Crime Stories

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Crime Stories Page 91

by Dashiell Hammett


  There was a pause; then Donny’s guarded voice could be heard asking: “Who is it?”

  The answer could not be heard.

  Donny’s voice, raised a little: “Who?”

  Nothing was heard for a short while after that. The silence was broken by the creaking of a floorboard just outside the bedroom door. The door was opened by Donny. His pinched face was a caricature of alertness. “Bulls,” he whispered. “Take the window.” He was swollen with importance.

  Brazil’s face jerked around to Luise Fischer.

  “Go!” she cried, pushing him toward the window. “I will be all right.”

  “Sure,” Donny said; “me and Fan’ll take care of her. Beat it, kid, and slip us the word when you can. Got enough dough?”

  “Uh-huh.” Brazil was kissing Luise Fischer.

  “Go, go!” she gasped.

  His sallow face was phlegmatic. He was laconic. “Be seeing you,” he said, and pushed up the window. His foot was over the sill by the time the window was completely raised. His other foot followed the first immediately, and, turning on his chest, he lowered himself, grinning cheerfully at Luise Fischer for an instant before he dropped out of sight.

  She ran to the window and looked down. He was rising from among weeds in the unkempt back yard. His head turned quickly from right to left. Moving with a swiftness that seemed mere unhesitancy, he went to the left-hand fence, up it, and over into the next-door yard.

  Donny took her arm and pulled her from the window. “Stay away from there. You’ll tip his mitt. He’s all right, though Christ help the copper he runs into-if they’re close.”

  Something heavy was pounding on the flat’s front door. A heavy, authoritative voice came through: “Open up!”

  Donny sneered in the general direction of the front door. “I guess I better let ‘em in or they’ll be making toothpicks of my front gate.” He seemed to be enjoying the situation.

  She stared at him with blank eyes.

  He looked at her, looked at the floor and at her again, and said defensively: “Look-I love the guy. I love him!”

  The pounding on the front door became louder.

  “I guess I better,” Donny said, and went out.

  Through the open window came the sound of a shot. She ran to the window and, hands on sill, leaned far out.

  Fifty feet to the left, on the top of a fence that divided the long row of back yards from the alley behind, Brazil was poised, crouching. As Luise Fischer looked, another shot sounded and Brazil fell down out of sight into the alley behind the fence. She caught her breath with a sob.

  The pounding on the flat’s front door suddenly stopped. She drew her head in through the window. She took her hands from the sill. Her face was an automaton’s. She pulled the window down without seeming conscious of what she was doing, and was standing in the center of the room looking critically at her fingernails when a tired-faced huge man in wrinkled clothes appeared in the doorway.

  He asked: “Where’s he at?”

  She looked up at him from her fingernails as she had looked at her fingernails. “Who?”

  He sighed wearily. “Brazil.” He went to a closet door, opened it. “You the Fischer woman?” He shut the door and moved toward the window, looking around the room, not at her, with little apparent interest.

  “I am Luise Fischer,” she said to his back.

  He raised the window and leaned out. “How’s it, Tom?” he called to someone below. Whatever answer he received was inaudible in the room.

  Luise Fischer put attentiveness off her face as he turned to her. “I ain’t had breakfast yet,” he said.

  Donny’s voice came through the doorway from another part of the flat: “I tell you I don’t know where he’s gone to. He just dropped the dame here and hightailed. He didn’t tell me nothing. He—”

  A metallic voice said, “I bet you!” disagreeably. There was the sound of a blow.

  Donny’s voice: “If I did know I wouldn’t tell you, you big crum! Now sock me again.”

  The metallic voice: “If that’s what you want.” There was the sound of another blow.

  Fan’s voice, shrill with anger, screamed, “Stop that, you—” and ceased abruptly.

  The huge man went to the bedroom door and called toward the front of the flat: “Never mind, Ray.” He addressed Luise Fischer: “Get some clothes on.”

  “Why?” she asked coolly.

  “They want you back in Mile Valley.”

  “For what?” She did not seem to think it was true.

  “I don’t know,” he grumbled impatiently. “This ain’t my job. We’re just picking you up for them. Something about some rings that belonged to a guy’s mother and disappeared from the house the same time you did.”

  She held up her hands and stared at the rings. “But they didn’t. He bought them for me in Paris and—”

  The huge man scowled wearily. “Well, don’t argue with me about it. It’s none of my business. Where was this fellow Brazil meaning to go when he left here?”

  “I do not know.” She took a step forward, holding out her hand in an appealing gesture. “Is he—”

  “Nobody ever does,” he complained, ignoring the question he had interrupted. “Get your clothes on.” He held a hand out to her. “Better let me take care of the junk.”

  She hesitated, then slipped the rings from her fingers and dropped them into his hand.

  “Shake it up,” he said. “I ain’t had breakfast yet.” He went out and shut the door.

  She dressed hurriedly in the clothes she had taken off a short while before, though she did not again put on the one stocking she had worn down from Brazil’s house. When she had finished, she went quietly, with a backward glance at the closed door, to the window, and began slowly, cautiously, to raise the sash.

  The tired-faced huge man opened the door. “Good thing I was peeping through the keyhole,” he said patiently. “Now come on.”

  Fan came into the room behind him. Her face was very pink; her voice was shrill. “What’re you picking on her for?” she demanded. “She didn’t do anything. Why don’t you—”

  “Stop it, stop it,” the huge man begged. His weariness seemed to have become almost unbearable. “I’m only a copper told to bring her in on a larceny charge. I got nothing to do with it, don’t know anything about it.”

  “It is all right, Mrs. Link,” Luise Fischer said with dignity. “It will be all right.”

  “But you can’t go like that,” Fan protested, and turned to the huge man. “You got to let her put on some decent clothes.”

  He sighed and nodded. “Anything, if you’ll only hurry it up and stop arguing with me.”

  Fan hurried out.

  Luise Fischer addressed the huge man: “He too is charged with larceny?”

  He sighed. “Maybe one thing, maybe another,” he said spiritlessly.

  She said: “He has done nothing.”

  “Well, I haven’t neither,” he complained.

  Fan came in with some clothes, a blue suit and hat, dark slippers, stockings, and a white blouse.

  “Just keep the door open,” the huge man said. He went out of the room and stood leaning against an opposite wall, where he could see the windows in the bedroom. Luise Fischer changed her clothes, with Fan’s assistance, in a corner of the room where they were hidden from him.

  “Did they catch him?” Fan whispered. “I do not know.”

  “I don’t think they did.”

  “I hope they did not.”

  Fan was kneeling in front of Luise Fischer, putting on her stockings. “Don’t let them make you talk till you’ve seen Harry Klaus,” she whispered rapidly. “You tell them he’s your lawyer and you got to see him first. We’ll send him down and he’ll get you out all right.” She looked up abruptly. “You didn’t cop them, did you?”

  “Steal the rings?” Luise Fischer asked in surprise.

  “I didn’t think so,” the blonde woman said. “So you won’t have to—”


  The huge man’s weary voice came to them: “Come on-cut out the barbering and get into the duds.”

  Fan said: “Go take a run at yourself.”

  Luise Fischer carried her borrowed hat to the looking-glass and put it on; then, smoothing down the suit, looked at her reflection. The clothes did not fit her so badly as might have been expected.

  Fan said: “You look swell.”

  The man outside the door said: “Come on.”

  Luise Fischer turned to Fan. “Goodbye, and I—”

  The blonde woman put her arms around her. “There’s nothing to say, and you’ll be back here in a couple of hours. Harry’ll show those saps they can’t put anything like this over on you.”

  The huge man said: “Come on.”

  Luise Fischer joined him and they went toward the front of the flat.

  As they passed the living-room door Donny, rising from the sofa, called cheerfully: “Don’t let them worry you, baby. We’ll—”

  A tall man in brown put a hand over Donny’s face and pushed him back on the sofa.

  Luise Fischer and the huge man went out. A police-department automobile was standing in front of the house where Brazil had left his coupé. A dozen or more adults and children were standing around it, solemnly watching the door through which she came.

  A uniformed policeman pushed some of them aside to make passageway for her and her companion and got into the car behind them. “Let her go, Tom,” he called to the chauffeur, and they drove off.

  The huge man shut his eyes and groaned softly. “God, I’m schwach!”

  They rode seven blocks and halted in front of a square red brick building on a corner. The huge man helped her out of the automobile and took her between two large frosted globes into the building, and into a room where a bald fat man in uniform sat behind a high desk.

  The huge man said: “It’s that Luise Fischer for Mile Valley.” He took a hand from a pocket and tossed her rings on the desk. “That’s the stuff, I guess.”

  The bald man said: “Nice picking. Get the guy?”

  “Hospital, I guess.”

  Luise Fischer turned to him: “Was he-was he badly hurt?”

  The huge man grumbled: “I don’t know about it. Can’t I guess?”

  The bald man called: “Luke!”

  A thin, white-moustached policeman came in.

  The fat man said: “Put her in the royal suite.”

  Luise Fischer said: “I wish to see my lawyer.”

  The three men looked unblinkingly at her.

  “His name is Harry Klaus,” she said. “I wish to see him.”

  Luke said: “Come back this way.”

  She followed him down a bare corridor to the far end, where he opened a door and stood aside for her to go through. The room into which the door opened was a small one furnished with cot, table, two chairs, and some magazines. The window was large, fitted with a heavy wire grating.

  In the center of the room she turned to say again: “I wish to see my lawyer.”

  The white-moustached man shut the door and she could hear him locking it.

  Two hours later he returned with a bowl of soup, some cold meat and a slice of bread on a plate, and a cup of coffee.

  She had been lying on the cot, staring at the ceiling. She rose and faced him imperiously. “I wish to see—”

  “Don’t start that again,” he said irritably. “We got nothing to do with you. Tell it to them Mile Valley fellows when they come for you.”

  He put the food on the table and left the room. She ate everything he had brought her.

  It was late afternoon when the door opened again. “There you are,” the white-moustached man said, and stood aside to let his companions enter. There were two of them, men of medium height, in dull clothes, one thick-chested and florid, the other less heavy, older.

  The thick-chested, florid one looked Luise Fischer up and down and grinned admiringly at her. The other said: “We want you to come back to the Valley with us, Miss Fischer.”

  She rose from her chair and began to put on her hat and coat.

  “That’s it,” the older of the two said. “Don’t give us no trouble and we don’t give you none.”

  She looked curiously at him.

  They went to the street and got into a dusty blue sedan. The thick-chested man drove. Luise Fischer sat behind him, beside the older man. They retraced the route she and Brazil had taken that morning.

  Once, before they left the city, she had said: “I wish to see my lawyer. His name is Harry Klaus.”

  The man beside her was chewing gum. He made noises with his lips, then told her, politely enough: “We can’t stop now.”

  The man at the wheel spoke before she could reply. He did not turn his head. “How come Brazil socked him?”

  Luise said quickly: “It was not his fault. He was—”

  The older man, addressing the man at the wheel, interrupted her: “Let it alone, Pete. Let the D.A. do his own work.”

  Pete said: “Oke.”

  The woman turned to the man beside her. “Was-was Brazil hurt?”

  He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded slightly. “Stopped a slug, I hear.”

  Her eyes widened. “He was shot?”

  He nodded again.

  She put both hands on his forearm. “How badly?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Her fingers dug into his arm. “Did they arrest him?”

  “I can’t tell you, miss. Maybe the District Attorney wouldn’t like me to.” He smacked his lips over his gum-chewing.

  “But, please!” she insisted. “I must know.”

  He shook his head again. “We ain’t worrying you with a lot of questions. Don’t be worrying us.”

  Conclusion

  It was nearly nine o’clock by the dial on the dashboard, and quite dark, when Luise Fischer and her captors passed a large square building whose illuminated sign said “Mile Valley Lumber Co.” and turned in to what was definitely a town street, though its irregularly spaced houses were not many. Ten minutes later the sedan came to rest at the curb in front of a grey public building. The driver got out. The other man held the door open for Luise. They took her into a ground-floor room in the grey building.

  Three men were in the room. A sad-faced man of sixty-some years, with ragged white hair and moustache, was tilted back in a chair, with his feet on a battered yellowish desk. He wore a hat but no coat. A pasty-faced young blond man, straddling a chair in front of the filing cabinet on the other side of the room, was saying, “So the travelling salesman asked the farmer if he could put him up for the night and—” but broke off when Luise Fischer and her companions came in.

  The third man stood with his back to the window. He was a slim man of medium height, not far past thirty, thin lipped, pale, flashily dressed in brown and red. His collar was very tight. He advanced swiftly toward Luise Fischer, showing white teeth in a smile. “I’m Harry Klaus. They wouldn’t let me see you down there, so I came on up to wait for you.” He spoke rapidly and with assurance. “Don’t worry. I’ve got everything fixed.”

  The storyteller hesitated, changed his position. The two men who had brought Luise Fischer up from the city looked at the lawyer with obvious disapproval.

  Klaus smiled again with complete assurance. “You know she’s not going to tell you anything at all till we’ve talked it over, don’t you? Well, what the hell, then?”

  The man at the desk said: “All right, all right.” He looked at the two men standing behind the woman. “If Tuft’s office is empty, let ‘em use that.”

  “Thanks.” Harry Klaus picked up a brown briefcase from a chair, took Luise Fischer’s elbow in his hand, and turned her to follow the thick-chested, florid man.

  He led them down the corridor a few feet to an office that was similar to the one they had just left. He did not go in with them. He said, “Come on back when you’re finished,” and, when they had gone in, slammed the door
.

  Klaus jerked his head at the door. “A lot of whittlers,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll stand them on their heads.” He tossed his briefcase on the desk. “Sit down.”

  “Brazil?” she said. “He is—”

  His shrug lifted his shoulders almost to his ears. “I don’t know. Can’t get anything out of these people.”

  “Then—?”

  “Then he got away,” he said.

  “Do you think he did?”

  He shrugged his shoulders again. “We can always hope.”

  “But one of those policemen told me he had been shot and—”

  “That don’t have to mean anything but that they hope they hit him.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down into a chair. “There’s no use of worrying about Brazil till we know whether we’ve got anything to worry about.” He drew another chair up close to hers and sat in it. “Let’s worry about you now. I want the works-no song and dance-just what happened, the way it happened.”

  She drew her brows together in a puzzled frown. “But you told me everything—”

  “I told you everything was all fixed, and it is.” He patted her knee. “I’ve got the bail all fixed so you can walk out of here as soon as they get through asking you questions. But we’ve got to decide what kind of answers you’re going to give them.” He looked sharply at her from under his hat brim. “You want to help Brazil, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the stuff.” He patted her knee again, and his hand remained on it. “Now, give me everything, from the beginning.”

  “You mean from when I first met Kane Robson?”

  He nodded.

  She crossed her knees, dislodging his hand. Staring at the opposite wall as if not seeing it, she said earnestly: “Neither of us did anything wrong. It is not right that we should suffer.”

  “Don’t worry.” His tone was light, confident. “I’ll get the pair of you out of it.” He proffered her cigarettes in a shiny case.

  She took a cigarette, leaned forward to hold its end to the flame from his lighter, and, still leaning forward, asked: “I will not have to stay here tonight?”

  He patted her cheek. “I don’t think so. It oughtn’t to take them more than an hour to grill you.” He dropped his hand to her knee. “And the sooner we get through here, the sooner you’ll be through with them.”

 

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