Дэшил Хэммет: Woman in the Dark

Luise Fischer blew breath out and said: “Well, they were not police.”

Brazil grinned.

Neither of them spoke again until they were riding down a suburban street. Then she said: “They — your friends — will not dislike our coming to them like this?”

“No,” he replied carelessly; “they’ve been through things themselves.”

The houses along the suburban street became cheaper and meaner, and presently they were in a shabby city street where grimy buildings with cards saying “Flats to Let” in their windows stood among equally grimy factories and warehouses. The street into which Brazil after a little while steered the car was only slightly less dingy, and the rental signs were almost as many.

He stopped the car in front of a four-story red brick building with broken brownstone steps. “This is it,” he said, opening the door.

She sat looking at the building’s unlovely face until he came around and opened the door on her side. Her face was inscrutable. Three dirty children stopped playing with the skeleton of an umbrella to stare at her as she went with him up the broken steps.

The street door opened when he turned the knob, letting them into a stuffy hallway where a dim light illuminated stained wallpaper of a once-vivid design, ragged carpet, and a worn brassbound staircase.

“Next floor,” he said, and went up the stairs behind her.

Facing the head of the stairs was a door shiny with new paint of a brown peculiarly unlike any known wood. Brazil went to this door and pushed the bell button four times — long, short, long, short. The bell rang noisily just inside the door.

After a moment of silence, vague rustling noises came through the door, followed by a cautious masculine voice: “Who’s there?”

Brazil put his head close to the door and kept his voice low: “Brazil.”

The fastenings of the door rattled, and it was opened by a small, wiry blond man of about forty in crumpled green cotton pajamas. His feet were bare. His hollow-cheeked and sharp-featured face wore a cordial smile, and his voice was cordial. “Come in, kid,” he said. “Come in.” His small, pale eyes appraised Luise Fischer from head to foot while he was stepping back to make way for them.

Brazil put a hand on the woman’s arm and urged her forward, saying: “Miss Fischer, this is Mr. Link.”

Link said, “Pleased to meet you,” and shut the door behind them.

Luise Fischer bowed.

Link slapped Brazil on the shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, kid. We were wondering what had happened to you. Come on in.”

He led them into a living room that needed airing.

There were articles of clothing lying around, sheets of newspaper here and there, a few not quite empty glasses and coffee cups, and a great many cigarette stubs. Link took a vest off a chair, threw it across the back of another, and said: “Take off your things and set down, Miss Fischer.”

A very blonde full-bodied woman in her late twenties said, “My God, look who’s here!” from the doorway and ran to Brazil with wide arms, hugged him violently, kissed him on the mouth. She had on a pink wrapper over a pink silk nightgown and green mules decorated with yellow feathers.

Brazil said, “Hello, Fan,” and put his arms around her. Then, turning to Luise Fischer, who had taken off her coat: “Fan, this is Miss Fischer, Mrs. Link.”

Fan went to Luise Fischer with her hand out. “Glad to know you,” she said, shaking hands warmly. “You look tired, both of you. Sit down and I’ll get you some breakfast, and maybe Donny’ll get you a drink after he covers up his nakedness.”

Luise Fischer said, “You are very kind,” and sat down.

Link said, “Sure, sure,” and went out.

Fan asked: “Been up all night?”

“Yes,” Brazil said. “Driving most of it.” He sat down on the sofa.

She looked sharply at him. “Anything the matter you’d just as lief tell me about?”

He nodded. “That’s what we came for.”

Link, in bathrobe and slippers now, came in with a bottle of whiskey and some glasses.

Brazil said: “The thing is, I slapped a guy down last night and he didn’t get up.”

“Hurt bad?”

Brazil made a wry mouth. “Maybe dying.”

Link whistled, said: “When you slap ’em, boy, they stay slapped.”

“He cracked his head on the fireplace,” Brazil explained. He scowled at Link.

Fan said: “Well, there’s no sense worrying about it now. The thing to do is get something in your stomachs and get some rest. Come on, Donny, pry yourself loose from some of that booze.” She beamed on Luise Fischer. “You just sit still and I’ll have some breakfast in no time at all.” She hurried out of the room.

Link, pouring whiskey, asked: “Anybody see it?”

Brazil nodded. “Uh-huh — the wrong people.” He sighed wearily. “I want to hide out a while, Donny, till I see how it’s coming out.”

“This dump’s yours,” Link said. He carried glasses of whiskey to Luise Fischer and Brazil. He looked at the woman whenever she was not looking at him.

Brazil emptied his glass with a gulp.

Luise Fischer sipped and coughed.

“Want a chaser?” Link asked.

“No, I thank you,” she said. “This is very good. I caught a little cold from the rain.”

She held the glass in her hand, but did not drink again.

Brazil said: “I left my car out front. I ought to bury it.”

“I’ll take care of that, kid,” Link promised.

“And I’ll want somebody to see what’s happening up Mile Valley way.”

Link wagged his head up and down. “Harry Klaus is the mouthpiece for you. I’ll phone him.”

“And we both want some clothes.”

Luise Fischer spoke: “First I must sell these rings.”

Link’s pale eyes glistened. He moistened his lips and said: “I know the—”

“That can wait a day,” Brazil said. “They’re not hot, Donny. You don’t have to fence them.”

Donny seemed disappointed.

The woman said: “But I have no money for clothes until—”

Brazil said: “We’ve got enough for that.”

Donny, watching the woman, addressed Brazil: “And you know I can always dig up some for you, kid.”

“Thanks. We’ll see.” Brazil held out his empty glass, and when it had been filled said: “Hide the car, Donny.”

“Sure.” The blond man went to the telephone in an alcove and called a number.

Brazil emptied his glass. “Tired?” he asked.

She rose, went over to him, took the whiskey glass out of his hand, and put it on the table with her own, which was still almost full.

He chuckled, asked: “Had enough trouble with drunks last night?”

“Yes,” she replied, not smiling, and returned to her chair.

Donny was speaking into the telephone: “Hello, Duke?... Listen; this is Donny. There’s a ride standing outside my joint.” He described Brazil’s coupe. “Will you stash it for me?... Yes... Better switch the plates too... Yes, right away, will you?... Right.” He hung up the receiver and turned back to the others, saying: “Voily!”

“Donny!” Fan called from elsewhere in the flat.

“Coming!” He went out.

Brazil leaned toward Luise Fischer and spoke in a low voice: “Don’t give him the rings.”

She stared at him in surprise. “But why?”

“He’ll gyp you to hell and gone.”

“You mean he will cheat me?”

He nodded, grinning.

“But you say he is your friend. You are trusting him now.”

“He’s O.K. on a deal like this,” he assured her. “He’d never turn anybody up. But dough’s different. Anyhow, even if he didn’t trim you, anybody he sold them to would think they were stolen and wouldn’t give half of what they’re worth.”