Read Online It and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett - Free Book Online Page B

turned to go.
    â€œKeep your eye on the New York dispatches,” he said, “and maybe you’ll get the rest of the story. It’s not over yet. Nobody has anything on me out here. That shooting in Pigatti’s was self-defense so far as I’m concerned. And as soon as I’m on my feet again and can get back East there’s going to be a Master Mind holding a lot of lead. That’s a promise!”
    I believed him.

THE TENTH CLEW
    A Complete Mystery-Detective Novelette
    Black Mask , 1 January 1924
    There were enough clews in this crime to give Mr. Hammett’s nameless detective a year or so of work. But solving a mystery in that length of time didn’t appeal to him. He wanted faster action—and he got it in good measure. So will you if you begin this entertaining novelette.
    I
    â€œDo you know … Emil Bonfils?”
    â€œMr. Leopold Gantvoort is not at home,” the servant who opened the door said, “but his son, Mr. Charles, is—if you wish to see him.”
    â€œNo. I had an appointment with Mr. Leopold Gantvoort for nine or a little after. It’s just nine now. No doubt he’ll be back soon. I’ll wait.”
    â€œVery well, sir.”
    He stepped aside for me to enter the house, took my overcoat and hat, guided me to a room on the second floor—Gantvoort’s library—and left me. I picked up a magazine from the stack on the table, pulled an ash tray over beside me, and made myself comfortable.
    An hour passed. I stopped reading and began to grow impatient. Another hour passed—and I was fidgeting.
    A clock somewhere below had begun to strike eleven when a young man of twenty-five or -six, tall and slender, with remarkably white skin and very dark hair and eyes, came into the room.
    â€œMy father hasn’t returned yet,” he said. “It’s too bad that you should have been kept waiting all this time. Isn’t there anything I could do for you? I am Charles Gantvoort.”
    â€œNo, thank you.” I got up from my chair, accepting the courteous dismissal. “I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he murmured, and we moved toward the door together.
    As we reached the hall an extension telephone in one corner of the room we were leaving buzzed softly, and I halted in the doorway while Charles Gantvoort went over to answer it.
    His back was toward me as he spoke into the instrument.
    â€œYes. Yes. Yes!”—sharply—“ What? Yes”—very weakly—“Yes.”
    He turned slowly around and faced me with a face that was gray and tortured, with wide shocked eyes and gaping mouth—the telephone still in his hand.
    â€œFather,” he gasped, “is dead—killed!”
    â€œWhere? How?”
    â€œI don’t know. That was the police. They want me to come down at once.”
    He straightened his shoulders with an effort, pulling himself together, put down the telephone, and his face fell into less strained lines.
    â€œYou will pardon my—”
    â€œMr. Gantvoort,” I interrupted his apology, “I am connected with the Continental Detective Agency. Your father called up this afternoon and asked that a detective be sent to see him tonight. He said his life had been threatened. He hadn’t definitely engaged us, however, so unless you—”
    â€œCertainly! You are employed! If the police haven’t already caught the murderer I want you to do everything possible to catch him.”
    â€œAll right! Let’s get down to headquarters.”
    Neither of us spoke during the ride to the Hall of Justice. Gantvoort bent over the wheel of his car, sending it through the streets at a terrific speed. There were several questions that needed answers, but all his attention was required for his driving if he was to maintain the pace at which he was driving without piling us into something. So I didn’t disturb him, but hung