THE THIN MAN by Dashiell Hammett

“Nothing.”

“Nothing about Nunheim?”

“No, nothing.”

“Where is your father?”

“Gil didn’t tell me.”

“When did he meet him?”

“He didn’t tell me. Please don’t be mad, Nick. I’ve told you everything he told me.”

“And a fat lot it is,” I growled. “When’d he tell you this?”

“Tonight. He was telling me when you came in my room, and, honest, that’s all he told me.”

I said: “It’d be swell if just once one of you people would make a clear and complete statement about something–it wouldn’t matter what.”

Nora came in with the coffee. “What’s worrying you now, son?” she asked.

“Things,” I said, “riddles, lies, and I’m too old and too tired for them to be any fun. Let’s go back to San Francisco.”

“Before New Year’s?”

“Tomorrow, today.”

“I’m willing.” She gave me a cup. “We can fly back, if you want, and be there for New Year’s Eve.”

Dorothy said tremulously: “I didn’t lie to you, Nick. I told you everything 1– Please, please don’t be mad with me. I’m so–” She stopped talking to sob.

I rubbed Asta’s head and groaned.

Nora said: “We’re all worn out and jumpy. Let’s send the pup downstairs for the night and turn in and do our talking after we’ve had some rest. Come on, Dorothy, I’ll bring your coffee into the bedroom and give you some night-clothes.”

Dorothy got up, said, “Good-night,” to me, “I’m sorry I’m so silly,” and followed Nora out.

When Nora returned she sat down on the floor beside me. “Our Dorry does her share of weeping and whining,” she said. “Admitting life’s not too pleasant for her just now, still . . .” She yawned. “What was her fearsome secret?”

I told her what Dorothy had told me. “It sounds like a lot of hooey.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Everything else we’ve got from them has been hooey.”

Nora yawned again. “That may be good enough for a detective, but it’s not convincing enough for me. Listen, why don’t we make a list of all the suspects and all the motives and clues, and check them off against–”

“You do it. I’m going to bed. What’s a clue, Mamma?”

“It’s like when Gilbert tiptoed over to the phone tonight when I was alone in the living-room, and he thought I was asleep, and told the operator not to put through any in-coming calls until morning.”

“Well, well.”

“And,” she said, “it’s like Dorothy discovering that she had Aunt Alice’s key all the time.”

“Well, well.”

“And it’s like Studsy nudging Morelli under the table when he started to tell you about the drunken cousin of–what was it?–Dick O’Brien’s that Julia ‘Wolf knew.”

I got up and put our cups on a table. “I don’t see how any detective can hope to get along without being married to you, but, just the same, you’re overdoing it. Studsy nudging Morelli is my idea of something to spend a lot of time not worrying about. I’d rather worry about whether they pushed Sparrow around to keep me from being hurt or to keep me from being told something. I’m sleepy.”

“So am I. Tell me something, Nick. Tell me the truth: when you were wrestling with Mimi, didn’t you have an erection?”

“Oh, a little.”

She laughed and got up from the floor. “If you aren’t a disgusting old lecher,” she said. “Look, it’s daylight.”

26

Nora shook me awake at quarter past ten. “The telephone,” she said. “It’s Herbert Macauhay and he says it’s important.”

I went into the bedroom–I had slept in the living-room–to the telephone. Dorothy was sleeping soundly. I mumbled, “Hello,” into the telephone.

Macaulay said: “It’s too early for that lunch, but I’ve got to see you right away. Can I come up now?”

“Sure. Come up for breakfast.”

“I’ve had it. Get yours and I’ll be up in fifteen minutes.”

“Right.”

Dorothy opened her eyes less than half-way, said, “It must be late,” sleepily, turned over, and returned to unconsciousness.

I put cold water on my face and hands, brushed my teeth and hair, and went back to the hiving-room. “He’s coming up,” I told Nora. “He’s had breakfast, but you’d better order some coffee for him. I want chicken livers.”

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