Return of the Thin Man Read online

  “And I said to him, ‘You ain’t going to give me a ticket, you big flatfoot, and you know it,’ I said. I said, ‘I got a right to turn there, and you know it,’ I said, ‘and I ain’t got all night to be sitting here gassing, so go polish your buttons and leave me be on my way, you fat palooka,’ I said.”

  Harold, wearily: “I know, and then you busted out crying.”

  Upstairs in the Li-Chee, Nick is checking his hat and coat while Nora looks interestedly around the place. Suddenly she grabs Nick’s arm, says: “There’s Robert!”

  Robert and Polly are going into the restaurant.

  Nick says: “The night’s bulging with your family.”

  Nora starts to pull him toward Robert, saying: “Come on.”

  Dancer to Nick: “Is Mr. Landis a friend of yours?”

  Nick, as Nora drags him off: “On the contrary, a relation.”

  Dancer stares thoughtfully after them.

  By the time Nick and Nora reach Robert, he and Polly are sitting at a small table near the orchestra. Nora holds out a hand to Robert, saying: “Hello, Robert,” with a great show of cordiality. He rises drunkenly, mumbling: “Hello, Nora; hello, Nick,” and shaking their hands. Then he introduces Polly: “Miss Byrnes, Mr. and Mrs. Charles.” Nick immediately sits down and begins to talk to Polly, giving Nora a chance to speak aside to Robert.

  Nora, in a low voice to Robert: “You oughtn’t to stay away like this.”

  Robert: “I know, but Selma’s not easy to get along with, and sometimes I simply have to break loose.”

  Nora: “But you should let her know that you’re all right.”

  Robert: “You’re right, of course. But sit down. You can talk in front of Polly. She knows about Selma.”

  Polly, aside to Nick: “Tell Mrs. Charles not to worry about him—I’ll see that he gets home tonight.” She puts her foot under the table and touches Robert’s. He starts to laugh, then covers his mouth with his hand, and asks:

  “Is—is Selma all right?”

  Nora, indignantly: “You know she’s not, and now with the police bothering her—”

  Robert: “The police?” He and Polly both look alarmed.

  Nora: “Yes, the idiots. A gardener we used to have was killed. Remember Pedro Dominges?”

  Before Robert can reply, Polly exclaims: “Killed? Why, he’s—” She breaks off with a hand to her mouth.

  Nick prompts her: “He’s what?”

  Polly, to Nora: “What was his name?”

  Nora: “Pedro Dominges.”

  Polly: “Oh! I thought you said Peter Dominger—a fellow I used to know.”

  Nick looks at her skeptically. Robert asks:

  “What’s that got to do with Selma?”

  Nick: “Ask the police—they don’t know. I wonder if our table’s ready.” He stands up.

  Polly whispers: “I’ll see he gets home all right.”

  Nick: “Thanks. Pleased to have metten up with you.” He and Nora move off to where Dancer is beckoning them.

  Polly leans over to Robert, speaking swiftly: “Honey, could you get hold of that guy Graham and see if you can get the money right away?”

  Robert: “Maybe. Why?”

  Polly: “I was thinking there’s no sense in waiting until tomorrow. I’ll tell Dancer I don’t feel well and get the night off and we’ll blow town right away. Would you like that?”

  A waiter comes up with fresh drinks as Robert says: “I’ll try him on the phone now.”

  Nick and Nora come up to the table. Dancer stands, holding Nora’s chair for her.

  Nick: “Thanks.” He sits down. A Chinese waiter comes to his side, hovering over him.

  Dancer: “This all right?”

  Nick: “Fine.” Then to the waiter, who is handing him his napkin: “Never mind about that. Bring me two Scotch highballs quick.” The waiter starts away, but Nick stops him. “No. Better make it three. One for the wife.”

  Waiter: “Yes, sir.”

  Dancer leans over toward Nick, adjusting the forks and utensils on the table as he speaks: “You once sent a friend of mine up . . . Lum Ying.”

  Nick: “Oh, I remember him. He spread a tong war out to include sticking up a bank.”

  Dancer: “His brother’s here now . . . one of my partners.”

  Nick, with a smile: “Is he a gunman, too?”

  Dancer: “No. But you can’t tell how close brothers are. Thought you might like to know.”

  Nick: “Maybe you’d better point him out.”

  Dancer: “I’ll call him over. Lum Kee!”

  Lum Kee is a plump, middle-aged Chinese man with a round merry face. He is dressed in American clothes.

  Dancer: “Come here.”

  Lum Kee: “You bet you!”

  Nick is looking interestedly at Lum Kee, as he comes up to the table.

  Dancer, introducing him to Nick: “I want you to meet a friend of mine . . . Lum Kee.”

  Lum Kee grins, ducking his head.

  Lum Kee: “I’m your friend, you bet you.”

  Dancer to Lum Kee: “This is Nick Charles.”

  Lum Kee: “I hear about you, Mr. Charles. Number one detective.”

  Nick: “Thanks. So you’re Lum Ying’s brother.”

  Lum Kee, still grinning: “You bet you—you catch ’em my brother seven years ago. You play trick on him. You bet you.”

  Nick, nodding solemnly: “No play trick on ’em, no catch ’em. You bet you.” Lum Kee laughs merrily. “He still in?”

  Lum Kee: “You bet you. Four . . . five years more.” He ducks his head politely at Dancer, Nick, and Nora and goes off. Dancer looks meditatively after him.

  Dancer, as if casually, to Nick: “That’s a good guy to have liking you.” He turns and walks away. As the implication of Dancer’s casual words dawns on him, Nick looks after Dancer with humorous dismay.

  Dancer goes to the table where Polly is now sitting alone and asks: “What’s the setup?”

  Polly: “They’re Bobbie’s cousins by marriage and think he ought to go home to his wife.”

  Dancer purses his lips thoughtfully for a moment, then says: “It’s all to the good, them seeing him here plastered, but I guess we can’t take a chance on them tipping off the wife and having her bang in. Give the customers one song and knock off for the night. Take him up to your place.”

  Polly: “I’m getting kind of tired of him.”

  Dancer: “It’s only till tomorrow night. You can turn him loose then. Put a pill in his drink when you get him home, so he’ll be sure to stay safe asleep while you run out to do that little errand in the morning.” He pats her shoulder.

  Polly, without enthusiasm: “All right.” She gets up to sing.

  Robert at the telephone talking to David. Robert: “That money you promised me tomorrow—give it to me tonight and I’ll be half across the country by daylight.”

  David: “I told you I couldn’t raise it till tomorrow.”

  Robert, snarling: “How’d you like it if I changed my mind between now and tomorrow?”

  David: “But, Robert, I—” He breaks off as he thinks of something, then says: “I’ve got the bonds I was going to raise the money on—if you’ll take them.”

  Robert: “They’re negotiable? There’s no foolishness about them?”

  David: “Certainly they’re negotiable! Do you think I’d—?”

  Robert: “I don’t think anything about you. How soon can you turn them over?”

  David: “As soon as you can get here.”

  Robert: “I won’t come there for them.”

  David: “All right. Where are you?”

  Robert: “At the Li-Chee.”

  David: “Then I can meet you at the corner of
. . . and . . . in ten minutes.”

  Robert: “Okay, but don’t keep me waiting, or I might change my mind.”

  David: “And you’ll give me your word you’ll—”

  Robert: “I’ve got to go home and pack a bag, but I won’t bother your sainted Selma. I won’t even see her if I can get out of it.” He slams the receiver on the hook, says: “Boy Scout!” at it, and returns to his table.

  (Throughout this scene, waiters, etc. have been passing and repassing Robert at the phone, but none seems to have paid any attention to his conversation.)

  Nick and Nora at their table listening to Polly singing. Dancer, intent now on keeping them comfortable until Polly and Robert are safely away, comes to the table and asks: “Everything all right, Mr. Charles?”

  Nick, shuddering at the first taste of his drink and frowning at the glass: “It’s all something.”

  Dancer laughs with professional heartiness and addresses the waiter: “Ling, no check for this table. Anything they want is on the house.”

  Nick: “I can’t let you do that.”

  Dancer: “But I insist. You must be my guest—”

  Nick, at this point seeing the approach of a group of thugs he knows, and realizing that somebody’s going to be stuck for a lot of drinks, says quickly: “We accept with thanks. That’s mighty white of you, Dancer.” He shakes Dancer’s hand as the thugs arrive, and says: “Meet the rest of my party.”

  Eddie: “We don’t want to meet him. He’s a crumb.”

  Nick: “But he’s giving the party. It’s all on the house.”

  Eddie: “Well, I’ll—well—well!” He turns to his companions, saying enthusiastically: “Boys! Champagny!”

  Nick: “Certainly champagne.”

  Dancer tries to smile as if he likes it. The others crowd him back out of the way as they make room for themselves around the table.

  Men: “Say, this is all right.”

  “Hi’yer, Nick.”

  “Hello, Nick.”

  Eddie, a bull-like thug, looks gallantly at Nora. “You certainly can pick ’em, Nick.”

  He turns to Nora: “I never seen such a guy. Every time I meet him, he’s got another good-looking gal.”

  Nick shoots a quick look at Nora.

  Nick, to Nora: “We haven’t met in years.”

  Nora, looking back at him amused and skeptical: “No?”

  Eddie, to Nora: “When he gives you the sack, let me know, will yer?”

  Nora, smiling up at him, delightedly: “I certainly will.”

  Eddie, turning to another of the men: “She’s hot-looking, ain’t she?”

  The Other Man: “Shut up, you lug. It’s his wife.”

  Eddie winces and sinks down into his chair.

  Another Man, stepping into the breach, pushing Willie toward Nick and Nora: “Come on, Willie.”

  “Here’s Willie.”

  “You remember Willie. He just got out today.”

  Nick shakes Willie’s hand cordially.

  Nick: “Indeed I do. Glad to see you.”

  Willie: “Likewise.”

  Nick, turning to Nora: “Darling, this is Willie the Weeper.”

  Nora, smiling cordially at him: “Delighted.”

  Willie: “Likewise.”

  Nick (introducing the rest to Nora en masse): “And the boys.”

  Nora looks at them and smiles. They sit down, dragging their chairs up. The waiter comes up, listening for their orders.

  Nick: “I feel honored to be at your coming-out party, Willie. What’ll you boys have?”

  Another Man: “Champagne!”

  Nick: “Willie?”

  Willie: “Scotch.”

  Nora: “Likewise!”

  Eddie: “Scotch, with a champagne chaser.”

  The men all roar with delight.

  Polly, nearing the end of her song, looks questioningly at Robert, who nods and points to his watch and the door to indicate that she should hurry. Lum Kee is watching them. He goes over to Dancer, who has left Nick’s table.

  Lum Kee: “No trouble, Dancer. I ask you, please.”

  Dancer, putting a hand on his partner’s arm: “Stop worrying, Lum. Everything is okay.”

  Lum Kee: “All the time you say everything okay. All the time trouble-trouble.”

  Dancer: “We always get out of it, don’t we?”

  Lum Kee: “You bet you, but too much money. Pretty soon money not fix something. Then no more Li-Chee.”

  Dancer slaps Lum Kee on the back and says: “If it’s Landis you’re worrying about, I’ll tell him to stay away. I don’t like the guy much either. But you’ll find something else to squawk about.”

  Lum Kee, cheerfully: “You bet you.”

  Polly, having finished her song, tells the orchestra to play a dance number instead of an encore, and goes toward her dressing room. As she passes Nora, she gives her a reassuring nod. Robert is getting his hat and coat. Dancer crosses to meet Polly at the door and says: “Just keep him in your apartment till evening and we’ll both be cutting ourselves a nice piece of gravy.”

  Polly says without enthusiasm: “I hope so. Has Phil been in tonight?”

  Dancer: “For a minute. He went off like he had a date. Go ahead, kid.” He pats her back, urging her toward the door. She goes out.

  At Nick’s table, his guests are still applauding Polly deafeningly, pounding the table with bottles, etc. Nora seems to be talking to Nick, but nothing can be heard. He yells back: “Can’t hear you.” The words are barely audible. She puts her mouth to his ear and screams: “Do you think that girl will really see that he gets home?”

  The noise dies suddenly just as she starts, and everybody in the place looks at her—her scream could be heard a block away. Willie, who has been banging on the table with two bottles, nudges the thug beside him and says: “I don’t care whose wife she is, I don’t like a dame that gets noisy when she’s had a few snifters.”

  Nick is trying to recover his hearing in the ear Nora screamed in. She asks again, but in a lower voice: “Do you?”

  Nick: “She’ll see that he gets to somebody’s home. You can phone if you want, when he’s had time to get there.”

  Outside, the fog is thicker. Polly starts for a taxi, but Robert says: “It’s only three blocks.” They turn down the street. Phil comes out of his doorway and follows them. Harold is slumped down in the seat of Nick’s car asleep, though his jaws still move a little with his gum. The taxi-driver is saying: “And I said to this truck-driver, ‘All right, tough guy, if you don’t like me cutting in on you, how would you like to climb down off that hearse and get bopped in the nose?’ I said.”

  At a corner three blocks from the Li-Chee, Robert points to David, waiting in his car, and says: “There’s our honeymoon money!” Polly holds back as he goes toward the car, but he takes her arm, saying: “Come on. I want him to see how much better I’m doing.” They go up to the car.

  Robert: “Have you got the bonds?”

  David slowly looks from one to the other of them as he takes a thick sheaf of bonds from his pocket. He hands them to Robert, who eagerly examines them, then says: “Thanks, Sir Galahad,” as he puts them into his pocket.

  David: “You’ll keep your promise?”

  Robert: “Don’t worry about that—and I wish you as much luck with your bargain as I got with mine.” He pulls Polly toward him and kisses her on the mouth. David turns his head away in disgust. Robert laughs at him, says: “There’s only one thing. I’m going home to pack a bag. Stay away till I’ve cleared out. Fifteen minutes oughtn’t to mean anything to a man who’s waited as long as you have. Ta-ta!” He and Polly turn away. David looks after them for a moment, then sighs as if with relief, and slowly starts his car.

 
At Nick’s table in the Li-Chee, Eddie is complaining: “Where’s Polly? I want to hear Polly sing. We come up here and spend all this dough”—indicating the champagne bottles—“and what does she do? She sings one song and quits.” Joe, earnestly: “You can’t say anything against Polly. She’s all to the good.”

  Another thug, very drunk, his eyes almost shut, asks: “She still live in that place on White Street with the ghosts running up and down the halls?”

  Nora, very interested: “A haunted house?”

  The drunk, opening his eyes: “Did I say ghosts? I’m drunk, lady. I meant goats.” He puts fingers up to his head to imitate horns and says: “Ba-a-a!”

  Nora: “Well, that’s almost as good.”

  Nick, as if not very interested: “What part of White Street?”

  The Drunk: “Three forty-six. I can always remember that number because my old man used to have a livery stable there.”

  At the mention of the number Nora puts her hand quickly on Nick’s and looks at him with a frightened face. Nick pats her hand without taking his attention from the drunk, and asks: “In the place with the goats?”

  The drunk, who is going back to sleep, shakes his head and says: “No, that was back in Baraboo, Wisconsin.”

  Nick: “You know the fellow who owns the house?”

  The Drunk: “In Baraboo?”

  Nick: “The one Polly lives in.”

  The drunk shakes his head again: “Nope, but he ought to keep the front door shut so the goats can’t get in.”

  Nick: “He was killed today.”

  The Drunk: “It don’t surprise me. Stands to reason no tenants weren’t going to put up with those goats forever.” The other thugs exchange glances, then begin to regard Nick with suspicion.

  Nora: “Nick, I’m going to phone.”

  Nick: “He’s had time enough to get home.” He holds out a handful of change.

  Dancer, not far away, sees Nora take the nickel (if necessary, he can have overheard some of the conversation), and he goes quickly over to one of the hatcheck girls and says: “Get on the phone and stay there.” She goes to the phone, drops in a coin, and when Nora arrives the girl is in the middle of a long description of a dress that can be written much more accurately by Miss Goodrich than by Mr. Hammett. Nora waits impatiently.