RED HARVEST PLAYBOOK 1: THE CLEANSING OF POISONVILLE

RED HARVEST

Adapted by Kateule Sydney from the Original Work by Dashiell Hammett · Public domain (1929)

PLAYBOOK 1: THE CLEANSING OF POISONVILLE

Chapters 1–7

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: The Woman in Green and the Man in Gray
A stranger arrives in Personville and meets with a publisher's wife

Chapter 2: The Czar of Poisonville
A body is found and the detective meets Elihu Willsson

Chapter 3: Dinah Brand
The Op visits the woman who knows too much

Chapter 4: Hurricane Street
A raid, a warning, and a death

Chapter 5: Old Elihu Talks Sense
The Czar makes an offer

Chapter 6: Whisper's Joint
A visit to the gambling den

Chapter 7: That's Why I Sewed You Up
The Op begins his campaign

Chapter 1: The Woman in Green and the Man in Gray

I first heard Personville called Poisonville by a red-haired mucker named Hickey Dewey in the Big Ship in Butte. He also called his shirt a shoit. I didn't think anything of what he had done to the city's name. Later I heard men who could manage their r's give it the same pronunciation. I still didn't see anything in it but the meaningless sort of humor that used to make richardsnary the thieves' word for dictionary. A few years later I went to Personville and learned better.

Using one of the phones in the station, I called the Herald, asked for Donald Willsson, and told him I had arrived.

Donald Willsson (his voice pleasantly crisp): "Will you come out to my house at ten this evening? It's 2101 Mountain Boulevard. Take a Broadway car, get off at Laurel Avenue, and walk two blocks west."

I promised to do that. Then I rode up to the Great Western Hotel, dumped my bags, and went out to look at the city.

The city wasn't pretty. Most of its builders had gone in for gaudiness. Maybe they had been successful at first. Since then the smelters whose brick stacks stuck up tall against a gloomy mountain to the south had yellow-smoked everything into uniform dinginess. The result was an ugly city of forty thousand people, set in an ugly notch between two ugly mountains that had been all dirtied up by mining. Spread over this was a grimy sky that looked as if it had come out of the smelters' stacks.

The first policeman I saw needed a shave. The second had a couple of buttons off his shabby uniform. The third stood in the center of the city's main intersection—Broadway and Union Street—directing traffic, with a cigar in one corner of his mouth. After that I stopped checking them up.

At nine-thirty I caught a Broadway car and followed the directions Donald Willsson had given me. They brought me to a house set in a hedged grassplot on a corner.

The maid who opened the door told me Mr. Willsson was not home. While I was explaining that I had an appointment with him a slender blonde woman of something less than thirty in green crêpe came to the door. When she smiled her blue eyes didn't lose their stoniness. I repeated my explanation to her.

Mrs. Willsson (with a barely noticeable accent slurring her s's): "My husband isn't in now. But if he's expecting you he'll probably be home shortly."

She took me upstairs to a room on the Laurel Avenue side of the house, a brown and red room with a lot of books in it. We sat in leather chairs, half facing each other, half facing a burning coal grate, and she set about learning my business with her husband.

Mrs. Willsson: "Do you live in Personville?"

Op: "No. San Francisco."

Mrs. Willsson: "But this isn't your first visit?"

Op: "Yes."

Mrs. Willsson: "Really? How do you like our city?"

Op: "I haven't seen enough of it to know. I got in only this afternoon."

That was a lie. I had. Her shiny eyes stopped prying while she said:

Mrs. Willsson: "You'll find it a dreary place. I suppose all mining towns are like this. Are you engaged in mining?"

Op: "Not just now."

She looked at the clock on the mantel and said:

Mrs. Willsson: "It's inconsiderate of Donald to bring you out here and then keep you waiting, at this time of night, long after business hours."

Op: "That's all right."

Mrs. Willsson: "Though perhaps it isn't a business matter."

I didn't say anything. She laughed—a short laugh with something sharp in it.

Mrs. Willsson (gaily): "I'm really not ordinarily so much of a busybody as you probably think. But you're so excessively secretive that I can't help being curious. You aren't a bootlegger, are you? Donald changes them so often."

I let her get whatever she could out of a grin.

A telephone bell rang downstairs. Mrs. Willsson stretched her green-slippered feet out toward the burning coal and pretended she hadn't heard the bell. I didn't know why she thought that necessary.

She began: "I'm afraid I'll ha—" and stopped to look at the maid in the doorway.

The maid said Mrs. Willsson was wanted at the phone. She excused herself and followed the maid out. She didn't go downstairs, but spoke over an extension within earshot.

I heard:

Mrs. Willsson: "Mrs. Willsson speaking.... Yes.... I beg your pardon? ... Who?... Can't you speak a little louder?... What?... Yes.... Yes.... Who is this?... Hello! Hello!"

The telephone hook rattled. Her steps sounded down the hallway—rapid steps.

I set fire to a cigarette and stared at it until I heard her going down the steps. Then I went to a window, lifted an edge of the blind, and looked out at Laurel Avenue, and at the square white garage that stood in the rear of the house on that side.

Presently a slender woman in dark coat and hat came into sight hurrying from house to garage. It was Mrs. Willsson. She drove away in a Buick coupé. I went back to my chair and waited.

Three-quarters of an hour went by. At five minutes after eleven, automobile brakes screeched outside. Two minutes later Mrs. Willsson came into the room. She had taken off hat and coat. Her face was white, her eyes almost black.

Mrs. Willsson (her tight-lipped mouth moving jerkily): "I'm awfully sorry, but you've had all this waiting for nothing. My husband won't be home tonight."

Op: "I'll get in touch with him at the Herald in the morning."

I went away wondering why the green toe of her left slipper was dark and damp with something that could have been blood.

I walked over to Broadway and caught a street car. Three blocks north of my hotel I got off to see what the crowd was doing around a side entrance of the City Hall.

Thirty or forty men and a sprinkling of women stood on the sidewalk looking at a door marked Police Department. There were men from mines and smelters still in their working clothes, gaudy boys from pool rooms and dance halls, sleek men with slick pale faces, men with the dull look of respectable husbands, a few just as respectable and dull women, and some ladies of the night.

On the edge of this congregation I stopped beside a square-set man in rumpled gray clothes. His face was grayish too, even the thick lips, though he wasn't much older than thirty. His face was broad, thick-featured and intelligent. For color he depended on a red Windsor tie that blossomed over his gray flannel shirt.

Op: "What's the rumpus?"

He looked at me carefully before he replied, as if he wanted to be sure that the information was going into safe hands. His eyes were gray as his clothes, but not so soft.

Man in Gray: "Don Willsson's gone to sit on the right hand of God, if God don't mind looking at bullet-holes."

Op: "What happened?"

Man in Gray: "Somebody bumped him off. They found him in the street by the High Line a while ago. Filled him full of holes."

I said: "That's tough."

Man in Gray: "It's more than tough. It's a lot of grief for those that don't like to see a good man die with his boots on. And it's a headache for those that do."

His eyes poked at me as if I had something to do with the murder. I grinned and shook my head. He grinned back, showing white strong teeth under a thick sandy mustache.

Man in Gray: "Stranger in town?"

Op: "I came in this afternoon."

Man in Gray: "And already you're a witness. That shows you how things happen in this burg."

He nodded at the City Hall door and moved his head toward the crowd.

Man in Gray: "All the best people are there."

He went away, not bothering to glance back at me. I stood there for a few minutes, watching the crowd. Then I went back to my hotel and slept.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 2: The Czar of Poisonville

In the morning I learned that the murdered man was Donald Willsson. He was the son of the Elihu Willsson who owned the Personville Herald, most of the Personville mines, the Personville smelters, the Personville street-car lines, the Personville water-works, and a couple of minor Personville enterprises. Young Willsson had been the paper's managing editor for the past year or so.

At ten o'clock I went to the office of the Personville Herald and asked to see Elihu Willsson. The clerks and copy-boys I questioned looked at me with the kind of amazement they would have shown if I had asked to see God. But I was given a card on which I wrote my name, and that of the Continental Detective Agency.

I was taken up to the old man's office on the top floor. He was a heavyset man with a broad square face, a hard jaw, and steady blue eyes. He was in his late sixties, but he looked no more than fifty. His hair was thick and white, his skin was clear and healthy. He wore a dark blue suit that fitted his thick body perfectly.

He sat behind a flat-topped desk the size of a billiard table and looked at me with cold, steady eyes.

Elihu Willsson: "So you're the detective my son sent for. You're late."

Op: "I came as soon as I could. Your son is dead."

Elihu Willsson: "I know that. I'm not a fool, and I'm not interested in hearing you state the obvious. I want to know why he sent for you."

Op: "He didn't tell me. The message I got was to come to Personville and see him. That's all."

He studied me for a long minute. Then he said:

Elihu Willsson: "I know what he wanted. He wanted you to clean up this town. He thought he could do it with his newspaper, but he found out he couldn't. So he sent for you."

Op: "And what makes you think that?"

Elihu Willsson (leaning forward): "Because I know my son. He was a fool, but he was an honest fool. He thought he could reform Personville by publishing the truth about the corruption here. But the truth doesn't matter in this town. What matters is who has the power."

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a revolver. He laid it on the desk in front of him.

Elihu Willsson: "I'm the Czar of Poisonville. I own this town. And I want my town cleaned up."

Op: "What's in it for me?"

Elihu Willsson: "I'll pay you ten thousand dollars. And I'll give you whatever help you need."

Op: "And if I don't want the job?"

Elihu Willsson: "Then you'll leave Personville and never come back. But I don't think that's what you want."

I looked at the revolver, then at his cold blue eyes.

Op: "I'll take the job."

Elihu Willsson: "Good. You'll need this."

He pushed the revolver across the desk toward me. I picked it up. It was a heavy .45, fully loaded.

Elihu Willsson: "You'll need more than that. You'll need to be smarter than everyone else in this town. And you'll need to be willing to do whatever it takes."

Op: "I understand."

Elihu Willsson: "Then get to work. I want results, and I want them fast."

I left the office with the revolver in my pocket and a new job on my hands. I was going to clean up Poisonville. The question was whether I could do it without getting myself killed.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 3: Dinah Brand

I had been in Personville for two days, and I had already learned that the city was run by two men: Elihu Willsson and a gangster named Max Thaler. The police were corrupt, the politicians were bought, and the whole town was a cesspool of vice and violence.

I needed information, and I knew exactly where to get it. Dinah Brand was a woman who knew everything that happened in Personville. She was a professional—a high-class madam who ran a house on Hurricane Street. She had been the mistress of Max Thaler, and she had information on everyone in town.

I went to her house that evening. It was a large Victorian building with a red light in the window. The door was opened by a tall woman with dark hair and a knowing smile.

Dinah Brand (her voice husky): "Well, well. A stranger. And a handsome one at that."

Op: "I'm looking for information."

Dinah: "Information costs money, honey. And I don't give credit."

I pulled out a roll of bills and showed it to her. Her eyes lit up.

Dinah: "Come in. Let's talk."

She led me into a parlor decorated in red and gold. She sat down on a velvet sofa and crossed her legs.

Dinah: "So what do you want to know?"

Op: "I want to know who killed Donald Willsson."

Her smile faded. She lit a cigarette and studied me through the smoke.

Dinah: "That's a dangerous question to be asking, stranger. A lot of people would like to know the answer to that. And a lot of people would like to keep it secret."

Op: "I'm not afraid of danger."

She laughed—a throaty, knowing laugh.

Dinah: "I like you. You've got guts. But I don't know who killed Donald Willsson. And if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

Op: "Why not?"

Dinah: "Because knowing things is power. And I don't give away my power for free."

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her eyes gleaming.

Dinah: "But I can tell you this: Donald Willsson was killed because he was trying to clean up this town. And there are a lot of people in this town who don't want it cleaned up."

Op: "Like who?"

Dinah: "Like Max Thaler. Like the police chief. Like half the politicians in City Hall. Like his own father."

I felt a chill run down my spine. I had suspected that Elihu Willsson was involved, but hearing it confirmed was different.

Op: "You're saying his own father killed him?"

Dinah: "I'm not saying anything. I'm just telling you what people are whispering."

She stood up and walked to the door.

Dinah: "I've told you enough, stranger. Now it's time for you to go."

I walked out into the night, my mind churning. I had come to Personville to help Donald Willsson. Now he was dead, and I was working for his father—a man who might have killed him.

The web was getting more tangled by the minute.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 4: Hurricane Street

The next day, I went to Hurricane Street to see what I could learn about the underworld. It was a dirty street lined with cheap hotels, saloons, and gambling dens. The sidewalks were crowded with men in working clothes and women in cheap finery.

I stopped at a saloon called The Last Chance and ordered a drink. The bartender was a fat man with a sweaty face and small, cunning eyes.

Bartender (his voice suspicious): "You're new around here."

Op: "Just passing through."

Bartender: "What's your business?"

Op: "Looking for work."

He studied me for a long moment. Then he said:

Bartender: "There's no work on Hurricane Street unless you know someone. Who sent you?"

I heard a noise behind me and turned. A man had entered the saloon, a man with a face like a bulldog and a gun in his hand.

Bulldog Man (his voice hard): "You're in the wrong place, stranger. The Last Chance is a private club."

Op: "I'm just having a drink."

Bulldog Man: "Then you can have it somewhere else. Get out."

I put my hands on the bar and smiled at him.

Op: "I'll leave when I'm finished."

He raised his gun, but before he could fire, I moved. I grabbed his wrist and twisted, forcing the gun from his hand. It clattered to the floor. I stepped on it and brought my fist up into his jaw.

He went down like a sack of potatoes. The bartender was frozen behind the bar, his eyes wide with fear.

Op (picking up the gun): "Tell your boss that the Op is in town. And I'm not leaving until I get what I came for."

I walked out of the saloon, leaving the bartender and the bulldog man behind. I had made a statement. The question was whether it would bring me closer to the truth or get me killed.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 5: Old Elihu Talks Sense

Elihu Willsson sent for me the next morning. When I arrived at his office, he was pacing behind his desk, his face red with anger.

Elihu Willsson (his voice sharp): "What the hell do you think you're doing? I'm trying to run a respectable business here, and you're causing trouble on Hurricane Street!"

Op: "I'm doing my job. I'm trying to find out who killed your son."

Elihu Willsson: "That's not what I hired you for."

I stared at him. His face was flushed, his hands clenched at his sides.

Op: "Then what did you hire me for?"

Elihu Willsson: "I hired you to clean up this town. Not to investigate my son's murder."

Op: "They're the same thing. Your son was killed because he was trying to clean up this town. If I find out who killed him, I'll find out who's running this town."

He stopped pacing and looked at me with cold, calculating eyes.

Elihu Willsson: "You're smart. That's good. But you're also dangerous. I don't know if I can trust you."

Op: "You can trust me to do my job. That's all."

He sat down behind his desk and took a long drag on his cigar.

Elihu Willsson: "I'll tell you something, and I want you to listen carefully. I didn't kill my son. I loved him. He was a fool, but I loved him."

I believed him. For the first time since I'd met him, I believed him.

Elihu Willsson: "I know who killed him. It was Max Thaler. Thaler found out that Donald was trying to expose him, and he had him killed."

Op: "And what are you going to do about it?"

Elihu Willsson: "Nothing. Thaler is too powerful. He has the police, the politicians, and half the underworld in his pocket. If I move against him, he'll kill me."

Op: "Then why did you hire me?"

Elihu Willsson: "Because you're an outsider. You don't belong to any faction. You can do what I can't—move freely, ask questions, and get results."

I nodded slowly. It made sense. He was using me as a weapon, and I was happy to be used.

Elihu Willsson: "But I want you to be careful. Thaler has a network of informants all over this town. If he finds out what you're doing, he'll kill you."

Op: "I can take care of myself."

He laughed, a harsh sound without humor.

Elihu Willsson: "I'm sure you think so. But you haven't met Max Thaler. He's not just a gangster. He's a monster."

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 6: Whisper's Joint

That night, I went to Whisper's Joint. It was a gambling den on Hurricane Street, run by a man named Whisper who had a voice so soft you had to lean in to hear him. The place was filled with smoke, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of conversation.

I sat down at a table and ordered a drink. The waitress was a thin blonde with tired eyes. She brought me my whiskey and lingered for a moment.

Waitress (her voice low): "You're the new guy. The one who's been asking questions."

Op: "That's right."

Waitress: "You should be careful. There are people here who don't like strangers asking questions."

She moved away before I could respond. I looked around the room, trying to spot anyone who might be watching me. There were a few men at the bar who fit the description, but I couldn't be sure.

A man sat down at my table. He was thin, with a narrow face and sharp eyes. His voice was barely a whisper.

Whisper: "I'm Whisper. I run this place."

Op: "I've heard of you."

Whisper: "I've heard of you too. You're working for Elihu Willsson."

I didn't deny it. There was no point.

Whisper: "I don't care who you work for. I don't care what you do in this town, as long as you don't do it in my place. But I've got a message for you, from Max Thaler."

Op: "What is it?"

Whisper: "He says you're in over your head. He says you should leave town while you still can."

Op: "Tell Thaler I'll leave when I'm done."

Whisper smiled, a thin, humorless smile.

Whisper: "I thought you'd say that. So I've got another message for you. This one's from me."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the table to me.

Whisper: "This is a list of names. People who work for Thaler. People who know things. Use it wisely."

He stood up and walked away before I could ask him why he was helping me. I unfolded the paper and looked at the names. There were a dozen of them, including the chief of police and several city councilmen.

I had my leads. Now I just had to survive long enough to follow them.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 7: That's Why I Sewed You Up

The next morning, I was sitting in my hotel room when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find a man I recognized from Whisper's list—a small, wiry man named Pete the Finn.

Pete (his voice quick): "You're the Op? The one asking questions?"

Op: "That's right."

Pete: "I've got information for you. But it'll cost you."

I pulled out a roll of bills and peeled off several. He took them eagerly and pocketed them.

Pete: "Thaler didn't kill Willsson. It was the police chief. Thaler ordered it, but the chief pulled the trigger."

Op: "Why are you telling me this?"

Pete: "Because I want out. I want to leave this town and never come back. And the only way I can do that is if Thaler is gone."

He handed me another piece of paper, this one with a list of names—Thaler's top lieutenants, his connections in the police department, and the location of his main hideout.

Pete: "That's everything I know. Now you owe me."

Op: "Owe you what?"

Pete: "When you go after Thaler, make sure he knows it was me who gave you the information."

Before I could respond, he turned and ran down the hallway. I watched him disappear, then looked at the papers in my hand.

I had the information I needed. Now I had to put it to use.

I started making calls, setting up meetings, and planting seeds of distrust among Thaler's men. It was a slow process, but it was working. I could feel the city beginning to change, like a wound starting to heal.

But I knew it was only a matter of time before Thaler found out what I was doing. And when he did, he would come for me.

"That's why I sewed you up," I said to myself, thinking of the chaos I was about to unleash. "That's why I came to Poisonville. To start a war."

And it was a war I intended to win.

✦ ✦ ✦

End of Playbook 1

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Adapted from the Original Work by Dashiell Hammett

Public domain (1929) · This adaptation follows the playbook series format