Read Online The Golden Horseshoe and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett - Free Book Online

between his teeth. For a moment I thought he was going to burst into tears. But instead he said slowly:
    â€œI dare say you are right. Suppose I refer you to my brother-in-law, Roy Axford. Will his word be sufficient?”
    â€œYes.”
    Roy Axford—R. F. Axford—was a mining man who had a finger in at least half of the big business enterprises of the Pacific Coast; and his word on anything was commonly considered good enough for anybody.
    â€œIf you can get in touch with him now,” I said, “and arrange for me to see him today, I can get started without much delay.”
    Pangburn crossed the room and dug a telephone out from among a heap of his ornaments. Within a minute or two he was talking to someone whom he called “Rita.”
    â€œIs Roy home? … Will he be home this afternoon? … No, you can give him a message for me, though. … Tell him I’m sending a gentleman up to see him this afternoon on a personal matter—personal with me—and that I’ll be very grateful if he’ll do what I want. … Yes. … You’ll find out, Rita. … It isn’t a thing to talk about over the phone. … Yes, thanks!”
    He pushed the telephone back into its hiding place and turned to me.
    â€œHe’ll be at home until two o’clock. Tell him what I told you and if he seems doubtful, have him call me up. You’ll have to tell him the whole thing; he doesn’t know anything at all about Miss Delano.”
    â€œAll right. Before I go, I want a description of her.”
    â€œShe’s beautiful!” he exclaimed. “The most beautiful woman in the world!”
    That would look nice on a reward circular.
    â€œThat isn’t exactly what I want,” I told him. “How old is she?”
    â€œTwenty-two.”
    â€œHeight?”
    â€œAbout five feet eight inches, or possibly nine.”
    â€œSlender, medium or plump?”
    â€œShe’s inclined toward slenderness, but she—”
    There was a note of enthusiasm in his voice that made me fear he was about to make a speech, so I cut him off with another question.
    â€œWhat color hair?”
    â€œBrown—so dark that it’s almost black—and it’s soft and thick and—”
    â€œYes, yes. Long or bobbed?”
    â€œLong and thick and—”
    â€œWhat color eyes?”
    â€œYou’ve seen shadows on polished silver when—”
    I wrote down grey eyes and hurried on with the interrogation.
    â€œComplexion?”
    â€œPerfect!”
    â€œUh-huh. But is it light, or dark, or florid, or sallow, or what?”
    â€œFair.”
    â€œFace oval, or square, or long and thin, or what shape?”
    â€œOval.”
    â€œWhat shaped nose? Large, small, turned-up—”
    â€œSmall and regular!” There was a touch of indignation in his voice.
    â€œHow did she dress? Fashionably? And did she favor bright or quiet colors?”
    â€œBeaut—” And then as I opened my mouth to head him off he came down to earth with:
    â€œVery quietly—usually dark blues and browns.”
    â€œWhat jewelry did she wear?”
    â€œI’ve never seen her wear any.”
    â€œAny scars, or moles?” The horrified look on his white face urged me on to give him a full shot. “Or warts, or deformities that you know?”
    He was speechless, but he managed to shake his head.
    â€œHave you a photograph of her?”
    â€œYes, I’ll show you.”
    He bounded to his feet, wound his way through the room’s excessive furnishings and out through a curtained doorway. Immediately he was back with a large photograph in a carved ivory frame. It was one of these artistic photographs—a thing of shadows and hazy outlines—not much good for identification purposes. She was beautiful—right enough—but that meant nothing; that’s the purpose of an artistic photograph.
    â€œThis the only one you