Hammett (Crime Masterworks) (26 page)

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Goodie. ‘I . . .’ She flew to the window. She looked out. ‘Yes,’ she said again. She turned to Hammett. ‘Are you sure . . .’ She stopped, said, ‘That poor girl,’ and put her hands on Hammett’s forearms and went up on tiptoe to kiss him on the mouth. There was yearning and desperation and passion in the kiss. He put his arms around her. He responded. Goodie tore free and ran to the hall doorway and out.

He stood in the middle of the floor for nearly a minute, face set, then moved to the window to stand looking down into the street.

Goodie went across Post to the massive Hispano-Suiza Cabriolet gleaming on the far side. A uniformed chauffeur, very
correct in visored cap and gleaming boots and the beige uniform with flared breeches, got out to hold the door of the enclosed rear compartment for her. Hammett had last spoken with the chauffeur about jabbing a knife into the backside of a fat woman in Bolinas.

The electric lamps came on along Post Street. Hammett paced his apartment. At some point he heated a can of Campbell’s tomato soup and turned out a tin of Booth’s Crescent sardines. As he ate, he glanced through his partially revised manuscript of ‘Black Lives.’ Goodie’s phone didn’t ring. He got interested in the manuscript.

He piled his dishes on the drainboard and moved over to the Coxwell with the manuscript. Soon he was frowning in concentration. He had written Harry Bloch at Knopf that some revision was wanted but that he wasn’t sure he could, or would, do it. Now he was sure.

Of course. Now some of the changes jumped right out at him. Get specific. Make a question about an address into a specific reference to Golden Gate Avenue. And forget that line about Homicide men messing around in the Op’s job. Wordy. Just wonder who’d been killed. Good. Clean and crisp.

An hour later Goodie’s phone rang, unheard and unheeded.

It was that damned ending. The ending of Part I of the novel had to be strong. Words again. Too damn many of them. Hey! Just end it where he said of his work that it got done. The last three paragraphs could go. He lined them out. Good. End it with the simple declarative. That livened the dull spot at the end of the first quarter.

That still left problems of course: too many murders, too much of a gap between the first two quarters of the story and the rest of it – but at least he’d made a
start
at revisions along the right lines . . .

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Goodie’s phone was ringing. He went to answer it.

‘I tried to get you earlier, but there was no answer.’ Owen
Lynch’s heavy, considered tones. ‘I spoke at length with Dan about—’

‘Where was he the night Vic got chilled?’

‘Home in bed. Asleep.’

‘Sure. With his wife beside him. Double bed?’

Lynch said in a rather stiff voice, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Jesus!’ Hammett exclaimed. ‘Sensibilities! Okay. No way to prove he wasn’t. I don’t really think he did it. I think it happened with Tokzek about the way he told it, too. Which means that somebody set Tokzek up for a fall. Somebody who knew that Laverty, when he saw the Chinese girl, would go berserk. Knew, because he did it once before with a cheap hood named Parelli.’

‘If you’re right, it could only be the Mulligans,’ said Lynch. ‘He swears he was home in bed when Pronzini died, too.’ His voice was exhausted. ‘I asked him for his badge just until all this is cleared up. He cried when he laid it on my desk. If you’re wrong, Hammett, and it turns out to be the eastern mobs moving in . . .’

‘Yeah.’

Lynch shook the lethargy from his voice. ‘Any news on the Chinese girl?’

‘Lots of negatives. Not anybody from the Treasury Department. No known hoods in by train from back east, nobody out with a Chinese girl under one arm. Our eyewitness on the snatch can’t identify the guy.’

Hammett went back to his own apartment, leaving both doors open in case Jimmy Wright called with news about Crystal.

The ringing of Goodie’s phone woke him a final time at four fifteen in the mowing. He was sprawled in the Coxwell chair, icy cold from the mist blowing in through the open windows. His neck was stiff as hell and his shoulder was sore. He groped around in the half-light for his shoes, the wisps of his dream still fogging his mind.

Ten years old, living on North Stricker opposite the orphan asylum the old man always threatened him with when he was bad. But he’s been good, and he and his dad are duck hunting in the salt marshes along Chesapeake Bay, he with a four-ten single-shot too big for him.

‘Coming, goddamn you,’ he muttered at the phone. Four fifteen. Why in hell didn’t Goodie answer it? Oh.

Waking up cold and stiff. Swing your legs over the edge of the bed in the hunting shack, stretch and yawn and scratch your backside through the trap in the union suit. Plank floor numbing cold-blue feet as you grope for your socks with a cautious toe. Out in the living room, pull on stiff canvas pants by the intense white light of the hissing kerosene lamp. The big potbelly iron stove starting to glow red.

He shambled down the hall, still yawning and massaging his neck. Cold air blowing a gale through the open door.

Cold salt-marsh air as you come out of the cabin into just enough predawn light to see the path through the rushes and elephant ears in front of the shack. Cold wind straight from the north, hint of snow in it to keep the ducks moving nervously around and coming upwind into your guns.

Into Goodie’s open front door.

The op shocked him fully awake. ‘Better get out here, Dash. We’ve found Crystal.’

In the pause, Hammett thought again: Goodie wasn’t home. Something ending, as Crystal had ended.

Because the op was saying, ‘At least we’ve found what was left of her.’

W
ind-driven fog lanced through Hammett’s topcoat as he swung off the trolley on Presidio Avenue. He stood staring through ornate wrought-iron gates: The fog hid the rolling green acres of Laurel Hill cemetery. A shiver as much mental as physical ran through him. He crossed the street. A thick shape materialized.

‘Why do these bastards always have such a flair for the dramatic?’ demanded the fat little detective. He was sucking on a Fatima.

‘Dumping her in the cemetery?’

The tone of Hammett’s voice jerked the op’s head around, but the stocky detective said only, ‘Yeah,’ and then, ‘This way.’

They followed the gravel drive used by the hearses, then cut off on an earth path. Jimmy Wright used a hand torch against the fog. Hammett stumbled and cursed behind him, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets.

‘Trolley conductors,’ said Wright over his shoulder. ‘They were ahead of schedule, so they stopped to have a smoke. Otherwise they’d never have heard her, and she probably wouldn’t have been found until the weekend.’

‘You mean she was
killed
here, not just dumped here?’

‘Yeah. Kept screaming for almost five minutes, according to the witnesses. They were just about here when they heard the shot.’

Moisture dripped from Hammett’s hat-brim and his mustache bristled with it.

‘Just the one shot?’

Their feet crushed tough aromatic wild flowers massed across the path. Jimmy Wright slipped and cursed.

‘He used both barrels at once. Shotgun. I figure him for a big man to take the recoil.’

The path angled between two black wet cypresses grown
scraggly as winter dogs from lack of care. This part of the graveyard was full of weed-grown, unmonumented plots.

‘What time was all this?’

‘Little over an hour ago.’ The op flashed his light on his wrist briefly to confirm it.

‘And Laverty was—’

‘I’m damned if I know for sure, Dash. One of my men put him to bed last night, but there’s an alley runs the length of the block he lives on, he could have back-doored my man through the night. I left word that when my operative calls in, he should go pound on Laverty’s door and see if he’s home. But that ain’t going to prove anything either.’

They had come up on the moving lights carried by a couple of patrolmen searching for clues. Two Homicide dicks were standing off to one side with their hands in their pockets and their hats tipped back on their heads. Hammett didn’t know either one of them.

Both he and Wright were sopping to the knees. Palpable fog-forms seeped between the old graves and ornate crumbling tombstones like dawn-harried wraiths. Directly beside a chest-high marble gravestone bearing the dates 1831–1893 was a white marble obelisk knocked down by the 1906 quake. Flanking it were two shattered cylinders of dark marble.

The dead Chinese girl was sprawled face down across the obelisk. One arm was folded under the body so the childishly small hand formed a cup. Blood from the shattered head had arteried the curved marble to run into the cup. The other arm was outflung. Hammett recognized the tweed knickers and argyle socks and leatherette sport jacket. The legs were apart enough so he could see the crotch of the knickers was stained.

Hammett squatted over the body. He touched his fingers to the crotch of the knickers and sniffed them. Urine. Bladder voided in death. Raped? No way to tell yet. He realized with an abrupt touch of nausea that the girl’s limbs unnaturally fit themselves to the contours of the unyielding stone beneath her. He put a hand on the body.

‘Hey!’ One of the Homicide dicks took his hands out of his pockets. ‘The medical boys ain’t seen her yet.’

‘Seeing her isn’t going to make her any less dead,’ said Jimmy Wright.

Hammett removed his hand and wrapped his forearms around his knees and remained squatting with his chin on a kneecap, his face brooding. Without looking up, he said, ‘Worked over with a baseball bat. No wonder she was screaming.’

He shifted the body enough to get a look at the face hidden by the shimmering ebony hair.

He sighed and stood up and wiped his hand idly on his topcoat, then rested it on the upright gravestone. The marble was icy to his fingers. The Homicide cops had gotten still and intense when he had looked at where the girl’s face had been. It was gone right to the hairline, leaving only splintered bone and red meat.

‘Instant leprosy,’ he said with studied indifference. The dicks lost their expectant look when he didn’t throw up or even turn pale. He said: ‘Her name was Crystal Tam or Lillian Fong, depending on when you knew her. She has parents named Fong in Chinatown who’ll need notifying.’

When Hammett and Jimmy Wright reached the place where the path split the two cypresses, both men stopped and looked back. The girl was a rag doll, hurled carelessly against the fallen marble monuments. A gray dripping dawn had harried the fog up enough to show, beyond the cemetery fence, the gentle slope of Lone Mountain and the simple white cross that topped it. The cross was nearly invisible against the leaden morning sky.

‘A lousy way to die,’ said the op.

‘Tell me one that isn’t.’

He needed a drink. He needed a lot of drinks. Vic Atkinson. Crystal Tam. And Hammett at home playing author, instead of being out in the streets where he belonged as a detective. He’d thought he had it pretty well figured out until her death. But now . . .

Jesus! Unless the . . . But that was unutterably evil If . . .

He needed a
lot
of drinks.

‘You lousy bastard,’ said Hammett distinctly.

‘Sam, please—’

He tipped up the bottle, then let his arm drop limply. The bottom of the half-empty quart thudded on the carpet.

Goodie tried again. ‘Sam, you mustn’t blame yourself for—’

He looked up at her, heavy-ridded. He tried to laugh. His lips wouldn’t work right. They were blue, as if with cold.

‘Mustn’t blame ’self. Then who?’

‘If she herself called up the man who did it—’

‘Shouldda known she’d call ’im.’ His eyelids dropped; he popped them open to stare owlishly at her. ‘Caught you at it, okay?’

‘Sam, you’re not making any sense. I’ll get you some coffee.’

‘No coffee. Hootch. Know where ’at comes from? The Hoochinoo Indians in Alaska who distill liquor just like ’shine. Was in a hospital once with a guy f’om Alaska. Whitey . . .’

When she returned two minutes later with the steaming black coffee, Hammett was snoring. She shook him awake and got him to his feet, where he performed a rubber-legged adagio dance with her until he fell face-forward across the bed and pulled her down on top of him in a swirl of silken thighs. He started to snore.

She stood looking down at him, pity and anger and infatuation playing across her face.

‘Oh, Sam!’ she wailed softly. ‘Why?’

He turned his head enough to open an eye at her. ‘Why? She read ’bout dead Chinese girl in Tokzek’s car, that’s why. Read that, knew she had ’im. Tell lie to Molly, go safe hideout, make contact.
Had
’im. Only he got her, instead.’

‘Sam, shouldn’t you get some sleep?’

‘Shleep. Remember, dead Chinese girl in car is key. Key to whole thing. Raped. Get it?’

He started to snore again.

Voices beside the bed were talking around him as if he didn’t exist. Around him and over him and through him, as parents did when you were little. As if you couldn’t hear or understand or reason because you were little.