Fly Paper and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett

the bungalow’s front, part of one side, and a good stretch of the cobbled walk, including its juncture with the road, could be seen from the vacant house’s front porch. It was a rather long shot for naked eyes, but with field glasses it would be just about perfect, even to a screen of over-grown bushes in front.
    When I got back to the Kavalov house Ringgo was propped up on gay cushions in a reed chair under a tree, with a book in his hand.
    â€œWhat do you think of him?” he asked. “Is he cracked?”
    â€œNot very. He wanted to be remembered to you and Mrs. Ringgo. How’s the arm this morning?”
    â€œRotten. I must have let it get too damp last night. It gave me hell all night.”
    â€œDid you see Captain Cat-and-mouse?” Kavalov’s whining voice came from behind me. “And did you find any satisfaction in that?”
    I turned around. He was coming down the walk from the house. His face was more gray than brown this morning, but what I could see of his throat, above the v of a wing collar, was uncut enough.
    â€œHe was packing when I left,” I said. “Going back to Africa.”
    VI
    That day was Thursday. Nothing else happened that day.
    Friday morning I was awakened by the noise of my bedroom door being opened violently.
    Martin, the thin-faced valet, came dashing into my room and began shaking me by the shoulder, though I was sitting up by the time he reached my bedside.
    His thin face was lemon-yellow and ugly with fear.
    â€œIt’s happened,” he babbled. “Oh, my God, it’s happened!”
    â€œWhat’s happened?”
    â€œIt’s happened. It’s happened.”
    I pushed him aside and got out of bed. He turned suddenly and ran into my bathroom. I could hear him vomiting as I pushed my feet into slippers.
    Kavalov’s bedroom was three doors below mine, on the same side of the building.
    The house was full of noises, excited voices, doors opening and shutting, though I couldn’t see anybody.
    I ran down to Kavalov’s door. It was open.
    Kavalov was in there, lying on a low Spanish bed. The bedclothes were thrown down across the foot.
    Kavalov was lying on his back. His throat had been cut, a curving cut that paralleled the line of his jaw between points an inch under his ear lobes.
    Where his blood had soaked into the blue pillow case and blue sheet it was purple as grape-juice. It was thick and sticky, already clotting.
    Ringgo came in wearing a bathrobe like a cape.
    â€œIt’s happened,” I growled, using the valet’s words.
    Ringgo looked dully, miserably, at the bed and began cursing in a choked, muffled, voice.
    The red-faced blonde woman—Louella Qually, the housekeeper—came in, screamed, pushed past us, and ran to the bed, still screaming. I caught her arm when she reached for the covers.
    â€œLet things alone,” I said.
    â€œCover him up. Cover him up, the poor man!” she cried.
    I took her away from the bed. Four or five servants were in the room by now. I gave the housekeeper to a couple of them, telling them to take her out and quiet her down. She went away laughing and crying.
    Ringgo was still staring at the bed.
    â€œWhere’s Mrs. Ringgo?” I asked.
    He didn’t hear me. I tapped his good arm and repeated the question.
    â€œShe’s in her room. She—she didn’t have to see it to know what had happened.”
    â€œHadn’t you better look after her?”
    He nodded, turned slowly, and went out.
    The valet, still lemon-yellow, came in.
    â€œI want everybody on the place, servants, farm hands, everybody downstairs in the front room,” I told him. “Get them all there right away, and they’re to stay there till the sheriff comes.”
    â€œYes, sir,” he said and went downstairs, the others following him.
    I closed Kavalov’s door and went across to the library, where I phoned the sheriff’s office in the county