Nightmare Town

by Dashiell Hammett

“Not that I remember,” he answered.

  “Did she come up the street while you were looking at Gilmore, and go into the house he was lying in front of?”

  “She did not.”

  I took out the empty shell O’Gar had got for me, and chucked it down on the desk in front of the patrolman.

  “Kelly,” I asked, “why did you kill Gilmore?”

  Kelly’s right hand went under his coat-tail at his hip.

  I jumped for him.

  Somebody grabbed me by the neck. Somebody else piled on my back. McTighe aimed a big fist at my face, but it missed. My legs had been suddenly kicked from under me, and I went down hard with men all over me.

  When I was yanked to my feet again, big Kelly stood straight up by the desk, weighing his service revolver in his hand. His clear eyes met mine, and he laid the weapon on the desk. Then he unfastened his shield and put it with the gun.

  “It was an accident,” he said simply.

  By this time the birds who had been manhandling me woke up to the fact that maybe they were missing part of the play—that maybe I wasn’t a maniac. Hands dropped off me, and presently everybody was listening to Kelly.

  He told his story with unhurried evenness, his eyes never wavering or clouding. A deliberate man, though unlucky.

  “I was walkin’ my beat that night, an’ as I turned the corner of Jones into Pine I saw a man jump back from the steps of a buildin’ into the vestibule. A burglar, I thought, an’ cat-footed it down there. It was a dark vestibule, an’ deep, an’ I saw somethin’ that looked like a man in it, but I wasn’t sure.

  “ ‘Come out o’ there!’ I called, but there was no answer. I took my gun in my hand an’ started up the steps. I saw him move just then, comin’ out. An’ then my foot slipped. It was worn smooth, the bottom step, an’ my foot slipped. I fell forward, the gun went off, an’ the bullet hit him. He had come out a ways by then, an’ when the bullet hit him he toppled over frontwise, tumblin’ down the steps onto the sidewalk.

  “When I looked at him I saw it was Gilmore. I knew him to say ‘howdy’ to, an’ he knew me—which is why he must o’ ducked out of sight when he saw me comin’ around the corner. He didn’t want me to see him comin’ out of a buildin’ where I knew Mr. Tennant lived, I suppose, thinkin’ I’d put two an’ two together, an’ maybe talk.

  “I don’t say that I did the right thing by lyin’, but it didn’t hurt anybody. It was an accident, but he was a man with a lot of friends up in high places, an’—accident or no—I stood a good chance of bein’ broke, an’ maybe sent over for a while. So I told my story the way you people know it. I couldn’t say I’d seen anything suspicious without maybe puttin’ the blame on some innocent party, an’ I didn’t want that. I’d made up my mind that if anybody was arrested for the murder, an’ things looked bad for them, I’d come out an’ say I’d done it. Home, you’ll find a confession all written out—written out in case somethin’ happened to me—so nobody else’d ever be blamed.

  “That’s why I had to say I’d never seen the lady here. I did see her—saw her go into the buildin’ that night—the buildin’ Gilmore had come out of. But I couldn’t say so without makin’ it look bad for her; so I lied. I could have thought up a better story if I’d had more time, I don’t doubt, but I had to think quick. Anyways, I’m glad it’s all over.”

  —

  KELLY AND the other uniformed policeman had left the office, which now held McTighe, O’Gar, Cara Kenbrook, Tennant, and me. Tennant had crossed to my side, and was apologizing.

  “I hope you’ll let me square myself for this evening’s work. But you know how it is when somebody you care for is in a jam. I’d have killed you if I had thought it would help Cara—on the level. Why didn’t you tell us that you didn’t suspect her?”

  “But I did suspect the pair of you,” I said. “It looked as if Kelly had to be the guilty one; but you people carried on so much that I began to feel doubtful. For a while it was funny—you thinking she had done it, and she thinking you had, though I suppose each had sworn to his or her innocence. But after a time it stopped being funny. You carried it too far.”

  “How did you rap to Kelly?” O’Gar, at my shoulder, asked.

  “Miss Kenbrook was walking north on Leavenworth—and was halfway between Bush and Pine—when the shot was fired. She saw nobody, no cars, until she rounded the corner. Mrs. Gilmore, walking north on Jones, was about the same distance away when she heard the shot, and she saw nobody until she reached Pine Street. If Kelly had been telling the truth, she would have seen him on Jones Street. He said he didn’t turn the corner until after the shot was fired.

  “Either of the women could have killed Gilmore, but hardly both; and I doubted that either could have shot him and got away without running into Kelly or the other. Suppose both of them were telling the truth—what then? Kelly must have been lying! He was the logical suspect anyway—the nearest known person to the murdered man when the shot was fired.

  “To back all this up, he had let Miss Kenbrook go into the apartment building at three in the morning, in front of which a man had just been killed, without questioning her or mentioning her in his report. That looked as if he knew who had done the killing. So I took a chance with the empty-shell trick, it being a good bet that he would have thrown his away, and would think that—”

  McTighe’s heavy voice interrupted my explanation.

  “How about this assault charge?” he asked, and had the decency to avoid my eye when I turned toward him with the others.

  Tennant cleared his throat.

  “Er—ah—in view of the way things have turned out, and knowing that Miss Kenbrook doesn’t want the disagreeable publicity that would accompany an affair of this sort, why, I’d suggest that we drop the whole thing.” He smiled brightly from McTighe to me. “You know nothing has gone on the records yet.”

  “Make the big heap play his hand out,” O’Gar growled in my ear. “Don’t let him drop it.”

  “Of course if Miss Kenbrook doesn’t want to press the charge,” McTighe was saying, watching me out of the tail of his eye, “I suppose—”

  “If everybody understands that the whole thing was a plant,” I said, “and if the policemen who heard the story are brought in here now and told by Tennant and Miss Kenbrook that it was all a lie—then I’m willing to let it go at that. Otherwise, I won’t stand for a hush-up.”

  “You’re a damned fool!” O’Gar whispered. “Put the screws on them!”

  But I shook my head. I didn’t see any sense in making a lot of trouble for myself just to make some for somebody else—and suppose Tennant proved his story…

  So the policemen were found, and brought into the office again, and told the truth.

  And presently Tennant, the girl, and I were walking together like three old friends through the corridors toward the door, Tennant still asking me to let him make amends for the evening’s work.

  “You’ve got to let me do something!” he insisted. “It’s only right!”

  His hand dipped into his coat, and came out with a thick billfold.

  “Here,” he said, “let me—”

  We were going, at that happy moment, down the stone vestibule steps that lead to Kearny Street—six or seven steps there are.

  “No,” I said, “let me—”

  He was on the next to the top step, when I reached up and let go.

  He settled in a rather limp pile at the bottom.

  Leaving his empty-faced lady love to watch over him, I strolled up through Portsmouth Square toward a restaurant where the steaks come thick.

  THE SECOND-STORY ANGEL

  Carter Brigham—Carter Webright Brigham in the tables of contents of various popular magazines—woke with a start, passing from unconsciousness into full awareness too suddenly to doubt that his sleep had been disturbed by something external.

  The moon was not up and his apartment was on the opposite side of the building from the street-lights; the blackness abo
ut him was complete—he could not see so far as the foot of his bed.

  Holding his breath, not moving after that first awakening start, he lay with straining eyes and ears. Almost at once a sound—perhaps a repetition of the one that had aroused him—came from the adjoining room: the furtive shuffling of feet across the wooden floor. A moment of silence, and a chair grated on the floor, as if dislodged by a careless shin. Then silence again, and a faint rustling as of a body scraping against the rough paper of the wall.

  Now Carter Brigham was neither a hero nor a coward, and he was not armed. There was nothing in his rooms more deadly than a pair of candlesticks, and they—not despicable weapons in an emergency—were on the far side of the room from which the sounds came.

  If he had been awakened to hear very faint and not often repeated noises in the other room—such rustlings as even the most adept burglar might not avoid—the probabilities are that Carter would have been content to remain in his bed and try to frighten the burglar away by yelling at him. He would not have disregarded the fact that in an encounter at close quarters under these conditions every advantage would lie on the side of the prowler.

  But this particular prowler had made quite a lot of noise, had even stumbled against a chair, had shown himself a poor hand at stealthiness. That an inexpert burglar might easily be as dangerous as an adept did not occur to the man in the bed.

  Perhaps it was that in the many crook stories he had written, deadliness had always been wedded to skill and the bunglers had always been comparatively harmless and easily overcome, and that he had come to accept this theory as a truth. After all, if a man says a thing often enough, he is very likely to acquire some sort of faith in it sooner or later.

  Anyhow, Carter Brigham slid his not unmuscular body gently out from between the sheets and crept on silent bare feet toward the open doorway of the room from which the sounds had come. He passed from his bed to a position inside the next room, his back against the wall beside the door during an interlude of silence on the intruder’s part.

  The room in which Carter now stood was every bit as black as the one he had left; so he stood motionless, waiting for the prowler to betray his position.

  His patience was not taxed. Very soon the burglar moved again, audibly; and then against the rectangle of a window—scarcely lighter than the rest of the room—Carter discerned a man-shaped shadow just a shade darker coming toward him. The shadow passed the window and was lost in the enveloping darkness.

  Carter, his body tensed, did not move until he thought the burglar had had time to reach a spot where no furniture intervened. Then, with clutching hands thrown out on wide-spread arms, Carter hurled himself forward.

  His shoulder struck the intruder and they both crashed to the floor. A forearm came up across Carter’s throat, pressing into it. He tore it away and felt a blow on his cheek. He wound one arm around the burglar’s body, and with the other fist struck back. They rolled over and over across the floor until they were stopped by the legs of a massive table, the burglar uppermost.

  With savage exultance in his own strength, which the struggle thus far had shown to be easily superior to the other’s, Carter twisted his body, smashing his adversary into the heavy table. Then he drove a fist into the body he had just shaken off and scrambled to his knees, feeling for a grip on the burglar’s throat. When he had secured it he found that the prowler was lying motionless, unresisting. Laughing triumphantly, Carter got to his feet and switched on the lights.

  The girl on the floor did not move.

  Half lying, half hunched against the table where he had hurled her, she was inanimate. A still, twisted figure in an austerely tailored black suit—one sleeve of which had been torn from the shoulder—with an unended confusion of short chestnut hair above a face that was linen-white except where blows had reddened it. Her eyes were closed. One arm was outflung across the floor, the other lay limply at her side; one silken leg was extended, the other folded under her.

  Into a corner of the room her hat, a small black toque, had rolled; not far from the hat lay a very small pinch-bar, the jimmy with which she had forced an entrance.

  The window over the fire escape—always locked at night—was wide-open. Its catch hung crookedly.

  Mechanically, methodically—because he had been until recently a reporter on a morning paper, and the lessons of years are not unlearned in a few weeks—Carter’s eyes picked up these details and communicated them to his brain while he strove to conquer his bewilderment.

  After a while his wits resumed their functions and he went over to kneel beside the girl. Her pulse was regular, but she gave no other indications of life. He lifted her from the floor and carried her to the leather couch on the other side of the room. Then he brought cold water from the bathroom and brandy from the bookcase. Generous applications of the former to her temples and face and of the latter between her lips finally brought a tremor to her mouth and a quiver to her eyelids.

  Presently she opened her eyes, looked confusedly around the room, and endeavored to sit up. He pressed her head gently down on the couch.

  “Lie still a moment longer—until you feel all right.”

  She seemed to see him then for the first time, and to remember where she was. She shook her head clear of his restraining hand and sat up, swinging her feet down to the floor.

  “So I lose again,” she said, with an attempt at nonchalance that was only faintly tinged with bitterness, her eyes meeting his.

  They were green eyes and very long, and they illuminated her face which, without their soft light, had seemed of too sullen a cast for beauty, despite the smooth regularity of the features.

  Carter’s glance dropped to her discolored cheek, where his knuckles had left livid marks.

  “I’m sorry I struck you,” he apologized. “In the dark I naturally thought you were a man. I wouldn’t have—”

  “Forget it,” she commanded coolly. “It’s all in the game.”

  “But I—”

  “Aw, stop it!” Impatiently. “It doesn’t amount to anything. I’m all right.”

  “I’m glad of that.”

  His bare toes came into the range of his vision, and he went into his bedroom for slippers and a robe. The girl watched him silently when he returned to her, her face calmly defiant.

  “Now,” he suggested, drawing up a chair, “suppose you tell me all about it.”

  She laughed briefly. “It’s a long story, and the bulls ought to be here any minute now. There wouldn’t be time to tell it.”

  “The police?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But I didn’t send for them! Why should I?”

  “God knows!” She looked around the room and then abruptly straight into his eyes. “If you think I’m going to buy my liberty, brother”—her voice was icy insolent—“you’re way off!”

  He denied the thought. Then: “Suppose you tell me about it.”

  “All primed to listen to a sob story?” she mocked. “Well, here goes: I got some bad breaks on the last couple of jobs I pulled and had to lay low—so low that I didn’t even get anything to eat for a day or two. I figured I’d have to pull another job for getaway money—so I could blow town for a while. And this was it! I was sort of giddy from not eating and I made too much noise; but even at that”—with a scornful laugh—“you’d never have nailed me if I’d had a gun on me!”

  Carter was on his feet.

  “There’s food of some sort in the icebox. We’ll eat before we do any more talking.”

  A grunt came from the open window by which the girl had entered. Both of them wheeled toward it. Framed in it was a burly, red-faced man who wore a shiny blue serge suit and a black derby hat. He threw one thick leg over the sill and came into the room with heavy, bearlike agility.

  “Well, well”—the words came complacently from his thick-lipped mouth, under a close-clipped gray mustache—“if it ain’t my old friend Angel Grace!”

  “Cassidy!” the girl excl
aimed weakly, and then relapsed into sullen stoicism.

  Carter took a step forward.

  “What—”

  “ ’S all right!” the newcomer assured him, displaying a bright badge. “Detective-Sergeant Cassidy. I was passin’ and spotted somebody makin’ your fire escape. Decided to wait until they left and nab ’em with the goods. Got tired of waitin’ and came up for a look-see.”

  He turned jovially to the girl.

  “And here it turns out to be the Angel herself! Come on, kid, let’s take a ride.”

  Carter put out a detaining hand as she started submissively toward the detective.

  “Wait a minute! Can’t we fix this thing up? I don’t want to prosecute the lady.”

  Cassidy leered from the girl to Carter and back, and then shook his head.

  “Can’t be done! The Angel is wanted for half a dozen jobs. Don’t make no diff’ whether you make charges against her or not—she’ll go over for plenty anyways.”

  The girl nodded concurrence.

  “Thanks, old dear,” she told Carter, with an only partially successful attempt at nonchalance, “but they want me pretty bad.”

  But Carter would not submit without a struggle. The gods do not send a real flesh-and-blood feminine crook into a writer’s rooms every evening in the week. The retention of such a gift was worth contending for. The girl must have within her, he thought, material for thousands, tens of thousands, of words of fiction. Was that a boon to be lightly surrendered? And then her attractiveness was in itself something; and a still more potent claim on his assistance—though not perhaps so clearly explainable—was the mottled area his fists had left on the smooth flesh of her cheek.

  “Can’t we arrange it somehow?” he asked. “Couldn’t we fix it so that the charges might be—er—unofficially disregarded for the present?”

  Cassidy’s heavy brows came down and the red of his face darkened.

  “Are you tryin’ to—”

  He stopped, and his small blue eyes narrowed almost to the point of vanishing completely.

  “Go ahead! You’re doin’ the talkin’.”