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

went up.
    â€œThere’s two of you and one of me,” the Kid explained. “I trust you, and all the like of that, but just the same I’m carrying my own share.”
    â€œBut—”
    The doorbell interrupted Maurois’ protest.
    The Kid spun to the girl.
    â€œYou do the talking—and no wise breaks!”
    She got up from the floor and went to the passageway.
    â€œWho is there?” she called.
    The landlady’s voice, stern and wrathful:
    â€œAnother sound, Mrs. Almad, and I shall call the police. This is disgraceful!”
    I wondered what she would have thought if she had opened the unlocked door and taken a look at her apartment—furniture whittled and gutted; a dead man—the noise of whose dying had brought her up here this second time—lying in the middle of the litter.
    I wondered—I took a chance.
    â€œAw, go jump down the sewer!” I told her.
    A gasp, and we heard no more from her. I hoped she was speeding her injured feelings to the telephone. I might need the police she had mentioned.
    The Kid’s gun was out. For a while it was a toss-up. I would lie down beside Billie, or I wouldn’t. If I could have been knifed quietly, I would have gone. But nobody was behind me. The Kid knew I wouldn’t stand still and quiet while he carved me. He didn’t want any more racket than necessary, now that the jewels were on hand.
    â€œKeep your clam shut or I’ll shut it for you!” was the worst I got out of it.
    The Kid turned to the Frenchman again. The Frenchman had used the time spent in this side-play to pocket the gems.
    â€œEither we divvy here and now, or I carry the stuff,” the Kid announced. “There’s two of you to see I don’t take a Micky Finn on you.”
    â€œBut, Kid, we cannot stay here! Is not the landlady even now calling the police? We will go elsewhere to divide. Why cannot you trust me when you are with me?”
    Two steps put the Kid between the door and both Maurois and Big Chin. One of the Kid’s hands held the gun he had flashed on me. The other was conveniently placed to his other gun.
    â€œNothing stirring!” he said through his nose. “My cut of them stones don’t go out of here in nobody else’s kick. If you want to split ’em here, good enough. If you don’t, I’ll do the carrying. That’s flat!”
    â€œBut the police!”
    â€œYou worry about them. I’m taking one thing at a time, and it’s the stones right now.”
    A vein came out blue in the Frenchman’s forehead. His small body was rigid. He was trying to collect enough courage to swap shots with the Kid. He knew, and the Kid knew, that one of them was going to have all the stuff when the curtain came down. They had started off by double-crossing each other. They weren’t likely to change their habits. One would have the stones in the end. The other would have nothing—except maybe a burial.
    Big Chin didn’t count. He was too simple a thug to last long in his present company. If he had known anything, he would have used one of his guns on each of them right now. Instead, he continued to cover me, trying to watch them out of the tail of his eye.
    The woman stood near the door, where she had gone to talk to the landlady. She was staring at the Frenchman and the Kid. I wasted precious minutes that seemed to run into hours trying to catch her eye. I finally got it.
    I looked at the light-switch, only a foot from her. I looked at her. I looked at the switch again. At her. At the switch.
    She got me. Her hand crept sidewise along the wall.
    I looked at the two principal players in this button-button game.
    The Kid’s eyes were dead—and deadly—circles. Maurois’ one open eye was watery. He couldn’t make the grade. He put a hand in his pocket and brought out the silk bag.
    The woman’s brown finger topped the light-button. God knows she was nothing