Who Killed Bob Teal? and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Page A

with air. Before she could turn it loose in a shriek, the Kid’s long fingers had fit themselves to her throat.
    â€œOne chirp out of you and I’ll tie a knot in your neck,” he threatened.
    She let the air wheeze out of her nose.
    Billie shuffled his feet. I turned my head to look at him. He was puffing through his mouth. Sweat polished his forehead under his matted red hair. I hoped he wasn’t going to turn his wolf loose until the “stuff” came to the surface. If he would wait a while I might join him.
    He wouldn’t wait. He went into action when—Maurois holding her—the Kid started to undress the woman.
    He took a step toward them. Big Chin tried to wave him back with a gun. Billie didn’t even see it. His eyes were red on the three by the bench.
    â€œHey, you can’t do that!” he rumbled. “You can’t do that!”
    â€œNo?” The Kid looked up from his work. “Watch me.”
    â€œBillie!” the woman urged the big man on in his foolishness.
    Billie charged.
    Big Chin let him go, playing safe by swinging both guns on me. The Whosis Kid slid out of the plunging giant’s path. Maurois hurled the girl straight at Billie—and got his gun out.
    Billie and Inés thumped together in a swaying tangle.
    The Kid spun behind the big man. One of the Kid’s hands came out of his pocket with the spring-knife. The knife clicked open as Billie regained his balance.
    The Kid jumped close.
    He knew knives. None of your clumsy downward strokes with the blade sticking out the bottom of his fist.
    Thumb and crooked forefinger guided blade. He struck upward. Under Billie’s shoulder. Once. Deep.
    Billie pitched forward, smashing the woman to the floor under him. He rolled off her and was dead on his back among the furniture-stuffing. Dead, he seemed larger than ever, seemed to fill the room.
    The Whosis Kid wiped his knife clean on a piece of carpet, snapped it shut, and dropped it back in his pocket. He did this with his left hand. His right was close to his hip. He did not look at the knife. His eyes were on Maurois.
    But if he expected the Frenchman to squawk, he was disappointed. Maurois’ little mustache twitched, and his face was white and strained, but:
    â€œWe’d better hurry with what we have to do, and get out of here,” he suggested.
    The woman sat up beside the dead man, whimpering. Her face was ashy under her dark skin. She was licked. A shaking hand fumbled beneath her clothes. It brought out a little flat silk bag.
    Maurois—nearer than the Kid—took it. It was sewed too securely for his fingers to open. He held it while the Kid ripped it with his knife. The Frenchman poured part of the contents out in one cupped hand.
    Diamonds. Pearls. A few colored stones among them.
    XI
    Big Chin blew his breath out in a faint whistle. His eyes were bright on the sparkling stones. So were the eyes of Maurois, the woman, and the Kid.
    Big Chin’s inattention was a temptation. I could reach his jaw. I could knock him over. The strength Billie had mauled out of me had nearly all come back by now. I could knock Big Chin over and have at least one of his guns by the time the Kid and Maurois got set. It was time for me to do something. I had let these comedians run the show long enough. The stuff had come to light. If I let the party break up there was no telling when, if ever, I could round up these folks again.
    But I put the temptation away and made myself wait a bit longer. No use going off half-cocked. With a gun in my hand, facing the Kid and Maurois, I still would have less than an even break. That’s not enough. The idea in this detective business is to catch crooks, not to put on heroics.
    Maurois was pouring the stones back in the bag when I looked at him again. He started to put the bag in his pocket. The Whosis Kid stopped him with a hand on his arm.
    â€œI’ll pack ’em.”
    Maurois’ eyebrows