It and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Page A

trying to find him. Porky didn’t know what he wants with him.”
    This Porky Grout was a dirty little rat who would sell out his family—if he ever had one—for the price of a flop. But with these lads who play both sides of the game it’s always a question of which side they’re playing when you think they’re playing yours.
    â€œThink Porky was coming clean?” I asked.
    â€œChances are—but you can’t gamble on him.”
    â€œIs Orrett acquainted here?”
    â€œDoesn’t seem to be. Knows where he wants to go but has to ask how to get there. Hasn’t spoken to anybody that seemed to know him.”
    â€œWhat’s he like?”
    â€œNot the kind of egg you’d want to tangle with offhand, if you ask me. He and Cudner would make a good pair. They don’t look alike. This egg is tall and slim, but he’s built right—those fast, smooth muscles. Face is sharp without being thin, if you get me. I mean all the lines in it are straight. No curves. Chin, nose, mouth, eyes—all straight, sharp lines and angles. Looks like the kind of egg we know Cudner is. Make a good pair. Dresses well and doesn’t look like a rowdy—but harder than hell! A big game hunter! Our meat, I bet you!”
    â€œIt doesn’t look bad,” I agreed. “He came to the hotel the morning of the day the men were killed, and checked out the next morning. He packs a rod, and changed his name after he left. And now he’s paired off with The Darkman. It doesn’t look bad at all!”
    â€œI’m telling you,” Dick said, “this fellow looks like three killings wouldn’t disturb his rest any. I wonder where Cudner fits in.”
    â€œI can’t guess. But, if he and Orrett haven’t connected yet, then Cudner wasn’t in on the murders; but he may give us the answer.”
    Then I jumped out of bed.
    â€œI’m going to gamble on Porky’s dope being on the level! How would you describe Cudner?”
    â€œYou know him better than I do.”
    â€œYes, but how would you describe him to me if I didn’t know him?”
    â€œA little fat guy with a red forked scar on his left cheek. What’s the idea?”
    â€œIt’s a good one,” I admitted. “That scar makes all the difference in the world. If he didn’t have it and you were to describe him you’d go into all the details of his appearance. But he has it, so you simply say, ‘A little fat guy with a red forked scar on his left cheek.’ It’s a ten to one that that’s just how he has been described to Orrett. I don’t look like Cudner, but I’m his size and build, and with a scar on my face Orrett will fall for me.”
    â€œWhat then?”
    â€œThere’s no telling; but I ought to be able to learn a lot if I can get Orrett talking to me as Cudner. It’s worth a try anyway.”
    â€œYou can’t get away with it—not in San Francisco. Cudner is too well known.”
    â€œWhat difference does that make, Dick? Orrett is the only one I want to fool. If he takes me for Cudner, well and good. If he doesn’t, still well and good. I won’t force myself on him.”
    â€œHow are you going to fake the scar?”
    â€œEasy! We have pictures of Cudner, showing the scar, in the criminal gallery. I’ll get some collodion—it’s sold in drug stores under several trade names for putting on cuts and scratches—color it, and imitate Cudner’s scar on my cheek. It dries with a shiny surface and, put on thick, will stand out just enough to look like an old scar.”
    It was a little after eleven the following night when Dick telephoned me that Orrett was in Pigatti’s place, on Pacific Street, and apparently settled there for some little while. My scar already painted on, I jumped into a taxi and within a few minutes was talking to Dick, around the corner from