Free Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett Page B

yours?”
    “Not exactly, but he knows I—Hey, listen! Did Whisper give you that, on the level?”
    “On the level.”
    He cursed bitterly. “And I put my last thirty-five bucks in the world on that rat on his say-so. Me, that could send him over for—” He broke off and looked down the street.
    “Could send him over for what?” I asked.
    “Plenty,” he said. “Nothing.”
    I had a suggestion:
    “If you’ve got something on him, maybe we ought to talk it over. I wouldn’t mind seeing Bush win, myself. If what you’ve got is any good, what’s the matter with putting it up to him?”
    He looked at me, at the sidewalk, fumbled in his vest pocket for another toothpick, put it in his mouth, and mumbled:
    “Who are you?”
    I gave him a name, something like Hunter or Hunt or Huntington, and asked him his. He said his name was MacSwain, Bob MacSwain, and I could ask anybody in town if it wasn’t right.
    I said I believed him and asked:
    “What do you say? Will we put the squeeze to Bush?”
    Little hard lights came into his eyes and died.
    “No,” he gulped. “I ain’t that kind of fellow. I never—”
    “You never did anything but let people gyp you. You don’t have to go up against him, MacSwain. Give me the dope, and I’ll make the play—if it’s any good.”
    He thought that over, licking his lips, letting the toothpick fall down to stick on his coat front.
    “You wouldn’t let on about me having any part in it?” he asked. “I belong here, and I wouldn’t stand a chance if it got out. And you won’t turn him up? You’ll just use it to make him fight?”
    “Right.”
    He took my hand excitedly and demanded:
    “Honest to God?”
    “Honest to God.”
    “His real moniker is Al Kennedy. He was in on the Keystone Trust knock-over in Philly two years ago, when Scissors Haggerty’s mob croaked two messengers. Al didn’t do the killing, but he was in on the caper. He used to scrap around Philly. The rest of them got copped, but he made the sneak. That’s why he’s sticking out here in the bushes. That’s why he won’t never let them put his mug in the papers or on any cards. That’s why he’s a pork-and-beaner when he’s as good as the best. See? This Ike Bush is Al Kennedy that the Philly bulls want for the Keystone trick. See? He was in on the—”
    “I see. I see,” I stopped the merry-go-round. “The next thing is to get to see him. How do we do that?”
    “He flops at the Maxwell, on Union Street. I guess maybe he’d be there now, resting up for the mill.”
    “Resting for what? He
doesn’t
know he’s going to fight. We’ll give it a try, though.”
    “We! We! Where do you get that
we
at? You said—you swore you’d keep me covered.”
    “Yeah,” I said, “I remember that now. What does he look like?”
    “A black-headed kid, kind of slim, with one tin ear and eyebrows that run straight across. I don’t know if you can make him like it.”
    “Leave that to me. Where’ll I find you afterwards?”
    “I’ll be hanging around Murry’s. Mind you don’t tip my mitt. You promised.”
    The Maxwell was one of a dozen hotels along Union Street with narrow front doors between stores, and shabby stairs leading up to second-story offices. The Maxwell’s office was simply a wide place in the hall, with a key- and mail-rack behind a wooden counter that needed paint just as badly. A brass bell and a dirty day-book register were on the counter. Nobody was there.
    I had to run back eight pages before I found
Ike Bush, Salt Lake City, 214,
written in the book. The pigeon-hole that had that number was empty. I climbed more steps and knocked on a door that had it. Nothing came of that. I tried it two or three times more and then turned back to the stairs.
    Somebody was coming up. I stood at the top, waiting for a look at him. There was just light enough to see by.
    He was a slim muscular lad in army shirt, blue suit, gray cap. Black eyebrows made a straight line above his eyes.
    I