one thing straight. I have lived my adult life by the code of the underworld. They tell me I may have to go to jail for fifteen years. I won’t do that. But I’m not a rat. Sure, I know a lot about police graft. And I know I’m being crucified. I know politics is mixed up in this case somewhere. They’re going to feed Molly Farr to the wolves and say they’ve got the goods on her and that she’s a bad woman and they’re going to put her away for a long time. But I’m not going to blow the whistle now.’
She shuddered.
‘I have a code that says, “Keep your mouth shut.”’
Continued on Page 3, Col. I
Hammett read it through to the end. A typical Brass Mouth Epstein maneuver. Take Mulligan Bros money to defend Molly, then warn them – and the DA and the cops as well – that Molly knew too much for them to expect her to pull fifteen years at Tehachapi. Smear it all over the newspapers through exclusive interviews with feature writers. Make Molly a
cause célèbre
. And then pull the plug, spirit her away, and let everyone sweat a little bit.
And into the midst of all this sweating and careful orchestration, perhaps, had stepped Vic Atkinson. What if he had found a lead to Molly that someone heard about? If someone didn’t want him to get to her, there was a motive for murder.
Which, however, only worked if you assumed that Molly knew something worth murder. You’d have to talk to Molly to know for sure.
Hell, he needed a licensed grift, so he could lean on the people who had to be leaned on. That meant convincing the committee he should take Vic’s place – just as Jimmy Wright had been urging him. Once he had that . . .
Who was he kidding? He was a writer now, not a sleuth. He lowered the level in his glass. The cops would turn up some bum or wino who’d ridden the rods up from Stockton or down from Portland, had rolled Vic as a drunk, and had hit too hard. Had carried the body across the street to dump it by the tracks.
Did he really believe that?
‘Do you really believe that, Hammett?’ he asked aloud.
Goddammit, Vic’s death had nothing to do with him, was nothing to him. Right? He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed his hands down over his face. He had a book to revise. So many things . . .
But all in an orderly progression. First things first.
Where in hell had that bottle gotten to?
9
A t three A.M . the heavy hardwood door of 891 Post was slammed wide. Hammett came through at an angle so sharp that one tough stringy shoulder hit the wall. This spun him around. To keep his balance, he stepped back on the raised vestibule terrazzo a foot beyond where the terrazzo ended.
He fell heavily on his back on the sidewalk. He lay there motionless, then started coughing. The violence of the spasms curled him to one side. He spat against the concrete and stared intently at it for a few moments.
Then he clambered to his feet. He had not bothered to put on a collar and the bare stud glinted at the back of the neckband.
‘’Rested,’ he said aloud.
That’s what the medicos at the veterans’ lung hospital had told him about his consumption. An arrested case. No blood in what he had spat against the sidewalk. No hemorrhaging for over three years, not since he’d twice come around in a pool of his own blood on the floor of Samuels’ Jewelers and had quit to go write before it was too late.
And Josie, before she’d left him that first time,
My God, Dash, don’t you understand? You’re killing yourself with your drinking
. Josie. Nurse and wife and . . .
‘It was the whiskey that stopped the TB,’ he said stubbornly.
He realized that his right hand still clutched an unbroken quart whiskey bottle. The street was deserted, dark between streetlamps pooling light at the intersections. On Sutter, a block above, an all-night Owl went by with a mournful thinning rattle-rattle and clang-clang-clang. My God, what lonely sounds! He looked at the bottle and chuckled.
‘Never spilled a drop,’ he
She shuddered.
‘I have a code that says, “Keep your mouth shut.”’
Continued on Page 3, Col. I
Hammett read it through to the end. A typical Brass Mouth Epstein maneuver. Take Mulligan Bros money to defend Molly, then warn them – and the DA and the cops as well – that Molly knew too much for them to expect her to pull fifteen years at Tehachapi. Smear it all over the newspapers through exclusive interviews with feature writers. Make Molly a
cause célèbre
. And then pull the plug, spirit her away, and let everyone sweat a little bit.
And into the midst of all this sweating and careful orchestration, perhaps, had stepped Vic Atkinson. What if he had found a lead to Molly that someone heard about? If someone didn’t want him to get to her, there was a motive for murder.
Which, however, only worked if you assumed that Molly knew something worth murder. You’d have to talk to Molly to know for sure.
Hell, he needed a licensed grift, so he could lean on the people who had to be leaned on. That meant convincing the committee he should take Vic’s place – just as Jimmy Wright had been urging him. Once he had that . . .
Who was he kidding? He was a writer now, not a sleuth. He lowered the level in his glass. The cops would turn up some bum or wino who’d ridden the rods up from Stockton or down from Portland, had rolled Vic as a drunk, and had hit too hard. Had carried the body across the street to dump it by the tracks.
Did he really believe that?
‘Do you really believe that, Hammett?’ he asked aloud.
Goddammit, Vic’s death had nothing to do with him, was nothing to him. Right? He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed his hands down over his face. He had a book to revise. So many things . . .
But all in an orderly progression. First things first.
Where in hell had that bottle gotten to?
9
A t three A.M . the heavy hardwood door of 891 Post was slammed wide. Hammett came through at an angle so sharp that one tough stringy shoulder hit the wall. This spun him around. To keep his balance, he stepped back on the raised vestibule terrazzo a foot beyond where the terrazzo ended.
He fell heavily on his back on the sidewalk. He lay there motionless, then started coughing. The violence of the spasms curled him to one side. He spat against the concrete and stared intently at it for a few moments.
Then he clambered to his feet. He had not bothered to put on a collar and the bare stud glinted at the back of the neckband.
‘’Rested,’ he said aloud.
That’s what the medicos at the veterans’ lung hospital had told him about his consumption. An arrested case. No blood in what he had spat against the sidewalk. No hemorrhaging for over three years, not since he’d twice come around in a pool of his own blood on the floor of Samuels’ Jewelers and had quit to go write before it was too late.
And Josie, before she’d left him that first time,
My God, Dash, don’t you understand? You’re killing yourself with your drinking
. Josie. Nurse and wife and . . .
‘It was the whiskey that stopped the TB,’ he said stubbornly.
He realized that his right hand still clutched an unbroken quart whiskey bottle. The street was deserted, dark between streetlamps pooling light at the intersections. On Sutter, a block above, an all-night Owl went by with a mournful thinning rattle-rattle and clang-clang-clang. My God, what lonely sounds! He looked at the bottle and chuckled.
‘Never spilled a drop,’ he
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