Hammett (CRIME MASTERWORKS) by Joe Gores

Author:Joe Gores [Gores, Joe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers & Suspense, Crime, Murder, Crime Fiction, Noir, Private Investigators
ISBN: 9781409136941
Amazon: B00550O1KA
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2011-05-11T12:00:00+00:00

20

The three-room cottage was peak-roofed like the main house. Smoke wisped from the stovepipe through one side of the roof. Hammett rapped sharply at the door.

‘Hawkins, Mrs Starr. From Mr Epstein’s office. He sent me out with a few things for you.’

‘Just a moment.’

Just before the door swung open, he checked in his overcoat pockets the reassuring bulges of the weapons he planned to use against her.

‘It’s about time he sent some—’ Fire blazed in the blue eyes as recognition washed across her face. ‘You!’

Hammett pushed by her, tensed for a knee at the groin, but all she did was fall back, yowling.

‘That kike son of a bitch sold me out!’

‘Hush. You’ll wake the neighbors.’ He kicked the door shut with a heel, leaned against it, hands in his overcoat pockets and a sardonic grin on his face.

Molly had retreated to the center of the small living room. It was furnished with main-house castoffs. On the wall, ‘The Lone Wolf’ competed with ‘The End of the Trail’ in cheap gilt frames.

‘I thought that pickle-nose Jew bastard was dead straight!’

‘Brass Mouth didn’t set you up.’

‘I’d believe you?’ she demanded scornfully.

‘You can believe this.’

His right hand came from the overcoat pocket with a gun-drawing movement. Molly cried out in alarm. Then, when she saw what he was holding, her face unclenched.

‘You’re kidding me. It’s a mirage.’

Hammett set the bottle of Old Dougherty on the glass- and cigarette-scored top of the wicker table and dropped his coat on the sofa.

‘I figure being a fugitive as dry work.’

‘Come to mama!’ She had the cork out before getting cautious again. She went into the kitchen carrying the bottle, to return with two water glasses that she splashed half-full.

‘Let’s see you put that down, mister. Then we’ll talk.’

‘Mud in your eye.’

Hammett shook his head and reached for the bottle to replenish his glass. He sat down. Molly drank, refilled, sat down across from him with a beatific look. Hammett lit a cigarette and drank rye.

‘You make a passable grieving widow.’

‘I looked in the mirror this morning, I thought I was my goddamn mother.’ She brooded in silence. ‘Damn near a week without anyone to talk to, except that dotty old woman out there. She talks to her dog. Her goddamn dog!’

‘So talk to me.’

Her lip curled. ‘What’s a nice girl like me doing in—’

‘What do you know about Vic Atkinson’s death?’

‘Vic Atkinson? The guy you were . . .’ It belatedly hit her. ‘Death? You mean he’s—’

‘Monday night. With a baseball bat.’ It could be true, she might not have heard. In her role as grief-struck widow, she wouldn’t have been able to evince much interest in local news.

‘Look, Hammett, I’m sorry about your friend, but you can’t expect me to act all broken up. I only met the gentleman the one time.’ She shrugged. ‘I heard somewhere that Scarface Al uses a baseball bat to—’

‘Now you sound like the cops,’ said Hammett. ‘Nope, this was local, something Vic was working on.’ He paused deliberately. ‘He was going to find you, and he was going to shake you until something fell out.

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