The Glass Key

by Dashiell Hammett

Farr’s cheeks rippled again where they covered his jaw-muscles. He frowned over pleading eyes. “For God’s sake, Ned,” he said earnestly, “don’t think I’m taking that seriously. We get bales of that kind of crap every time anything happens. I only wanted to show it to you.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “That’s all right as long as you keep on feeling that way about it.” He was still level of eye and voice. “Have you said anything to Paul about it?”

  “About the letter? No. I haven’t seen him since it came this morning.”

  Ned Beaumont picked the envelope up from the desk and put it in his inner coat-pocket. The District Attorney, watching the letter go into the pocket, seemed uncomfortable, but he did not say anything.

  Ned Beaumont said, when he had stowed the letter away and had brought a thin dappled cigar out of another pocket: “I don’t think I’d say anything to him about it if I were you. He’s got enough on his mind.”

  Farr was saying, “Sure, whatever you say, Ned,” before Ned Beaumont had finished his speech.

  After that neither of them said anything for a while during which Farr resumed his staring at the desk-corner and Ned Beaumont stared thoughtfully at Farr. This period of silence was ended by a soft buzzing that came from under the District Attorney’s desk.

  Farr picked up his telephone and said: “Yes.… Yes.” His undershot lip crept out over the edge of the upper lip and his florid face became mottled. “The hell he’s not!” he snarled. “Bring the bastard in and put him up against him and then if he don’t we’ll do some work on him.… Yes.… Do it.” He slammed the receiver on its prong and glared at Ned Beaumont.

  Ned Beaumont had paused in the act of lighting his cigar. It was in one hand. His lighter, alight, was in the other. His face was thrust forward a little between them. His eyes glittered. He put the tip of his tongue between his lips, withdrew it, and moved his lips in a smile that had nothing to do with pleasure. “News?” he asked in a low persuasive voice.

  The District Attorney’s voice was savage: “Boyd West, the other brother that identified Ivans. I got to thinking about it when we were talking and sent out to see if he could still identify him. He says he’s not sure, the bastard.”

  Ned Beaumont nodded as if this news was not unexpected. “How’ll that fix things?”

  “He can’t get away with it,” Farr snarled. “He identified him once and he’ll stick to it when he gets in front of a jury. I’m having him brought in now and by the time I get through with him he’ll be a good boy.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “Yes? And suppose he doesn’t?”

  The District Attorney’s desk trembled under a blow from the District Attorney’s fist. “He will.”

  Apparently Ned Beaumont was unimpressed. He lighted his cigar, extinguished and pocketed his lighter, blew smoke out, and asked in a mildly amused tone: “Sure he will, but suppose he doesn’t? Suppose he looks at Tim and says: ‘I’m not sure that’s him’?”

  Farr smote his desk again. “He won’t—not when I’m through with him—he won’t do anything but get up in front of the jury and say: That’s him.”

  Amusement went out of Ned Beaumont’s face and he spoke a bit wearily: “He’s going to back down on the identification and you know he is. Well, what can you do about it? There’s nothing you can do about it, is there? It means your case against Tim Ivans goes blooey. You found the carload of booze where he left it, but the only proof you’ve got that he was driving it when it ran down Norman West was the eyewitness testimony of his two brothers. Well, if Francis is dead and Boyd’s afraid to talk you’ve got no case and you know it.”

  In a loud enraged voice Farr began: “If you think I’m going to sit on my—”

  But with an impatient motion of the hand holding his cigar Ned Beaumont interrupted him. “Sitting, standing, or riding a bicycle,” he said, “you’re licked and you know it.”

  “Do I? I’m District Attorney of this city and county and I—” Abruptly Farr stopped blustering. He cleared his throat and swallowed. Belligerence went out of his eyes, to be replaced first by confusion and then by something akin to fear. He leaned across the desk, too worried to keep worry from showing in his florid face. He said: “Of course you know if you—if Paul—I mean if there’s any reason why I shouldn’t—you know—we can let it go at that.”

  The smile that had nothing to do with pleasure was lifting the ends of Ned Beaumont’s lips again and his eyes glittered through cigar-smoke. He shook his head slowly and spoke slowly in an unpleasantly sweet tone: “No, Farr, there isn’t any reason, or none of that kind. Paul promised to spring Ivans after election, but, believe it or not, Paul never had anybody killed and, even if he did, Ivans wasn’t important enough to have anybody killed for. No, Farr, there isn’t any reason and I wouldn’t like to think you were going around thinking there was.”

  “For God’s sake, Ned, get me right,” Farr protested. “You know damned well there’s nobody in the city any stronger for Paul and for you than me. You ought to know that. I didn’t mean anything by what I said except that—well, that you can always count on me.”

  Ned Beaumont said, “That’s fine,” without much enthusiasm and stood up.

  Farr rose and came around the desk with a red hand out. “What’s your hurry?” he said. “Why don’t you stick around and see how this West acts when they bring him in? Or”—he looked at his watch—“what are you doing tonight? How about going to dinner with me?”

  “Sorry, I can’t,” Ned Beaumont replied. “I’ve got to run along.”

  He let Farr pump his hand up and down, murmured a “Yes, I will” in response to the District Attorney’s insistence that he drop in often and that they get together some night, and went out.

  III

  Walter Ivans was standing beside one of a row of men operating nailing-machines in the box-factory where he was employed as foreman, when Ned Beaumont came in. He saw Ned Beaumont at once and, hailing him with an uplifted hand, came down the center aisle, but in Ivans’s china-blue eyes and round fair face there was somewhat less pleasure than he seemed to be trying to put there.

  Ned Beaumont said, “ ’Lo, Walt,” and by turning slightly towards the door escaped the necessity of either taking or pointedly ignoring the shorter man’s proffered hand. “Let’s get out of this racket.”

  Ivans said something that was blurred by the din of metal driving metal into wood and they went to the open door by which Ned Beaumont had entered. Outside was a wide platform of solid timber. A flight of wooden steps ran down twenty feet to the ground.

  They stood on the wooden platform and Ned Beaumont asked: “You know one of the witnesses against your brother was knocked off last night?”

  “Y-yes, I saw it in the p-p-paper.”

  Ned Beaumont asked: “You know the other one’s not sure now he can identify Tim?”

  “N-no, I didn’t know that, N-ned.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “You know if he doesn’t Tim’ll get off.”

  “Y-yes.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “You don’t look as happy about it as you ought to.”

  Ivans wiped his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. “B-b-but I am, N-ned, b-by God I am!”

  “Did you know West? The one that was killed.”

  “N-no, except that I went to s-see him once, t-to ask him to g-go kind of easy on T-tim.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “When was that?”

  Ivans shifted his feet and wiped his face with his sleeve again. “T-t-two or three d-days ago.”

  Ned Beaumont asked softly: “Any idea who could have killed him, Walt?”

  Ivans shook his head violently from side to side.

  “Any idea who could’ve had him killed, Walt?”

  Ivans shook his head.

  For a moment Ned Beaumont stared reflectively over Ivans’s shoulder. The clatter of the nailing-machines came through the door ten feet away and from another story came the whirr of saws. Ivans
drew in and expelled a long breath.

  Ned Beaumont’s mien had become sympathetic when he transferred his gaze to the shorter man’s china-blue eyes again. He leaned down a little and asked: “Are you all right, Walt? I mean there are going to be people who’ll think maybe you might have shot West to save your brother. Have you got—?”

  “I-I-I was at the C-club all last night, from eight o’clock t-t-till after t-two this morning,” Walter Ivans replied as rapidly as the impediment in his speech permitted. “Harry Sloss and B-ben Ferriss and Brager c-c-can tell you.”

  Ned Beaumont laughed. “That’s a lucky break for you, Walt,” he said gaily.

  He turned his back on Walter Ivans and went down the wooden steps to the street. He paid no attention to Walter Ivans’s very friendly “Good-by, Ned.”

  IV

  From the box-factory Ned Beaumont walked four blocks to a restaurant and used a telephone. He called the four numbers he had called earlier in the day, asking again for Paul Madvig and, not getting him on the wire, left instructions for Madvig to call him. Then he got a taxicab and went home.

  Additional pieces of mail had been put with those already on the table by the door. He hung up his hat and overcoat, lighted a cigar, and sat down with his mail in the largest of the red-plush chairs. The fourth envelope he opened was similar to the one the District Attorney had shown him. It contained a single sheet of paper bearing three typewritten sentences without salutation or signature:

  Did you find Taylor Henry’s body after he was dead or were you present when he was murdered?

  Why did you not report his death until after the police had found the body?

  Do you think you can save the guilty by manufacturing evidence against the innocent?

  Ned Beaumont screwed up his eyes and wrinkled his forehead over this message and drew much smoke from his cigar. He compared it with the one the District Attorney had received. Paper and typing were alike, as were the manner in which each paper’s three sentences were arranged and the time of the postmarks.

  Scowling, he returned each to its envelope and put them in his pocket, only to take them out again immediately to reread and re-examine them. Too rapid smoking made his cigar burn irregularly down one side. He put the cigar on the edge of the table beside him with a grimace of distaste and picked at his mustache with nervous fingers. He put the messages away once more and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and biting a finger-nail. He ran fingers through his hair. He put the end of a finger between his collar and his neck. He sat up and took the envelopes out of his pocket again, but put them back without having looked at them. He chewed his lower lip. Finally he shook himself impatiently and began to read the rest of his mail. He was reading it when the telephone-bell rang.

  He went to the telephone. “Hello.… Oh, ’lo, Paul, where are you?… How long will you be there?… Yes, fine, drop in on your way.… Right, I’ll be here.”

  He returned to his mail.

  V

  Paul Madvig arrived at Ned Beaumont’s rooms as the bells in the grey church across the street were ringing the Angelus. He came in saying heartily: “Howdy, Ned. When’d you get back?” His big body was clothed in grey tweeds.

  “Late this morning,” Ned Beaumont replied as they shook hands.

  “Make out all right?”

  Ned Beaumont showed the edges of his teeth in a contented smile. “I got what I went after—all of it.”

  “That’s great.” Madvig threw his hat on a chair and sat on another beside the fireplace.

  Ned Beaumont returned to his chair. “Anything happen while I was gone?” he asked as he picked up the half-filled cocktail-glass standing beside the silver shaker on the table at his elbow.

  “We got the muddle on the sewer-contract straightened out.”

  Ned Beaumont sipped his cocktail and asked: “Have to make much of a cut?”

  “Too much. There won’t be anything like the profit there ought to be, but that’s better than taking a chance on stirring things up this close to election. We’ll make it up on the street-work next year when the Salem and Chestnut extensions go through.”

  Ned Beaumont nodded. He was looking at the blond man’s outstretched crossed ankles. He said: “You oughtn’t to wear silk socks with tweeds.”

  Madvig raised a leg straight out to look at the ankle. “No? I like the feel of silk.”

  “Then lay off tweeds. Taylor Henry buried?”

  “Friday.”

  “Go to the funeral?”

  “Yes,” Madvig replied and added a little self-consciously: “The Senator suggested it.”

  Ned Beaumont put his glass on the table and touched his lips with a white handkerchief taken from the outer breast-pocket of his coat. “How is the Senator?” He looked obliquely at the blond man and did not conceal the amusement in his eyes.

  Madvig replied, still somewhat self-consciously: “He’s all right. I spent most of this afternoon up there with him.”

  “At his house?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Was the blond menace there?”

  Madvig did not quite frown. He said: “Janet was there.”

  Ned Beaumont, putting his handkerchief away, made a choked gurgling sound in his throat and said: “M-m-m. It’s Janet now. Getting anywhere with her?”

  Composure came back to Madvig. He said evenly: “I still think I’m going to marry her.”

  “Does she know yet that—that your intentions are honorable?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Ned!” Madvig protested. “How long are you going to keep me on the witness-stand?”

  Ned Beaumont laughed, picked up the silver shaker, shook it, and poured himself another drink. “How do you like the Francis West killing?” he asked when he was sitting back with the glass in his hand.

  Madvig seemed puzzled for a moment. Then his face cleared and he said: “Oh, that’s the fellow that got shot on Achland Avenue last night.”

  “That’s the fellow.”

  A fainter shade of puzzlement returned to Madvig’s blue eyes. He said: “Well, I didn’t know him.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “He was one of the witnesses against Walter Ivans’s brother. Now the other witness, Boyd West, is afraid to testify, so the rap falls through.”

  “That’s swell,” Madvig said, but by the time the last word had issued from his mouth a doubtful look had come into his eyes. He drew his legs in and leaned forward. “Afraid?” he asked.

  “Yes, unless you like scared better.”

  Madvig’s face hardened into attentiveness and his eyes became stony blue disks. “What are you getting at, Ned?” he asked in a crisp voice.

  Ned Beaumont emptied his glass and set it on the table. “After you told Walt Ivans you couldn’t spring Tim till election was out of the way he took his troubles to Shad O’Rory,” he said in a deliberate monotone, as if reciting a lesson. “Shad sent some of his gorillas around to scare the two Wests out of appearing against Tim. One of them wouldn’t scare and they bumped him off.”

  Madvig, scowling, objected: “What the hell does Shad care about Tim Ivans’s troubles?”

  Ned Beaumont, reaching for the cocktail-shaker, said irritably: “All right, I’m just guessing. Forget it.”

  “Cut it out, Ned. You know your guesses are good enough for me. If you’ve got anything on your mind, spill it.”

  Ned Beaumont set the shaker down without having poured a drink and said: “It might be just a guess, at that, Paul, but this is the way it looks to me. Everybody knows Walt Ivans’s been working for you down in the Third Ward and is a member of the Club and everything and that you’d do anything you could to get his brother out of a jam if he asked you. Well, everybody, or a lot of them, is going to start wondering whether you didn’t have the witnesses against his brother shot and frightened into silence. That goes for the outsiders, the women’s clubs you’re getting so afraid of these days, and the respectable citizens. The insiders—the ones that mostly wouldn’t care if y
ou had done that—are going to get something like the real news. They’re going to know that one of your boys had to go to Shad to get fixed up and that Shad fixed him up. Well, that’s the hole Shad’s put you in—or don’t you think he’d go that far to put you in a hole?”

  Madvig growled through his teeth: “I know damned well he would, the louse.” He was lowering down at a green leaf worked in the rug at his feet.

  Ned Beaumont, after looking intently at the blond man, went on: “And there’s another angle to look for. Maybe it won’t happen, but you’re open to it if Shad wants to work it.”

  Madvig looked up to ask: “What?”

  “Walt Ivans was at the Club all last night, till two this morning. That’s about three hours later than he ever stayed there before except on election- or banquet-nights. Understand? He was making himself an alibi—in our Club. Suppose”—Ned Beaumont’s voice sank to a lower key and his dark eyes were round and grave—“Shad jobs Walt by planting evidence that he killed West? Your women’s clubs and all the people who like to squawk about things like that are going to think that Walt’s alibi is phony—that we fixed it up to shield him.”

  Madvig said: “The louse.” He stood up and thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets. “I wish to Christ the election was either over or further away.”

  “None of this would’ve happened then.”

  Madvig took two steps into the center of the room. He muttered, “God damn him,” and stood frowning at the telephone on the stand beside the bedroom-door. His huge chest moved with his breathing. He said from the side of his mouth, without looking at Ned Beaumont: “Figure out a way of blocking that angle.” He took a step towards the telephone and halted. “Never mind,” he said and turned to face Ned Beaumont. “I think I’ll knock Shad loose from our little city. I’m tired of having him around. I think I’ll knock him loose right away, starting tonight.”

  Ned Beaumont asked: “For instance?”

  Madvig grinned. “For instance,” he replied, “I think I’ll have Rainey close up the Dog House and Paradise Gardens and every dive that we know Shad or any of his friends are interested in. I think I’ll have Rainey smack them over in one long row, one after the other, this very same night.”