The Collected Dashiell Hammett

P. S. Ten thousand dollars will be sufficient. T.

“So.” Papa rolled the cigar in his mouth and laid the letter on the desk. “Know him?”

“Never heard of him before.” And then Mr. Cayterer said a most astounding thing: “I sent him the ten thousand.”

Papa expressed his astonishment in three words that I need not repeat here. My own amazement was fully as great as my parent’s; it seemed preposterous that a man of Mr. Cayterer’s caliber should have submitted to so brazen a demand.

“You see he’s got me,” Mr. Cayterer defended his folly. “Maybe he doesn’t really know anything, is just guessing. It’s a cinch he can’t prove anything. But that’s no good. One hint and the game’s up. The State Department wouldn’t do a thing to me if they got wise! And then there are the rival tuchuns, the Japanese, the Russians and British, and even my man’s own supporters. They would all pile on him like a ton of bricks if they smelled the game before he’s ready to pull the trigger.

“If he wins we won’t have to worry about what howling these parties do. The gravy will be ours, and they can yap their heads off for all the good it’ll do them. But a suspicion now would ruin us. What else could I do? Paying hush money is foolish, but there I am: millions in it if we win and three lines in a newspaper can beat us. What else could I do but send this Throgmorton his money and hope he’d go on a spree on it and get his throat cut?”

“Didn’t you even try to get hold of these birds?” Papa asked, face and voice indicating clearly how little he valued the promoter’s defense.

“Yes, I tried, but it did me little enough good. I sent word to China to have the Japanese end looked to, and I’ve had Randall hunted for in Los Angeles, but with no luck. Not being able to go to the Post Office Department for help crippled us. Then I heard from them the second time.”

He produced another letter, similar to the first, in which Throgmorton thanked him for the draft, declined his invitation to a conference, suggested that in the interests of secrecy Mr. Cayterer’s agents had better stop their inquiries into his (Throgmorton’s) affairs, declared that several unforeseen matters had arisen to make necessary the expenditure of an additional twenty-five thousand dollars, and instructed Mr. Cayterer to send a draft for that amount to B. J. Randall, General Delivery, Portland, Oregon.

“And you?” Papa asked.

“Sent it.”

“So. Now what do your partners — the other members of your syndicate — think of your generosity?”

“They” — there was an odd reluctance in the promoter’s voice and he was staring at a distant chair — “know nothing about these letters, yet. Have you noticed anything... anything peculiar about the letters?”

“American paper, but that proves nothing.”

“The handwriting—” Mr. Cayterer stopped watching the distant chair and looked at Papa and at me with the eyes of an orator who is about to startle his audience. “The handwriting is mine.”

To that I said, nothing, while Papa said, “So.”

“It is. Not exactly mine, you understand, but — well, it’s about like mine would be if I tried to disguise it and didn’t make too good a job of it.”

“And that’s why you didn’t show it to the others?”

“Yes, or that’s one of the reasons. They might have thought I was trying to put something over on them. But I would have been tempted to pocket the loss and keep quiet anyway. A couple of the members of the syndicate could be frightened out easily enough.”