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

the arms of a man even whose name I do not know, or anything of him.”
    â€œThat’s easy to fix. My name is Young,” I lied; “and I can let you have a case of Scotch at a price that will astonish you. I think maybe I could stand it if you call me Jerry. Most of the ladies I let sit in my lap do.”
    â€œJerry Young,” she repeated, as if to herself. “That is a nice name. And you are the bootlegger?”
    â€œNot the ,” I corrected her; “just a . This is San Francisco.”
    The going got tough after that.
    Everything else about this brown woman was all wrong, but her fright was real. She was scared stiff. And she didn’t intend being left alone this night. She meant to keep me there—to massage any more chins that stuck themselves at her. Her idea—she being that sort—was that I would be most surely held with affection. So she must turn herself loose on me. She wasn’t hampered by any pruderies or puritanisms at all.
    I also have an idea. Mine is that when the last gong rings I’m going to be leading this baby and some of her playmates to the city prison. That is an excellent reason—among a dozen others I could think of—why I shouldn’t get mushy with her.
    I was willing enough to camp there with her until something happened. That apartment looked like the scene of the next action. But I had to cover up my own game. I couldn’t let her know she was only a minor figure in it. I had to pretend there was nothing behind my willingness to stay but a desire to protect her. Another man might have got by with a chivalrous, knight-errant, protector-of-womanhood-without-personal-interest attitude. But I don’t look, and can’t easily act, like that kind of person. I had to hold her off without letting her guess that my interest wasn’t personal. It was no cinch. She was too damned direct, and she had too much brandy in her.
    I didn’t kid myself that my beauty and personality were responsible for any of her warmth. I was a thick-armed male with big fists. She was in a jam. She spelled my name P-r-o-t-e-c-t-i-o-n. I was something to be put between her and trouble.
    Another complication: I am neither young enough nor old enough to get feverish over every woman who doesn’t make me think being blind isn’t so bad. I’m at that middle point around forty where a man puts other feminine qualities—amiability, for one—above beauty on his list. This brown woman annoyed me. She was too sure of herself. Her work was rough. She was trying to handle me as if I were a farmer boy. But in spite of all this, I’m constructed mostly of human ingredients. This woman got more than a stand-off when faces and bodies were dealt. I didn’t like her. I hoped to throw her in the can before I was through. But I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that she had me stirred up inside—between her cuddling against me, giving me the come-on, and the brandy I had drunk.
    The going was tough—no fooling.
    A couple of times I was tempted to bolt. Once I looked at my watch—2:06. She put a ring-heavy brown hand on the timepiece and pushed it down to my pocket.
    â€œPlease, Jerry!” the earnestness in her voice was real. “You cannot go. You cannot leave me here. I will not have it so. I will go also, through the streets following. You cannot leave me to be murdered here!”
    I settled down again.
    A few minutes later a bell rang sharply.
    She went to pieces immediately. She piled over on me, strangling me with her bare arms. I pried them loose enough to let me talk.
    â€œWhat bell is that?”
    â€œThe street door. Do not heed it.”
    I patted her shoulder.
    â€œBe a good girl and answer it. Let’s see who it is.”
    Her arms tightened.
    â€œNo! No! No! They have come!”
    The bell rang again.
    â€œAnswer it,” I insisted.
    Her face was flat against my coat, her nose digging into my