Corkscrew and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett

Haley in his house. A minute later he was carrying a charge over to the hypo.
    The Border Palace didn’t open until noon. Its doors were locked. I went up the street to the Cañon House. Milk River came out just as I stepped up on the porch.
    â€œHello, young fellow,” I greeted him. “Got any idea which room your friend Bardell reposes in?”
    He looked at me as if he had never seen me before.
    â€œS’pose you find out for yourself. I’m through doing your chores. You can find yourself a new wet nurse, Mister, or you can go to hell!”
    The odor of whisky came out with the words, but he wasn’t drunk enough for that to be the whole explanation.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you?” I asked.
    â€œWhat’s the matter is I think you’re a lousy—”
    I didn’t let it get any farther than that.
    His right hand whipped to his side as I stepped in.
    I jammed him between the wall and my hip before he could draw, and got one of my hands on each of his arms.
    â€œYou may be a curly wolf with your rod,” I growled, shaking him, a lot more peeved than if he had been a stranger, “but if you try any of your monkey business on me, I’ll turn you over my knee!”
    Clio Landes’ thin fingers dug into my arm.
    â€œStop it!” she cried. “Stop it! Why don’t you behave?” to Milk River; and to me: “He’s sore over something this morning. He doesn’t mean what he says!”
    I was sore myself.
    â€œI mean what I said,” I insisted.
    But I took my hands off him, and went indoors. Inside the door I ran into sallow Vickers, who was hurrying to see what the rumpus was about.
    â€œWhat room is Bardell’s?”
    â€œ214. Why?”
    I went on past him and upstairs.
    My gun in one hand, I used the other to knock on Bardell’s door.
    â€œWho is it?” came through.
    I told him.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    I said I wanted to talk to him.
    He kept me waiting for a couple of minutes before he opened. He was half-dressed. All his clothes below the waist were on. Above, he had a coat on over his undershirt, and one of his hands was in his coat pocket.
    His eyes jumped big when they lit on my gun.
    â€œYou’re arrested for Nisbet’s murder!” I informed him. “Take your hand out of your pocket.”
    He tried to look as if he thought I was kidding him.
    â€œFor Nisbet’s murder?”
    â€œUh-huh. Rainey came through. Take your hand out of your pocket.”
    â€œYou’re arresting me on the say-so of a hop-head?”
    â€œUh-huh. Take your hand out of your pocket.”
    â€œYou’re—”
    â€œTake your hand out of your pocket.”
    His eyes moved from mine to look past my head, a flash of triumph burning in them.
    I beat him to the first shot by a hairline, since he had wasted time waiting for me to fall for that ancient trick.
    His bullet cut my neck.
    Mine took him where his undershirt was tight over his fat chest.
    He fell, tugging at his pocket, trying to get the gun out for another shot.
    I could have jumped him, but he was going to die anyhow. That first bullet had got his lungs. I put another into him.
    The hall filled with people.
    â€œGet the doctor!” I called to them.
    But Bardell didn’t need him. He was dead before I had the words out of my mouth.
    Chick Orr came through the crowd, into the room.
    I stood up, sticking my gun back in its holster.
    â€œI’ve got nothing on you, Chick, yet,” I said slowly. “You know better than I do whether there is anything to get or not. If I were you, I’d drift out of Corkscrew without wasting too much time packing up.”
    The ex-pug squinted his eyes at me, rubbed his chin, and made a clucking sound in his mouth.
    His gold teeth showed in a grin.
    â€œâ€™F anybody asks for me, you tell ’em I’m off on a tour,” and he pushed out through the crowd again.
    When the