Who Killed Bob Teal? and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett

again, but she looked things at Big Chin—things that had him sweating and blushing. He was a simple man. I didn’t think she’d get anywhere. If there had been no one present but the two of them, she might have put Big Chin over the jumps; but he wouldn’t be likely to let her get to him with a couple of birds standing there watching the show.
    Once a sharp yelp told us that the purple Frana—who had fled rearward when Maurois and Big Chin arrived—had got in trouble with the searchers. There was only that one yelp, and it stopped with a suddenness that suggested trouble for the dog.
    The two men spent nearly an hour in the other rooms. They didn’t find anything. Their hands, when they joined us again, held nothing but the cutlery.
    X
    â€œI said to you it was not here,” Inés told them triumphantly. “Now will you—?”
    â€œYou can’t tell me nothing I’ll believe.” The Kid snapped his knife shut and dropped it in his pocket. “I still think it’s here.”
    He caught her wrist, and held his other hand, palm up, under her nose.
    â€œYou can put ’em in my hand, or I’ll take ’em.”
    â€œThey are not here! I swear it!”
    His mouth lifted at the corner in a savage grimace.
    â€œLiar!”
    He twisted her arm roughly, forcing her to her knees. His free hand went to the shoulder-strap of her orange gown.
    â€œI’ll damn soon find out,” he promised.
    Billie came to life.
    â€œHey!” he protested, his chest heaving in and out. “You can’t do that!”
    â€œWait, Kid!” Maurois—putting his sword-cane together again—called. “Let us see if there is not another way.”
    The Whosis Kid let go of the woman and took three slow steps back from her. His eyes were dead circles without any color you could name—the dull eyes of the man whose nerves quit functioning in the face of excitement. His bony hands pushed his coat aside a little and rested where his vest bulged over the sharp corners of his hip-bones.
    â€œLet’s me and you get this right, Frenchy,” he said in his whining voice. “Are you with me or her?”
    â€œYou, most certainly, but—”
    â€œAll right. Then be with me! Don’t be trying to gum every play I make. I’m going to frisk this dolly, and don’t think I ain’t. What are you going to do about it?”
    The Frenchman pursed his mouth until his little black mustache snuggled against the tip of his nose. He puckered his eyebrows and looked thoughtfully out of his one good eye. But he wasn’t going to do anything at all about it, and he knew he wasn’t. Finally he shrugged.
    â€œYou are right,” he surrendered. “She should be searched.”
    The Kid grunted contemptuous disgust at him and went toward the woman again.
    She sprang away from him, to me. Her arms clamped around my neck in the habit they seemed to have.
    â€œJerry!” she screamed in my face. “You will not allow him! Jerry, please not!”
    I didn’t say anything.
    I didn’t think it was exactly genteel of the Kid to frisk her, but there were several reasons why I didn’t try to stop him. First, I didn’t want to do anything to delay the unearthing of this “stuff” there had been so much talk about. Second, I’m no Galahad. This woman had picked her playmates, and was largely responsible for this angle of their game. If they played rough, she’d have to make the best of it. And, a good strong third, Big Chin was prodding me in the side with a gun-muzzle to remind me that I couldn’t do anything if I wanted to—except get myself slaughtered.
    The Kid dragged Inés away. I let her go.
    He pulled her over to what was left of the bench by the electric heater, and called the Frenchman there with a jerk of his head.
    â€œYou hold her while I go through her,” he said.
    She filled her lungs