Hammett

Начало книги

Samuel Dashiell Hammett guided Goodie Osborne out of Loew’s ornate Warfield through the jostling midweek crowds.

‘Oh, Sam!’ she exclaimed. ‘I just love Billy Dove!’ She had watched the whole of Yellow Lily enthusiastically, her baby-blue eyes even wider than usual.

Hammett grinned. He wore a maroon worsted Shaker coat over a wool shirt, an ideal outfit for the chilly San Francisco May evening. ‘You hungry?’

‘I’m always hungry.’

She tucked her arm in his. They made quite a pair: Hammett a lean six feet two, Goodie a petite blonde who came just to his shoulder. They crossed the foot of Powell Street, past gripmen and passengers heaving one of the rattly little cable cars around on the turntable for its next trip up Nob Hill.

Hammett’s thoughts were a long way from food. He was thinking about a one-time carnival showman named Felix Weber and his run-down rooming house. Weber was the trouble, all right. Weber and his damned Primrose Hotel.

Читать дальше →