think the fewer cops know about your operation right now, the better.’
‘Check.’
He left the stocky detective getting into a cab for the Hall of Justice, after again refusing Wright’s pleas that he join the investigation. He caught a 15 car up Third Street. Dammit, Vic’s death really had nothing to do with him. Vic Atkinson had been unwary and had gotten dead. Probably had nothing to do with the investigation anyway. As far as anyone on the reform committee knew, Vic had returned to LA to get his crew together.
But at Mission Street, Hammett got off the trolley and walked the two blocks to the Chronicle building. He picked up back issues of the newspaper. When he left the Sutter car at Hyde twenty minutes later, he stopped at the Eagle Market to get a bottle of rye from the back room.
He had two things neither the police nor Jimmy Wright had. DAvenport 7789, from which Vic had called him last night. And the fact they had talked with Molly Farr on Sunday.
It was easy enough to check out the phone. He detoured toDorris’ garage and dialed the number. It rang seven times before it was picked up.
‘Clyde there?’
‘Clyde? Look, mister, this is a pay phone.’
‘
Pay
phone?’ exclaimed Hammett in a surprised voice. ‘You sure?’
‘’Course I’m sure. In the lobby of the Army-Navy YMCA . . .’
Hammett hung up. What the hell was there down at the foot of Mission Street to attract Vic at one in the morning? He called the Townsend, where Jimmy Wright had taken over Vic’s room, and left a message for the stocky operative. Then he went up to his apartment.
Propped up in bed with the newspapers, the bottle of rye, cigarettes and ashtray, he started rapidly and expertly through the papers. The baseball bat was a mob trademark – which made it easy to copy. Sunday’s story on Molly he reread, followed her through. Monday, arraignment due that afternoon. Tuesday, neither she nor Crystal Tam showed up for the arraignment. He also reread the stories on Tokzek’s death and his eventual identification as a rumrunner.
He saw his glass was empty again, filled it, and padded over to his typing table and the night’s work still laid out. The hell with Atkinson. The hell with Molly Farr and the newspaper dog vomit. He had a book to revise.
But what had seemed so vital a few hours before became shallow and trite against Vic’s battered, shapeless head.
He went back to bed. He poured his tumbler half full.
The death didn’t make sense. What could Vic have learned in a casual evening of barhopping that was worth his life? As a working hypothesis, nothing. So leave that to the cops and to Jimmy Wright.
Dammit, leave the whole thing to the cops and Jimmy Wright. And where was that damn bottle?
Molly. Atkinson meant to pressure Molly until she broke, but she took a run-out powder. If he’d found her . . .
Wait a minute, Hammett. Your glass is empty. Hell, bottle empty too. Just as good. Work to do. Writing. Deathless prose.
Deathless death dead, Vic Atkinson, God
dam
mit Vic is dead.
Molly Farr. Find Molly. Molly’s folly.
Instead, Hammett found his shoes and a shirt and the door. When he returned ten minutes later, the empty pint had ballooned to a full quart.
His glass was under the bed and his head hurt when he bent over to get it. Should have had something to eat. Too busy to eat. Busy detecting, Hammett the ferret ferreting through the newspapers, gumshoeing bloodhounding sherlocking.
Today’s paper. Hadn’t checked that yet. And there it was.
MOLLY’S OWN STORY OF BEING ON SPOT
by Harry Warner
In the predawn hours before her grand jury arraignment on vice charges last Monday, a haggard Molly Farr wrestled with her code of life. Four courses, she told this reporter, were open to her.
‘I can commit suicide,’ she told him. ‘I can squeal. I can fight the case by pleading my innocence in front of a jury. Or I can run away.’
As she spoke, her voice was deadly serious.
‘I want you to get
‘Check.’
He left the stocky detective getting into a cab for the Hall of Justice, after again refusing Wright’s pleas that he join the investigation. He caught a 15 car up Third Street. Dammit, Vic’s death really had nothing to do with him. Vic Atkinson had been unwary and had gotten dead. Probably had nothing to do with the investigation anyway. As far as anyone on the reform committee knew, Vic had returned to LA to get his crew together.
But at Mission Street, Hammett got off the trolley and walked the two blocks to the Chronicle building. He picked up back issues of the newspaper. When he left the Sutter car at Hyde twenty minutes later, he stopped at the Eagle Market to get a bottle of rye from the back room.
He had two things neither the police nor Jimmy Wright had. DAvenport 7789, from which Vic had called him last night. And the fact they had talked with Molly Farr on Sunday.
It was easy enough to check out the phone. He detoured toDorris’ garage and dialed the number. It rang seven times before it was picked up.
‘Clyde there?’
‘Clyde? Look, mister, this is a pay phone.’
‘
Pay
phone?’ exclaimed Hammett in a surprised voice. ‘You sure?’
‘’Course I’m sure. In the lobby of the Army-Navy YMCA . . .’
Hammett hung up. What the hell was there down at the foot of Mission Street to attract Vic at one in the morning? He called the Townsend, where Jimmy Wright had taken over Vic’s room, and left a message for the stocky operative. Then he went up to his apartment.
Propped up in bed with the newspapers, the bottle of rye, cigarettes and ashtray, he started rapidly and expertly through the papers. The baseball bat was a mob trademark – which made it easy to copy. Sunday’s story on Molly he reread, followed her through. Monday, arraignment due that afternoon. Tuesday, neither she nor Crystal Tam showed up for the arraignment. He also reread the stories on Tokzek’s death and his eventual identification as a rumrunner.
He saw his glass was empty again, filled it, and padded over to his typing table and the night’s work still laid out. The hell with Atkinson. The hell with Molly Farr and the newspaper dog vomit. He had a book to revise.
But what had seemed so vital a few hours before became shallow and trite against Vic’s battered, shapeless head.
He went back to bed. He poured his tumbler half full.
The death didn’t make sense. What could Vic have learned in a casual evening of barhopping that was worth his life? As a working hypothesis, nothing. So leave that to the cops and to Jimmy Wright.
Dammit, leave the whole thing to the cops and Jimmy Wright. And where was that damn bottle?
Molly. Atkinson meant to pressure Molly until she broke, but she took a run-out powder. If he’d found her . . .
Wait a minute, Hammett. Your glass is empty. Hell, bottle empty too. Just as good. Work to do. Writing. Deathless prose.
Deathless death dead, Vic Atkinson, God
dam
mit Vic is dead.
Molly Farr. Find Molly. Molly’s folly.
Instead, Hammett found his shoes and a shirt and the door. When he returned ten minutes later, the empty pint had ballooned to a full quart.
His glass was under the bed and his head hurt when he bent over to get it. Should have had something to eat. Too busy to eat. Busy detecting, Hammett the ferret ferreting through the newspapers, gumshoeing bloodhounding sherlocking.
Today’s paper. Hadn’t checked that yet. And there it was.
MOLLY’S OWN STORY OF BEING ON SPOT
by Harry Warner
In the predawn hours before her grand jury arraignment on vice charges last Monday, a haggard Molly Farr wrestled with her code of life. Four courses, she told this reporter, were open to her.
‘I can commit suicide,’ she told him. ‘I can squeal. I can fight the case by pleading my innocence in front of a jury. Or I can run away.’
As she spoke, her voice was deadly serious.
‘I want you to get
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