Return of the Thin Man: Two never-before-published novellas featuring Nick & Nora Charles

by Dashiell Hammett

  Smitty, holding up her right hand again. “I knew Sam was trying to get dough out of MacFay, but I never knew he meant to kill him.”

  VanSlack: “But you know it now, don’t you?”

  Smitty: “I don’t know anything that’s got anything to do with murders.”

  VanSlack: “Murders! Who else’s murder was planned besides MacFay’s?”

  Smitty: “I don’t know about anybody’s murder being planned.”

  Guild: “You’re psychic, huh? You get yourself alibis for murders you don’t know are going to happen.”

  Smitty: “I’ll never need an alibi for murder because I’ll never have anything to do with any murder.”

  VanSlack: “You know Mr. Charles, don’t you?”

  Smitty: “Sure.”

  VanSlack: “Were you present at a meeting between Church and Mr. Charles yesterday morning?”

  Smitty: “That’s right.”

  VanSlack: “Exactly what happened at that meeting?”

  Smitty looks at Nick in bewilderment.

  Nick, cheerfully: “I’m a suspect, too. We must get together sometime and swap experiences.”

  Smitty: “What do you know about that? You cops don’t even trust yourselves.”

  VanSlack: “What happened at that meeting?”

  Smitty: “They didn’t get along very well. There was a lot of talk about who ought to give Sam some money and about Nick’s father-in-law, who’s dead as far as I could make out, and it wound up with Nick slugging Sam.”

  VanSlack: “Why did he slug him?”

  Smitty: “You know how men are.”

  VanSlack: “Did Church threaten Nick—and Nick’s wife and kid?”

  Smitty: “Nick seemed to think so—and I guess he was right. Sam’s likely to say anything when he gets going: he’s the loosest-talking man.”

  VanSlack: “How long have you known Church?”

  Smitty: “Just since they sprung him. He was Tip’s cellmate.”

  VanSlack: “It didn’t take you long to tie up with him, did it?”

  Smitty: “We weren’t playing for keeps. He said he needed a girl to stooge for him. I’m small-time stuff and it wasn’t costing him much, but I’m not fronting for murder. If he’s innocent, he can come clean, and if he’s guilty I’m getting out from under.”

  VanSlack: “Just what do you mean by stooging for him?”

  Smitty: “There’s a lot of rackets where it’s handy to have a girl around.”

  VanSlack: “You mean in various blackmail rackets, for instance?”

  Smitty: “I mean in a lot of kinds of rackets—except murder.”

  As VanSlack starts to ask his next question, the doorbell rings. Guild goes to the door and opens it.

  Vogel, coming in: “What are you doing here, Guild?” He looks at Nick and VanSlack.

  Guild: “Diamond-Back, I want you to meet Mr. Nick Charles and Mr. VanSlack, an assistant district attorney from the Island. This is Mr. Vogel.” His manner toward Vogel is that of a policeman toward an influential politician whom he doesn’t trust too much. “We were asking Smitty some questions.”

  Vogel: “About Church, huh? I always figured he was a wrong gee.”

  VanSlack: “What do you know about him?”

  Vogel: “Me? Nothing except he was spending too much time hanging around Smitty.” He scowls at the woman. “You haven’t been unloading to these people yet, have you?”

  Smitty, touching her knee: “Only from here up.”

  Vogel: “I ought to take a smack at you.”

  Smitty: “But I’ll not be the goat for any—”

  Vogel: “Shut up. Didn’t you ever hear about talking through a lawyer? That’s why mugs have got a slang name for them!”

  VanSlack: “I may as well tell you, Mr. Vogel, that the lady has told enough to justify us holding her as a material witness at the very least.”

  Vogel: “Okay, hold her as long as you want, ask her all the questions you want, but let’s have her lawyer there; and if you want to let her out on bail afterwards, make it any amount you want, but let’s do it regular.”

  VanSlack: “Just what is your relationship to the people involved?”

  Vogel: “None. Call me a friend of the family.”

  VanSlack, to Nick: “Is this the man you saw watching Church’s house?”

  Nick: “Yes.”

  Smitty to Vogel: “Why, you big ape!”

  VanSlack: “Well, what’s the matter?”

  Vogel: “It won’t get you very far. Tip’s married to this baby and you know how it is when a guy’s hanging on the wall upstate—he gets to worrying about things. So I been kind of keeping an eye on her for him. Well, I hear Church is going away and for all I know this cluck might think she’s going away with him.”

  VanSlack: “Suppose she had gone away with Church.”

  Vogel: “That’s supposing too much.”

  VanSlack: “You mean you would have stopped her? But just as a friend of the family.”

  Vogel: “Listen, chum. So Tip’s a crummy little coffee-and-doughnut crook, but when I hit this town strickly on my insteps ten years ago he was the only guy in it that would give me a stake. Well, that boy can call on me for anything I got—money, time, or the gun.” He jerks a thumb at Guild. “He can tell you I got a permit to carry that.”

  VanSlack clears his throat and begins to slip back into his former vagueness: “I think I can understand your feelings. Now in the course of—uh—watching over Mrs. Smith, just what did you learn about Church that might help us?”

  Vogel: “Just nothing. You can get whatever you want to know out of Smitty—as soon as she gets her lawyer.”

  Smitty to Vogel: “So that’s the way it’s been.”

  Vogel: “What did you think was going on? Did you think I was hanging around because I was nuts about you?”

  Nick: “Don’t let’s quarrel with one another. The police are our natural enemies.”

  VanSlack looks reproachfully at him again.

  There is a noise from the direction of the kitchen. Guild dashes toward the kitchen, with the others following him, except for Nick, who stands looking after them. Through the open door Dum-Dum can be seen running down the service entrance. Guild and VanSlack dash out in pursuit of him with Smitty and Vogel following them more slowly.

  Nick walks over to the table where Guild put the articles taken from Church’s coat pocket, pokes at them with a finger, picks up the paper of matches, reads the advertisement on it—“West Indies Club”—tosses it back on the table, picks up his hat, and goes out.

  He pauses at the top of the back stairs, looks down the well at a landing several floors below where Guild and VanSlack have caught Dum-Dum and are searching him. Guild finds the wooden-handled knife in his waistband.

  VanSlack, staring at it in amazement, says: “This is the knife MacFay was killed with, dog’s tooth prints and all. It can’t be.”

  Nick smiles and turns away to descend by the other staircase.

  Nick walks up a street in the Latin American section of Harlem. It is now broad daylight and the street is almost empty except for eight or ten men planted in doorways watching the West Indies Club. These men are obviously detectives, but Nick gives no sign that he notices them.

  Nick goes into the West Indies Club, a not too Broadwayish establishment fairly full at this hour; its patrons are chiefly Latin American, with a sprinkling of New York underworld characters. On the small dance floor a West Indian boy and girl are singing and dancing a beguine to the music of a noisy native orchestra. Many of the customers are reading the newspaper accounts of MacFay’s murder and discussing them: Church and Dum-Dum are well-known habitués of the place. At a large table a group of men is extremely interested in something that is hidden from us and from Nick by their backs.

  As Nick appears in the doorway, one of the men looking at the newspapers sees him, nudges his neighbor, points to Nick’s picture in the paper, then at Nick. Others recognize him by the same
means.

  The proprietor goes over to Nick, bowing, saying: “Ah, Mr. Nick Charles, is it not? And you are alone?”

  Nick, accepting recognition as his due: “The good are often alone.”

  The proprietor, smiling: “I fix it so you will not be good long.”

  He leads Nick to a table near the orchestra where two or three girl entertainers are seated. Nick is welcomed with that special cordiality reserved for liberal spenders in Harlem late-spots.

  The beguine over, one of the girls at the table signals the orchestra and gets up to do a special number for Nick. While she is working at it a waiter brings Nick a note, which reads:

  Darling Nickie,

  If you still remember poor little me and my little coal-yard in Cleveland, and can tear yourself away from your charming little playmates, won’t you come over and have a little drinkie for old times’ sake.

  Adoringly,

  Belle Spruce

  Nick, to the waiter: “Where did this come from?”

  Waiter indicates the table men are crowded around.

  Nick, seeing nothing but men: “Is there a lady there?”

  Waiter, enthusiastically: “A lady? What a lady! If I didn’t have to work for a living carrying drinks to these pigs!” He throws a kiss toward the hidden lady.

  Nick, rising, straightening his tie, eluding the detaining hands of his tablemates: “Well, well, old Belle Spruce.” He crosses to the crowded table, pats the shoulder of one of the men standing in his way, and, when the man steps aside, is face-to-face with Nora.

  Nora, brightly: “Why, Nickie, are you looking for somebody?”

  Nick, looking at her, speaking as if with carefully controlled anger: “Tonight, two nights ago, three times last week. How much longer did you think I was going on believing you had to sit up with your sister’s sick baby?” Then sharply: “Which is the man?” Then craftily, as he begins to look in turn at each of the men at the table: “They tell me he limps a little.”

  Each man, as Nick looks at him, walks away from the table with exaggerated agility, or firmness, or gracefulness, to show he is not lame. Nick quickly sits down at the table and says to the waiter: “Take the rest of those chairs away and bring us two Bacardis and a menu. I’m starving.”

  Nora, looking regretfully at her departed admirers: “They were such nice men, Nick. One of them promised to teach me a new dance. And another was telling me how much I’d like Buenos Aires.”

  Nick: “With a blond wig? What are you doing here anyhow?”

  Nora, putting a finger up beside her nose: “I have a clue.”

  Nick, with complete loss of interest: “Oh, well, if that’s all it is.”

  Nora: “I oughtn’t to tell you.”

  Nick, agreeably: “Go ahead and don’t.” Then, as the waiter arrives with their drinks and menus: “What do you want to eat?”

  Nora, sulking: “I don’t care. Anything you want.”

  Nick, to the waiter: “Two more Bacardis, two orders of oysters on the half shell, two . . .” etc., etc. He orders two enormous and complicated meals. The waiter goes away.

  Nora: “You’re going to feel very silly if you don’t solve this mystery just because you were too smart-alecky to listen to my clue.”

  Nick: “Don’t get mad—I’ll listen.”

  Nora: “You don’t have to listen. Just give me the fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents.”

  Nick: “What fourteen dollars and which seventy-five cents?”

  Nora: “For the man.”

  Nick, patiently: “What man?”

  Nora: “The man who phoned me.”

  Nick: “Let’s get this straight. A man phoned you and—”

  Nora: “No, he phoned you.”

  Nick: “A man phoned me and I promised him fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents?”

  Nora: “Yes. I did. You weren’t there.”

  Nick: “I wasn’t where?”

  Nora: “You’re just trying to get me mixed up. At MacFay’s, after you left, a man phoned you, a man with an accent, and when you weren’t there he talked to me, and he said he’d seen in the paper that you were hunting for Church and Dum-Dum and he could tell you where to find Dum-Dum if you met him here. He said not to bring the police because he was not a stool-pigeon and he only wanted fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents because that was what Dum-Dum owed him and wouldn’t pay and the whole thing was between gentlemen. He kept saying the whole thing was between gentlemen.”

  Nick: “That must have made you feel pretty much an outsider. Where did he say Dum-Dum is?”

  Nora: “He didn’t say.”

  Nick: “Is that why we’re going to give him fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents?”

  Nora: “No. He hasn’t had a chance to speak to me yet. All those nice men came over and began to talk to me, so there wasn’t much privacy.”

  Nick, as the waiter brings their fresh drinks and the oysters: “I’m sorry I chased them away. For fourteen seventy-five they can come back.”

  Nora, rising as the orchestra begins to play again: “They don’t have to. I’m going to dance with my new teacher.” She goes over to one of the men who had been at her table, and they dance.

  The girl entertainer who had done a number for Nick, now seeing him alone, comes over to his table. Her face lights up when she sees the two orders of oysters in front of him and she asks: “What are you doing later?”

  Nick starts to answer her, then breaks off as he sees Dum-Dum coming into the Club. Dum-Dum is making a smiling entrance, bowing to acquaintances right and left, and when he sees Nick he comes straight to his table.

  Dum-Dum, to the entertainer: “Mr. Charles my friend. You sharpen the teeth someplace else. Scram, scram.”

  The girl goes away.

  Nick: “Make out all right with the police?”

  Dum-Dum: “Always I do. Last night I get drunk and go to sleep in a vestibule and they lock me up until a couple hours ago I get sober. Those policemen from Long Island, they don’t believe me, but they believe policemen in station-house when I take them there.”

  Nick: “How about Church? Is he making out all right?”

  Dum-Dum, shaking his head: “That I come to ask you. I do not know.”

  Nick: “Where do you think he is?”

  Dum-Dum: “I do not know.”

  Nick: “Think he killed MacFay?”

  Dum-Dum, grinning: “Does any man say he think his friend killed?”

  Nick: “MacFay was killed with a knife just like yours.”

  Dum-Dum: “The police tell me that. I think they tell lie to trick me. I never see another knife like that up here.”

  On the dance floor, Nora has just begun to learn the new step when, each time she comes around close to the orchestra, she is thrown off by one of the musicians going, “ps-s-s-s!” in her ear. She doesn’t succeed in learning which musician it is, or why he is “ps-s-sing” in her ear until the music stops. Then, as she moves off the floor, one of the musicians catches her eye and makes a double gesture—indicating Dum-Dum with a jerk of his thumb, rubbing the fingers of his other hand with that thumb to say “Pay me.”

  Nora nods and goes back to her table, accompanied by her dance partner. Thus encouraged, the other men who had been at her table begin to drift back to it, bringing chairs with them.

  Nora, whispering to Nick: “The man wants his money.”

  Nick: “All men want money. Greed, greed! It’s the curse of the age.”

  Nora: “But he did help us find Dum-Dum.”

  Nick: “If he helped you, you pay him.” He turns to find his table is crowded with Nora’s admirers, most of them busy just now ordering drinks on him of course.

  Nora takes advantage of Nick’s preoccupations with his guests to pick his pocket.

  Sitting opposite Nick is a fat man the others call Cookie. He is very tight and talkative and none of the others seems to like him.

  Cookie: “I could tell you right now who killed most of the g
uys that get themselves killed in this man’s town. A fellow that gets around as much as I do and keeps his eyes open and can put two and two together don’t have to wait to read things in newspapers.”

  One of the men, contemptuously: “Okay, big lard, who knocked off A. R.?”

  Cookie: “Don’t think I don’t know, but you don’t have to think I’m putting the finger on guys. Listen, I could . . .” As he goes on, the orchestra begins to play again; one of the men at the table rises and bows to Nora, who gets up and goes off with him to dance, the money she took from Nick wadded in one hand. Dancing past the musician who had signaled her, she drops the money into his instrument.

  Back at the table, Cookie is telling Nick: “And I could tell you plenty about Sam Church, too. Many’s the bottle him and me killed in this joint and over in that gal’s flat he run around with, too.”

  Nick: “What girl? Smitty?”

  Cookie: “No—Linda Mills—the one he ditched, or got ditched by, before he took up with Smitty. A cute-looking kind of doll, I guess, under all that war-paint, but too plenty tough for me. Too plenty tough, I guess, for most guys—the way she didn’t hold on to any of ’em very long. Lives over in the Chestevere Apartments.”

  Nick: “He must move around fast. I thought he’d only been back from Cuba ten days or so.”

  Cookie: “If you call this Cuba. He’s been around these joints ever since he got out of stir. Say, you don’t know no more about him than the police; and it’s a cinch they’re plenty wrong about him if they say Sam was mixed up in anything down on the Island last night. I seen him going in Vogel’s at—”

  Dum-Dum suddenly jumps up, reaches for his knife, which is not in its usual place at his waistband, then hits Cookie in the face with his fist. A waiter swings his tray high in the air with both hands and bangs it down on Cookie’s head. As Cookie falls down on all fours another man hits him with a bottle, and then half a dozen are making flying leaps at him as the lights go out.

  The orchestra, in the manner of a well-trained orchestra in a joint, continues, playing a little louder than usual. When the lights go on, Nora is one half of the only couple still dancing. Nick is the other half of the couple. Nora’s former partner is coming out from under a table. Police are coming into the place. Cookie has disappeared.