Crime Stories

by Dashiell Hammett

  “If I get through in time. Maybe we’ll—”

  Kitty Doran said, “Oh, hello, Mr. Parish.”

  I said, “Hello.”

  One of the boys handed me a telegram from Max Rhinewien:

  AFTER CONSIDERATION THINK YOU RIGHT ABOUT INADVISABILITY OF CHANGING FENTON CHARACTERIZATION STOP DID YOU SEE QUOTE EAT EM ALIVE UNQUOTE QUERY SUGGEST SHOTS OF BATTLE BETWEEN SNAKES OR SPIDERS OR PERHAPS SNAKE SWALLOWING FROG AS SYMBOL OF EVIL ATTACKING GOOD STOP SEVERAL HUNDRED FEET OF BISON BEING DRIVEN THROUGH SNOW TO YELLOWSTONE WINTER QUARTERS AVAILABLE IF YOU CAN WORK IT IN STOP BEST REGARDS

  I passed it over to Fred. “Betty Lee F. made her squawk stick as usual, which is all to the good.”

  “That’s all to the good,” he agreed, and read the telegram. “A fine time we’d have trying to make that bum look like anything but Virtue-in-a-simple-frock! You ain’t gonna put no varmints in this yere fillum, air yuh, pardner?”

  “No, suh,” I said. “I hates a snake like pison and I just ain’t got no use fuh buffalo. You sure you want that swimming-hole sequence we were talking about?”

  “Sure. It’s a natural for Kitty.”

  “O.K. I’m going back and work a while. When you get through with Danny Finn, send him over. He remembers the old Ray Griffith gags better than I do and we need some of them.”

  Kitty Doran caught up to me when I was within twenty feet of my tent. “Oh, Mr. Parish, I’m so happy! Freddy says you’re going to give me a real part in the picture.”

  “That depends,” I said, “on whether you can handle it.”

  She looked at me wide-eyed. “But—but Freddy said I was doing fine. Was that just because—just because he likes me? Tell me what I do wrong, Mr. Parish. I’ll stop doing it. Honest, I will. Honest, I want so much to—Am I awful bad?”

  “No.”

  “But I’m not very good?”

  “I don’t know. What I’ve seen is all right, but I haven’t seen enough yet.”

  “Oh, then I think—” She laughed. “I mean I hope you’ll not be disappointed. I mean in Freddy’s opinion.” She went into the tent ahead of me. “Could you tell me what my part is?”

  “It hasn’t been worked out yet. You’re probably the cut-up of the expedition. Tomorrow you sneak off to go swimming and are surrounded by Indians or cavalrymen or something and can’t get to your clothes—that kind of junk.”

  “I think that’s fine,” she said.

  I let that go at that.

  “You’re a friend of Ann Meadows, aren’t you?” she asked. “I saw you with her last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “She hates me, doesn’t she?”

  “She’s in love with Fred.”

  “I know, but it’s not my fault that he likes me.”

  “She thinks it is. She thinks you’re stringing him along for a break in the pictures.”

  “Well, what of it?” she demanded. “Didn’t he give her her first break?”

  “Maybe, but she happens to be in love with him.”

  “Well, I like him very much too.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  She stood in front of me and her lower lip trembled. “I guess you think I’m a dirty little tramp, Mr. Parish, but, honest, I want so bad to make good in pictures that I guess I’d do anything to get a break.”

  “Could I count on that?”

  “You’re making fun of me,” she said, “but yes.”

  “That’s honest, anyhow. Now run along: I’ve got to work.”

  “But—”

  “Scram. I’ve got to work.”

  She laughed and held out her hand. “I like you. Can I call you—your first name’s Chauncey, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh, but you don’t know me well enough to call me that. Make it Bugs.”

  “Bugs,” she said, “and thanks.”

  I thought about her for a couple of minutes after she had gone and then settled down to the typewriter. A page and a half later Ann came in.

  “Don’t stop,” she said. “I don’t want to interrupt you.” She sat down and lit a cigarette. Her face was red and angry.

  “That’s all right,” I told her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Mr. LePage and I have just had a row. He accused me of sulking in front of the camera, so I told him what I thought of him and walked off the set.”

  “After all,” I reminded her, “we are making a picture.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the picture.”

  “That’s not the spirit of Pagliacci. The show must go on though our hearts—”

  She dropped her cigarette on the floor and stamped on it. “Cut it out, Bugs. I don’t feel like kidding. I’m sick. You know what she did?”

  “Kitty?”

  “Yes. She told him I was trying to persuade you not to fatten her part up any more than you had to.”

  “That’s true in a way, isn’t it?” I asked.

  She looked at me suspiciously. “It is not. I never—You didn’t tell her that?”

  “No. You’re being a chump, Ann.”

  “I suppose I am,” she said gloomily, “but who cares? I ought to—” She broke off as Danny Finn came in, said, “Hello, Danny; be seeing you, Bugs,” and went out.

  Danny smacked his lips. “I could go for that dame. I got a swell Indian gag, Bugs. Listen to this.”

  I listened and said, “No, Groucho would be sore. He used that in Duck Soup.”

  “But there’s no Indians in Duck Soup.”

  “The gag’s the same. I want something for a swimming-hole sequence we’re using Kitty Doran in.”

  “Doran, huh?” He smacked his lips. “I could go for that dame. How about this? Eddie Sutherland used it in one of the Oakie pictures.” He described it to me.

  “Yes, maybe we can kick that around, but cut out the double-wing-and-scram on the end. Now let’s see what else we can dig up.”

  We had five more gags—two early Sennetts, a Chaplin, one from As Thousands Cheer, and one that practically everybody had used—by the time Fred came in from his day’s work afield. Betty Lee Fenton and Kitty Doran were with him.

  Betty Lee paused at the door only long enough to ask, “You heard from Max?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Your virginity’s safe.”

  “I thought it would be,” she said and went away.

  Danny, looking after her, automatically smacked his lips and muttered, “I could go for . . .”

  Fred asked, “What’ve you guys got?” and, when we told him our six gags, said, “I guess they’ll do.”

  Danny went away.

  Fred yawned and spread himself on my cot. “Ann tell you about the blow-up?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t do anything with her,” he complained. “She’s just laying down on me.”

  Kitty said, “It was disgraceful.” Neither of us paid any attention to her.

  “The part can be whittled down,” I said. “She doesn’t have to be the one that Wiley seems to be falling for.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” he growled. “She’s wooden. Why the hell does she have to take her spite out on the picture?”

  Kitty clapped her hands. “Oh, Freddy, couldn’t I have that love scene with Wiley? I know I could do it. Please.”

  “It could be written that way,” I said.

  He scowled at her and at me. “Max wouldn’t stand for it. It’d have to be too big a part—we’d need a name.”

  “Max wants sex,” I said. “Here it is.”

  “Please, Freddy!” she cooed. “Please, darling! Just try me.” He shook his head. “Max’d raise hell.”

  “Well, I’ve got to do something,” I said. “What?”

  Kitty said, “Please, sweetheart!”

  He looked at me.

  I said, “I’ll front for you to Max.”

  He jumped up from the cot. “All right, damn it! Go ahead!” Kitty laughed happily and put her arms around his neck. I said, “Clear out, youse mugs,
this means a solid night’s work for me.”

  Kitty came back alone at a few minutes before midnight. “I just had to come in to thank you,” she said, “because I owe this wonderful chance all to you and I’m so excited I know I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight. Could I see what you’ve written for me? Just a tiny peep, Bugsy?”

  “Stop talking like that,” I said. “One more Bugsy puts you back among the people who call me Mr. Parish.”

  “I’m sorry, Bugs, but I’m so happy I don’t know what I’m doing.” She began to dance around the tent. “Freddy likes me to call him Freddy.”

  “Would he like your being here?”

  She laughed. “Then maybe I’d better stay till late—till we’re sure he’ll be asleep and won’t see me leaving. Can’t I see what you’ve written?”

  “Help yourself.”

  She read the new pages of script carefully and said: “I like that. I think it’s fine. But look, I’ve got an idea. I know an awfully cute little dance. I’ll show it to you—and see if you don’t think it could be worked in in that campfire scene. You know, I could dance around the fire.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “We could have thirty or forty Nubian slaves bring you on in a silver chariot and while you were dancing around the fire we could release a flock of swans.”

  She pouted. “You’re making fun of me again, but let me show you. It’s a cute dance.”

  She showed me and it was a cute dance.

  I said, “It’s a cute dance.”

  “And you’ll let me do it?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a meany. I guess you think I’m an awful pig, but there’s something else I want to ask you—another favor. Freddy’s been awfully nice to me, but he’s mostly a Western picture director, isn’t he?”

  “Most of his pictures have been outdoor he-man stuff, yes.”

  “That’s what I thought. Well, will you help me with the love scenes? I’m so awfully anxious to make good and they’re the kind of things you write and you’d know more about it. Will you?”

  “Sure, but it’s not going to do you any good at this stage of the game to let Fred get the idea that you’re slighting him. He—”

  “I know, but we can be tactful about it, can’t we? I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings for worlds.”

  “Your sentiments do you credit,” I said. “Now you’d better—”

  “Oh, no, I can’t leave till we’re sure Freddy’s gone to bed. He might see me. I’m going to curl right up in this corner and I won’t bother you one teeny-weeny bit.”

  So I wrote her a love scene with Ted Wiley, the male lead, and we shot it against the campfire almost in silhouette, and I directed it, and if I do say it myself it was every bit as good as when Murnau first did it against a sky in Sunrise. And everybody except Ann agreed that we had a find in Kitty.

  Ann took me aside to say, “I’ve seen a lot of hammy performances, but . . .”

  I said: “I’m very sorry to hear you say that, Miss Meadows. I thought we were all great artists working together in a great art form.”

  She wrinkled up her forehead. “Listen, Bugs, what are you up to? On the level.”

  “I’m fixing things—for everybody.”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “I wonder.”

  I crossed my heart.

  “How?

  I told her. “By simply doing what everybody wants. It’s a beautiful plan. You want Fred back. You get him. Fred and Kitty want her to get a chance in pictures. She gets it. Betty Lee wants to keep her virginal characterization. She keeps it. I don’t want anything. As usual, I get it.”

  “But how does that bring Fred back?”

  “Wouldn’t he break with his own mother if she sent him over his schedule and budget? Well, with Kitty carrying the sex burden, she steals the picture completely from Fenton. Whether your jealousy will let you see it or not, she’s not bad, and when Fenton sees the finished film she realizes it and squawks her head off in her usual refined manner. Max has got too much dough tied up in her to let her be buried by an unknown, and Kitty’s part is written so that if the big scenes come out the rest will have to come out and something else will have to be put in its place—and that means more money and time. And who does Fred blame for that but me and Kitty? He can’t do anything to me: he can bounce her out of his affections and his picture. On the other hand, you have only a small part in the dingus now and he probably still loves you and—”

  “Maybe,” she said slowly, “but I don’t like it. You’re being malicious and you could’ve—”

  “Sure, I’m being malicious, but I’ve got to have some fun. Besides, a lot of people get good lessons out of it. Max learns he oughtn’t to try to sex up westerns; Fred, that if his gods are Budget and Schedule that he should stick to them; Kitty, that little pigs who go to market shouldn’t carry too big baskets; and maybe all of you that I’m not just an amiable boob.”

  She shook her head. “There’s more to it than you’re telling me, and I don’t like it.”

  There was more to it.

  Ten days later I finished my work on the script and went back to Hollywood, but, of course, not immediately on to Santa Barbara and the play. Max Rhinewien had bought a Hungarian comedy which he said needed more epigrams and he talked me into doing the adaptation. That took about four weeks and I finally escaped by simply ducking out on him.

  I had been in Santa Barbara eight days when Ann telephoned me. She said, “Bugs? I think you ought to know that your plan worked so well that Kitty Doran is dying in St. Martin’s Hospital,” and hung up.

  Kitty wasn’t dying. Her mouth and throat were burned, but they had pumped the stuff out of her before it got a chance to work. She raised her head a little and smiled painfully at me when I came into the hospital room.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked. “Never mind. Don’t try to talk.”

  “I can talk,” she said. “Bugs, they took all my stuff out of the picture and when I asked Freddy about it he was awful nasty and he said Ann Meadows told him you meant them to.”

  “Forget it. We’ll fix you up.”

  “But it was my chance to make good and now—” She began to cry.

  “Stop it. You’ll get another one as soon as you’re up. I’ve got an original with a part in it for you that won’t be cut and—”

  She sat up in bed. “Honest?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, making it up as I went along, but not working too hard at it, “it’s about a boy and a girl and another girl and maybe another boy.”

  She smiled at me as if I were handing her Romeo and Juliet. “You’re a darling, Bugsy! How soon do you think my mouth will be all right?”

  “It’ll never be all right till you stop that Bugsy stuff. Look at me. Did you really try to kill yourself, or was it just another act?”

  She hung her head. “I—I—now don’t get mad—I don’t really know, Bugsy—Bugs, I mean. I thought I meant it, but I guess I did kind of spit it out. Maybe—at first I meant it, all right, but maybe after I started I thought it might be just as good if I didn’t actually—you know—die, if I—Listen, B-Bugs, now you tell me something. When you played that dirty trick—it was an awful dirty trick—on me, wasn’t it a little because you thought I liked Freddy and you liked me and you thought you could—”

  “Don’t be a dope,” I said. “You were only a very small cog in the wheel. I was up to something that had nothing to do with you, then you got into this mess and I—God knows why—thought I ought to do something about it. I’m willing to give you a boost up, but get this straight: I’m not tangled up with you now, I’ve never been, and I’m never going to be.”

  “You don’t have to be so nasty about it,” she said.

  “I’m not being nasty, I’m being definite.”

  “Will—will you kiss me?”

  “What for? Sure, if you want.”

  “Oh,” she said, “then that’ll be all right.”

  “This Little Pig”
: The Revised Ending

  “This Little Pig” is one of two Hammett stories for which the original typescript survives with two different endings. His original ending is the one you just read. This one, marked “revised,” is the one used by Collier’s when it printed “This Little Pig” in 1934.

  I had been in Santa Barbara eight days when Ann telephoned me. She said, “Oh, Bugs, you’ve got to come down. Kitty Doran is dying in St. Martin’s Hospital.”

  “What?””

  “She committed suicide. Hurry, Bugs.”

  I had a car that could do plenty and a chauffeur who could get plenty out of it, but that ride to Los Angeles seemed the longest I had ever made.

  Kitty wasn’t dying. Her mouth was burned and her face was white and thin, but she raised her head a little and smiled painfully at me when I came into the hospital room.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked. “Never mind. Don’t try to talk.”

  “I can talk,” she said. “Bugs, they took all my stuff out of the picture and when I asked Freddy about it he was awfully nasty to me and he said Ann Meadows told him you meant them to.”

  “Forget it. We’ll fix you up.”

  “But did you?”

  “I’m sorry’. I’ll do my best to square it. Get well and I’ll see that you have another chance. I can make Max—”

  “Will you? You’re a darling, Bugsy! I’ll—”

  Ann came in.

  Kitty sat up straight in bed and cried, “Make her go away. I told them not to let her in.”

  Ann said, “I only came in to thank you.”

  “Make her go away,” Kitty screamed. “Make her go away!”

  I said “All right” and took Ann out into the corridor. “Now what?” I asked.

  She leaned against the wall and laughed. “But I ought to thank her,” she said through her laughter. “I might’ve gone on and on being so silly.”

  “This makes a lot of sense to me,” I growled.

  “Don’t you see? When I phoned you—when I thought she had really tried to kill herself—it was you I was worried about—about your having it on your conscience that your trick had driven her to it, and I knew then that—”

  “Didn’t she really try?”