The Big Drop

Peter Corris

• Publisher: Allen & Unwin
• Year: 2017
• Print ISBN: 9781760113902
• eBook ISBN: 9781925575750
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

The seventh book in the Cliff Hardy series A client falls from the twentieth storey of a building; a rock star goes missing; an erotic Mongol scroll vanishes; a film star has a problem that has nothing to do with creativity - it's all in a day's work for Cliff Hardy. Yachts dance on the sparkling waters of the harbour, and the back alleys are busy: the city's high and low classes go about their daily business. But nothing really surprises Hardy, and, for a hundred and twenty-five a day (plus expenses), he'll provide a few surprises of his own...

Maltese Falcon

It was warm for March in San Francisco they told me, and Dan Swan was sweating like a fat man on a bicycle, except he was a thin man, standing still. It wasn’t surprising though; the group of twenty or so people clustered around him had on T-shirts and jeans, shorts or light slacks. Swan was wearing a shirt and tie, trench coat and heavy rubber-soled shoes. He had to dress like that. He had to wear the fedora too, he was taking us on his famous ‘Sam Spade walking tour’ through the Tenderloin and adjacent parts of San Francisco.

‘We don’t know much about Spade,’ Swan said. ‘My guess is he was born in Oregon or Washington State. He served in the infantry in World War One and was an NCO. Not high-ranked, a corporal, maybe.’ He took off his hat and wiped his high brow which was getting higher as the widow’s peak was accentuated by retreating hair on both sides. Dark hair and dark eyes, a long face and body. He moved his shoulders uncomfortably in the coat and I wanted to tell him to take it off.

‘Where’s the dingus?’ A heavy guy in a floral shirt and floppy shorts spoke up at the front of the group. He held some money in his hand and he thrust it back into a pocket.

‘I wanna see the bird,’ he said.

Swan looked embarrassed. He wiped his face which was flushed now and not just from the heat. ‘I haven’t got it today,’ he said. ‘Too hot.’

That seemed fair enough to me. I was carrying a tourist guide too thick to go in my jeans pocket, and it felt too hot to carry that. Still, the promotion photo for the tour showed Swan sneaking down a street with a bundle wrapped in frayed newspaper under his arm, and if that was one of the things you wanted . . .

‘This is a gyp,’ the fat man grumbled. He took the steps back down to Larkin Street two at a time, and a fat woman, also in Bermuda shorts, followed him. After a pause, a thin, nervous looking woman in a print frock went down the steps and moved off in the other direction from the fat pair.

‘Anyone else?’ Swan was aggressive now, not bothering to exert charm. ‘All right. I’ll take the money—four dollars a head, two fifty for senior citizens.’

We all pressed forward with our money, serious takers. Swan collected his hundred dollars or so and told us a little more about Hammett and Spade.

‘. . . the same skyline, post-earthquake, Spade would have seen. Let’s take a look.’ He almost sprinted down the steps from the Public Library and across the street, timing the lights just exactly right.

We skipped and lumbered and strode after him and got Dan’s spiel about Spade defying the DA and then we headed off along the streets the Continental Op and the Whoosis Kid and Spade had haunted. The sun was high and Swan’s fedora must have been welcome. He got more cheerful and answered some of the ignorant questions amiably as we went along. I caught him up at the corner of Geary and Leavenworth.

‘What’s the bird weigh?’ I said innocently.

He gave me a sharp look. ‘Where you from?’

‘Australia, you know, where Hammett nearly went.’

‘Yeah,’ He grinned. ‘It was a tough break.’

I stuck out my hand. ‘Cliff Hardy. I’m in this line of work at home.’

We shook. ‘Tours?’ he said.

‘No, detective work.’

He seemed a bit pre-occupied for the next hour while we traced Spade and Cairo and the others through the streets. He took us to a lane where you could see the faded name of a restaurant where Spade had eaten a steak. The building now housed a computer games outfit. Swan drew me aside.

‘Bird weighs next to nothing,’ he said. ‘Couple of pounds.’

‘Pretty light.’

‘Yeah, aluminum. I haven’t got it because it was stolen.’

Before I could say anything, a plastic bag filled with water came sailing down and burst on the sidewalk in the middle of the group. The water sprayed, picked up dust, and dirtied the clothes of a couple of women. Strong men swore. Then some garbage came down plus a couple of cans and those with combat experience ducked for cover. I saw a flash of face and the arc of an arm on top of the computer games building. I pointed up there to Swan.

He nodded tiredly. ‘Not the first time.’

A couple of people started to walk away.

‘You can have your money back!’ Swan yelled.

One of the men bent, picked up a can and threw it at Swan. It was a light toss, but Swan wasn’t prepared. I was, I stepped forward and caught the can. I thought of throwing it back but remembered that I was a stranger in a strange land. I threw the can into a trash bin.

‘Thanks,’ Swan said. ‘This goes on, and I’m out of business.’

He rushed through the rest of the tour and wasn’t helped by the inattention of the clients who looked up every time we stopped. He signed off on Market Street, and signalled me to wait while he autographed a few copies of his tour booklet for the faithful.

‘Drink?’ he said when he was through.

We had been out on the hot streets for almost four hours, a drink didn’t seem like too much of an indulgence. Swan led the way to a quiet bar and ordered two beers without consulting me.

‘All Aussies drink beer,’ he said when the waiter arrived with two big bottles of Budweiser, glasses and peanuts.

‘Some drink absinthe,’ I said.

‘No kidding?’

Budweiser is good beer and so is Coors and Schlitz and every other one I’d tasted in California. We drank some of it and I waited for him to say whatever it was the beer had been bought for.

‘Ah . . . this is kinda embarrassing. You know, I’m supposed to be well up on all this detective stuff.’

‘But you’re not. And somebody stole your bird?’

‘Right. And there’s more. The shop’s in trouble—that’s the Bay Mystery Bookstore on O’Farrell Street, you know it?’

I shook my head.

‘Well, I run it and it’s done okay until lately. Then the bird goes missing, plus we get that crap from the roof. I feel like a target. I feel like somebody’s out to get me.’

‘Who would be?’

He scratched his heavily stubbled chin and pulled out a packet of cigarillos. ‘You smoke, Hardy?’

‘I quit.’

‘Stay with it.’ He lit up and took a pull of beer. ‘I suppose there could be someone wanting to muscle in on this tour racket. I was the first to do it, but anyone could who had the knowledge and that’s in the books.’

‘How much d’you make at it?’

‘In a big week, three or four tours, I might make four hundred bucks. Wouldn’t average nearly that, though.’

I considered it. ‘It’s not a lot to break the law for. Besides, you’ve got the book published, it’s your baby. What else—the shop, women, drugs?’

He shook his head. ‘Store does okay like I said, nothing spectacular. I’m between women just now, leastways I hope I am. Nothing there.’ He swished beer in his glass and puffed smoke. ‘These are the only drugs I use.’

‘Why did you say you were embarrassed?’

‘I need help. I’d get laughed away if I went to any of the investigators in this city. Straight to the press. Somebody stole my Maltese Falcon—shit!’

‘The police?’

‘What crime? Fuckin’ bird’s worth maybe fifty dollars. Harassment? I’m not sure there is such a crime. Cops’ve got work to do, rackets to run, you know.’

‘Yeah. Politics?’

He fiddled with the fedora on the table; the band had a tiny feather in it and I was reminded of the hat my father always wore out of doors, hail, rain or shine. ‘I used to think Tom Hayden was a good guy,’ Swan said, ‘now I hear he’s spending a million bucks to prove he’s not a radical. That’s politics.’

I nodded. ‘I was going home but I guess I can stay awhile. You’re hiring me are you?’

He pulled his tour money out of the trench coat. ‘What’re your rates?’

‘I get one hundred and twenty-five a day and expenses back home.’

He put the crumpled notes down in front of me. ‘Be more than that here. Let’s make it that per diem.’

I took the money. ‘I’ll look into it, give it a day or two. It’s not my territory, I don’t want to rip you off.’

He imitated my accent. ‘Fair enough.’

‘At least you didn’t call me digger.’ I forked out a ten. ‘Let’s do some more drinking.’

Swan had told me that he had two people working in his bookstore: a young woman named Maggie Bolton who worked part-time, and one Roger Milton-Smith who acted as manager when Swan was doing other things. I’m a nasty, suspicious character, if someone in trouble tells me his only associate is his mother I’ll take a look at Mom.

According to Swan, Bolton would be in the shop that afternoon, Sunday being quiet, and she would knock off at 8 p.m. It was after six when we finished drinking and I told him I’d go back to my hotel for a shower and start work at eight.

‘Doing what?’ He drained his glass and the waiter came to take away his fourth bottle of Bud.

‘Following Bolton,’ I said.

I was staying in a cheap hotel on Sutter Street because I figured that all I needed was the room. I had a small transistor radio, I could watch the fights on the TV in the lounge and I’ve never minded walking a few metres to the bathroom. I had a big jug of Taylor’s burgundy for companionship and I felt I was nicely set up for the few days I intended to spend in San Francisco seeing the sights.

It was a comfortable bed too, and I spent longer on it than I intended, so I was late getting to O’Farrell Street. I located the bookstore. Almost immediately its lights went off and a slim, redheaded woman stepped out. She gave the door a slam and a shake and set off down the street.

I followed her down Stockton and Fourth to the SPT Company depot. She was young and fit and she walked fast, passing a big bargain basement bookstore without a glance. Her mind wasn’t on books. Innocently, I stood behind her while she bought a ticket to Burlingame and I did the same.

The train ride was all right, as train rides go in the dark. I wished I’d brought The Hotel New Hampshire with me from my room. Maggie Bolton read, or looked at, a fashion magazine with pictures of hollow-cheeked models on the back and front covers. She was pretty hollow-cheeked herself come to think of it, with a long, lean shape. She looked at the magazine as if she was making comparisons between the models and herself. Fair enough. I wondered why she hadn’t taken a bus, which would have given me more to look at, and I found out why in Burlingame.

We got off the train, went through the gate and Bolton waited while a north-bound train pulled in. A tall blonde woman in a stylish pants suit got down and trotted forward on high heels. She and Bolton embraced on the sidewalk. They kissed and hung on for a bit and then started to walk arm in arm north along Rawlins road, talking animatedly. They stopped at a corner market an...

Table of contents

• Cover
• About the Author
• The Cliff Hardy collection
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Dedication
• The Big Drop
• P.I. Blues
• The Arms of the Law
• Tearaway
• What Would You Do?
• The Mongol Scroll
• The Mae West Scam
• Rhythm Track
• The Big Pinch
• Maltese Falcon