The Golden Horseshoe and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Page A

Turk Street over a matter of the murder of a bank messenger and the theft of a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Liberty Bonds. Through her intriguing three of her accomplices had died that evening, and the fourth—the Chinese—had eventually gone to the gallows at Folsom prison. Her name had been Elvira then, and since her escape from the house that night we had been fruitlessly hunting her from border to border, and beyond.
    Recognition must have shown in my eyes in spite of the effort I made to keep them blank, for, swift as a snake, she had left the arm of the chair and was coming forward, her eyes more steel than silver.
    I put my gun in sight.
    Joplin took a half-step toward me.
    â€œWhat’s the idea?” he barked.
    Kilcourse slid off the table, and one of his thin dark hands hovered over his necktie.
    â€œThis is the idea,” I told them. “I want the girl for a murder a couple months back, and maybe—I’m not sure—for tonight’s. Anyway, I’m—”
    The snapping of a light-switch behind me, and the room went black.
    I moved, not caring where I went so long as I got away from where I had been when the lights went out.
    My back touched a wall and I stopped, crouching low.
    â€œQuick, kid!” A hoarse whisper that came from where I thought the door should be.
    But both of the room’s doors, I thought, were closed, and could hardly be opened without showing gray rectangles. People moved in the blackness, but none got between me and the lighter square of windows.
    Something clicked softly in front of me—too thin a click for the cocking of a gun—but it could have been the opening of a spring-knife, and I remembered that Tin-Star Joplin had a fondness for that weapon.
    â€œLet’s go! Let’s go!” A harsh whisper that cut through the dark like a blow.
    Sounds of motion, muffled, indistinguishable … one sound not far away. …
    Abruptly a strong hand clamped one of my shoulders, a hard-muscled body strained against me. I stabbed out with my gun, and heard a grunt.
    The hand moved up my shoulder toward my throat.
    I snapped up a knee, and heard another grunt.
    A burning point ran down my side.
    I stabbed again with my gun—pulled it back until the muzzle was clear of the soft obstacle that had stopped it, and squeezed the trigger.
    The crash of the shot. Joplin’s voice in my ear—a curiously matter-of-fact voice:
    â€œGod damn! That got me.”
    XV
    I spun away from him then, toward where I saw the dim yellow of an open door. I had heard no sounds of departure. I had been too busy. But I knew that Joplin had tied into me while the others made their get-away.
    Nobody was in sight as I jumped, slid, tumbled down the steps—any number at a time. A waiter got in my path as I plunged toward the dance-floor. I don’t know whether his interference was intentional or not. I didn’t ask. I slammed the flat of my gun in his face and went on. Once I jumped a leg that came out to trip me; and at the outer door I had to smear another face.
    Then I was out in the semi-circular driveway, from one end of which a red tail-light was turning east into the county road.
    While I sprinted for Axford’s car I noticed that Pangburn’s body had been removed. A few people still stood around the spot where he had lain, and they gaped at me now with open mouths.
    The car was as Axford had left it, with idling engine. I swung it through a flower-bed and pointed it east on the public road. Five minutes later I picked up the red point of a tail-light again.
    The car under me had more power than I would ever need, more than I would have known how to handle. I don’t know how fast the one ahead was going, but I closed in as if it had been standing still.
    A mile and a half, or perhaps two—
    Suddenly a man was in the road ahead—a little beyond the reach of my lights. The lights caught him, and I saw that it was