Creeping Siamese and Other Stories

by Dashiell Hammett

  “No—except I was wondering about your leaving the place where he was killed the day after he was killed, and coming up where he had lived. Did you know him?”

  “He was pointed out to me in Nogales as a San Francisco millionaire going with a party to look at some mining property in Mexico. I was figuring on maybe selling him something later, but the Mexican patriots got him before I did.”

  “And so you came north?”

  “Uh-huh. The hubbub kind of spoiled things for me. I had a nice little business in—call it supplies—to and fro across the line. This Newhall killing turned the spotlight on that part of the country. So I thought I’d come up and collect that hundred thousand and give things a chance to settle down there. Honest, brother, I haven’t killed a millionaire in weeks, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “That’s good. Now, as I get it, you’re counting on landing Papadopoulos. Angel Grace sent for you, thinking you’d run him down just to even up for Paddy’s killing, but it’s the money you want, so you figure on playing with me as well as the Angel. That right?”

  “Check.”

  “You know what’ll happen if she learns you’re stringing along with me?”

  “Uh-huh. She’ll chuck a convulsion—kind of balmy on the subject of keeping clear of the police, isn’t she?”

  “She is—somebody told her something about honor among thieves once and she’s never got over it. Her brother’s doing a hitch up north now—Johnny the Plumber sold him out. Her man Paddy was mowed down by his pals. Did either of those things wake her up? Not a chance. She’d rather have Papadopoulos go free than join forces with us.”

  “That’s all right,” Tom-Tom Carey assured me. “She thinks I’m the loyal brother—Paddy couldn’t have told her much about me—and I’ll handle her. You having her shadowed?”

  I said: “Yes—ever since she was turned loose. She was picked up the same day Flora and Pogy and Red were grabbed, but we hadn’t anything on her except that she had been Paddy’s lady-love, so I had her sprung. How much dope did you get out of her?”

  “Descriptions of Papadoodle and Nancy Regan, and that’s all. She don’t know any more about them than I do. Where does this Regan girl fit in?”

  “Hardly any, except that she might lead us to Papadopoulos. She was Red’s girl. It was keeping a date with her that he upset the game. When Papadopoulos wriggled out he took the girl with him. I don’t know why. She wasn’t in on the stick-ups.”

  Tom-Tom Carey finished making and lighting his fifth cigarette and stood up.

  “Are we teamed?” he asked as he picked up his hat.

  “If you turn in Papadopoulos I’ll see that you get every nickel you’re entitled to,” I replied. “And I’ll give you a clear field—I won’t handicap you with too much of an attempt to keep my eyes on your actions.”

  He said that was fair enough, told me he was stopping at a hotel in Ellis Street, and went away.

  II

  Calling the late Taylor Newhall’s office on the phone, I was told that if I wanted any information about his affairs I should try his country residence, some miles south of San Francisco. I tried it. A ministerial voice that said it belonged to the butler told me that Newhall’s attorney, Franklin Ellert, was the person I should see. I went over to Ellert’s office.

  He was a nervous, irritable old man with a lisp and eyes that stuck out with blood pressure.

  “Is there any reason,” I asked point-blank, “for supposing that Newhall’s murder was anything more than a Mexican bandit outburst? Is it likely that he was killed purposely, and not resisting capture?”

  Lawyers don’t like to be questioned. This one sputtered and made faces at me and let his eyes stick out still further and, of course, didn’t give me an answer.

  “How? How?” he snapped disagreeably. “Exthplain your meaning, thir!”

  He glared at me and then at the desk, pushing papers around with excited hands, as if he were hunting for a police whistle. I told my story—told him about Tom-Tom Carey.

  Ellert sputtered some more, demanded, “What the devil do you mean?” and made a complete jumble of the papers on his desk.

  “I don’t mean anything,” I growled back. “I’m just telling you what was said.”

  “Yeth! Yeth! I know!” He stopped glaring at me and his voice was less peevish. “But there ith abtholutely no reathon for thuthpecting anything of the thort. None at all, thir, none at all!”

  “Maybe you’re right.” I turned to the door. “But I’ll poke into it a little anyway.”

  “Wait! Wait!” He scrambled out of his chair and ran around the desk to me. “I think you are mithtaken, but if you are going to invethtigate it I would like to know what you dithcover. Perhapth you’d better charge me with your regular fee for whatever ith done, and keep me informed of your progreth. Thatithfactory?”

  I said it was, came back to his desk and began to question him. There was, as the lawyer had said, nothing in Newhall’s affairs to stir us up. The dead man was several times a millionaire, with most of his money in mines. He had inherited nearly half his money. There was no shady practice, no claim-jumping, no trickery in his past, no enemies. He was a widower with one daughter. She had everything she wanted while he lived, and she and her father had been very fond of one another. He had gone to Mexico with a party of mining men from New York who expected to sell him some property there. They had been attacked by bandits, had driven them off, but Newhall and a geologist named Parker had been killed during the fight.

  Back in the office, I wrote a telegram to our Los Angeles branch, asking that an operative be sent to Nogales to pry into Newhall’s killing and Tom-Tom Carey’s affairs. The clerk to whom I gave it to be coded and sent told me the Old Man wanted to see me. I went into his office and was introduced to a short, rolly-polly man named Hook.

  “Mr. Hook,” the Old Man said, “is the proprietor of a restaurant in Sausalito. Last Monday he employed a waitress named Nelly Riley. She told him she had come from Los Angeles. Her description, as Mr. Hook gives it, is quite similar to the description you and Counihan have given of Nancy Regan. Isn’t it?” he asked the fat man.

  “Absolutely. It’s exactly what I read in the papers. She’s five feet five inches tall, about, and medium in size, and she’s got blue eyes and brown hair, and she’s around twenty-one or two, and she’s got looks, and the thing that counts most is she’s high-hat as the devil—she don’t think nothin’s good enough for her. Why, when I tried to be a little sociable she told me to keep my ‘dirty paws’ to myself. And then I found out she didn’t know hardly nothing about Los Angeles, though she claimed to have lived there two or three years. I bet you she’s the girl, all right,” and he went on talking about how much reward money he ought to get.

  “Are you going back there now?” I asked him.

  “Pretty soon. I got to stop and see about some dishes. Then I’m going back.”

  “This girl will be working?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll send a man over with you—one who knows Nancy Regan.”

  I called Jack Counihan in from the operatives’ room and introduced him to Hook. They arranged to meet in half an hour at the ferry and Hook waddled out.

  “This Nelly Riley won’t be Nancy Regan,” I said. “But we can’t afford to pass up even a hundred to one chance.”

  I told Jack and the Old Man about Tom-Tom Carey and my visit to Ellert’s office. The Old Man listened with his usual polite attentiveness. Young Counihan—only four months in the man-hunting business—listened with wide eyes.

  “You’d better run along now and meet Hook,” I said when I had finished, leaving the Old Man’s office with Jack. “And if she should be Nancy Regan—grab her and hang on.” We were out of the Old Man’s hearing, so I added, “And for God’s sake don’t let your youthful gallantry lead you to a poke in the
jaw this time. Pretend you’re grown up.”

  The boy blushed, said, “Go to hell!” adjusted his necktie, and set off to meet Hook.

  I had some reports to write. After I had finished them I put my feet on my desk, made cavities in a package of Fatimas, and thought about Tom-Tom Carey until six o’clock. Then I went down to the States for my abalone chowder and minute steak and home to change clothes before going out Sea Cliff way to sit in a poker game.

  The telephone interrupted my dressing. Jack Counihan was on the other end.

  “I’m in Sausalito. The girl wasn’t Nancy, but I’ve got hold of something else. I’m not sure how to handle it. Can you come over?”

  “Is it important enough to cut a poker game for?”

  “Yes, it’s—I think it’s big.” He was excited. “I wish you would come over. I really think it’s a lead.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the ferry there. Not the Golden Gate, the other.”

  “All right. I’ll catch the first boat.”

  III

  An hour later I walked off the boat in Sausalito. Jack Counihan pushed through the crowd and began talking:

  “Coming down here on my way back——”

  “Hold it till we get out of the mob,” I advised him. “It must be tremendous—the eastern point of your collar is bent.”

  He mechanically repaired this defect in his otherwise immaculate costuming while we walked to the street, but he was too intent on whatever was on his mind to smile.

  “Up this way,” he said, guiding me around a corner. “Hook’s lunch-room is on the corner. You can take a look at the girl if you like. She’s of the same size and complexion as Nancy Regan, but that is all. She’s a tough little job who probably was fired for dropping her chewing gum in the soup the last place she worked.”

  “All right. That lets her out. Now what’s on your mind?”

  “After I saw her I started back to the ferry. A boat came in while I was still a couple of blocks away. Two men who must have come in on it came up the street. They were Greeks, rather young, tough, though ordinarily I shouldn’t have paid much attention to them. But, since Papadopoulos is a Greek, we have been interested in them, of course, so I looked at these chaps. They were arguing about something as they walked, not talking loud, but scowling at one another. As they passed me the chap on the gutter side said to the other, “I tell him it’s been twenty-nine days.”

  “Twenty-nine days. I counted back and it’s just twenty-nine days since we started hunting for Papadopoulos. He is a Greek and these chaps were Greeks. When I had finished counting I turned around and began to follow them. They took me all the way through the town and up a hill on the fringe. They went to a little cottage—it couldn’t have more than three rooms—set back in a clearing in the woods by itself. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign on it, and no curtains in the windows, no sign of occupancy—but on the ground behind the back door there was a wet place, as if a bucket or pan of water had been thrown out.

  “I stayed in the bushes until it got a little darker. Then I went closer. I could hear people inside, but I couldn’t see anything through the windows. They’re boarded up. After a while the two chaps I had followed came out, saying something in a language I couldn’t understand to whoever was in the cottage. The cottage door stayed open until the two men had gone out of sight down the path—so I couldn’t have followed them without being seen by whoever was at the door.

  “Then the door was closed and I could hear people moving around inside—or perhaps only one person—and could smell cooking, and some smoke came out of the chimney. I waited and waited and nothing more happened and I thought I had better get in touch with you.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I agreed.

  We were passing under a street light. Jack stopped me with a hand on my arm and fished something out of his overcoat pocket.

  “Look!” He held it out to me. A charred piece of blue cloth. It could have been the remains of a woman’s hat that had been three-quarters burned. I looked at it under the street light and then used my flashlight to examine it more closely.

  “I picked it up behind the cottage while I was nosing around,” Jack said, “and—”

  “And Nancy Regan wore a hat of that shade the night she and Papadopoulos vanished,” I finished for him. “On to the cottage.”

  We left the street lights behind, climbed the hill, dipped down into a little valley, turned into a winding sandy path, left that to cut across sod between trees to a dirt road, trod half a mile of that, and then Jack led the way along a narrow path that wound through a black tangle of bushes and small trees. I hoped he knew where he was going.

  “Almost there,” he whispered to me.

  A man jumped out of the bushes and took me by the neck.

  My hands were in my overcoat pockets—one holding the flashlight, the other my gun.

  I pushed the muzzle of the pocketed gun toward the man—pulled the trigger.

  The shot ruined seventy-five dollars’ worth of overcoat for me. But it took the man away from my neck.

  That was lucky. Another man was on my back.

  I tried to twist away from him—didn’t altogether make it—felt the edge of a knife along my spine.

  That wasn’t so lucky—but it was better than getting the point.

  I butted back at his face—missed—kept twisting and squirming while I brought my hands out of my pockets and clawed at him.

  The blade of his knife came flat against my cheek. I caught the hand that held it and let myself go—down backward—him under.

  He said: “Uh!”

  I rolled over, got hands and knees on the ground, was grazed by a fist, scrambled up.

  Fingers dragged at my ankle.

  My behavior was ungentlemanly. I kicked the fingers away—found the man’s body—kicked it twice—hard.

  Jack’s voice whispered my name. I couldn’t see him in the blackness, nor could I see the man I had shot.

  “All right here,” I told Jack. “How did you come out?”

  “Top-hole. Is that all of it?”

  “Don’t know, but I’m going to risk a peek at what I’ve got.”

  Tilting my flashlight down at the man under my foot, I snapped it on. A thin blond man, his face blood-smeared, his pink-rimmed eyes jerking as he tried to play ’possum in the glare.

  “Come out of it!” I ordered.

  A heavy gun went off back in the bush—another, lighter one. The bullets ripped through the foliage.

  I switched off the light, bent to the man on the ground, knocked him on the top of the head with my gun.

  “Crouch down low,” I whispered to Jack.

  The smaller gun snapped again, twice. It was ahead, to the left.

  I put my mouth to Jack’s ear.

  “We’re going to that damned cottage whether anybody likes it or no. Keep low and don’t do any shooting unless you can see what you’re shooting at. Go ahead.”

  Bending as close to the ground as I could, I followed Jack up the path. The position stretched the slash in my back—a scalding pain from between my shoulders almost to my waist. I could feel blood trickling down over my hips—or thought I could.

  The going was too dark for stealthiness. Things crackled under our feet, rustled against our shoulders. Our friends in the bush used their guns. Luckily, the sound of twigs breaking and leaves rustling in pitch blackness isn’t the best of targets. Bullets zipped here and there, but we didn’t stop any of them. Neither did we shoot back.

  We halted where the end of the bush left the night a weaker gray.

  “That’s it,” Jack said about a square shape ahead.

  “On the jump,” I grunted and lit out for the dark cottage.

  Jack’s long slim legs kept him easily at my side as we raced across the clearing.


  A man-shape oozed from behind the blot of the building and his gun began to blink at us. The shots came so close together that they sounded like one long stuttering bang.

  Pulling the youngster with me, I flopped, flat to the ground except where a ragged-edged empty tin-can held my face up.

  From the other side of the building another gun coughed. From a tree-stem to the right, a third.

  Jack and I began to burn powder back at them.

  A bullet kicked my mouth full of dirt and pebbles. I spit mud and cautioned Jack:

  “You’re shooting too high. Hold it low and pull easy.”

  A hump showed in the house’s dark profile. I sent a bullet at it.

  A man’s voice yelled: “Ow—ooh!” and then, lower but very bitter, “Oh, damn you—damn you!”

  For a warm couple of seconds bullets spattered all around us. Then there was not a sound to spoil the night’s quietness.

  When the silence had lasted five minutes, I got myself up on hands and knees and began to move forward, Jack following. The ground wasn’t made for that sort of work. Ten feet of it was enough. We stood up and walked the rest of the way to the building.

  “Wait,” I whispered, and leaving Jack at one corner of the building, I circled it, seeing nobody, hearing nothing but the sounds I made.

  We tried the front door. It was locked but rickety.

  Bumping it open with my shoulder, I went indoors—flashlight and gun in my fists.

  The shack was empty.

  Nobody—no furnishings—no traces of either in the two bare rooms—nothing but bare wooden walls, bare floor, bare ceiling, with a stove-pipe connected to nothing sticking through it.

  Jack and I stood in the middle of the floor, looked at the emptiness, and cursed the dump from back door to front for being empty. We hadn’t quite finished when feet sounded outside, a white light beamed on the open doorway, and a cracked voice said:

  “Hey! You can come out one at a time—kind of easy like!”

  “Who says so?” I asked, snapping off the flashlight, moving over close to a side wall.

  “A whole goldurned flock of deputy sheriffs,” the voice answered.