Crime Stories

by Dashiell Hammett

  I kicked the last rope loose and scrambled to the couch. The bonds were beneath it: four thick bundles, done up with heavy rubber bands. I tucked them under one arm, and went over to the man who was dying near the door. His gun was under one of his legs. I pulled it out, stepped over him, and went into the dark hall. Then I stopped to consider.

  The girl and the Chinese would split to tackle me. One would come in the front door and the other in the rear. That would be the safest way for them to handle me. My play, obviously, was to wait just inside one of those doors for them. It would be foolish for me to leave the house. That’s exactly what they would be expecting at first—and they would be lying in ambush.

  Decidedly, my play was to lie low within sight of this front door and wait until one of them came through it—as one of them surely would, when they had tired of waiting for me to come out.

  Toward the street door, the hall was lighted with the glow that filtered through the glass from the street lights. The stairway leading to the second-story threw a triangular shadow across part of the hall—a shadow that was black enough for any purpose. I crouched low in this three-cornered slice of night, and waited.

  I had two guns: the one the Chinese had given me, and the one I had taken from Hook. I had fired one shot; that would leave me eleven still to use—unless one of the weapons had been used since it was loaded. I broke the gun Tai had given me, and in the dark ran my fingers across the back of the cylinder. My fingers touched one shell—under the hammer. Tai had taken no chances; he had given me one bullet—the bullet with which I had dropped Hook.

  I put that gun down on the floor, and examined the one I had taken from Hook. It was empty. The Chinese had taken no chances at all! He had emptied Hook’s gun before returning it to him after their quarrel.

  I was in a hole! Alone, unarmed, in a strange house that would presently hold two who were hunting me— and that one of them was a woman didn’t soothe me any—she was none the less deadly on that account.

  For a moment I was tempted to make a dash for it; the thought of being out in the street again was pleasant; but I put the idea away. That would be foolishness, and plenty of it. Then I remembered the bonds under my arm. They would have to be my weapon; and if they were to serve me, they would have to be concealed.

  I slipped out of my triangular shadow and went up the stairs. Thanks to the street lights, the upstairs rooms were not too dark for me to move around. Around and around I went through the rooms, hunting for a place to hide the bonds. But when suddenly a window rattled, as if from the draught created by the opening of an outside door somewhere, I still had the loot in my hands.

  There was nothing to do now but to chuck them out of a window and trust to luck. I grabbed a pillow from a bed, stripped off the white case, and dumped the bonds into it. Then I leaned out of an already open window and looked down into the night, searching for a desirable dumping place: I didn’t want the bonds to land on anything that would make a racket.

  And, looking out of the window, I found a better hiding place. The window opened into a narrow court, on the other side of which was a house of the same sort as the one I was in. That house was of the same height as this one, with a flat tin roof that sloped down the other way. The roof wasn’t far from me—not too far to chuck the pillow case. I chucked it. It disappeared over the edge of the roof and crackled softly on the tin.

  Then I turned on all the lights in the room, lighted a cigarette (we all like to pose a little now and then), and sat down on the bed to await my capture. I might have stalked my enemies through the dark house, and possibly have nabbed them; but most likely I would simply have succeeded in getting myself shot. And I don’t like to be shot.

  The girl found me.

  She came creeping up the hall, an automatic in each hand, hesitated for an instant outside the door, and then came in on the jump. And when she saw me sitting peacefully on the side of the bed, her eyes snapped scornfully at me, as if I had done something mean. I suppose she thought I should have given her an opportunity to shoot.

  “I got him, Tai,” she called, and the Chinese joined us.

  “What did Hook do with the bonds?” he asked point blank.

  I grinned into his round yellow face and led my ace.

  “Why don’t you ask the girl?”

  His face showed nothing, but I imagined that his fat body stiffened a little within its fashionable British clothing. That encouraged me, and I went on with my little lie that was meant to stir things up.

  “Haven’t you rapped to it,” I asked, “that they were fixing up to ditch you?”

  “You dirty liar!” the girl screamed, and took a step toward me.

  Tai halted her with an imperative gesture. He stared through her with his opaque black eyes, and as he stared the blood slid out of his face. She had this fat yellow man on her string, right enough, but he wasn’t exactly a harmless toy.

  “So that’s how it is?” he said slowly, to no one in particular. Then to me: “Where did they put the bonds?”

  The girl went close to him and her words came tumbling over each other:

  “Here’s the truth of it, Tai, so help me God! I switched the stuff myself. Hook wasn’t in it. I was going to run out on both of you. I stuck them under the couch downstairs, but they’re not there now. That’s the God’s truth!”

  He was eager to believe her, and her words had the ring of truth to them. And I knew that—in love with her as he was—he’d more readily forgive her treachery with the bonds than he would forgive her for planning to run off with Hook; so I made haste to stir things up again.

  “Part of that is right enough,” I said. “She did stick the bonds under the couch—but Hook was in on it. They fixed it up between them while you were upstairs.

  He was to pick a fight with you, and during the argument she was to make the switch, and that is exactly what they did.”

  I had him! As she wheeled savagely toward me, he stuck the muzzle of an automatic in her side—a smart jab that checked the angry words she was hurling at me.

  “I’ll take your guns, Elvira,” he said, and took them.

  “Where are the bonds now?” he asked me.

  I grinned. “I’m not with you, Tai. I’m against you.”

  “I don’t like violence,” he said slowly, “and I believe you are a sensible person. Let us traffic, my friend.”

  “You name it,” I suggested.

  “Gladly! As a basis for our bargaining, we will stipulate that you have hidden the bonds where they cannot be found by anyone else; and that I have you completely in my power, as the shilling shockers used to have it.”

  “Reasonable enough,” I said; “go on.”

  “The situation, then, is what gamblers call a standoff. Neither of us has the advantage. As a detective, you want us; but we have you. As thieves, we want the bonds; but you have them. I offer you the girl in exchange for the bonds, and that seems to me an equitable offer. It will give me the bonds and a chance to get away. It will give you no small degree of success in your task as a detective. Hook is dead. You will have the girl. All that will remain is to find me and the bonds again—by no means a hopeless task. You will have turned a defeat into half a victory, with an excellent chance to make it a complete one.”

  “How do I know that you’ll give me the girl?”

  He shrugged. “Naturally, there can be no guarantee.

  But, knowing that she planned to desert me for the swine who lies dead below, you can’t imagine that my feelings for her are the most friendly. Too, if I take her with me, she will want a share in the loot.”

  I turned the lay-out over in my mind.

  “This is the way it looks to me,” I told him at last. “You aren’t a killer. I’ll come through alive no matter what happens. All right, why should I swap? You and the girl will be easier to find again than the bonds, and they are the most important part of the job anyway. I’ll hold on to them, and take my chances on finding you folks again. Yes, I
’m playing it safe.”

  “No, I’m not a killer,” he said, very softly; and he smiled the first smile I had seen on his face. It wasn’t a pleasant smile: and there was something in it that made you want to shudder. “But I am other things, perhaps, of which you haven’t thought. But this talking is to no purpose. Elvira!”

  The girl came obediently forward.

  “You will find sheets in one of the bureau drawers,” he told her. “Tear one or two of them into strips strong enough to tie up our friend securely.”

  The girl went to the bureau. I wrinkled my head, trying to find a not too disagreeable answer to the question in my mind. The answer that came first wasn’t nice: torture.

  Then a faint sound brought us all into tense motionlessness.

  The room we were in had two doors: one leading into the hall, the other into another bedroom. It was through the hall door that the faint sound had come—the sound of creeping feet.

  Swiftly, silently, Tai moved backward to a position from which he could watch the hall door without losing sight of the girl and me—and the gun poised like a live thing in his fat hand was all the warning we needed to make no noise.

  The faint sound again, just outside the door.

  The gun in Tai’s hand seemed to quiver with eagerness.

  Through the other door—the door that gave to the next room—popped Mrs. Quarre, an enormous cocked revolver in her thin hand.

  “Let go it, you nasty heathen,” she screeched.

  Tai dropped his pistol before he turned to face her, and he held his hands up high—all of which was very wise.

  Thomas Quarre came through the hall door then; he also held a cocked revolver—the mate of his wife’s—though, in front of his bulk, his didn’t look so enormously large.

  I looked at the old woman again, and found little of the friendly fragile one who had poured tea and chatted about the neighbors. This was a witch if there ever was one—a witch of the blackest, most malignant sort. Her little faded eyes were sharp with ferocity, her withered lips were taut in a wolfish snarl, and her thin body fairly quivered with hate.

  “I knew it,” she was shrilling. “I told Tom as soon as we got far enough away to think things over. I knew it was a frame-up! I knew this supposed detective was a pal of yours! I knew it was just a scheme to beat Thomas and me out of our shares! Well, I’ll show you, you yellow monkey! Where are them bonds? Where are they?”

  The Chinese had recovered his poise, if he had ever lost it.

  “Our stout friend can tell you perhaps,” he said. “I was about to extract the information from him when you so—ah—dramatically arrived.”

  “Thomas, for goodness sakes don’t stand there dreaming,” she snapped at her husband, who to all appearances was still the same mild old man who had given me an excellent cigar. “Tie up this Chinaman! I don’t trust him an inch, and I won’t feel easy until he’s tied up.”

  I got up from my seat on the side of the bed, and moved cautiously to a spot that I thought would be out of the line of fire if the thing I expected happened.

  Tai had dropped the gun that had been in his hand, but he hadn’t been searched. The Chinese are a thorough people; if one of them carries a gun at all, he usually carries two or three or more. One gun had been taken from Tai, and if they tried to truss him up without frisking him, there was likely to be fireworks. So I moved to one side.

  Fat Thomas Quarre went phlegmatically up to the Chinese to carry out his wife’s orders—and bungled the job perfectly.

  He put his bulk between Tai and the old woman’s gun.

  Tai’s hands moved. An automatic was in each.

  Once more Tai ran true to racial form. When a Chinese shoots he keeps on until his gun is empty.

  When I yanked Tai over backward by his fat throat, and slammed him to the floor, his guns were still barking metal; and they clicked empty as I got a knee on one of his arms. I didn’t take any chances. I worked on his throat until his eyes and tongue told me that he was out of things for a while. Then I looked around.

  Thomas Quarre was against the bed, plainly dead, with three round holes in his starched white vest.

  Across the room, Mrs. Quarre lay on her back. Her clothes had somehow settled in place around her fragile body, and death had given her once more the gentle friendly look she had worn when I first saw her. The red-haired girl Elvira was gone.

  Presently Tai stirred, and after taking another gun from his clothes, I helped him sit up. He stroked his bruised throat with one fat hand and looked coolly around the room.

  “Where’s Elvira?” he asked.

  “Got away—for the time being.”

  He shrugged. “Well, you can call it a decidedly successful operation. The Quarres and Hook dead; the bonds and I in your hands.”

  “Not so bad,” I admitted, “but will you do me a favor?”

  “If I may.”

  “Tell me what the hell this is all about!”

  “All about?” he asked.

  “Exactly! From what you people have let me overhear, I gather that you pulled some sort of job in Los Angeles that netted you a hundred-thousand-dollars’ worth of bonds; but I can’t remember any recent job of that size down there.”

  “Why, that’s preposterous!” he said with what, for him, was almost wild-eyed amazement. “Preposterous! Of course you know all about it!”

  “I do not! I was trying to find a young fellow named Fisher who left his Tacoma home in anger a week or two ago. His father wants him found on the quiet, so that he can come down and try to talk him into going home again. I was told that I might find Fisher in this block of Turk Street, and that’s what brought me here.” He didn’t believe me. He never believed me. He went to the gallows thinking me a liar.

  When I got out into the street again (and Turk Street was a lovely place when I came free into it after my evening in that house!) I bought a newspaper that told me most of what I wanted to know.

  A boy of twenty—a messenger in the employ of a Los Angeles stock and bond house—had disappeared two days before, while on his way to a bank with a wad of bonds. That same night this boy and a slender girl with bobbed red hair had registered at a hotel in Fresno as J.M. Riordan and wife. The next morning the boy had been found in his room—murdered. The girl was gone. The bonds were gone.

  That much the paper told me. During the next few days, digging up a little here and a little there, I succeeded in piecing together most of the story.

  The Chinese—whose full name was Tai Choon Tau—had been the brains of the mob. Their game had been a variation of the always-reliable badger game. Tai would pick out some youth who was messenger or runner for a banker or broker—one who carried either cash or negotiable securities in large quantities.

  The girl Elvira would then make this lad, get him all fussed up over her—which shouldn’t have been very hard for her—and then lead him gently around to running away with her and whatever he could grab in the way of his employer’s bonds or currency.

  Wherever they spent the first night of their flight, there Hook would appear—foaming at the mouth and loaded for bear. The girl would plead and tear her hair and so forth, trying to keep Hook—in his role of irate husband—from butchering the youth. Finally she would succeed, and in the end the youth would find himself without either girl or the fruits of his thievery.

  Sometimes he had surrendered to the police. Two we found had committed suicide. The Los Angeles lad had been built of tougher stuff than the others. He had put up a fight, and Hook had had to kill him. You can measure the girl’s skill in her end of the game by the fact that not One of the half dozen youths who had been trimmed had said the least thing to implicate her; and some of them had gone to great trouble to keep her out of it.

  The house in Turk Street had been the mob’s retreat, and, that it might be always a safe one, they had not worked their game in San Francisco. Hook and the girl were supposed by the neighbors to be the Quarres’ son and daughter—and Tai
was the Chinese cook. The Quarres’ benign and respectable appearances had also come in handy when the mob had securities to be disposed of.

  The Chinese went to the gallows. We threw out the widest and finest-meshed of dragnets for the red-haired girl; and we turned up girls with bobbed red hair by the scores. But the girl Elvira was not among them.

  I promised myself that some day . . .

  THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER EYES

  A bell jangled me into wakefulness. I rolled to the edge of my bed and reached for the telephone. The neat voice of the Old Man—the Continental Detective Agency’s San Francisco manager—came to my ears:

  “Sorry to disturb you, but you’ll have to go up to the Glenton Apartments on Leavenworth Street. A man named Burke Pangburn, who lives there, phoned me a few minutes ago asking to have someone sent up to see him at once. He seemed rather excited. Will you take care of it? See what he wants.” I said I would and, yawning, stretching and cursing Pangburn—whoever he was—got my fat body out of pajamas into street clothes.

  The man who had disturbed my Sunday morning sleep—I found when I reached the Glenton—was a slim, white-faced person of about twenty-five, with big brown eyes that were red-rimmed just now from either sleeplessness or crying, or both. His long brown hair was rumpled when he opened the door to admit me; and he wore a mauve dressing-robe spotted with big jade parrots over wine-colored silk pajamas.

  The room into which he led me resembled an auctioneer’s establishment just before the sale—or maybe one of these alley tea rooms. Fat blue vases, crooked red vases, vases of various shapes and colors; marble statuettes, ebony statuettes, statuettes of any material; lanterns, lamps and candlesticks; draperies, hangings and rugs of all sorts; odds and ends of furniture that were all somehow queerly designed; peculiar pictures hung here and there in unexpected places. A hard room to feel comfortable in.