THE MALTESE FALCON PLAYBOOK 1: THE MAN IN THE GRAY OVERCOAT

THE MALTESE FALCON

PLAYBOOK 1: THE MAN IN THE GRAY OVERCOAT

Adapted by Kateule Sydney from the Original Work by Dashiell Hammett · Public domain (1930)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: The Falcon's Shadow

A mysterious client arrives with a desperate plea

Chapter 2: Miss Wonderly's Tale

The detective agrees to take the case

Chapter 3: The Apartment on Post Street

Death in the early morning hours

Chapter 4: The District Attorney's Office

Interrogation and hidden truths

Chapter 5: The Fat Man's Summons

A dangerous proposition from the mysterious Mr. Gutman

Chapter 6: The Cairo Affair

A second player enters the deadly game

Chapter 7: The Falcon Revealed

The secret at the heart of the mystery

Chapter 1: The Falcon's Shadow

Samuel Spade's jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller, v. His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. The v motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down—from high flat temples—in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.

He said to the girl in the green dress who sat in the chair opposite his desk: "Now, Miss Wonderly, suppose you tell me the whole story again, from the beginning."

Miss Wonderly (in a voice that trembled slightly): "But I've already told you, Mr. Spade. My sister—my younger sister—has run off with a man named Floyd Thursby. I've come all the way from New York to find her."

Spade leaned back in his chair, a hand moving a little on the desk, fingers pushing a green blotting-pad into a new position. The girl was tall and slim, with a face that was lovely under the powder and rouge, and eyes that were dark and frightened. She wore a dark green dress that hugged her figure, and a small hat with a veil that she had pushed back.

Spade (his voice calm, unimpressed): "And what makes you think she's in San Francisco?"

Miss Wonderly (leaning forward, her hands clasped tightly): "I received a letter from her, postmarked San Francisco. It was brief—frightened, Mr. Spade. She said she was in trouble and needed help. She mentioned this man Thursby, but she said she was afraid of him."

Spade's eyes studied her with a kind of cold amusement. He had been a detective for many years, and he had learned to read people. This girl was hiding something—he could feel it in the way she spoke, in the careful precision of her words.

Spade: "You have the letter with you?"

Miss Wonderly (reaching into her purse): "Yes, I have it here. But it doesn't say much—just that she's staying at the St. Mark Hotel, and that I should come quickly."

She handed him a cream-colored envelope, and Spade withdrew the letter inside. It was written in a feminine hand, the ink smudged in places as if the writer had been crying.

"Dearest Corinne,
I am in San Francisco, at the St. Mark Hotel. I am frightened and I need you. The man I came with—Floyd Thursby—is not what he seemed. Please come quickly. I dare not say more in a letter. All my love,
Catherine."

Spade read the letter twice, then placed it on his desk. He was silent for a long moment, studying the girl across from him.

Spade: "This letter was mailed five days ago. Why did you wait so long to come to me?"

Miss Wonderly (her voice catching): "I came as soon as I could. I had to make arrangements, and I didn't know who to trust. Then I was recommended to you by a friend—a lawyer in New York, Mr. Lewis."

Spade nodded slowly. The name meant nothing to him, but that was not unusual. People often came recommended by people he had never heard of.

Spade: "And what is it you want me to do, Miss Wonderly?"

Miss Wonderly (her eyes meeting his, pleading): "I want you to find my sister. I want you to bring her back to me, away from that man Thursby. I'll pay you—I have money. Five thousand dollars—I can give you five thousand dollars."

The sum was large—too large for a simple missing persons case. Spade's eyes narrowed slightly, his instincts telling him that there was more to this than a runaway sister. But he didn't press. Not yet.

Spade (leaning forward): "Five thousand dollars is a lot of money, Miss Wonderly. Are you sure the job is worth that much?"

Miss Wonderly (her voice firming): "My sister is worth more than that to me, Mr. Spade. She's all I have left in the world."

Spade studied her for a long moment. Her story was plausible enough, but there was something about her eyes—something that didn't quite match the frightened sister she was playing. He had been in this business long enough to know when he was being played.

Spade: "I'll take the case. But I want you to understand, Miss Wonderly, that in this business, we don't always find what we're looking for. And sometimes we find things we'd rather not see."

Miss Wonderly (smiling—a small, nervous smile): "I understand, Mr. Spade. I trust you."

She rose from her chair, smoothing down her dress. Spade stood as well, walking around the desk to open the door for her. She paused at the threshold, looking back at him.

Miss Wonderly: "You'll start right away?"

Spade: "First thing in the morning. I'll go to the St. Mark Hotel and see what I can learn."

Miss Wonderly (her hand on the doorframe): "Thank you, Mr. Spade. I'll be at the Alexandria—Room 1426. Please call me as soon as you learn anything."

She left, and Spade closed the door behind her. He stood for a moment, listening to her footsteps fading down the hallway. Then he went back to his desk, sat down, and lit a cigarette.

His partner, Miles Archer, came in from the outer office, a broad-shouldered man with a cheerful grin and a cigar in his mouth.

Archer (grinning): "Well, well. Who was the dame?"

Spade (blowing smoke toward the ceiling): "Client. Missing sister. Five thousand dollars."

Archer (whistling): "Five thousand! That's a rich one. What's the dope?"

Spade (shaking his head): "I don't know yet. She's not telling the whole story. But I'll find out what I can tomorrow."

Archer (sitting on the corner of the desk): "You want me to take a look around?"

Spade: "No, I'll handle it. You stay here and mind the office."

Archer shrugged and left the room, whistling a tune. Spade sat alone in his office, staring at the envelope on his desk, the letter inside a mystery he couldn't quite solve.

He had the feeling—that familiar, prickling feeling at the back of his neck—that this case was going to be trouble. Big trouble. The kind of trouble that got men killed.

And he was right.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 2: Miss Wonderly's Tale

The next morning, Spade arrived at the St. Mark Hotel shortly before ten o'clock. It was a large, modern building on Geary Street, the kind of place that catered to traveling businessmen and tourists. Spade went to the front desk and spoke to the clerk, a thin man with a face like a weasel.

Spade (showing his identification): "I'm looking for a woman named Catherine Wonderly. She was registered here about a week ago."

Clerk (checking the register): "Yes, I remember her. Pretty girl—young, dark-haired. She checked out three days ago."

Spade: "She left alone?"

Clerk (hesitating): "Well, now that you mention it, she left with a man—a large man, heavy-set, with a red face. He'd been coming to see her every day since she arrived."

Spade: "Did you catch his name?"

Clerk: "He never registered. Just came to see her. But I heard her call him Floyd once. Floyd Thursby."

Spade thanked the clerk and left the hotel. So Thursby had been here, and had taken the sister away. But where? He needed more information, and he knew just where to get it.

He went to the Alexandria Hotel, where Miss Wonderly was staying, and called her room. A sleepy voice answered.

Spade: "Miss Wonderly? It's Sam Spade. I've been to the St. Mark. Your sister checked out three days ago with Floyd Thursby."

Miss Wonderly (her voice sharpening): "Three days ago? Where did they go?"

Spade: "I don't know yet. But I've got a lead. I'd like to come up and talk to you—there are some things I need to ask."

Miss Wonderly (after a pause): "Yes, of course. Come up—I'll be ready in a few minutes."

Spade went up to the fourteenth floor and knocked on the door of Room 1426. The door opened, and Miss Wonderly stood before him, dressed in a silk robe, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed as if she had been crying.

Miss Wonderly (stepping aside): "Come in, Mr. Spade. I'm sorry I'm not properly dressed. I couldn't sleep last night."

Spade entered the room. It was a comfortable suite, with a sitting area and a bedroom beyond. The curtains were drawn, and the room had the stale smell of someone who had been indoors too long.

Spade: "You didn't tell me everything yesterday, Miss Wonderly. I need to know more about Thursby. What kind of man is he? What does he do?"

Miss Wonderly (sitting on the edge of the sofa): "He's—he's a gambler, I think. Catherine met him in New York. He was very charming, very handsome. She fell for him."

Spade: "And what did he do for a living? How did he support himself?"

Miss Wonderly (looking away): "I don't know. I never met him. Catherine wrote to me about him, but she never said what he did. I assumed he had some kind of business."

Spade studied her. She was lying—he could see it in the way her fingers twisted in the robe, the way she wouldn't meet his eyes.

Spade (his voice flat): "Miss Wonderly, I can't help you if you don't tell me the truth. You know more about Thursby than you're letting on. And there's something else—something you haven't told me about why you're really here."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frightened. For a moment, he thought she might break down and tell him everything. But then she composed herself, and when she spoke, her voice was steady.

Miss Wonderly: "I told you the truth, Mr. Spade. I'm worried about my sister. I want her found. Everything else is... is between me and my family."

Spade: "Very well. But I'll need your address in New York, and your family's contact information. I may need to make some calls."

She gave him an address—a hotel in New York—and a telephone number. Spade wrote them down, then rose to leave.

Miss Wonderly (following him to the door): "You'll call me when you find something?"

Spade: "As soon as I know anything."

He left her standing in the doorway, looking after him with an expression that was part fear and part something else—something he couldn't quite identify.

As he walked down the hallway, he felt the weight of the case pressing down on him. There was more to this than a runaway sister. Much more. And he had the sinking feeling that he was only beginning to uncover the truth.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 3: The Apartment on Post Street

It was two in the morning when the telephone rang. Spade had been asleep for three hours, and he groped for the phone in the dark, knocking over a glass of water that had been on the nightstand.

Spade (his voice thick with sleep): "Spade speaking."

Voice on the phone (urgent, barely controlled): "Mr. Spade? This is Sergeant Polhaus of the police department. I'm at your partner's apartment—Miles Archer's place on Post Street."

Spade was wide awake now. He sat up in bed, his hand tightening on the receiver.

Spade: "What's happened?"

Polhaus (his voice heavy): "He's dead, Mr. Spade. Shot. We found him in the apartment about an hour ago."

Spade didn't speak for a moment. The news hit him like a physical blow, and he felt his stomach tighten. Archer was dead. Miles Archer, his partner of three years, was dead.

Spade (his voice flat): "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

He dressed quickly, not bothering to shave, and drove across the city to Post Street. The apartment building was surrounded by police cars, and a patrolman stopped him at the door until he showed his identification.

Sergeant Polhaus met him in the hallway outside Archer's apartment. He was a large man, with a broad face and the kind of patient, weary expression that came from years of dealing with death.

Polhaus (nodding toward the door): "I'm sorry, Spade. I know he was your partner. But I have to ask—where were you between ten and midnight tonight?"

Spade: "I was at my apartment. Alone. Can I see him?"

Polhaus led him into the apartment. Archer was lying on the floor near the sofa, his arms spread wide, a bullet hole in his chest. His face was frozen in an expression of surprise, as if he had been shot before he even knew what was happening.

Spade stood over his partner's body for a long moment, his face expressionless.

Spade: "Who found him?"

Polhaus: "A neighbor heard the shot and called it in. We found the door unlocked."

Spade: "Any sign of a break-in? Robbery?"

Polhaus (shaking his head): "No. Everything seems to be in order. We found his wallet in his pocket, with money still in it."

Spade looked around the room. It was a typical bachelor's apartment, with a few pieces of comfortable furniture and some books on the shelf. There was nothing to indicate that a murder had taken place here—except for the body on the floor.

Spade: "Who was he seeing? Did he have any enemies?"

Polhaus (shrugging): "We're looking into that. But from what we can tell, he was just a private detective—he had his share of disgruntled clients, but nothing that would lead to this."

Spade's mind was racing. He thought of the girl in the green dress, and the story she had told about her sister and Floyd Thursby. Could there be a connection? And what had Archer been doing here, instead of at his own apartment?

Spade: "Was he working on anything? Any case?"

Polhaus: "We were hoping you could tell us that. You were his partner."

Spade shook his head. "He wasn't working on anything with me. But there might be something in his files—at the office."

Polhaus nodded, making a note. Then he asked the question Spade had been dreading.

Polhaus: "What about your client? The one who came to see you yesterday—Miss Wonderly? You said you met with her yesterday afternoon."

Spade: "What about her?"

Polhaus: "We'll need to talk to her. Do you have her address?"

Spade gave him the address of the Alexandria Hotel. He knew what they would think—that the client was involved, that she had something to do with Archer's death. And maybe they were right.

But something didn't fit. Something about the whole situation felt wrong, and Spade was determined to find out what it was.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 4: The District Attorney's Office

District Attorney Bryan was a large man, with a red face and a booming voice that filled his office like a foghorn. He sat behind a massive desk, his hands clasped in front of him, watching Spade with the wary interest of a man who had learned to trust no one.

Bryan (his voice sharp): "I'll be straight with you, Spade. Your partner is dead. Shot in his own apartment. We don't have a suspect yet, but we have some leads."

Spade: "I don't suppose you've found any witnesses."

Bryan: "No witnesses. But we do have a lead—a man named Floyd Thursby."

Spade's heart skipped a beat, though his face remained impassive. He had been expecting this.

Spade (calmly): "What about him?"

Bryan: "We've learned that Thursby was seen leaving Archer's apartment building around the time of the murder. We're looking for him now."

Spade nodded slowly. He had been afraid of something like this. Thursby was the key—he had to be. But what was the connection? Why would Thursby kill Archer?

Bryan (leaning forward): "And there's something else. We've traced Thursby to a hotel in San Francisco—the Alexandria. And guess who he was visiting there?"

Spade: "Miss Wonderly."

Bryan: "The same Miss Wonderly who hired you to find her sister. The same Miss Wonderly who was seen with Thursby the night of the murder."

Spade's jaw tightened. This was exactly what he had been dreading.

Spade: "What does she say about it?"

Bryan: "She says she doesn't know Thursby. She says she's never met him."

Spade let out a long, slow breath. So the girl was lying—or at least, she was hiding something. But was she lying about Thursby? And if so, why?

Spade: "Have you talked to her?"

Bryan: "We've sent some men to bring her in for questioning. But she's not at the hotel."

Spade (his voice sharpening): "What do you mean, she's not at the hotel?"

Bryan: "She checked out this morning. Left no forwarding address."

Spade felt a cold knot form in his stomach. The girl was running. That meant she was guilty—or at least, she knew something she shouldn't.

Bryan (studying him): "You know something about this, Spade. You were the last person to see her alive—aside from the killer, that is."

Spade: "I saw her yesterday afternoon. She hired me to find her sister. That's all."

Bryan (standing up, his voice rising): "That's all? A woman hires you to find her sister, and then your partner ends up dead, and the woman disappears? And you're telling me you have no idea what's going on?"

Spade (meeting his gaze, unflinching): "I'm not a mind reader, Bryan. I can only tell you what I know."

Bryan stared at him for a long moment, then sat back down. He was clearly frustrated, but he knew he didn't have enough to hold Spade.

Bryan: "I'm warning you, Spade. If you know something about this and you're not telling me, it's not going to go well for you."

Spade: "I understand."

He left the office, feeling the weight of the investigation pressing down on him. He had to find Miss Wonderly. He had to find out what she knew—and what she was hiding.

And he had to find the man who killed Miles Archer.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 5: The Fat Man's Summons

It was three days after Archer's murder when Spade received the telephone call. He had been sitting in his office, staring at the wall, trying to piece together the fragments of information he had gathered.

The voice on the phone was deep and rich, like a cello played in a small room.

Voice: "Mr. Spade? My name is Casper Gutman. I'd like to speak with you about a matter of some importance. Would you be available to meet with me this afternoon?"

Spade's ears pricked up. Gutman. The name was familiar—he had heard it before, in connection with some shady dealings on the East Coast. But he didn't know anyone named Casper Gutman in San Francisco.

Spade (carefully): "I'm not sure I know you, Mr. Gutman. What's this about?"

Gutman (his voice smooth as honey): "I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Spade. One that I think will interest you greatly. It concerns... a mutual acquaintance."

Spade: "Who?"

Gutman: "We'll discuss that when we meet. I'm at the Stockton Hotel, Room 512. Shall we say four o'clock?"

Spade hesitated. He didn't like the sound of this. Gutman was known to be a dangerous man—a man who had been involved in smuggling, fraud, and possibly murder. But the name had stirred something in him—a sense of connection to the case that had been haunting him.

Spade: "I'll be there."

He arrived at the Stockton Hotel at four o'clock on the dot. The hotel was a modest establishment in the Tenderloin district, the kind of place that attracted travelers who wanted to remain anonymous.

Room 512 was at the end of a long hallway. Spade knocked, and the door was opened by a young man with sharp eyes and a wolfish grin.

Young Man (stepping aside): "Mr. Spade? Please come in. Mr. Gutman is expecting you."

Spade entered the room. It was a small sitting room, sparsely furnished, with a window that overlooked a narrow alley. Casper Gutman sat in an armchair by the window, a glass of whisky in his hand.

He was a large man—enormous, really—with a round face and a bulbous nose that glowed with the flush of good living. He wore a dark suit that strained at the seams, and his hands were like small hams, the fingers thick and white.

Gutman (rising with surprising ease): "Mr. Spade! Welcome, welcome. Please, sit down. Have a drink?"

Spade (sitting in a chair across from him): "No, thank you. I'm here to talk."

Gutman (nodding, his voice warm and sincere): "Of course. I appreciate your coming so promptly. It speaks well of you."

The young man with the wolfish grin had taken up a position by the door, watching Spade with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

Gutman (following his gaze): "Ah, that's my associate, Mr. Wilmer. He's very loyal, very protective. But he can be a little... overzealous."

Spade: "I'm not here to cause trouble, Mr. Gutman. You said you had a business proposition for me."

Gutman (leaning forward, his eyes glinting): "Yes, indeed. I'm looking for something, Mr. Spade. Something of considerable value. And I believe you can help me find it."

Spade: "What is it?"

Gutman's smile broadened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black statue—a falcon, carved from some dark stone, its wings folded and its head tilted as if listening.

Gutman (holding it up): "You've seen this before, Mr. Spade?"

Spade stared at the falcon. It was a beautiful piece—exquisitely carved, with an aura of mystery about it. But it was also familiar. He had seen it before, in a photograph, in the papers—something about a missing treasure, a legendary artifact.

Spade (carefully): "It looks like a falcon."

Gutman (laughing): "Yes, yes—a falcon. But not just any falcon, Mr. Spade. This is the Maltese Falcon. A priceless treasure—a relic of the Crusades, worth more than you could possibly imagine."

Spade felt a chill run down his spine. The Maltese Falcon. He had heard the stories—a treasure of immense value, lost for centuries, sought by collectors and adventurers around the world.

Spade: "And what does this have to do with me?"

Gutman (his voice dropping): "Because I believe the falcon is in San Francisco. And I believe you know someone who can help me find it."

Spade: "Who?"

Gutman (staring at him steadily): "Brigid O'Shaughnessy."

The name hung in the air. Spade had never heard it before, but something about it resonated—as if he had been waiting to hear it, all along.

Spade (his voice flat): "Who's Brigid O'Shaughnessy?"

Gutman (smiling): "She's the woman you know as Miss Wonderly."

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 6: The Cairo Affair

Spade left the Stockton Hotel with his mind reeling. Miss Wonderly was Brigid O'Shaughnessy. She had lied to him—lied about everything. Her sister, her story, her reasons for being in San Francisco. And she was involved with the Maltese Falcon.

He needed to find her. But finding her meant finding the falcon—and that meant dealing with the people who were after it. Including Gutman, and the wolfish young man named Wilmer.

As he walked through the streets of the Tenderloin, he felt someone following him. A figure in a dark coat, keeping to the shadows, moving with the easy grace of a predator.

Spade turned down a narrow alley, his hand moving to the pistol in his coat pocket. He was ready for anything—or so he thought.

Voice (from behind him): "Mr. Spade? I'd like a word with you."

Spade turned. The man who faced him was tall and slender, with a dark complexion and piercing black eyes. He wore a tailored suit that spoke of wealth, and his smile was cold and calculating.

Spade (his voice wary): "Who are you?"

Stranger: "My name is Joel Cairo. I believe we have a mutual interest—the Maltese Falcon."

Spade's heart skipped a beat. Another player in the game—a man with an exotic name and the look of a dangerous man. Cairo spoke with an accent that betrayed his origins, and his eyes never left Spade's face.

Spade: "I don't know anything about any falcon."

Cairo (his smile widening): "Come now, Mr. Spade. We both know that's not true. You've been talking to Casper Gutman. And you've been talking to Brigid O'Shaughnessy."

Spade's eyes narrowed. This man knew too much. He knew about Gutman, and he knew about O'Shaughnessy. That meant he was either very well informed, or very dangerous.

Spade: "What do you want?"

Cairo (stepping closer): "I want the falcon. And I'm willing to pay for it—handsomely. More than Gutman is offering. More than O'Shaughnessy can afford."

Spade: "I told you, I don't have it."

Cairo (his voice dropping): "No, but you know where it is. And you know who has it. I want you to bring it to me. I'll pay you ten thousand dollars—cash."

Spade considered the offer. Ten thousand dollars was a lot of money. But he knew that dealing with Cairo was like dancing with a cobra—beautiful, but deadly.

Spade: "I'll think about it."

Cairo (producing a card): "Here's my number. Call me when you've made a decision. But don't take too long—I'm not a patient man."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the night. Spade stood in the alley, the card clutched in his hand, his mind racing.

He had stumbled into something much larger than he had anticipated—a web of intrigue and danger, with the Maltese Falcon at its center. And he knew that the only way to survive was to find the falcon first.

✦ ✦ ✦

Chapter 7: The Falcon Revealed

Spade found Brigid O'Shaughnessy at the apartment she had rented under another name. She opened the door to him, her eyes wide with fear.

O'Shaughnessy (her voice trembling): "Sam! I was so afraid—I thought you'd never come."

Spade (stepping inside): "What have you gotten yourself into, Brigid? What's this all about?"

She led him into the sitting room, where a small black falcon sat on the mantelpiece—the same falcon Gutman had shown him. But this one was different. This one was real.

O'Shaughnessy (her voice desperate): "It was supposed to be a simple job—I was supposed to find the falcon and deliver it to a buyer in Hong Kong. But then everything went wrong. Floyd was killed, and Miles Archer was killed, and now Gutman and Cairo are after me."

Spade: "Miles Archer was your doing?"

O'Shaughnessy (shaking her head, tears streaming down her face): "No! I swear it wasn't me. It was Floyd—he shot Archer. I didn't know what he was going to do. I tried to stop him, but it was too late."

Spade studied her face. She was telling the truth—or at least, a version of it. But he knew she was still hiding something.

Spade: "And where is Thursby now?"

O'Shaughnessy (her voice dropping): "He's dead. I killed him."

The admission hung in the air. Spade felt a mixture of shock and grudging admiration. She was capable of murder—that much was clear. But was she capable of the kind of cold-blooded calculation that had led to Archer's death?

Spade: "Why did you kill him?"

O'Shaughnessy: "He was going to kill me. He found out I had the falcon, and he wanted it for himself. I had no choice."

Spade looked at her for a long moment, then walked to the mantelpiece. He picked up the falcon, turning it over in his hands. It was heavy—much heavier than it looked—and it was covered in a black enamel that gleamed in the lamplight.

Spade: "And what do you plan to do with it now?"

O'Shaughnessy (her eyes pleading): "I want to sell it. I want to get out of this life, Sam. Go somewhere far away, where no one can find me. Will you help me?"

Spade stared at the falcon, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He had a choice to make—the right choice, or the easy one.

Spade (his voice hard): "I'll help you, Brigid. But first, I need to know everything. Everything about the falcon, everything about Gutman, everything about Cairo. No more lies."

She nodded, her eyes full of tears. And as she began to speak, Spade realized that he had made his choice—the choice that would set in motion a chain of events that would change everything.

The game was on.

✦ ✦ ✦

End of Playbook 1

Navigation

← Previous Playbook Next Playbook →

Playbook 1 | Playbook 2 | Playbook 3 | Playbook 4 | Playbook 5

Read the full series

YOU MIGHT ALSO WANT TO READ

THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES PLAYBOOK 1 · THE RETURN AND THE TRAGEDY

The first playbook in the adaptation of Agatha Christie's classic mystery

Read Now →

Adapted from the Original Work by Dashiell Hammett

Public domain (1930) · This adaptation follows the playbook series format