23

A nurse was doing something to Hammett’s foot.

“What’s the name of this place?” he asked.

“Carson City Memorial Hospital.” She was a tall woman with slightly Oriental eyes, a toneless professional sort of voice, and some citrus scent that clashed with the carbolic they’d used to disinfect the room. Nothing like Jose.

“How’s the hoof?”

She finished dressing his foot and threw the old bandages into a metal rubbish bin with a pedal that swung the lid up and down.

“No peg leg for you,” she said. “You’re lucky. That’s the worst friction burn I’ve ever seen. What did you do, try to brake the train the hard way?”

“You’re close. Who told you I was on a train?”

“You did, when the cabbie brought you in. You were in shock. What happened to your head?”

He touched the bandage he wore like a pirate’s bandanna. He couldn’t remember when his head didn’t ache. “I fell and landed on a blackjack. There a telephone in here?”

“No, and if there was I wouldn’t let you use it. You need to rest.”

“Get me a piece of paper, will you?”

Her smile was tight-lipped, more carbolic than citrus.

“Thinking about your will?”

“I need to send a telegram.”

“I’ll write it.” She drew a pad and pencil from the pocket of her uniform. “Shoot.”

“Can’t. You took my gun.”

“It’s in the cupboard with your clothes. What’s a nice-looking young man like you need with a gun?”

“You guessed it. I have to mow a path through the crowds of women or I’ll never get anywhere. Send it to Charlie O’Casey at the Golden West Hotel in San Francisco.”

She took it down:

DEAL FELL THROUGH STOP EXPLAIN IN PERSON

PETER COLLINS

“Who’s Charlie O’Casey?”

“Shortstop for the New York Giants.”

“No, he isn’t. I’m from New York.”

“Send it collect. I left my money in my pants.”

He waited until she went out, then threw aside his covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was naked under a thin cotton gown. Standing, he put his weight onto the wrong foot and almost fell back down onto the mattress. The morphine was wearing off. The foot looked swollen twice its size, but it was mostly bandage. He made his way to the iron footboard and used it as a railing to get to the narrow wooden cupboard on the side of the bed opposite the door.

There was only one shoe in the cupboard; he vaguely remembered someone cutting the other one off. He took off the gown, sat naked on the bed, and dressed himself slowly, molly-coddling the bad foot when he put on his pants. He borrowed a pillow slip, wrapped the foot in it for extra protection, and secured the slip with a sock garter.

He rose again, standing on his good foot, checked the chambers in the .38, and was working it in its holster onto his belt when a man came in wearing a white coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck. The man was young but balding and wore rimless glasses.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Riding a bicycle. What’s it look like?” He pulled his coat on and took his hat from the top shelf of the cupboard.

“You haven’t been discharged. You’re a sick man, Mr. Collins.”

“Who are you, the ice cream man?”

“I’m Dr. Bartlett.”

“Well, Dr. Bartlett, I’ve had this foot as long as I’ve had the other. I think I know how to take care of it. My head too.”

“Obviously not, or you wouldn’t need a hospital. But I’m talking about your other condition. You’re aware of it, of course?”

“You mean the T.B.? Yeah. I caught it from a toilet seat.”

“A man with your illness ought not to be jumping off trains.”

“Did I say that’s what happened? I was in shock. I fell off the train. All the jumping I did was to get back on.”

“Someone hit you, you said.”

“I’m a writer. I’ve got a big imagination. This whole business was for research.” He put his hat on gingerly, at a tout’s angle because of the bandage. He patted his pockets. “I had a flask when I came in.”

“I had it taken away. This is a place of healing, not a speakeasy. It will be returned to you when you’re discharged. You must get back into bed.”

“Keep the flask. They grow on trees in this state. What do I owe you, Doc?” He found his wallet.

“You can pay your bill in the lobby. When you’re discharged.”

“Tell you what. I’ll toss you for it.” He took out the two-sided penny he’d gotten from the plumbing-fixture salesman.

“Do I need to have you put in restraints?”

He flipped the coin and put it away. “If I were you I wouldn’t.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Nope. Just giving you sound medical advice. You know Pete Durango?”

“No.”

“He used to run with Villa. Now he runs liquor up from Mexico and sells it here in Carson City. If the cops were to pay a visit downstairs and find a couple of dozen cases of Old Quezalcoatl marked Hydrogen Peroxide all packed up for shipping, this joint might run into a jam renewing its license. On the bright side, though, there’s more dough in liquor.”

“Mister Collins—”

“You don’t even need to buy a truck. I used to drive an ambulance. You got any idea how much inventory you can carry in one?”

“How long are you prepared to go on in this vein?”

“That’s up to you.”

Bartlett’s tongue bulged a cheek. Finally he palmed the doorknob.

“I’ll bring you a cane,” he said. “I can’t have you stumping around on that foot and risk infecting it.”

“Thanks, Doc. Send my bill to Apartment six, one-twenty Ellis Street, San Francisco, in care of Dashiell Hammett.” He spelled the name. “He’s my business manager.”

*   *   *

He took a cab to the station, reclaimed his satchel from lost and found, and went into the bathroom to inspect the contents. The sympathetic driver he’d found in the taxi line had taken it from him and given it to a red cap; he couldn’t support an injured man and carry his luggage both. Lanyard hadn’t taken anything while Hammett was dangling off the train. Even his brass knuckles and the Mason jars filled with Siringo’s moonshine were there. He unscrewed one and took a swig. It probably wasn’t poisoned.

“Maybe he still thinks I’m dead.”

But the man who looked back at him from the mirror above the sink wore a doubtful expression.

For the first time since before going to Beauty Ranch, he didn’t look for signs he was being tailed. Lanyard would hightail it back to Frisco whatever Hammett’s condition. He hadn’t bought the Montana dodge and would want to know what Siringo had been up to in his absence.

Dashiell Hammett bought a ticket and sat on a bench, resting his bandaged foot on his satchel. His makings were in the pocket where he’d left them. He rolled a cigarette and waited for his train home.