Dashiell Hammett - The Thin Man

“But you'd understand better if you'd let me—”

“You said that Monday. I'm not a psychoanalyst. I don't know anything about early influences. I don't give a damn about them. And I'm tired—I been ironing all day.”

She pouted at me. “You seem to be trying to make it as hard for me as you can.”

“Listen, Dorothy,” I said, “you either know something you were afraid to say in front of Mimi and Gilbert or you don't. If you do, spit it out. I'll ask you about any of it I find myself not understanding.”

She twisted a fold of her skirt and looked sulkily at it, but when she raised her eyes they became bright and excited. She spoke in a whisper loud enough for anybody in the room to hear: “Gil's been seeing my father and he saw him today and my father told him who killed Miss Wolf.”

“Who?”

She shook her head. “He wouldn't tell me. He'd just tell me that.”

“And that's what you were afraid to say in front of Gil and Mimi?”

“Yes. You'd understand that if you'd let me tell you—”

“Something that happened when you were a little child. Well, I won't. Stop it. What else did he tell you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing about Nunheim?”

“No, nothing.”

“Where is your father?”-“Gil didn't tell me.”

“When did he meet him?”

“He didn't tell me. Please don't be mad, Nick. I've told you everything he told me.”

“And a fat lot it is,” I growled. “When'd he tell you this?”

“Tonight. He was telling me when you came in my room, and, honest, that's all he told me.”

I said: “It'd be swell if just once one of you people would make a clear and complete statement about something—it wouldn't matter what.”

Nora came in with the coffee. “What's worrying you now, son?” she asked.

“Things,” I said, “riddles, lies, and I'm too old and too tired for them to be any fun. Let's go back to San Francisco.”

“Before New Year's?”

“Tomorrow, today.”

“I'm willing.” She gave me a cup. “We can fly back, if you want, and be there for New Year's Eve.”

Dorothy said tremulously: “I didn't lie to you, Nick. I told you everything 1— Please, please don't be mad with me. I'm so—” She stopped talking to sob.

I rubbed Asta's head and groaned.

Nora said: “We're all worn out and jumpy. Let's send the pup downstairs for the night and turn in and do our talking after we've had some rest. Come on, Dorothy, I'll bring your coffee into the bedroom and give you some night-clothes.”

Dorothy got up, said, “Good-night,” to me, “I'm sorry I'm so silly,” and followed Nora out.

When Nora returned she sat down on the floor beside me. “Our Dorry does her share of weeping and whining,” she said. “Admitting life's not too pleasant for her just now, still . . .” She yawned. “What was her fearsome secret?”

I told her what Dorothy had told me. “It sounds like a lot of hooey.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Everything else we've got from them has been hooey.”

Nora yawned again. “That may be good enough for a detective, but it's not convincing enough for me. Listen, why don't we make a list of all the suspects and all the motives and clues, and check them off against—”

“You do it. I'm going to bed. What's a clue, Mamma?”

“It's like when Gilbert tiptoed over to the phone tonight when I was alone in the living-room, and he thought I was asleep, and told the operator not to put through any in-coming calls until morning.”

“Well, well.”

“And,” she said, “it's like Dorothy discovering that she had Aunt Alice's key all the time.”

“Well, well.”

“And it's like Studsy nudging Morelli under the table when he started to tell you about the drunken cousin of—what was it?—Dick O'Brien's that Julia 'Wolf knew.”

I got up and put our cups on a table. “I don't see how any detective can hope to get along without being married to you, but, just the same, you're overdoing it. Studsy nudging Morelli is my idea of something to spend a lot of time not worrying about. I'd rather worry about whether they pushed Sparrow around to keep me from being hurt or to keep me from being told something. I'm sleepy.”

“So am I. Tell me something, Nick. Tell me the truth: when you were wrestling with Mimi, didn't you have an erection?”

“Oh, a little.”

She laughed and got up from the floor. “If you aren't a disgusting old lecher,” she said. “Look, it's daylight.”

Nora shook me awake at quarter past ten. “The telephone,” she said. “It's Herbert Macauhay and he says it's important.”

I went into the bedroom—I had slept in the living-room—to the telephone. Dorothy was sleeping soundly. I mumbled, “Hello,” into the telephone.

Macaulay said: “It's too early for that lunch, but I've got to see you right away. Can I come up now?”

“Sure. Come up for breakfast.”

“I've had it. Get yours and I'll be up in fifteen minutes.”

“Right.”

Dorothy opened her eyes less than half-way, said, “It must be late,” sleepily, turned over, and returned to unconsciousness.

I put cold water on my face and hands, brushed my teeth and hair, and went back to the hiving-room. “He's coming up,” I told Nora. “He's had breakfast, but you'd better order some coffee for him. I want chicken livers.”

“Am I invited to your party or do I—”

“Sure. You've never met Macaulay, have you? He's a pretty good guy. I was attached to his outfit for a few days once, up around Vaux, and we looked each other up after the war. He threw a couple of jobs my way, including the Wynant one. How about a drop of something to cut the phlegm?”

“Why don't you stay sober today?”

“We didn't come to New York to stay sober. Want to see a hockey game tonight?”

“I'd like to.” She poured me a drink and went to order breakfast.

I looked through the morning papers. They had the news of Jorgensen's being picked up by the Boston police and of Nunheim's murder, but further developments of what the tabloids called “The Hell's Kitchen Gang War,” the arrest of “Prince Mike” Gerguson, and an interview with the “Jafsie” of the Lindbergh kidnapping negotiations got more space.

Macaulay and the bellboy who brought Asta up arrived together. Asta liked Macaulay because when he patted her he gave her something to set her weight against: she was never very fond of gentleness.

He had lines around his mouth this morning and some of the rosiness was gone from his cheeks. “Where'd the police get this new line?” he asked. “Do they think—” He broke off as Nora came in. She had dressed.

“Nora, this is Herbert Macaulay,” I said. “My wife.”

They shook hands and Nora said: “Nick would only let me order some coffee for you. Can't I—”

“No, thanks, I've just finished breakfast.”

I said: “Now what's this about the police?”

He hesitated.

“Nora knows practically everything I know,” I assured him, “so unless it's something you'd rather not—”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “It's—well—for Mrs. Charles's sake. I don't want to cause her anxiety.”

“Then out with it. She only worries about things she doesn't know. WThat's the new police line?”

“Lieutenant Guild came to see me this morning,” he said. “First he showed me a piece of watch-chain with a knife attached to it and asked me if I'd ever seen them before. I had: they were Wynant's. I told him I thought I had: I thought they looked like Wynant's. Then he asked me if I knew of any way in which they could have come into anybody else's possession and, after some beating about the bush, I discovered that by anybody else he meant you or Mimi. I told him certainly—Wynant could have given them to either of you, you could have stolen them or found them on the street or have been given them by somebody who stole them or found them on the street, or you could have got them from somebody Wynant gave them to. There were other ways, too, for you to have got them, I told him, but he knew I was kidding him, so he wouldn't let me tell him about them.”