The Big Knockover: Selected Stories and Short Novels Paperback – Jul 17 1989
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About the Author
Dashiell Samuel Hammett was born in St. Mary’s County. He grew up in Philadelphia and Baltimore. Hammett left school at the age of fourteen and held several kinds of jobs thereafter—messenger boy, newsboy, clerk, operator, and stevedore, finally becoming an operative for Pinkerton’s Detective Agency. Sleuthing suited young Hammett, but World War I intervened, interrupting his work and injuring his health. When Sergeant Hammett was discharged from the last of several hospitals, he resumed detective work. He soon turned to writing, and in the late 1920s Hammett became the unquestioned master of detective-story fiction in America. In The Maltese Falcon (1930) he first introduced his famous private eye, Sam Spade. The Thin Man (1932) offered another immortal sleuth, Nick Charles. Red Harvest (1929), The Dain Curse (1929), and The Glass Key (1931) are among his most successful novels. During World War II, Hammett again served as sergeant in the Army, this time for more than two years, most of which he spent in the Aleutians. Hammett’s later life was marked in part by ill health, alcoholism, a period of imprisonment related to his alleged membership in the Communist Party, and by his long-time companion, the author Lillian Hellman, with whom he had a very volatile relationship. His attempt at autobiographical fiction survives in the story “Tulip,” which is contained in the posthumous collection The Big Knockover (1966, edited by Lillian Hellman). Another volume of his stories, The Continental Op (1974, edited by Stephen Marcus), introduced the final Hammett character: the “Op,” a nameless detective (or “operative”) who displays little of his personality, making him a classic tough guy in the hard-boiled mold—a bit like Hammett himself.
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1 THE GUTTING OF COUFFIGNAL Wedge-shaped Couffignal is not a large island, and not far from the mainland, to which it is linked by a wooden bridge. Its western shore is a high, straight cliff that jumps abruptly up out of San Pablo Bay. From the top of this cliff the island slopes eastward, down to a smooth pebble beach that runs into the water again, where there are piers and a clubhouse and moored pleasure boats. Couffignal's main street, paralleling the beach, has the usual bank, hotel, moving-picture theater, and stores. But it differs from most main streets of its size in that it is more carefully arranged and preserved. There are trees and hedges and strips of lawn on it, and no glaring signs. The buildings seem to belong beside one another, as if they had been designed by the same architect, and in the stores you will find goods of a quality to match the best city stores. The intersecting streets—running between rows of neat cottages near the foot of the slope—become winding hedged roads as they climb toward the cliff. The higher these roads get, the farther apart and larger are the houses they lead to. The occupants of these higher houses are the owners and rulers of the island. Most of them are well-fed old gentlemen who, the profits they took from the world with both hands in their younger days now stowed away as safe percentages, have bought into the island colony so they may spend what is left of their lives nursing their livers and improving their golf among their kind. They admit to the island only as many storekeepers, working people, and similar riffraff as are needed to keep them comfortably served. This is Couffignal. It was some time after midnight. I was sitting in a second-story room in Couffignal's largest house, surrounded by wedding presents whose value would add up to something between fifty and a hundred thousand dollars. Of all the work that comes to a private detective (except divorce work, which the Continental Detective Agency doesn't handle) I like weddings as little as any. Usually I manage to avoid them, but this time I hadn't been able to. Dick Foley, who had been slated for the job, had been handed a black eye by an unfriendly pick-pocket the day before. That let Dick out and me in. I had come up to Couffignal--a two-hour ride from San Francisco by ferry and auto stage--that morning, and would return the next. This had been neither better nor worse than the usual wedding detail. The ceremony had been performed in a little stone church down the hill. Then the house had begun to fill with reception guests. They had kept it filled to overflowing until some time after the bride and groom had sneaked off to their eastern train. The world had been well represented. There had been an admiral and an earl or two from England; an ex-president of a South American country; a Danish baron; a tall young Russian princess surrounded by lesser titles, including a fat, bald, jovial and black-bearded Russian general, who had talked to me for a solid hour about prizefights, in which he had a lot of interest, but not so much knowledge as was possible; an ambassador from one of the Central European countries; a justice of the Supreme Court; and a mob of people whose prominence and near-prominence didn't carry labels. In theory, a detective guarding wedding presents is supposed to make himself indistinguishable from the other guests. In practice, it never works out that way. He has to spend most of his time within sight of the booty, so he's easily spotted. Besides that, eight or ten people I recognized among the guests were clients or former clients of the Agency, and so knew me. However, being known doesn't make so much difference as you might think, and everything had gone off smoothly. A couple of the groom's friends, warmed by wine and the necessity of maintaining their reputations as cutups, had tried to smuggle some of the gifts out of the room where they were displayed and hide them in the piano. But I had been expecting that familiar track, and blocked it before it had gone far enough to embarrass anybody. Shortly after dark a wind smelling of rain began to pile storm clouds over the bay. Those guests who lived at a distance, especially those who had water to cross, hurried off for their houses. Those who lived on the island stayed until the first raindrops began to patter down. Then they left. The Hendrixson house quieted down. Musicians and extra servants left. The weary house servants began to disappear in the direction of their bedrooms. I found some sandwiches, a couple of books and a comfortable armchair, and took them up to the room where the presents were now hidden under gray-white sheeting. Keith Hendrixson, the bride's grandfather—she was an orphan—put his head in at the door. "Have you everything you need for your comfort?" he asked. "Yes, thanks." He said good night and went off to bed--a tall old man, slim as a boy. The wind and the rain were hard at it when I went downstairs to give the lower windows and doors the up-and-down. Everything on the first floor was tight and secure, everything in the cellar. I went upstairs again. Pulling my chair over by a floor lamp, I put sandwiches, books, ashtray, gun and flashlight on a small table beside it. Then I switched off the other lights, set fire to a Fatima, sat down, wriggled my spine comfortably into the chair's padding, picked up one of the books, and prepared to make a night of it. The book was call The Lord of the Sea, and had to do with a strong, tough, and violent fellow named Hogarth, whose modest plan was to hold the world in one hand. There were plots and counterplots, kidnapings, murders, prisonbreakings, forgeries and burglaries, diamonds large as hats and floating forts larger than Couffignal. It sounds dizzy here, but in the book it was real as a dime. Hogarth was still going strong when the lights went out. In the dark, I got rid of the glowing end of my cigarette by grinding it in one of the sandwiches. Putting the book down, I picked up gun and flashlight, and moved away from the chair. Listening for noises was no good. The storm was making hundreds of them. What I needed to know was why the lights had gone off. All the other lights in the house had been turned off some time ago. So the darkness of the hall told me nothing. I waited. My job was to watch the presents. Nobody had touched them yet. There was nothing to get excited about. Minutes went by, perhaps ten of them. The floor swayed under my feet. The windows rattled with a violence beyond the strength of the storm. The dull boom of a heavy explosion blotted out the sounds of wind and falling water. The blast was not close at hand, but not far enough away to be off the island. Crossing to the window, peering through the wet glass, I could see nothing. I should have seen a few misty lights far down the hill. Not being able to see them settled one point. The lights had gone out all over Couffignal, not only in the Hendrixson house. That was better. The storm could have put the lighting system out of whack, could have been responsible for the explosion--maybe. Staring through the black window, I had an impression of great excitement down the hill, of movement in the night. But all was too far away for me to have seen or heard even had there been lights, and all too vague to say what was moving. The impression was strong but worthless. It didn't lead anywhere. I told myself I was getting feeble-minded, and turned away from the window. Another blast spun me back to it. This explosion sounded nearer than the first, maybe because it was stronger. Peering through the glass again, I still saw nothing. And still had the impression of things that were big moving down there. Bare feet pattered in the hall. A voice was anxiously calling my name. Turning from the window again, I pocketed my gun and snapped on the flashlight. Keith Hendrixson, in pajamas and bathrobe, looking thinner and older than anybody could be, came into the room. "Is it—" "I don't think it's an earthquake," I said, since that is the first calamity your Californian thinks of. "The lights went off a little while ago. There have been a couple of explosions down the hill since the—" I stopped. Three shots, close together, had sounded. Rifle-shots, but of the sort that only the heaviest of rifles could make. Then, sharp and small in the storm, came the report of a far-away pistol. "What is it?" Hendrixson demanded. "Shooting." More feet were pattering in the halls, some bare, some shod. Excited voices whispered questions and exclamations. The butler, a solemn, solid block of a man, partly dressed and carrying a lighted five-pronged candlestick, came in. "Very good, Brophy," Hendrixson said as the butler put the candlestick on the table beside my sandwiches. "Will you try to learn what is the matter?" "I have tried, sir. The telephone seems to be out of order, sir. Shall I send Oliver down to the village?" "No-o. I don't suppose it's that serious. Do you think it is anything serious?" he asked me. I said I didn't think so, but I was paying more attention to the outside than to him. I had heard a thin screaming that could have come from a distant woman, and a volley of small-arms shots. The racket of the storm muffled these shots, but when the heavier firing we had heard before broke out again, it was clear enough. To have opened the window would have been to let in gallons of water without helping us to hear much clearer. I stood with an ear tilted to the pane, trying to arrive at some idea of what was happening outside. Another sound took my attention from the window--the ringing of the bell-pull at the front door. It rang loudly and persistently. Hendrixson looked at me. I nodded. "See who it is, Brophy," he said. The butler went solemnly away, and came back even more solemnly. "Princess Zhukovski," he announced. She came running into the room—the tall Russian girl I had seen at the reception. Her eyes were wide and dark with excitement. Her face was very white and wet. Water ran in streams down her blue waterproof cape, the hood of which covered her dark hair. "Oh, Mr. Hendrixson!" She had caught one of his hands in both of hers. Her voice, with nothing foreign in its accent, was the voice of one who is excited over a delightful surprise. "The bank is being robbed and the—what do you call him?—marshal of police has been killed!" "What's that?" the old man exclaimed, jumping awkwardly because water from her cape had dripped down one of his bare feet. "Weegan killed? And the bank robbed?" "Yes! Isn't it terrible?" She said it as if she were saying wonderful. "When the first explosion woke us, the general sent Ignati down to find out what was the matter, and he got down just in time to see the blank blow up. Listen!" We listened, and heard a wild outbreak of mixed gunfire. "That will be the general arriving!" she said. "He'll enjoy himself most wonderfully. As soon as Ignati returned with the news, the general armed every male in the household from Aleksandr Sergyeevich to Ivan the cook, and led them out happier than he's been since he took his division to East Prussia in 1914." "And the duchess?" Hendrixson asked. "He left her at home with me, of course, and I furtively crept out and away from her while she was trying for the first time in her life to put water in a samovar. This is not the night for one to stay at home!" "H-m-m," Hendrixson said, his mind obviously not on her words. "And the bank!" He looked at me. I said nothing. The racket of another volley came to us. "Could you do anything down there?" he asked. "Maybe, but--" I nodded at the presents under their covers. "Oh, these!" the old man said. "I'm as much interested in the bank as in them; besides, we will be here." "All right!" I was willing enough to carry my curiosity down the hill. "I'll go down. You'd better have the butler stay in here, and plant the chauffeur inside the front door. Better give them guns if you have any. Is there a raincoat I can borrow? I brought only a light overcoat with me." Brophy found a yellow slicker that fit me. I put it on, stowed gun and flashlight conveniently under it, and found my hat while Brophy was getting and loading an automatic pistol for himself and a rifle for Oliver, the mulatto chauffeur. Hendrixson and the princess followed me downstairs. At the door I found she wasn't exactly following me--she was going with me. "But, Sonya!" the old man protested. "I'm not going to be foolish, though I'd like to," she promised him. "But I'm going back to my Irinia Androvna, who will perhaps have the samovar watered by now. "That's a sensible girl!" Hendrixson said, and let us out into the rain and the wind. It wasn't weather to talk in. In silence we turned downhill between two rows of hedging, with the storm driving at our backs. At the first break in the hedge I stopped, nodding toward the black blot a house made. "That is your—" Her laugh cut me short. She caught my arm and began to urge me down the road again. "I only told Mr. Hendrixson that so he would not worry," she explained. "You do not think I am not going down to see the sights." She was tall, I am short and thick. I had to look up to see her face—to see as much of it as the rain-gray night would let me see. "You'll be soaked to the hide, running around in this rain," I objected. "What of that? I am dressed for it." She raised a foot to show me a heavy waterproof boot and a woolen-stockinged leg. "There's no telling what we'll run into down there, and I've got work to do," I insisted. "I can't be looking out for you." "I can look out for myself." She pushed her cape aside to show me a square automatic pistol in one hand.
Top Customer Reviews
During most of the 1920s and early 1930s, Dashiell Hammett was a compulsive writer and storyteller, possibly due to a personal need to make sense of his world and experiences. Later, he lost that compulsion. Following a brief prison term in the early 1950s (for his refusal to take part in the McCarthy-era witchhunts), he began to rediscover that earlier compulsion. Hence, the fragment of "Tulip," which he apparently intended as an semi-autobiographical novel. One wishes he could have lived long enough to complete more of it, at least.
Now to the meat of this short-story collection from his earlier days.
Hammett's most enduring character, the anonymous first-person narrating Continental Op, is the protagonist throughout. The stories vary widely, from the old-west (but not that old at the time of its writing) atmosphere of "Corkscrew" -- which would later serve as theme material for the novel "Red Harvest" -- to the comedy of "The Gatewood Caper"; there's the sinister undertones, interspersed with more comedic touches and a superb punchline at the end, of "Dead Yellow Women" as well as the total 'shaggy dog story' feel of "The Gutting of Couffignal" (in which everything apparently is intended to lead up to yet another punchline).
And then there's the title story itself, "The Big Knockover," perhaps the pre-eminent 'caper story' of all time: a carefully planned and executed bank robbery which falls awry in a trail of double-cross and deduction, yet which leaves its protagonist at the end to wryly remark (perhaps echoing Hammett's sentiments?): "What a life!Read more ›
Some of these stories appear to be similar to the turmoil in early 16th Century Italy. Could a Cesare Borgia have planned the "The Big Knockover"? In "$106,000 Blood Money" the Continental Op arranges the death of a traitorous detective, and then the bounty hunter who would claim this reward (leading to a nice bonus later?).
Why have detective stories gone out of fashion after the 1950s? Could a form of censorship be responsible for this (to hide the actions of these secret agents of the rich and powerful)? Are the "James Bond" stories an updated version of the private detective stories? Or have none-fiction writings become more popular since then ("The Invisible Government")?
This collection is better than his Maltese Falcon, all the Sam Spade, and the Thin Man stories. Among Hammett's writings, the only novel to equal this collection, in my mind, is _Red Harvest_.
Stories in this book range from short to near-novella length. Topics range from the very typical Hammett plot (young woman is missing, wealthy dad pays for her return)of "The Gatewood Caper" to the offbeat noir-Western "Corkscrew" to the looting of an entire island ("The Looting of Couffignal").
The one "straight" story in the bunch, not a crime story at all, is "Tulip," published as a fragment. As it is, it doesn't pull much weight. To call the plot meandering would be generous.
The title story is a classic. A big bank-robbery caper starts looking bizarre when, days later, roomsful of America's highest profile crooks start turning up dead.
One bad story doesn't ruin the whole bunch. If you're a fan of Hammett's other books, give _The Big Knockover_ a chance.
Most recent customer reviews
A short story writer to rival O'Henry (master of the ironic twist), the man who quietly escorted detective fiction from the pulp stands to the literature shelves hits his stride... Read morePublished on April 12 2001 by thecastlebookroom
Irresistible stories, expertly selected & introduced by Lillian Hellman. More compelling even than the other Hammett short stories collection, "The Continental Op" -... Read morePublished on July 29 1999 by Alex. Avenarius (Faterson@pobox.sk)
The Continental Op stories are classics in the genre, and not as well known as the Maltese Falcon or the Thin Man. Read morePublished on Jan. 14 1999
If you want to see Hammett playing around with the boundaries of his genre, read this book. It is great to see him give us the hard-boiled western, for example. Read morePublished on Dec 18 1997 by firstname.lastname@example.org