Дэшил Хэммет - The Collected Dashiell Hammett

“What about this? Let’s talk about this.”

“It’s plenty wrong,” he said. “I just finished talking to the Philly police. There wasn’t any Paul Frank Dunlap murdered there that they know about; they’ve got no unexplained murder on the twenty-sixth of last month.” He looked at me as if it were my fault. “What’d you get out of Furman before you let him hang himself?”

“That he was innocent.”

“Didn’t you grill him? Didn’t you find out what he was doing in town? Didn’t you—”

“What for?” I asked. “He admitted his name was Furman, the description fitted him, the photograph was him, the Trans-American’s supposed to be on the level. Philadelphia wanted him, I didn’t. Sure, if I’d known he was going to hang himself — You said he’d been a client of the Trans-American. They tell you what the job was?”

“His wife left him a couple of years ago and he had them hunting for her for five or six months, but they never found her. They’re sending a man up to-night to look it over.” He stood up. “I’m going to get some lunch.” At the door he turned his head over his shoulder to say, “There’ll probably be trouble over this.”

I knew that; there usually is when somebody dies in a cell.

George Propper came in grinning happily. “So what’s become of that fifteen hundred fish?”

“What happened last night?” I asked.

“Nothing. He hung hisself.”

“Did you find him?”

He shook his head. “Wally took a look in there to see how things was before he went off duty, and found him.”

“You were asleep, I suppose.”

“Well, I was catching a nap, I guess,” he mumbled, “but everybody does that sometimes — even Wally sometimes when he comes in off his beat between rounds — and I always wake up when the phone rings or anything. And suppose I had been awake. You can’t hear a guy hanging hisself.”

“Did Kamsley say how long he’d been dead?”

“He done it about five o’clock, he said he guessed. You want to look at the remains? They’re over at Fritz’s undertaking parlor.”

I said, “Not now. You’d better go home and get some more sleep, so your insomnia won’t keep you awake tonight.”

He said, “I feel almost as bad about you and Wally losing all that dough as you do,” and went out chuckling.

Ted Carroll came back from lunch with the notion that perhaps there was some connection between Furman and the two men who had robbed Heck Jones. That didn’t seem to make much sense, but I promised to look into it. Naturally, we never did find any such connection.

That evening a fellow named Rising, assistant manager of the Trans-American Detective Agency’s Philadelphia branch, arrived. He brought the dead man’s lawyer, a scrawny, asthmatic man named Wheelock, with him. After they had identified the body we went back to my office for a conference.

It didn’t take me long to tell them all I knew, with the one additional fact I had picked up during the afternoon, which was that the police in most towns in our corner of the state had received copies of the reward circular. Rising examined the circular and called it an excellent forgery: paper, style, type were all almost exactly those used by his agency.

They told me the dead man was a well-known, respectable, and prosperous citizen of Philadelphia. In 1938 he had married a twenty-two-year-old girl named Ethel Brian, the daughter of a respectable, if not prosperous, Philadelphia family. They had a child born in 1940, but it lived only a few months. In 1941 Furman’s wife had disappeared and neither he nor her family had heard of her since, though he had spent a good deal of money trying to find her. Rising showed me a photograph of her, a small-featured, pretty blonde with a weak mouth and large, staring eyes.

“I’d like to have a copy made,” I said.

“You can keep that. It’s one of them that we had made. Her description’s on the back.”

“Thanks. And he didn’t divorce her?”

Rising shook his head with emphasis. “No, sir. He was a lot in love with her and he seemed to think the kid’s dying had made her a little screwy and she didn’t know what she was doing.” He looked at the lawyer. “That right?”

Wheelock made a couple of asthmatic sounds and said, “That is my belief.”

“You said he had money. About how much, and who gets it?”

The scrawny layer wheezed some more, said, “I should say his estate will amount to perhaps half a million dollars, left in its entirety to his wife.” That gave me something to think about, but the thinking didn’t help me out then.

They couldn’t tell me why he had come to Deerwood. He seemed to have told nobody where he was going, had simply told his servants and his employees that he was leaving town for a day or two. Neither Rising nor Wheelock knew of any enemies he had. That was the crop.

And that was still the crop at the inquest the next day. Everything showed that somebody had framed Furman into our jail and that the frame-up had driven him to suicide. Nothing showed anything else. And there had to be something else, a lot else.

Some of the else began to show up immediately after the inquest. Ben Kamsley was waiting for me when I left the undertaking parlor, where the inquest had been held. “Let’s get out of the crowd,” he said. “I want to tell you something.”

“Come on over to the office.”

We went over there. He shut the door, which usually stayed open, and sat on a corner of my desk. His voice was low. “Two of those bruises showed.”

“What bruises?”

He looked curiously at me for a second, then put a hand on the top of his head. “Furman — up under the hair — there were two bruises.”

I tried to keep from shouting. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you. You weren’t here that morning. This is the first time I’ve seen you since.”

I cursed the two hoodlums who had kept me away by sticking up the Red Top Diner and demanded, “Then why didn’t you spill it when you were testifying at the inquest?”

He frowned. “I’m a friend of yours. Do I want to put you in a spot where people can say you drove this chap to suicide by third-degreeing him too rough?”

“You’re nuts,” I said. “How bad was his head?”

“That didn’t kill him, if that’s what you mean. There’s nothing the matter with his skull. Just a couple of bruises nobody would notice unless they parted the hair.”

“It killed him just the same,” I growled. “You and your friendship —”

The telephone rang. It was Fritz. “Listen, Scott,” he said, “there’s a couple ladies here that want a look at that fellow. Is it all right?”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know ’em — strangers.”

“Why do they want to see him?”

“I don’t know. Wait a minute.”

A woman’s voice came over the wire: “Can’t I please see him?” It was a very pleasant, earnest voice.

“Why do you want to see him?” I asked.

“Well, I” — there was a long pause — “I am” — a shorter pause, and when she finished the sentence her voice was not much more than a whisper — “his wife.”

“Oh, certainly,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”

I hurried out.

Leaving the building, I ran into Wally Shane. He was in civilian clothes, since he was off duty. “Hey, Scott?” He took my arm and dragged me back into the vestibule, out of sight of the street. “A couple of dames came into Fritz’s just as I was leaving. One of ’em’s Hotcha Randall, a baby with a record as long as your arm. You know she’s one of that mob you had me working on in New York last summer.”

“She know you?”

He grinned. “Sure. But not by my right name, and she thinks I’m a Detroit hoodlum.”