Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [67]
Four minutes after he'd come through it, the back door to the speakeasy opened and closed. There came a stifled oath and the quick sound of a man hurrying across sloppy paving stones. The stranger shouldered his way out of the gate, took two steps—and came to an immediate halt at the clear sound of a trigger being pulled back, a dozen feet away.
“Are you armed?” the stranger heard, in the drawl of an Englishman.
After a minute, the American answered. “I'm not much of one for guns.”
“Does that mean no?”
“No, I don't have a gun.”
“Take off your coats and toss them over here,” came the command. The tall American unbuttoned his overcoat and tossed it in the direction of the other's voice, then did the same with his jacket, standing motionless in the cold in his shirt-sleeves. “I trust you'll pardon me if I don't take your word on the matter. Would you be so good as to turn and place your hands against the wall?”
The man hesitated, loath to turn his back to a gun, but he had little choice. He faced the wall and leant against it with his hands. The bricks were briefly illuminated by the flare of a pocket-torch, and in a moment a hand patted all the obvious places for a weapon, and one or two not so obvious. Then the light winked out and he stood in the dark, listening to the sound of his garments being gone through. The overcoat was a good one, and relatively new; he'd be sore to lose it.
But after a minute the English voice said, “You may turn around again,” and in a moment, the two coats were flying out of the darkness at him. He put them on, grateful for the warmth, and coughed gently.
“Now your notecase—wallet, if you will.”
The American slid the leather object from his inner pocket and threw it across the alleyway, rather less concerned than at the loss of his coat. There wasn't all that much in the wallet to lose.
The torch flared again, dazzling him at the same time it showed the Englishman the contents of the wallet and its various business cards and identifications. All but two of the cards were inventions that placed him in the employ of agencies ranging from insurance to newspapers. The two valid cards were those the Englishman unerringly pulled out.
“Pinkerton's, eh?” he said. “And Samuel's Jewelers.” The alleyway fell silent for a minute, then there was a faint click followed by the rustle of clothing, and the Englishman stepped out into the alley. Accident or intent placed him in a patch of light, and the American could see the man's hands, the left one holding the wallet, the other outstretched and free of weaponry. “Holmes is my name, in the event you don't know it already. Might I buy you a drink while we talk about why you're following me?”
The American retrieved his wallet, looked at the open hand, and slowly extended his own. “The name's Hammett, Dashiell Hammett. And I guess we might as well have a drink.”
They shook hands, with a certain amount of probing on both sides, and then Holmes released his grip and clapped Hammett on the shoulder. “I sincerely hope you do not wish to return to that . . . would it be called a ‘joint' in American parlance? My palate may never recover.”
“You like our Volstead Act, huh? Sure, there's a place up the street with liquor that's never seen the inside of a bath-tub.”
“Actually, I have to say I've been pleasantly surprised at how civilised this city is when it comes to the availability of drink. I'd expected the whole country to be as dry as the Sahara.”
“This side of the country, it's a bit of a joke, the cops don't even charge much to turn a blind eye, but like you say, in some places, things are getting tough. Chicago—wow.”
Down the alley and out onto the street, and Hammett asked the question that had clearly been tormenting him since the moment he'd heard the trigger go back. “How'd you know I was on your tail, anyway? I've got something of a reputation as an invisible man.”
“Invisible, yes. But the Pinkertons might wish to reconsider their policy of sending out a man with a tubercular