brandished a rolled newspaper shillelagh-wise in Tom Doody’s face. “I’ll show you what’s up!” He seemed to be lashing himself into more vehement fury with reiterations of the ex-convict’s query, as lions were once said to do with their tails.

  He straightened out the newspaper, smoothed a few square inches of its surface, and thrust it at Tom Doody’s nose, with one lusty forefinger laid like an indicator on the center of the sheet.

  Tom Doody leaned back until his eyes were far enough away to focus upon the print around his manager’s finger.

  …by the police, Tom Doody, who was paroled several days ago after serving nearly four years for the theft of $65,000 from the National Marine Bank, has been completely exonerated of that crime by the deathbed confession of Walter Beadle, who…

  “That’s what’s up!” Fincher shouted, when Tom Doody had shifted his abject eyes from the paper to the floor. “Now I want that five hundred dollars I advanced to you!”

  Tom Doody went through his pockets with alacrity that poorly masked his despair and brought out some bills and a handful of silver. Fincher grabbed the money from the ex-convict’s hands and counted it rapidly.

  “Two hundred and thirty-one dollars and forty cents,” he announced. “Where’s the rest?”

  Tom Doody tried to say something, but only muttered.

  “Mumbling won’t do any good,” Fincher snarled. “I want my five hundred dollars. Where is it?”

  “That’s all I’ve got,” Tom Doody whined. “I spent the rest, but I’ll pay every cent of it back, if you’ll only give me time.”

  “I’ll give you time, you dirty crook, I’ll give you time!” Fincher stamped to the telephone. “I’ll give you till the police get here, and if you don’t come across, I’m going to swear out a warrant for obtaining money under false pretences!”

  NIGHT SHADE

  A sedan with no lights burning was standing beside the road just above Piney Falls bridge and as I drove past it a girl put her head out and said, “Please.” Her voice was urgent but there was not enough excitement in it to make it either harsh or shrill.

  I put on my brakes, then backed up. By that time a man had got out of the sedan. There was enough light to let me see he was young and fairly big. He moved a hand in the direction I had been going and said, “On your way, buddy.”

  The girl said again, “Will you drive me into town, please?” She seemed to be trying to open the sedan door. Her hat had been pushed forward over one eye.

  I said, “Sure.”

  The man in the road took a step toward me, moved his hand as before, and growled, “Scram, you.”

  I got out of my car. The man in the road had started toward me when another man’s voice came from the sedan, a harsh warning voice. “Go easy, Tony. It’s Jack Bye.” The sedan door swung open and the girl jumped out.

  Tony said, “Oh!” and his feet shuffled uncertainly on the road; but when he saw the girl making for my car he cried indignantly at her, “Listen, you can’t ride to town with—”

  She was in my roadster by then. “Good night,” she said.

  He faced me, shook his head stubbornly, began, “I’ll be damned if I’ll let—”

  I hit him. The knockdown was fair enough, because I hit him hard, but I think he could have got up again if he had wanted to. I gave him a little time, then asked the fellow in the sedan, “All right with you?” I still could not see him.

  “He’ll be all right,” he replied quickly. “I’ll take care of him, all right.”

  “Thanks.” I climbed into my car beside the girl. The rain I had been trying to get to town ahead of was beginning to fall. A coupe with a man and a woman in it passed us going toward town. We followed the coupe across the bridge.

  The girl said, “This is awfully kind of you. I wasn’t in any danger back there, but it was—nasty.”

  “They wouldn’t be dangerous,” I said, “but they would be—nasty.”

  “You know them?”

  “No.”

  “But they knew you. Tony Forrest and Fred Barnes.” When I did not say anything, she added, “They were afraid of you.”

  “I’m a desperate character.”

  She laughed. “And pretty nice of you, too, tonight. I wouldn’t’ve gone with either of them alone, but I thought with two of them…” She turned up the collar of her coat. “It’s raining in on me.”

  I stopped the roadster again and hunted for the curtain that belonged on her side of the car.

  “So your name’s Jack Bye,” she said while I was snapping it on.

  “And yours is Helen Warner.”

  “How’d you know?” She had straightened her hat.

  “I’ve seen you around.” I finished attaching the curtain and got back in.

  “Did you know who I was when I called to you?” she asked when we were moving again.

  “Yes.”

  “It was silly of me to go out with them like that.”

  “You’re shivering.”

  “It’s chilly.”

  I said I was sorry my flask was empty.

  We had turned into the western end of Hellman Avenue. It was four minutes past ten by the clock in front of the j
ewelry store on the corner of Laurel Street. A policeman in a black rubber coat was leaning against the clock. I did not know enough about perfumes to know the name of hers.

  She said, “I’m chilly. Can’t we stop somewhere and get a drink?”

  “Do you really want to?” My voice must have puzzled her; she turned her head quickly to peer at me in the dim light.

  “I’d like to,” she said, “unless you’re in a hurry.”

  “No. We could go to Mack’s. It’s only three or four blocks from here, but—it’s a nigger joint.”

  She laughed. “All I ask is that I don’t get poisoned.”

  “You won’t, but you’re sure you want to go?”

  “Certainly.” She exaggerated her shivering. “I’m cold. It’s early.”

  * * * *

  Toots Mack opened his door for us. I could tell by the politeness with which he bowed his round bald black head and said, “Good evening, sir; good evening, madam,” that he wished we had gone some place else, but I was not especially interested in how he felt about it. I said, “Hello, Toots; how are you this evening?” too cheerfully.

  There were only a few customers in the place. We went to the table in the corner farthest from the piano. Suddenly she was staring at me, her eyes, already very blue, becoming very round.

  “I thought you could see in the car,” I began.

  “How’d you get that scar?” she asked, interrupting me. She sat down.

  “That?” I put a hand to my cheek. “Fight—couple of years ago. You ought to see the one on my chest.”

  “We’ll have to go swimming some time,” she said gaily. “Please sit down and don’t keep me waiting for my drink.”

  “Are you sure you—”

  She began to chant, keeping time with her fingers on the table, “I want a drink, I want a drink, I want a drink.” Her mouth was small with full lips, and it curved up without growing wider when she smiled.