The Glass Key

by Dashiell Hammett

“Why?”

  “It starts out to be a nightmare and winds up something else and all the dreams I ever had about food ended before I got a chance to do any actual eating.”

  Janet Henry laughed. “I didn’t make all of it up,” she said, “but you needn’t ask which part is true. You’ve accused me of lying and I’ll tell you nothing now.”

  “Oh, all right.” He picked up his fork again, but did not eat. He asked, with an air of just having the thought: “Does your father know anything? Do you think we could get anything out of him if we went to him with what we know?”

  “Yes,” she said eagerly, “I do.”

  He scowled thoughtfully. “The only trouble is he might go up in the air and explode the works before we’re ready. He’s hotheaded, isn’t he?”

  Her answer was given reluctantly: “Yes, but”—her face brightened, pleadingly—“I’m sure if we showed him why it’s important to wait until we’ve—But we are ready now, aren’t we?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  She pouted.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “That’s not a promise,” he cautioned her, “but I think we will be.”

  She put a hand across the table to take one of his hands. “But you will promise to let me know the very minute we’re ready, no matter what time of day or night it is?”

  “Sure, I’ll promise you that.” He looked obliquely at her. “You’re not very anxious to be in at the death, are you?”

  His tone brought a flush to her face, but she did not lower her eyes. “I know you think I’m a monster,” she said. “Perhaps I am.”

  He looked down at his plate and muttered: “I hope you like it when you get it.”

  9

  THE HEELS

  I

  After Janet Henry had gone Ned Beaumont went to his telephone, called Jack Rumsen’s number, and when he had that one on the wire said: “Can you drop in to see me, Jack?… Fine. ’By.”

  He was dressed by the time Jack arrived. They sat in facing chairs, each with a glass of Bourbon whisky and mineral water, Ned Beaumont smoking a cigar, Jack a cigarette.

  Ned Beaumont asked: “Heard anything about the split between Paul and me?”

  Jack said, “Yes,” casually.

  “What do you think of it?”

  “Nothing. I remember the last time it was supposed to happen it turned out to be a trick on Shad O’Rory.”

  Ned Beaumont smiled as if he had expected that reply. “Is that what everybody thinks it is this time?”

  The dapper young man said: “A lot of them do.”

  Ned Beaumont inhaled cigar-smoke slowly, asked: “Suppose I told you it was on the level this time?”

  Jack said nothing. His face told nothing of his thoughts.

  Ned Beaumont said: “It is.” He drank from his glass “How much do I owe you?”

  “Thirty bucks for that job on the Madvig girl. You settled for the rest.”

  Ned Beaumont took a roll of paper money from a trousers-pocket, separated three ten-dollar bills from the roll, and gave them to Jack.

  Jack said: “Thanks.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “Now we’re quits.” He inhaled smoke and blew it out while saying: “I’ve got another job I want done. I’m after Paul’s scalp on the Taylor Henry killing. He told me he did it, but I need a little more proof. Want to work on it for me?”

  Jack said: “No.”

  “Why not?”

  The dark young man rose to put his empty glass on the table. “Fred and I are building up a nice little private-detective business here,” he said. “A couple of years more and we’ll be sitting pretty. I like you, Beaumont, but not enough to monkey with the man that runs the city.”

  Ned Beaumont said evenly: “He’s on the chutes. The whole crew’s getting ready to ditch him. Farr and Rainey are—”

  “Let them do it. I don’t want in on that racket and I’ll believe they can do it when it’s done. Maybe they’ll give him a bump or two, but making it stick’s another thing. You know him better than I do. You know he’s got more guts than all the rest of them put together.”

  “He has and that’s what’s licking him. Well, if you won’t, you won’t.”

  Jack said, “I won’t,” and picked up his hat. “Anything else I’ll be glad to do, but—” He moved one hand in a brief gesture of finality.

  Ned Beaumont stood up. There was no resentment in his manner, none in his voice when he said: “I thought you might feel that way about it.” He brushed a side of his mustache with a thumb and stared thoughtfully past Jack. “Maybe you can tell me this: any idea where I can find Shad?”

  Jack shook his head. “Since the third time they knocked his place over—when the two coppers were killed—he’s been laying low, though they don’t seem to have a hell of a lot on him personally.” He took his cigarette from his mouth. “Know Whisky Vassos?”

  “Yes.”

  “You might find out from him if you know him well enough. He’s around town. You can usually find him some time during the night at Tim Walker’s place on Smith Street.”

  “Thanks, Jack. I’ll try that.”

  “That’s all right,” Jack said. He hesitated. “I’m sorry as hell you and Madvig split. I wish you—” He broke off and turned towards the door. “You know what you’re doing.”

  II

  Ned Beaumont went down to the District Attorney’s office. This time there was no delay in ushering him into Farr’s presence.

  Farr did not get up from his desk, did not offer to shake hands. He said: “How do you do, Beaumont? Sit down.” His voice was coldly polite. His pugnacious face was not so red as usual. His eyes were level and hard.

  Ned Beaumont sat down, crossed his legs comfortably, and said: “I wanted to tell you about what happened when I went to see Paul after I left here yesterday.”

  Farr’s “Yes?” was cold and polite.

  “I told him how I’d found you—panicky.” Ned Beaumont, smiling his nicest smile, went on in the manner of one telling a fairly amusing but unimportant anecdote: “I told him I thought you were trying to get up enough nerve to hang the Taylor Henry murder on him. He believed me at first, but when I told him the only way to save himself was by turning up the real murderer, he said that was no good. He said he was the real murderer, though he called it an accident or self-defense or something.”

  Farr’s face had become paler and was stiff around the mouth, but he did not speak.

  Ned Beaumont raised his eyebrows. “I’m not boring you, am I?” he asked.

  “Go on, continue,” the District Attorney said coldly.

  Ned Beaumont tilted his chair back. His smile was mocking. “You think I’m kidding, don’t you? You think it’s a trick we’re playing on you.” He shook his head and murmured: “You’re a timid soul, Farr.”

  Farr said: “I’m glad to listen to any information you can give me, but I’m very busy, so I’ll have to ask you—”

  Ned Beaumont laughed then and replied: “Oke. I thought maybe you’d like to have this information in an affidavit or something.”

  “Very well.” Farr pressed one of the pearl buttons on his desk.

  A grey-haired woman in green came in.

  “Mr. Beaumont wants to dictate a statement,” Farr told her.

  She said, “Yes, sir,” sat at the other side of Farr’s desk, put her notebook on the desk, and, holding a silver pencil over the book, looked at Ned Beaumont with blank brown eyes.

  He said: “Yesterday afternoon in his office in the Nebel Building, Paul Madvig told me that he had been to dinner at Senator Henry’s house the night Taylor Henry was killed; that he and Taylor Henry had some sort of trouble there; that after he left the house Taylor Henry ran after him and caught up with him and tried to hit him with a rough heavy brown walking-stick; that in trying to take the stick from Taylor Henry he accidentally struck him on the forehead with it, knocking him down; and that he carried the stic
k away with him and burned it. He said his only reason for concealing his part in Taylor Henry’s death was his desire to keep it from Janet Henry. That’s all of it.”

  Farr addressed the stenographer: “Transcribe that right away.”

  She left the office.

  Ned Beaumont said: “I thought I was bringing you news that would get you all excited.” He sighed. “I thought you’d fairly tear your hair over it.”

  The District Attorney looked steadily at him.

  Ned Beaumont, unabashed, said: “I thought at least you’d have Paul dragged in and confronted with this”—he waved a hand—“ ‘damaging disclosure’ is a good phrase.”

  The District Attorney spoke in a restrained tone: “Please permit me to run my own office.”

  Ned Beaumont laughed again and relapsed into silence until the grey-haired stenographer returned with a typed copy of his statement. Then he asked: “Do I swear to it?”

  “No,” Farr said, “just sign it. That will be sufficient.”

  Ned Beaumont signed the paper. “This isn’t nearly so much fun as I thought it was going to be,” he complained cheerfully.

  Farr’s undershot jaw tightened. “No,” he said with grim satisfaction, “I don’t suppose it is.”

  “You’re a timid soul, Farr,” Ned Beaumont repeated. “Be careful about taxis when you cross streets.” He bowed. “See you later.”

  Outside, he grimaced angrily.

  III

  That night Ned Beaumont rang the door-bell of a dark three-story house in Smith Street. A short man who had a small head and thick shoulders opened the door half a foot, said, “All right,” and opened it the rest of the way.

  Ned Beaumont, saying, “ ’Lo,” entered, walked twenty feet down a dim hallway past two closed doors on the right, opened a door on the left, and went down a wooden flight of steps into a basement where there was a bar and where a radio was playing softly.

  Beyond the bar was a frosted glass door marked Toilet. This door opened and a man came out, a swarthy man with something apish in the slope of his big shoulders, the length of his thick arms, the flatness of his face, and the curve of his bowed legs—Jeff Gardner.

  He saw Ned Beaumont and his reddish small eyes glistened. “Well, blind Christ, if it ain’t Sock-me-again Beaumont!” he roared, showing his beautiful teeth in a huge grin.

  Ned Beaumont said, “ ’Lo, Jeff,” while everyone in the place locked at them.

  Jeff swaggered over to Ned Beaumont, threw his left arm roughly around his shoulders, seized Ned Beaumont’s right hand with his right hand, and addressed the company jovially: “This is the swellest guy I ever skinned a knuckle on and I’ve skinned them on plenty.” He dragged Ned Beaumont to the bar. “We’re all going to have a little drink and then I’ll show you how it’s done. By Jesus, I will!” He leered into Ned Beaumont’s face. “What do you say to that, my lad?”

  Ned Beaumont, looking stolidly at the ugly dark face so close to, though lower than, his, said: “Scotch.”

  Jeff laughed delightedly and addressed the company again: “You see, he likes it. He’s a—” he hesitated, frowning, wet his lips “—a God-damned massacrist, that’s what he is.” He leered at Ned Beaumont. “You know what a massacrist is?”

  “Yes.”

  Jeff seemed disappointed. “Rye,” he told the bartender. When their drinks were set before them he released Ned Beaumont’s hand, though he kept his arm across his shoulders. They drank. Jeff set down his glass and put his hand on Ned Beaumont’s wrist. “I got just the place for me and you upstairs,” he said, “a room that’s too little for you to fall down in. I can bounce you around off the walls. That way we won’t be wasting a lot of time while you’re getting up off the floor.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “I’ll buy a drink.”

  “That ain’t a dumb idea,” Jeff agreed.

  They drank again.

  When Ned Beaumont had paid for the drinks Jeff turned him towards the stairs. “Excuse us, gents,” he said to the others at the bar, “but we got to go up and rehearse our act.” He patted Ned Beaumont’s shoulder. “Me and my sweetheart.”

  They climbed two flights of steps and went into a small room in which a sofa, two tables, and half a dozen chairs were crowded. There were some empty glasses and plates holding the remains of sandwiches on one table.

  Jeff peered near-sightedly around the room and demanded: “Now where in hell did she go?” He released Ned Beaumont’s wrist, took the arm from around his shoulders, and asked: “You don’t see no broad here, do you?”

  “No.”

  Jeff wagged his head up and down emphatically. “She’s gone,” he said. He took an uncertain step backwards and jabbed the bell-button beside the door with a dirty finger. Then, flourishing his hand, he made a grotesque bow and said: “Set down.”

  Ned Beaumont sat down at the less disorderly of the two tables.

  “Set in any God-damned chair you want to set in,” Jeff said with another large gesture. “If you don’t like that one, take another. I want you to consider yourself my guest and the hell with you if you don’t like it.”

  “It’s a swell chair,” Ned Beaumont said.

  “It’s a hell of a chair,” Jeff said. “There ain’t a chair in the dump that’s worth a damn. Look.” He picked up a chair and tore one of its front legs out, “You call that a swell chair? Listen, Beaumont, you don’t know a damned thing about chairs.” He put the chair down, tossed the leg on the sofa. “You can’t fool me. I know what you’re up to. You think I’m drunk, don’t you?”

  Ned Beaumont grinned. “No, you’re not drunk.”

  “The hell I’m not drunk. I’m drunker than you are. I’m drunker than anybody in this dump. I’m drunk as hell and don’t think I’m not, but—” He held up a thick unclean forefinger.

  A waiter came in the doorway asking: “What is it gents?”

  Jeff turned to confront him. “Where’ve you been? Sleeping? I rung for you one hour ago.”

  The waiter began to say something.

  Jeff said: “I bring the best friend I got in the world up here for a drink and what the hell happens? We have to sit around a whole God-damned hour waiting for a lousy waiter. No wonder he’s sore at me.”

  “What do you want?” the waiter asked indifferently.

  “I want to know where in hell the girl that was in here went to.”

  “Oh, her? She’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jeff scowled. “Well, you find out, and God-damned quick. What’s the idea of not knowing where she went? If this ain’t a swell joint where nobody—” A shrewd light came into his red eyes. “I’ll tell you what to do. You go up to the ladies’ toilet and see if she’s there.”

  “She ain’t there,” the waiter said. “She went out.”

  “The dirty bastard!” Jeff said and turned to Ned Beaumont. “What’d you do to a dirty bastard like that? I bring you up here because I want you to meet her because I know you’ll like her and she’ll like you and she’s too God-damned snooty to meet my friends and out she goes.”

  Ned Beaumont was lighting a cigar. He did not say anything.

  Jeff scratched his head, growled, “Well, bring us something to drink, then,” sat down across the table from Ned Beaumont, and said savagely: “Mine’s rye.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “Scotch.”

  The waiter went away.

  Jeff glared at Ned Beaumont. “Don’t get the idea that I don’t know what you’re up to, either,” he said angrily.

  “I’m not up to anything,” Ned Beaumont replied carelessly. “I’d like to see Shad and I thought maybe I’d find Whisky Vassos here and he’d send me to Shad.”

  “Don’t you think I know where Shad is?”

  “You ought to.”

  “Then why didn’t you ask me?”

  “All right. Where is he?”

  Jeff slapped the table mightily with an open hand and bawled: “You’re a liar
. You don’t give a God-damn where Shad is. It’s me you’re after.”

  Ned Beaumont smiled and shook his head.

  “It is,” the apish man insisted. “You know God-damned well that—”

  A young-middle-aged man with plump red lips and round eyes came to the door. He said: “Cut it out, Jeff. You’re making more noise than everybody else in the place.”

  Jeff screwed himself around in his chair. “It’s this bastard,” he told the man in the doorway, indicating Ned Beaumont with a jerk of his thumb. “He thinks I don’t know what he’s up to. I know what he’s up to. He’s a heel and that’s what he is. And I’m going to beat hell out of him and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  The man in the doorway said reasonably, “Well, you don’t have to make so much noise about it,” winked at Ned Beaumont, and went away.

  Jeff said gloomily: “Tim’s turning into a heel too.” He spit on the floor.

  The waiter came in with their drinks.

  Ned Beaumont raised his glass, said, “Looking at you,” and drank.

  Jeff said: “I don’t want to look at you. You’re a heel.” He stared somberly at Ned Beaumont.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You’re a liar. I’m drunk. But I ain’t so drunk that I don’t know what you’re up to.” He emptied his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And I say you’re a heel.”

  Ned Beaumont, smiling amiably, said: “All right. Have it your way.”

  Jeff thrust his apish muzzle forward a little. “You think you’re smart as hell, don’t you?”

  Ned Beaumont did not say anything.

  “You think it’s a damned smart trick coming in here and trying to get me plastered so you can turn me up.”

  “That’s right,” Ned Beaumont said carelessly, “there is a murder-charge against you for bumping off Francis West, isn’t there?”

  Jeff said: “Hell with Francis West.”

  Ned Beaumont shrugged. “I didn’t know him.”

  Jeff said: “You’re a heel.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  The apish man nodded solemnly and tilted his chair back to reach the bell-button. With his finger on the button he said: “But you’re still a heel.” His chair swayed back under him, turning. He got his feet flat on the floor and brought the chair down on all fours before it could spill him. “The bastard!” he snarled, pulling it around to the table again. He put his elbows on the table and propped his chin up on one fist. “What the hell do I care who turns me up? You don’t think they’d ever fry me, do you?”