Creeping Siamese and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Page A

on,” I grumbled, leading the way down the dark hall toward the back of the building. “We’ve got to go somewhere.”
    There was still noise downstairs, but no more fighting. Men were talking about getting lights. I stumbled into a door at the end of the hall, pushed it open. A room with two windows through which came a pale glow from the street lights. It seemed brilliant after the hall. My little flock followed me in and we closed the door.
    Red O’Leary was across the room, his noodle to an open window.
    â€œBack street,” he whispered. “No way down unless we drop.”
    â€œAnybody in sight?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t see any.”
    I looked around the room—bed, couple of chairs, chest of drawers, and a table.
    â€œThe table will go through the window,” I said. “We’ll chuck it as far as we can and hope the racket will lead ’em out there before they decide to look up here.”
    Red and the girl were assuring each other that each was still all in one piece. He broke away from her to help me with the table. We balanced it, swung it, let it go. It did nicely, crashing into the wall of the building opposite, dropping down into a backyard to clang and clatter on a pile of tin, or a collection of garbage cans, or something beautifully noisy. You couldn’t have heard it more than a block and a half away.
    We got away from the window as men bubbled out of Larrouy’s back door.
    The girl, unable to find any wounds on O’Leary, had turned to Jack Counihan. He had a cut cheek. She was monkeying with it and a handkerchief.
    â€œWhen you finish that,” Jack was telling her, “I’m going out and get one on the other side.”
    â€œI’ll never finish if you keep talking—you jiggle your cheek.”
    â€œThat’s a swell idea,” he exclaimed. “San Francisco is the second largest city in California. Sacramento is the state capital. Do you like geography? Shall I tell you about Java? I’ve never been there, but I drink their coffee. If—”
    â€œSilly!” she said, laughing. “If you don’t hold still I’ll stop now.”
    â€œNot so good,” he said. “I’ll be still.”
    She wasn’t doing anything except wiping blood off his cheek, blood that had better been let dry there. When she finished this perfectly useless surgery, she took her hand away slowly, surveying the hardly noticeable results with pride. As her hand came on a level with his mouth, Jack jerked his head forward to kiss the tip of one passing finger.
    â€œSilly!” she said again, snatching her hand away.
    â€œLay off that,” said Red O’Leary, “or I’ll knock you off.”
    â€œPull in your neck,” said Jack Counihan.
    â€œReddy!” the girl cried, too late.
    The O’Leary right looped out. Jack took the punch on the button, and went to sleep on the floor. The big red-head spun on the balls of his feet to loom over me.
    â€œGot anything to say?” he asked.
    I grinned down at Jack, up at Red.
    â€œI’m ashamed of him,” I said. “Letting himself be stopped by a paluka who leads with his right.”
    â€œYou want to try it?”
    â€œReddy! Reddy!” the girl pleaded, but nobody was listening to her.
    â€œIf you’ll lead with your right,” I said.
    â€œI will,” he promised, and did.
    I grandstanded, slipping my head out of the way, laying a forefinger on his chin.
    â€œThat could have been a knuckle,” I said.
    â€œYes? This one is.”
    I managed to get under his left, taking the forearm across the back of my neck. But that about played out the acrobatics. It looked as if I would have to see what I could do to him, if any. The girl grabbed his arm and hung on.
    â€œReddy, darling, haven’t you had enough fighting for one night? Can’t you be sensible, even if you are Irish?”
    I was tempted to paste