Dashiell Hammett - The Thin Man

The Big Knockover

The Continental OP

The Dain Curse

The Glass Key

The Maltese Falcon

Nightmare Town

Red Harvest

The Thin Man

Woman in the Dark

TO
LILLIAN

I was leaning against the bar in a speakeasy on Fifty-second Street, waiting for Nora to finish her Christmas shopping, when a girl got up from the table where she had been sitting with three other people and came over to me. She was small and blonde, and whether you looked at her face or at her body in powder-blue sports clothes, the result was satisfactory. Arent you Nick Charles? she asked.

I said: Yes.

She held out her hand. Im Dorothy Wynant. You dont remember me, but you ought to remember my father, Clyde Wynant. You

Sure, I said, and I remember you now, but you were only a kid of eleven or twelve then, werent you?

Yes, that was eight years ago. Listen: remember those stories you told me? Were they true?

Probably not. How is your father?

She laughed. I was going to ask you. Mamma divorced him, you know, and we never hear from himexcept when he gets in the newspapers now and then with some of his carryings on. Dont you ever see him?

My glass was empty. I asked her what she would have to drink, she said Scotch and soda. I ordered two of them and said: No, Ive been living in San Francisco.

She said slowly: Id like to see him. Mamma would raise hell if she found it out, but Id like to see him.

Well?

Hes not where we used to live, on Riverside Drive, and hes not in the phone book or city directory.

Try his lawyer, I suggested.

Her face brightened. Who is he?

It used to be a fellow named Mac-something-or-otherMacaulay, thats it, Herbert Macaulay. He was in the Singer Building.

Lend me a nickel, she said, and went out to the telephone. She came back smiling. I found him. Hes just round the corner on Fifth Avenue.

Your father?

The lawyer. He says my fathers out of town. Im going round to see him. She raised her glass to me. Family reunions. Look, why dont

Asta jumped up and punched me in the belly with her front feet. Nora, at the other end of the leash, said: Shes had a swell afternoonknocked over a table of toys at Lord & Taylors, scared a fat woman silly by licking her leg in Sakss, ands been patted by three policemen.

I made introductions. My wife, Dorothy Wynant. Her father was once a client of mine, when she was only so high. A good guy, but screwy.

I was fascinated by him, Dorothy said, meaning me, a real live detective, and used to follow him around making him tell me about his experiences. He told me awful lies, but I believed every word.

I said: You look tired, Nora.

I am. Lets sit down.

Dorothy Wynant said she had to go back to her table. She shook hands with Nora; we must drop in for cocktails, they were living at the Courtland, her mothers name was Jorgensen now. We would be glad to and she must come see us some time, we were at the Normandie and would be in New York for another week or two. Dorothy patted the dogs head and left us.

We found a table. Nora said: Shes pretty.

If you like them like that.

She grinned at me. You got types?

Only you, darlinglanky brunettes with wicked jaws.

And how about the red-head you wandered off with at the Quinns last night?

Thats silly, I said. She just wanted to show me some French etchings.

The next day Herbert Macaulay telephoned me. Hello, I didnt know you were back in town till Dorothy Wynant told me. How about lunch?

What time is it?

Half past eleven. Did I wake you up?

Yes, I said, but thats all right. Suppose you come up here for lunch: Ive got a hangover and dont feel like running around much. O.K., say one oclock. I had a drink with Nora, who was going out to have her hair washed, then another after a shower, and was feeling better by the time the telephone rang again. A female voice asked: Is Mr. Macaulay there?

Not yet.

Sorry to trouble you, but would you mind asking him to call his office as soon as he gets there? Its important. I promised to do that.

Macaulay arrived about ten minutes later. He was a big curly-haired, rosy-cheeked, rather good-looking chap of about my ageforty-onethough he looked younger. He was supposed to be a pretty good lawyer. I had worked on several jobs for him when I was living in New York and we had always got along nicely. Now we shook hands and patted each others backs, and he asked me how the world was treating me, and I said, Fine, and asked him and he said, Fine, and I told him to call his office.

He came away from the telephone frowning. Wynants back in town, he said, and wants me to meet him.

I turned around with the drinks I had poured. Well, the lunch can

Let him wait, he said, and took one of the glasses from me.

Still as screwy as ever?

Thats no joke, Macaulay said solemnly. You heard they had him in a sanatorium for nearly a year back in 29?

No.

He nodded. He sat down, put his glass on a table beside his chair, and leaned towards me a little. Whats Mimi up to, Charles?

Mimi? Oh, the wifethe ex-wife. I dont know. Does she have to be up to something?

She usually is, he said dryly, and then very slowly, and I thought youd know.

So that was it. I said: Listen, Mac, I havent been a detective for six years, since 1927. He stared at me. On the level, I assured him, a year after I got married, my wifes father died and left her a lumber mill and a narrow-gauge railroad and some other things and I quit the Agency to look after them. Anyway I wouldnt be working for Mimi Wynant, or Jorgensen, or whatever her name isshe never liked me and I never liked her.

Oh, I didnt think you Macaulay broke off with a vague gesture and picked up his glass. When he took it away from his mouth, he said: I was just wondering. Here Mimi phones me three days agoTuesdaytrying to find Wynant; then yesterday Dorothy phones, saying you told her to, and comes around, andI thought you were still sleuthing, so I was wondering what it was all about.

Didnt they tell you?

Surethey wanted to see him for old times sake. That means a lot.