A boy selling newspapers came in off the street. Hammett gave him a dime and took a newspaper, which was cold to the touch.
“Budapest Surrenders!” the headline proclaimed.
A small article said the previous night’s temperature had reached twenty-eight below zero, the coldest of the winter. In the lower right-hand corner of the front page was a table headed “Road to Berlin.” It showed that allied troops were 32 miles away at Zellin on the eastern front, 304 miles away at Kleve on the western front, and 504 miles away at the Reno River on the Italian front.
The hard-faced woman put a plate of pancakes and eggs in front of Hammett. As he ate them, he read that the Ice Carnival had donated $1,100 in proceeds to the Infantile Paralysis Fund, the Pribilof Five — two guitars, a banjo, an accordion, and a fiddle — had played at the USO log cabin, and Jimmy Foxx had re-signed with the Phillies. He finished his meal, put a 50-cent piece next to his plate, and stood up.
“Where do you think you are, mister?” the hard-faced woman said. “Seattle? That’ll be one dollar.”
“Whew!” the one-armed man said.
Hammett dug out a dollar, handed it to the woman, and left the 50-cent piece on the counter.
“Wait’ll you have a drink,” he said to the one-armed man.
Hammett walked across the lobby to the hotel desk and asked the clerk for the telephone. He consulted the slim telephone book, dialed, identified himself, and waited.
“Oscar,” he said. “Sam Hammett. Has the doctor looked at that corpse from last night? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Was I right about him? I see. You found out his name yet and where he was assigned? A sergeant? That kid was a sergeant? What’s this man’s army coming to? And he was in supply? Nope, I don’t know anybody over there. But if you want, I can have a word with General Johnson. Okay. How about the Carolina Moon? Can Zulu open up again? Come on, Oscar. Be reasonable. They didn’t have anything to do with the killing. All right then. I guess we’d better hope you find the killer soon. See you. Oscar. ‘Bye.”
Hammett returned to his room, put on his overcoat, and went out of the hotel. The air was warmer than it had been the night before, but not warm. He walked several blocks along the street, moving slowly over the hard-packed snow. He passed mostly one- or two-story wooden buildings, many of them hotels, bars, or cafés. He counted seven buildings under construction. A few automobiles of prewar vintage passed him, along with several Jeeps and a new, olive-drab staff car. He passed many people on foot, most of them men in work clothes or uniforms. When his cheeks began to get numb, he turned left, then left again, and walked back toward the hotel. A couple of blocks short of his destination, he turned left again, crossed the street, and went into a small shop with BOOK CACHE painted on its window. He browsed among the tables of books, picked one up, and walked to the counter.
“Whatya got there?” the woman behind the counter asked. Her hair was nearly as gray as Hammett’s. “Theoretical Principles of Marxism by V. I. Lenin.” She smiled. “That sounds like a thriller. Buy or rent?”
“Rent,” Hammett said.
“Probably won’t get much call for this,” the woman said. “How about ten cents for a week?”
“Better make it two weeks,” Hammett said, handing her a quarter. “This isn’t easy reading.”
The woman wrote the book’s title, Hammett’s name and barracks number, and the rental period down in a register, gave him a nickel back, and smiled again.
“Aren’t you a little old to be a soldier?” she asked.
“I was twenty-one when I enlisted,” he said, grinning. “War ages a man.”
When it came time to turn for his hotel, Hammett walked on. Two blocks later he was at a small wooden building with a sign over the door that read MILITARY POLICE.
“I’m looking for the duty officer,” he told the MP on the desk. A young lieutenant came out of an office in the back.
“Sam Hammett of General Johnson’s staff,” Hammett said. “I’m working on a piece for Army Up North about military policing, and I need some information.”
“Don’t you salute officers on General Johnson’s staff?” the lieutenant snapped.
“Not when we’re off duty and out of uniform, sir,” Hammett said. “As I’m certain they taught you in OCS, sir.”
The two men looked at one another for a minute, then the lieutenant blinked and said, “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“I need some information on staffing levels, sir,” Hammett said. “For instance, how many men did you have on duty here in Anchorage last night, sir?”
Each successive “sir” seemed to make the lieutenant more at ease.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “But if you’d like to step back into the office, we can look at the duty roster.”
Hammett looked at the roster. Tobin’s name wasn’t on it. He took a notebook out of his coat pocket and wrote in it.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Now I’ll need your name and hometown. For the article.”
Back at the hotel, Hammett removed his coat and boots. He poured some whiskey into the glass, filled it with water, lay down on the bed, and began writing a letter.
“Dear Lillian,” it began. “I am back in Anchorage and have probably seen the end of my posting to the Aleutians.”
When he’d finished the letter, he made himself another drink and picked up his book. Within five minutes he was snoring.
He dreamed he was working for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency again, paired with a big Irish kid named Michael Carey on the Fatty Arbuckle case. He dreamed he was at the Stork Club, arguing with Hemingway about the Spanish Civil War. He dreamed he was in a watering hole on Lombard with an older Carey, who pointed out red-haired Billy Tobin and said something Hammett couldn’t make out. He dreamed he was locked in his room on Post Street, drinking and writing The Big Knockover. His wife, Josie, was pounding on the door, asking for more money for herself and his daughters.
“Hey mister, wake up.” It was the desk clerk’s voice. He pounded on the door again. “Wake up, mister.”
“What do you want?” Hammett called.
“You got a visitor downstairs. A shine.”
Hammett got up from the bed and pulled the door open.
“Go get my visitor and bring him up,” he said.
The desk clerk returned with the black man right behind him.
“Clarence, this is the desk clerk,” Hammett said. “What’s your name?”
“Joe,” the desk clerk said.
“Joe,” Hammett said, “this is Clarence ‘Big Stick’ LeBeau. Until the war came along, he played third base for the Birmingham Black Barons of the Negro league. Hit thirty home runs or more in seven — it was seven, wasn’t it, Clarence? — straight seasons. If it weren’t for the color line, he’d have been playing for the Yankees. Not bad for a shine, huh?”
“I didn’t mean nothing by that, mister,” the desk clerk said. “You neither, Clarence.” His eyes darted this way and that. “I got to get back to the desk,” he said, and scurried off.
“Welcome to my castle,” Hammett said, stepping aside to let the black man in. “What brings you here?”
“I’ve got to get started to Florida for spring training,” the black man said. “The things you come up with. I didn’t know white folk knew anything about the Birmingham Black Barons. And why do you keep calling me Clarence?”
“It suits you better than Don Miller,” Hammett said. “And it keeps everybody guessing. Confusion to the enemy.”
“You been drinking?” Miller said.
“A little,” Hammett said. “You want a nip?” Miller shook his head. “But I’ve been sleeping more. The old need their sleep. What brings you here?”
“I was at the magazine office working on the illustrations for that frostbite article when I was called into the presence of Major General Davenport Johnson himself. He said you’d promised to go to a party tonight at some banker’s house, and since he knew what an irresponsible s.o.b. you were — those were his words — he was ordering me to make sure you got there. Party starts in half an hour, so you’d better get cleaned up.”