Crime Stories

by Dashiell Hammett

Nick shoots a quick look at Nora.

  Nick, to Nora: “We haven’t met in years.”

  Nora, looking back at him amused and skeptical: “No?”

  Eddie, to Nora: “When he gives you the sack, let me know, will yer?”

  Nora, smiling up at him, delightedly: “I certainly will.”

  Eddie, turning to another of the men: “She’s hot-looking, ain’t she?”

  The Other Man: “Shut up, you lug. It’s his wife.”

  Eddie winces and sinks down into his chair.

  Another Man, stepping into the breach, pushing Willie toward Nick and Nora: “Come on, Willie.”

  “Here’s Willie.”

  “You remember Willie. He just got out today.”

  Nick shakes Willie’s hand cordially.

  Nick: “Indeed I do. Glad to see you.”

  Willie: “Likewise.”

  Nick, turning to Nora: “Darling, this is Willie the Weeper.”

  Nora, smiling cordially at him: “Delighted.”

  Willie: “Likewise.”

  Nick (introducing the rest to Nora en masse): “And the boys.”

  Nora looks at them and smiles. They sit down, dragging their chairs up. The waiter comes up, listening for their orders.

  Nick: “I feel honored to be at your coming-out party, Willie. What’ll you boys have?”

  Another Man: “Champagne!”

  Nick: “Willie?”

  Willie: “Scotch.”

  Nora: “Likewise!”

  Eddie: “Scotch, with a champagne chaser.”

  The men all roar with delight.

  Polly, nearing the end of her song, looks questioningly at Robert, who nods and points to his watch and the door to indicate that she should hurry. Lum Kee is watching them. He goes over to Dancer, who has left Nick’s table.

  Lum Kee: “No trouble, Dancer. I ask you, please.”

  Dancer, putting a hand on his partner’s arm: “Stop worrying, Lum. Everything is okay.”

  Lum Kee: “All the time you say everything okay. All the time trouble-trouble.”

  Dancer: “We always get out of it, don’t we?”

  Lum Kee: “You bet you, but too much money. Pretty soon money not fix something. Then no more Li-Chee.”

  Dancer slaps Lum Kee on the back and says: “If it’s Landis you’re worrying about, I’ll tell him to stay away. I don’t like the guy much either. But you’ll find something else to squawk about.”

  Lum Kee, cheerfully: “You bet you.”

  Polly, having finished her song, tells the orchestra to play a dance number instead of an encore, and goes toward her dressing room. As she passes Nora, she gives her a reassuring nod. Robert is getting his hat and coat. Dancer crosses to meet Polly at the door and says: “Just keep him in your apartment till evening and we’ll both be cutting ourselves a nice piece of gravy.”

  Polly says without enthusiasm: “I hope so. Has Phil been in tonight?”

  Dancer: “For a minute. He went off like he had a date. Go ahead, kid.” He pats her back, urging her toward the door. She goes out.

  At Nick’s table, his guests are still applauding Polly deafeningly, pounding the table with bottles, etc. Nora seems to be talking to Nick, but nothing can be heard. He yells back: “Can’t hear you.” The words are barely audible. She puts her mouth to his ear and screams: “Do you think that girl will really see that he gets home?”

  The noise dies suddenly just as she starts, and everybody in the place looks at her—her scream could be heard a block away. Willie, who has been banging on the table with two bottles, nudges the thug beside him and says: “I don’t care whose wife she is, I don’t like a dame that gets noisy when she’s had a few snifters.”

  Nick is trying to recover his hearing in the ear Nora screamed in. She asks again, but in a lower voice: “Do you?”

  Nick: “She’ll see that he gets to somebody’s home. You can phone if you want, when he’s had time to get there.”

  Outside, the fog is thicker. Polly starts for a taxi, but Robert says: “It’s only three blocks.” They turn down the street. Phil comes out of his doorway and follows them. Harold is slumped down in the seat of Nick’s car asleep, though his jaws still move a little with his gum. The taxi-driver is saying: “And I said to this truck-driver, ‘All right, tough guy, if you don’t like me cutting in on you, how would you like to climb down off that hearse and get bopped in the nose?’ I said.”

  At a corner three blocks from the Li-Chee, Robert points to David, waiting in his car, and says: “There’s our honeymoon money!” Polly holds back as he goes toward the car, but he takes her arm, saying: “Come on. I want him to see how much better I’m doing.” They go up to the car.

  Robert: “Have you got the bonds?”

  David slowly looks from one to the other of them as he takes a thick sheaf of bonds from his pocket. He hands them to Robert, who eagerly examines them, then says: “Thanks, Sir Galahad,” as he puts them into his pocket.

  David: “You’ll keep your promise?”

  Robert: “Don’t worry about that—and I wish you as much luck with your bargain as I got with mine.” He pulls Polly toward him and kisses her on the mouth. David turns his head away in disgust. Robert laughs at him, says: “There’s only one thing. I’m going home to pack a bag. Stay away till I’ve cleared out. Fifteen minutes oughtn’t to mean anything to a man who’s waited as long as you have. Ta-ta!” He and Polly turn away. David looks after them for a moment, then sighs as if with relief, and slowly starts his car.

  At Nick’s table in the Li-Chee, Eddie is complaining: “Where’s Polly? I want to hear Polly sing. We come up here and spend all this dough”—indicating the champagne bottles—“and what does she do? She sings one song and quits.” Joe, earnestly: “You can’t say anything against Polly. She’s all to the good.”

  Another thug, very drunk, his eyes almost shut, asks: “She still live in that place on White Street with the ghosts running up and down the halls?”

  Nora, very interested: “A haunted house?”

  The drunk, opening his eyes: “Did I say ghosts? I’m drunk, lady. I meant goats.” He puts fingers up to his head to imitate horns and says: “Ba-a-a!”

  Nora: “Well, that’s almost as good.”

  Nick, as if not very interested: “What part of White Street?”

  The Drunk: “Three forty-six. I can always remember that number because my old man used to have a livery stable there.”

  At the mention of the number Nora puts her hand quickly on Nick’s and looks at him with a frightened face. Nick pats her hand without taking his attention from the drunk, and asks: “In the place with the goats?”

  The drunk, who is going back to sleep, shakes his head and says: “No, that was back in Baraboo, Wisconsin.”

  Nick: “You know the fellow who owns the house?”

  The Drunk: “In Baraboo?”

  Nick: “The one Polly lives in.”

  The drunk shakes his head again: “Nope, but he ought to keep the front door shut so the goats can’t get in.”

  Nick: “He was killed today.”

  The Drunk: “It don’t surprise me. Stands to reason no tenants weren’t going to put up with those goats forever.” The other thugs exchange glances, then begin to regard Nick with suspicion.

  Nora: “Nick, I’m going to phone.”

  Nick: “He’s had time enough to get home.” He holds out a handful of change.

  Dancer, not far away, sees Nora take the nickel (if necessary, he can have overheard some of the conversation), and he goes quickly over to one of the hatcheck girls and says: “Get on the phone and stay there.” She goes to the phone, drops in a coin, and when Nora arrives the girl is in the middle of a long description of a dress that can be written much more accurately by Miss Goodrich than by Mr. Hammett. Nora waits impatiently.

  At Nick’s table his guests are no longer having a good time; his questioning the drunk looks too much as if he is working on a murder job. Eddie clears his
throat, says: “Well, boys, I guess we better be trucking along.”

  Willie: “I guess we better.” Only the drunk seems comfortable.

  Nick: “What’s the matter? It’s early. Don’t you like the party?”

  Eddie: “Sure we like it. It’s swell. But—well, we got to get up early in the morning.”

  Nick: “Surely you haven’t become an early riser in your old age, Eddie.”

  Eddie squirms, says: “Well, no, but—” He gets a bright idea: “You see, we’re giving Willie a picnic. He’s nuts about picnics and he’s been locked up a long time, so we thought we’d take him out in the country early tomorrow morning and throw a picnic for him. Ain’t that right, Willie?”

  Willie: “I’m sure nuts about picnics!”

  The drunk has opened his eyes and is staring at the others in surprise. He says: “What’s the matter with you dopes? What can you lift out in the country?” Then more indignantly: “I ain’t gonna ride in the backseat with no cow!”

  Eddie laughs, says to Nick: “Ain’t he a card!” and with Willie’s help begins to haul the drunk to his feet.

  Dancer, going into his apartment, says to a passing waiter: “Bring me a glass of milk.” In his apartment, he goes to the telephone and calls Polly’s number. Lum Kee is lying on a sofa reading a book. Dancer waits patiently at the phone until the waiter comes in with his milk; then he puts down the phone and says: “That bum! I told her to take him straight to her place.”

  Lum Kee, not looking up from his book: “Mr. Landis?”

  Dancer: “Uh-huh. I wanted her to get him in shape so he could go home.”

  Waiter: “Mr. Landis on phone I hearum say go home pack bag.”

  Dancer’s eyes narrow; then he says: “Oh, sure, that’s right. I had forgotten.”

  The waiter goes out. Dancer stands idly spinning an ashtray on a table for a moment, then yawns, and says: “I think I’ll go out for a couple of minutes and get a little air in one of my lungs.” Lum Kee nods without looking up. Dancer takes his hat and coat from a closet, says: “That last batch of Scotch we got from Monty’s pretty bad.”

  Lum Kee: “I tell him.”

  Dancer goes out. Lum Kee puts his book down, takes his hat from the closet and goes out.

  The girl at the telephone is now talking about hats, while Nora fidgets with increasing impatience.

  In his room, Robert is finishing packing a bag, with occasional glances at the bathroom that connects his room with Selma’s. He does not make much noise, but is still too drunk to be completely silent. He has changed his clothes.

  Selma turns in bed and makes a faint moaning noise, but does not open her eyes.

  In another room a bedside light goes on, and Aunt Katherine sits up in bed, listening. Grim-faced, she unhurriedly gets out of bed and reaches for her slippers.

  His bag packed, Robert puts it out in the hall, then turns out the lights and tiptoes through the connecting bathroom into Selma’s room, going to a dressing table, pulling a drawer open, and taking out a jewel case. He has transferred part of its contents to his pocket when Selma suddenly sits up in bed and screams: “Robert!” He turns, pushing the case back into the drawer as she snaps on the light.

  Robert, with taunting mildness: “Hello, Selma, how are you?”

  She runs toward him, crying: “Oh, where have you been? Oh, why do you do these things?”

  He takes her in his arms, says: “There, there, darling.”

  For a moment she relaxes in his arms, then she puts her hands on his chest, pushing herself free, and cries: “No, I won’t this time. I won’t forgive you. I won’t let you make a fool of me again.”

  Robert, as if to an unreasonable child: “All right, all right, darling. As a matter of fact, I only stopped in for a minute, anyhow, to change my clothes.”

  Selma: “Where are you going?”

  Robert: “A trip, a little trip.”

  Selma: “You’re not. I won’t have it. I won’t.”

  Robert, smiling: “Oh, won’t you?” He takes a step toward the door, then stops to ask: “Want to kiss me goodbye?” She flies at him in insane rage. He catches her wrists, kisses her lightly on the mouth, says: “Thanks, darling,” releases her wrists, and goes out. She stands staring after him with wild eyes, scrubbing her lips with the back of one hand, then runs into his room and pulls a table drawer open.

  FLASHES: Robert, smiling, bag in hand, going out the front door into the foggy street.

  Polly standing in a small store doorway, straining her eyes trying to see through the fog.

  Phil, at the entrance of a narrow alley, his collar up, his right hand under his coat near his left armpit.

  Dancer at the wheel of a black coupe, his eyes searching the street.

  Lum Kee in a car driven by a Chinese chauffeur.

  On a street corner a policeman is hunkered down on his heels scratching the back of a gaunt alley cat. He hears a pistol shot—not too loud—straightens up, and starts across the street.

  Robert lies on his back on the sidewalk, his head and one shoulder propped up a little by the wall he has fallen against—dead. Selma stands looking down at him. Her face is a blank, dazed mask. In her right hand, hanging down at her side, is a pistol. Brakes scream and a car comes to a jarring halt at the curb. She does not move. David jumps out of the car and runs over to her, exclaiming: “Selma!” She does not move until he turns her to face him and even then her face does not change. He shakes her, cries: “Selma! What—” He sees the pistol and takes it from her, stepping back a little. As he does so, her eyes lose their blankness and she looks at the pistol.

  In a monotone she says: “He was going away. I took that from his room—to try to stop him.” She begins to tremble and her face works convulsively—she is about to go to pieces.

  David has put the pistol in his pocket. He glances quickly up and down the foggy street, then takes her by the shoulders and shakes her again, putting his face close to hers, speaking very clearly, as if to one who understood English poorly: “Listen, Selma. You’re going back to the house. You never had a pistol. Hear me? You haven’t been out of the house. Understand? You know nothing about this. Understand?” She nods woodenly. With an arm around her, he leads her quickly to the corner, only a few steps away. There he says: “Now hurry! Back in the house. Up to your room. You know nothing about this. Run!” Automatically obeying his command, she runs blindly back toward her front door. David dashes back to his car, jumps in, and drives off with reckless speed.

  In the Li-Chee, the girl at the telephone is now talking about shoes. Besides Nora, half a dozen other people are waiting to use the phone. Nora goes up to the girl and says: “Please, it’s awfully important that I—”

  The girl, dropping another nickel into the slot: “I can’t help it if there’s only one phone here. Why don’t you carry around one of them portable shortwave sets if you got so many important things to call people about.” She goes on with her phone conversation.

  Nora goes back to Nick, who is engaged in rearing on his table one of those old-fashioned towers of bottles, salt shakers, oranges, forks, etc., all carefully balanced atop one another. Waiters and customers stand around with bated breath watching him admiringly. He is getting along fine until Nora comes up and says: “Nick!” Then the whole pile comes crashing down on the table. The audience applauds.

  Nick bows, then turns to Nora and says: “The divorce is Wednesday.” She doesn’t laugh.

  She says: “Nick, I can’t get to the phone. One of the hatcheck girls has been talking for hours.”

  Nick: “You’ve come to the right place. Old Find-a-Phone Nick, the boys around the drugstore used to call me.” He offers her his arm and they go across the floor and out of the restaurant. As they pass the pay phone—where the hatcheck girl is now talking about underwear and a dozen customers are angrily waiting—Nick says loftily: “Mere amateur phone-finding!” He opens a door, shakes his head, and shuts it. He starts to open the next door, but stops
when he sees it is labeled LADIES. The third door opens into Dancer’s apartment. He bows Nora in, ushers her to the sofa, hands her the book Lum Kee had been reading, goes to the phone, and calls Selma’s number.

  The door opens and Dancer, in hat and coat, comes in.

  Nick: “Hello, Dancer. Nice men’s room you have.” He waves a hand to indicate the room and the rather elaborate bath that can be seen through an open door, then suddenly frowns at Nora and asks: “What are you doing in here?”

  Dancer stands inside the open door looking at Nick with cold eyes, and when he speaks his voice is cold and level: “Once a gum-heel always a gum-heel, huh? I don’t like gum-heels, but I thought you’d quit it when you married a pot of money and—”

  Nora, indignantly: “Did he call me a pot?”

  Nick pays no attention to either of them; Aunt Katherine is on the other end of the wire. She says: “You’d better come over, Nicholas. Robert has been killed.”

  Nick’s expression does not change as he says: “I will,” and slowly hangs up.

  Dancer, jerking a thumb at the open door behind him: “Well, now, if you’re through in here.”

  Nick, leaning back comfortably in his chair: “Still foggy out?”

  Dancer, very deliberately: “Have you ever been thrown out of a place, Mr. Charles?”

  Nick, to Nora: “How many places was it up to yesterday, Mrs. Charles?”

  Nora: “How many places have you been in, Mr. Charles?”

  Dancer: “Look here!”

  Nick, raising a hand: “Wait, wait! As I was about to say, it’s not for me to tell any man how to run his business—though I could give you a few hints—but just the same it doesn’t look right for you and your partner and your chief entertainer and one of your best customers all to go out at about the same time. It gives the place a—a—a quite vacant look. Did you notice it, Mrs. Charles?”

  Nora: “Oh, decidedly, Mr. Charles. Quite barnlike.”

  Nick: “Thank you, Mrs. Charles. Now there’s another thing. If Mr. Robert Landis came here with a lady who left a cigarette case, you shouldn’t have sent it to his wife. You know what a fellow Mr. Landis was.”

  Dancer: “That wasn’t me. Lum didn’t know.”