Creeping Siamese and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Read Free Book Online Page A

steamed up over the details, she was nice. I said so. Paddy the Mex agreed with a “That’s what,” and Angel Grace suggested that I go over and tell Red O’Leary I thought her nice.
    â€œRed O’Leary the big bird?” I asked, sliding down in my seat so I could stretch a foot under the table between Paddy and Angel Grace. “Who’s his nice girl friend?”
    â€œNancy Regan, and the other one’s Sylvia Yount.”
    â€œAnd the slicker with his back to us?” I probed.
    Paddy’s foot, hunting the girl’s under the table, bumped mine.
    â€œDon’t kick me, Paddy,” I pleaded. “I’ll be good. Anyway, I’m not going to stay here to be bruised. I’m going home.”
    I swapped so-longs with them and moved toward the street, keeping my back to Bluepoint Vance.
    At the door I had to step aside to let two men come in. Both knew me, but neither gave me a tumble—Sheeny Holmes (not the old-timer who staged the Moose Jaw looting back in the buggy-riding days) and Denny Burke, Baltimore’s King of Frog Island. A good pair—neither of them would think of taking a life unless assured of profit and political protection.
    Outside, I turned down toward Kearny Street, strolling along, thinking that Larrouy’s joint had been full of crooks this one night, and that there seemed to be more than a sprinkling of prominent visitors in our midst. A shadow in a doorway interrupted my brain-work.
    The shadow said, “Ps-s-s-s! Ps-s-s-s!”
    Stopping, I examined the shadow until I saw it was Beno, a hophead newsie who had given me a tip now and then in the past—some good, some phoney.
    â€œI’m sleepy,” I growled as I joined Beno and his arm-load of newspapers in the doorway, “and I’ve heard the story about the Mormon who stuttered, so if that’s what’s on your mind, say so, and I’ll keep going.”
    â€œI don’t know nothin’ about no Mormons,” he protested, “but I know somethin’ else.”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œâ€™S all right for you to say ‘Well,’ but what I want to know is, what am I gonna get out of it?”
    â€œFlop in the nice doorway and go shut-eye,” I advised him, moving toward the street again. “You’ll be all right when you wake up.”
    â€œHey! Listen, I got somethin’ for you. Hones’ to Gawd!”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œListen!” He came close, whispering. “There’s a caper rigged for the Seaman’s National. I don’t know what’s the racket, but it’s real. Hones’ to Gawd! I ain’t stringin’ you. I can’t give you no monickers. You know I would if I knowed ’em. Hones’ to Gawd! Gimme ten bucks. It’s worth that to you, ain’t it? This is straight dope—hones’ to Gawd!”
    â€œYeah, straight from the nose-candy!”
    â€œNo! Hones’ to Gawd! I—”
    â€œWhat is the caper, then?”
    â€œI don’t know. All I got was that the Seaman’s is gonna be nicked. Hones’ to—”
    â€œWhere’d you get it?”
    Beno shook his head. I put a silver dollar in his hand.
    â€œGet another shot and think up the rest of it,” I told him, “and if it’s amusing enough I’ll give you the other nine bucks.”
    I walked on down to the corner, screwing up my forehead over Beno’s tale. By itself, it sounded like what it probably was—a yarn designed to get a dollar out of a trusting gum-shoe. But it wasn’t altogether by itself. Larrouy’s—just one drum in a city that had a number—had been heavy with grifters who were threats against life and property. It was worth a look-see, especially since the insurance company covering the Seaman’s National Bank was a Continental Detective Agency client.
    Around the corner, twenty feet or so along Kearny Street, I stopped.
    From the