Free Creeping Siamese and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Page A

pale from fifteen years in Joliet; Toby the Lugs, Bull’s running-mate, who used to brag about picking President Wilson’s pocket in a Washington vaudeville theater; and Paddy the Mex.
    Duff looked them over and whistled.
    â€œA few more tricks like this,” he said, “and we’ll all be out of jobs. There won’t be any grifters left to protect the taxpayers from.”
    â€œI’m glad you like it,” I told him. “Me—I’d hate like hell to be a San Francisco copper the next few days.”
    â€œWhy especially?”
    â€œLook at this—one grand piece of double-crossing. This village of ours is full of mean lads who are waiting right now for these stiffs to bring ’em their cut of the stick-up. What do you think’s going to happen when the word gets out that there’s not going to be any gravy for the mob? There are going to be a hundred and more stranded thugs busy raising getaway dough. There’ll be three burglaries to a block and a stick-up to every corner until the carfare’s raised. God bless you, my son, you’re going to sweat for your wages!”
    Duff shrugged his thick shoulders and stepped over bodies to get to the telephone. When he was through I called the Agency.
    â€œJack Counihan called a couple of minutes ago,” Fiske told me, and gave me an Army Street address. “He says he put his man in there, with company.”
    I phoned for a taxi, and then told Duff, “I’m going to run out for a while. I’ll give you a ring here if there’s anything to the angle, or if there isn’t. You’ll wait?”
    â€œIf you’re not too long.”
    I got rid of my taxicab two blocks from the address Fiske had given me, and walked down Army Street to find Jack Counihan planted on a dark corner.
    â€œI got a bad break,” was what he welcomed me with. “While I was phoning from the lunch-room up the street some of my people ran out on me.”
    â€œYeah? What’s the dope?”
    â€œWell, after that apey chap left the Green Street house he trolleyed to a house in Fillmore Street, and—”
    â€œWhat number?”
    The number Jack gave was that of the death-house I had just left.
    â€œIn the next ten or fifteen minutes just about that many other chaps went into the same house. Most of them came afoot, singly or in pairs. Then two cars came up together, with nine men in them—I counted them. They went into the house, leaving their machines in front. A taxi came past a little later, and I stopped it, in case my chap should motor away.
    â€œNothing happened for at least half an hour after the nine chaps went in. Then everybody in the house seemed to become demonstrative—there was a quantity of yelling and shooting. It lasted long enough to awaken the whole neighborhood. When it stopped, ten men—I counted them—ran out of the house, got into the two cars, and drove away. My man was one of them.
    â€œMy faithful taxi and I cried Yoicks after them, and they brought us here, going into that house down the street in front of which one of their motors still stands. After half an hour or so I thought I’d better report, so, leaving my taxi around the corner—where it’s still running up expenses—I went up to yon all-night caravansary and phoned Fiske. And when I came back, one of the cars was gone—and I, woe is me!—don’t know who went with it. Am I rotten?”
    â€œSure! You should have taken their cars along to the phone with you. Watch the one that’s left while I collect a strong-arm squad.”
    I went up to the lunch-room and phoned Duff, telling him where I was, and:
    â€œIf you bring your gang along maybe there’ll be profit in it. A couple of carloads of folks who were in Fillmore Street and didn’t stay there came here, and part of ’em may still be here, if you make it sudden.”
    Duff brought his four