Fly Paper and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Read Free Book Online Page A

that street car for me.”
    The street car was three blocks away before we got going. The street wasn’t clear enough for me to see who got on and off it. We caught it when it stopped at Market Street.
    â€œFollow along,” I told the driver as I jumped out.
    On the rear platform of the street car I looked through the glass. There were only eight or ten people aboard.
    â€œThere was a great big fellow got on at Hyde Street,” I said to the conductor. “Where’d he get off?”
    The conductor looked at the silver dollar I was turning over in my fingers and remembered that the big man got off at Taylor Street. That won the silver dollar.
    I dropped off as the street car turned into Market Street. The taxi, close behind, slowed down, and its door swung open.
    â€œSixth and Mission,” I said as I hopped in.
    McCloor could have gone in any direction from Taylor Street. I had to guess. The best guess seemed to be that he would make for the other side of Market Street.
    It was fairly dark by now. We had to go down to Fifth Street to get off Market, then over to Mission, and back up to Sixth. We got to Sixth Street without seeing McCloor. I couldn’t see him on Sixth Street—either way from the crossing.
    â€œOn up to Ninth,” I ordered, and while we rode told the driver what kind of man I was looking for.
    We arrived at Ninth Street. No McCloor. I cursed and pushed my brains around.
    The big man was a yegg. San Francisco was on fire for him. The yegg instinct would be to use a rattler to get away from trouble. The freight yards were in this end of town. Maybe he would be shifty enough to lie low instead of trying to powder. In that case, he probably hadn’t crossed Market Street at all. If he stuck, there would still be a chance of picking him up tomorrow. If he was high-tailing, it was catch him now or not at all.
    â€œDown to Harrison,” I told the driver.
    We went down to Harrison Street, and down Harrison to Third, up Bryant to Eighth, down Brannan to Third again, and over to Townsend—and we didn’t see Babe McCloor.
    â€œThat’s tough, that is,” the driver sympathized as we stopped across the street from the Southern Pacific passenger station.
    â€œI’m going over and look around in the station,” I said. “Keep your eyes open while I’m gone.”
    When I told the copper in the station my trouble he introduced me to a couple of plain-clothes men who had been planted there to watch for McCloor. That had been done after Sue Hambleton’s body was found. The shooting of Holy Joe Wales was news to them.
    I went outside again and found my taxi in front of the door, its horn working over-time, but too asthmatically to be heard indoors. The ratty driver was excited.
    â€œA guy like you said come up out of King Street just now and swung on a No. 16 car as it pulled away,” he said.
    â€œGoing which way?”
    â€œThat-away,” pointing southeast.
    â€œCatch him,” I said, jumping in.
    The street car was out of sight around a bend in Third Street two blocks below. When we rounded the bend, the street car was slowing up, four blocks ahead. It hadn’t slowed up very much when a man leaned far out and stepped off. He was a tall man, but didn’t look tall on account of his shoulder spread. He didn’t check his momentum, but used it to carry him across the sidewalk and out of sight.
    We stopped where the man had left the car.
    I gave the driver too much money and told him:
    â€œGo back to Townsend Street and tell the copper in the station that I’ve chased Babe McCloor into the S. P. yards.”
    VII
    I thought I was moving silently down between two strings of box cars, but I had gone less than twenty feet when a light flashed in my face and a sharp voice ordered:
    â€œStand still, you.”
    I stood still. Men came from between cars. One of them spoke my name, adding: “What are you doing here?