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nydus/Continental Op StoriesPublic

A collection of short stories about an unnamed agent of a detective agency in the early 1920s.

Page 1046 of 1257
Table of Contents

The Main Death

“Remember, I’ve told you nothing,” she reminded me as she followed me to the sitting-room door.

From the Gungen house I went direct to the Mars Hotel. Mickey Linehan was sitting behind a newspaper in a corner of the lobby.

“They in?” I asked him.

“Yep.”

“Let’s go up and see them.”

Mickey rattled his knuckles on door number 410. A metallic voice asked: “Who’s there?”

“Package,” Mickey replied in what was meant for a boy’s voice.

A slender man with a pointed chin opened the door. I gave him a card. He didn’t invite us into the room, but he didn’t try to keep us out when we walked in.

“You’re Weel?” I addressed him while Mickey closed the door behind us, and then, not waiting for him to say yes, I turned to the broad-faced man sitting on the bed. “And you’re Dahl?”

Weel spoke to Dahl, in a casual, metallic voice:

“A couple of gumshoes.”

The man on the bed looked at us and grinned.

I was in a hurry.

“I want the dough you took from Main,” I announced.

They sneered together, as if they had been practicing.

I brought out my gun.

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