Crime Stories

by Dashiell Hammett

  Phil turned his head and pretended to look at Serge, but he scarcely saw the man. He was trying to convince himself that this threat was a bluff, that Kapaloff would not dare resort to torture; but his success was slight. If his ability to read men was of any value at all then this Russian was one who would stop at nothing to attain his ends. Phil decided he would not submit to any excruciating pain to save the bag. In the first place, he did not know how valuable the paper might be; secondly, he seemed to be the girl’s only ally, and he flattered himself that he was more valuable an aid than a letter could be. However, he would fight to the last inch—bluff until the final moment.

  “I can’t make terms until I talk with your niece.”

  Kapaloff expostulated gently but firmly. “That is not possible. I am sorry, but you must understand that my position is very delicate, and I cannot permit it to become more complicated.”

  “No talk, no terms,” Phil said flatly.

  Kapaloff let his distress furrow his brow. “Think it over. You must know that I shall not be pleased by the necessity of making you suffer. In fact”—with a whimsical smile—“Serge will be the only participant who enjoys it.”

  “Bring on the knife,” Phil said coolly. “No talk, no terms.”

  Kapaloff nodded to Serge, who left the room.

  “There is no hurry—a few minutes’ delay doesn’t matter,” Kapaloff urged. “Consider your position. Think! Under Serge’s skilled hands you will tell—do not doubt it—but then you lose the extra five hundred dollars, besides causing me no little anguish—to say nothing of your own plight.”

  Phil’s smile matched Kapaloff’s for affability. “It would be just wasting time. If I can’t see Miss Kapaloff I’ll stand pat.”

  Serge returned with an alcohol-lamp and a small poniard. He set the lamp on the table, lit it, and held the blade in the flame. Phil watched the preparations with a face that was tranquil. He noticed, suddenly, that the hand holding the poniard trembled, and, raising his eyes, he saw tiny globules of moisture glistening on Serge’s forehead. His face was haggard, with white lines around the mouth. Mikhail put Phil down on the bed again, gripping his ankles firmly. Phil said nothing. He was beginning to enjoy himself—knowing that he could stop the whole thing with a word. Serge’s knees were trembling noticeably now; and Mikhail’s fingers around Phil’s ankles jerked and were moist with perspiration.

  Phil grinned and spoke banteringly to Kapaloff: “You should rehearse these men of yours. I bet their torturing is not better than their burglary.”

  Kapaloff chuckled good-naturedly. “But you must consider that a bungling torturer may obtain effects that are beyond a skilled one.”

  Then Serge came to the bed, the poniard glowing in his shaking hand.

  Phil spoke casually: “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit up and watch this.”

  “Certainly!” Kapaloff assisted him to a sitting position. “Is there anything else I can do to make it more bearable?”

  “Thanks, no. I can manage nicely now.”

  Serge was extending the heated dagger toward the soles of Phil’s feet, from which Mikhail had removed the stockings. The blade was wavering in the man’s nervous hands; his eyes were bulging, and his face was wet with perspiration. Mikhail’s fingers were pressing into Phil’s ankles, grinding the flesh painfully; both of Kapaloff’s assistants were breathing hoarsely. Phil forced himself to disregard the pain of Mikhail’s grip, and smiled derisively. The point of the poniard was within an inch of his feet. Then Serge let it fall to the floor, and shrank back from the bed. Kapaloff spoke to him. Slowly Serge stooped for the poniard, and went to the lamp to reheat it, his body quivering as with ague.

  He came to the bed again, his teeth clenched behind taut, bloodless lips. He bent over the bed, and Phil felt the heat of the approaching blade. Lazily he glanced at Kapaloff, carrying his acting to its pinnacle just before surrendering. Then, with a choking cry, Serge flung the poniard from him and dropped on his knees before Kapaloff, pleading pitifully. Kapaloff answered with exaggerated gentleness, as one would speak to an infant. Serge got to his feet slowly, and backed away, his head hanging. One of Kapaloff’s hands came out of his pocket, holding a pistol. The pistol spat flame. Serge caught both hands to his body, and crumpled to the floor.

  Kapaloff walked unhurriedly to where the man had fallen, put the toe of one trim shoe under Serge’s shoulder, and turned him over on his back. Then, the pistol hanging loosely at his side, he sent four bullets into Serge’s face, wiping out the features in a red smear.

  Kapaloff turned and looked, with eyes that held nothing but polite expectation, at Mikhail. Mikhail had released Phil’s ankles at the first shot, and now stood erect, his hands at his sides. His chest was moving jerkily and the scar across his face was crimson; but his eyes were fixed upon the wall and his face was wooden. For a full minute Kapaloff looked at Mikhail, and then turned back to the figure at his feet. A drop of blood glistened on the toe of the shoe with which he had turned the man over. Carefully he rubbed the foot against the dead man’s side until the blood was gone. Then he spoke to Mikhail, who lifted the lifeless form in his powerful arms and left the room.

  Kapaloff pocketed his pistol, and a courteously apologetic smile appeared on his face; as if he were a housewife who had been compelled to rebuke a maid in the presence of a guest. Phil was sick and giddy with horror, but he forced himself to accept the challenge of the smile, and said with a fair semblance of amusement: “You shouldn’t have misinformed me about Serge’s love for the hot knife.”

  Kapaloff chuckled. “The persuasion is postponed until tomorrow. I am afraid I shall have to leave you bound. Ordinarily I should simply leave Mikhail to guard you; but I am not sure that I can trust him now. Serge was his brother.”

  He picked up the lamp and the poniard.

  “The distressing scene you have just seen should at least convince you of my earnestness.” Then he left the room and the key turned in the lock.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Double-Crossed

  Phil rolled over and buried his face in the bed; giving away to the sickness he had fought down in Kapaloff s presence. He lay there and sobbed, not thinking, weak and miserable. But he was too young for this to last long; and his first thought was a buoying one: the torturing had been interrupted at the last moment, almost miraculously! His luck held!

  He worked himself into a sitting position and attempted to loosen the cords around his wrists and ankles. But he only drove them deeper into the flesh, so he gave it up. He wormed his way to the floor and slowly, laboriously went over the room in the dark, hunting for something that would serve to free him, but he found nothing. The shutters were bolted and padlocked; the door was massive. He returned to the bed.

  Time passed—hours he had no means of counting—and then the door opened and Mikhail came in, with a tray of food in his hands, followed by Kapaloff who went to a window and stood with his back to it while Mikhail set the tray on the table and untied Phil.

  Kapaloff gestured toward the table. “I am sorry I cannot offer you greater hospitality, but my household is disorganized. I trust you will find my humble best not too uninviting.”

  Phil drew a chair to the table and ate. His appetite was poor, but he forced himself to eat with every appearance of enjoyment. When the food was disposed of he lighted one of the cigarettes on the tray and smiled his thanks.

  “Unless you have reconsidered,” the Russian said, “I regret that you will have to sleep tied. I am sorry, but I find myself in a position where I must not let my regard for you and my sense of what is due a guest outweigh the necessity of protecting my interests.”

  Phil shrugged. The food had heartened him, and he was too young not to meet the challenge of his captor’s manner.

  “I’m tough. Mind if I stretch my legs first?”

  “No, no! I want you to be as comfortable as may be. Walk about the room and smoke. You will sleep the better for it.”

  Phil lef
t the table and slowly paced up and down the room, turning over in his mind the latest development in this game. Kapaloff had entered the room behind Mikhail, had kept his right hand in his jacket pocket, and had not allowed his servant to get out of the range of his vision for an instant. If Kapaloff couldn’t trust Mikhail, perhaps Phil could. The man was standing across the room from Kapaloff. His face showed nothing.

  Kapaloff was asking: “You are still obdurate, then; and will not make terms?”

  “I’m willing to make terms; but not to accept the ones you have made.”

  Passing the table, Phil’s glance fell on the knife with which he had cut his meat. It was silver, and of little value as a weapon, but it would serve to cut the cords with which he had been bound. He reached the wall and turned. The cigarette between his lips was but a stub now. He went to the table and selected a fresh cigarette. Reaching for a match, he placed his body between Kapaloff and the tray. Mikhail, on the other side of the room, could see every movement of Phil’s hands. Fumbling with the matches, he picked up the knife with his left hand and slid it up his sleeve. Mikhail’s face was expressionless. Phil turned with the lighted cigarette in his mouth and resumed his pacing, thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets and allowing the knife to slide down into one of them. He reached the end of the room and started to turn. His elbows were seized, and he looked over his shoulder into Mikhail’s stolid face. Mikhail drew the knife from the pocket, returned it to the tray, and went back to his post by the wall.

  Kapaloff spoke approvingly to Mikhail in Russian, and then said to Phil: “I did not see you get it. But, behold, you cannot put faith even in the disloyalty of my servitors!”

  Phil felt tired and spent—he had counted on the scarred man’s help. He went to the bed and Mikhail bound him. Then the lights were turned off and he was left alone.

  CHAPTER IX

  A Break for Freedom

  The sound of a key being turned slowly, cautiously, in the door awakened Phil from the fitful sleep into which he had fallen. The noise stopped. He could see nothing. Something touched the sole of one bare foot and he jumped convulsively, shaking the bed.

  “Sh-h-h!”

  A cool, soft hand touched his cheek, and he whispered: “Romaine?”

  “Yes. Be still while I cut the cords.”

  Her hands passed down his arms, and his hands were freed. A little more fumbling in the dark and his feet were loose. He sat up suddenly and their faces bumped in the dark, and quite without thought he kissed her. For an instant she clung to him. Then she retreated a few inches, and said: “But first we must hurry.”

  “Sure,” he agreed. “What do we do next?”

  “Go downstairs to the front of the house, and wait until we hear the dogs in the rear. Mikhail will call them back there under some pretext, and hold them until we get out of the yard.”

  She pressed a heavy revolver into Phil’s hand.

  “But aren’t the dogs kept locked up?”

  “No.”

  “They were last night,” Phil insisted, “or I never would have made it.”

  “Oh, yes! Uncle Boris expected you, and kept them in the garage until after you arrived.”

  “Oh!” So he had done what was expected of him! “Well, if Mikhail’s with us, why not slip down and grab your uncle and wind this thing up?”

  “No! Mikhail wouldn’t help us do that. Even when his brother was killed before his eyes he would do nothing. For generations his people have been serfs, slaves, of uncle’s—and he hasn’t the courage to defy him. If he’s to help at all it must be secretly. If it comes to a point where he must choose, he will be with uncle.”

  “All right, let’s go!” His bare feet touched the floor and he laughed. “I haven’t seen my shoes since I came through the window. I’m going to have a lot of fun running around on my naked tootsies!”

  She took his hand and led him to the door. They listened but heard nothing. They crept out into the hall and toward the stairs. An electric light over the stairs gave a dim glow. They halted while Phil mounted the balustrade and unscrewed the bulb, shrouding the steps into darkness. At the foot of the flight they halted again, and Phil darkened the light there. Then she guided him toward the front door.

  Somewhere in the night behind them a door opened. A noise of something sliding across the floor. Kapaloff’s mellow tones:

  “Children, you had best return to your rooms. There really is nothing else to do. If you move toward the door, you will show up in the moonlight that is shining through there. On the other hand, I have thoughtfully pushed a chair a little way down the hall from where I am, so that even if you could creep silently upon me you must inevitably collide with the chair and give me an inkling of where to send my bullets. So there is really nothing else to do but return to your rooms.”

  Huddled against the wall, Phil and Romaine said nothing, but in the hearts of each a desperate hope was born. Kapaloff chuckled and he killed their hopes.

  “You need expect nothing from Mikhail. Your escape meant nothing to him, but he trusted you to exact the vengeance that he is too much the serf to take himself. So he supplied you with a weapon, I suppose, and sent you down into the hall. Then he pretended to hear a noise—thinking that I would rush out here to fall before your bullets. Happily, I know something of the peasant mind. So when he started and pretended to hear something that my keener ears missed I knocked him down with my pistol, and came out here knowing about what to expect. Now I must ask that you return to your rooms.”

  Phil pressed the girl down until she lay flat on the floor, close to the wall. He stretched out in front of her, his eyes trying to dissolve the darkness. Kapaloff was lying on the floor somewhere ahead; but which wall was he clinging to? In a room something of his position could have been learned from his voice, but in this narrow passage all sense of direction was lost. The sounds simply came out of the night.

  The Russian’s cultured voice reached them again. “You know, we are on the verge of making ourselves ridiculous. This reclining in the dark would be well enough except that I fancy we are both exceptionally patient beings. Hence, it is likely to be prolonged to an absurd length.”

  With the hand that was not occupied with the revolver Phil felt in his pockets. In a vest pocket he found several coins. He tossed one of them down the hall; it hit a wall and fell to the floor.

  Kapaloff laughed. “I was thinking of that, too; but it isn’t easy to imitate the sound of a person in motion.”

  Phil cursed under his breath. “There must be some way out of this hole!” Toward the front the hall was too light, as Kapaloff had said; and there seemed to be no other exits except by the stairs, or past the Russian. He might chance a volley—but there was the girl to consider. He never questioned that Kapaloff would shoot. Romaine crawled to his side.

  “If we go upstairs,” she whispered, “we are trapped.”

  “Can you think of anything?”

  “No!” And then she added naively: “But here with you I am not afraid.” She clutched his arm. “I believe he has gone. It feels as if no one else was here.”

  “What would that mean?”

  “The dogs, maybe!”

  He thought of the sinewy bodies and dripping jaws he had seen in the yard, and shuddered.

  “You wait here,” he ordered, and started crawling silently toward the rear of the hall. After it seemed that he must have gone a hundred feet his hand touched the chair of which Kapaloff had spoken. He moved it aside carefully, and went on. His fingers touched a door-frame—the end of the hall.

  He whispered to the girl, “He’s gone,” and she joined him.

  “Shall we make a break for it?” he asked.

  “Yes. Better try the back.”

  She pushed past him, took his hand, and led him through the room beyond.

  CHAPTER X

  “My Hands Will Be Steady”

  Three steps they took into the darkness, and then the lights clicked on and Phil found himself he
lpless, his arms pinned in Mikhail’s powerful embrace. Kapaloff plucked the revolver from Phil’s hand and smiled into his face.

  “The variable Mikhail—whom you see allied with me again—has a tough head, and I feared that my blow would not quiet him for long. You can imagine in what an unenviable position I found myself out in the hall: with you ahead and my erratic compatriot behind. When I could stand it no longer I came back and resuscitated him, enlisting him on my side again.”

  Mikhail released Phil and stepped back. Kapaloff went on, with a gay mockery of plaintiveness:

  “You will readily understand, Mr. Truax, that I cannot go on this way. A few more days of this and I shall be a wreck. I am a simple soul and cannot bear this distraction. You have seen Romaine. Do you accept my terms?”

  Phil shook off the feeling of disgust with himself for having been so easily recaptured; and decided to play the same game he had played before: bluff until the actual pain came. He smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ll never agree.”

  Kapaloff sighed. “I shall attend to the rites myself this time; so do not expect an outburst of tenderness to halt them. Though my heart bleeds for you my hands will be steady.”

  Then the girl spoke. Her voice was tense, vibrant. Both men turned toward her. She was speaking to Mikhail, in Russian. Her voice gradually sank lower and lower until it was but a murmur, and took on an urgent, pleading tone. Mikhail’s lips were pressing together with increasing tension, and his carriage became rigid. His eyes fixed on a spot on the opposite wall. Phil shot a puzzled look at Kapaloff and saw that he was watching his niece and servant with dancing eyes. The girl’s voice crooned on, and the moisture came out on Mikhail’s face. His mouth was a thin, straight line, now, and the skin over the knuckles of his clenched hands seemed about to split from the strain. Still Romaine talked and, as she mentioned Serge’s name, suddenly it came to Phil what was happening. She was making an open appeal to Mikhail, reminding him of his brother’s death, goading him into desperation! The man’s eyes were distended and the scar across his nose was a vivid gash—it might have been made yesterday. The muscles of his forehead, jaws, and neck stood out like welts; his breath hissed through quivering nostrils. Still the girl’s voice went on. Phil looked at Kapaloff again. A sardonic smile of amused expectancy was on his face. He spoke softly, mockingly, a few words, but neither the girl nor Mikhail heeded him. Her voice droned on: a monotonous chant now. Mikhail’s great fists opened and drops of blood ran down his fingers from where his nails had bitten into the palms. Slowly he turned and met his master’s eyes. For a second the eyes held, but Mikhail’s heritage of servility was too strong within him. His eyes dropped and he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.