Dashiell Hammett. The complete collection of novels. Illustrated : The Maltese Falcon, RHarvest, The Dain Curse, The Glass Key, The Thin Man , livre ebook

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560 pages

English

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Samuel Dashiell Hammett was an American writer of hard-boiled detective novels and short stories. He was also a screenwriter and political activist. Among the enduring characters he created are Sam Spade (The Maltese Falcon), Nick and Nora Charles (The Thin Man), The Continental Op (Red Harvest and The Dain Curse) and the comic strip character Secret Agent X-9.
Hammett "is now widely regarded as one of the finest mystery writers of all time". In his obituary in The New York Times, he was described as "the dean of the... 'hard-boiled' school of detective fiction."Time included Hammett's 1929 novel Red Harvest on its list of the 100 best English-language novels published between 1923 and 2005. In 1990, the Crime Writers' Association picked three of his five novels for their list of The Top 100 Crime Novels of All Time. Five years later, four out of five of his novels made The Top 100 Mystery Novels of All Time as selected by the Mystery Writers of America. His novels and stories also had a significant influence on films, including the genres of private eye/detective fiction, mystery thrillers, and film noir.
Contents:
Red Harvest
The Dain Curse
The Maltese Falcon
The Glass Key
The Thin Man

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Detective

Mystery

Fiction

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Publié par	Andrii Ponomarenko
Date de parution	11 mai 2023
Nombre de lectures	2
EAN13	9786178289713
Langue	English

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Extrait

Dashiell Hammett
The complete collection of novels
The Maltese Falcon, Red Harvest, The Dain Curse, The Glass Key, The Thin Man
Illustrated
Samuel Dashiell Hammett was an American writer of hard-boiled detective novels and short stories. He was also a screenwriter and political activist. Among the enduring characters he created are Sam Spade (The Maltese Falcon), Nick and Nora Charles (The Thin Man), The Continental Op (Red Harvest and The Dain Curse) and the comic strip character Secret Agent X-9.
Hammett "is now widely regarded as one of the finest mystery writers of all time". In his obituary in The New York Times, he was described as "the dean of the... 'hard-boiled' school of detective fiction."Time included Hammett's 1929 novel Red Harvest on its list of the 100 best English-language novels published between 1923 and 2005. In 1990, the Crime Writers' Association picked three of his five novels for their list of The Top 100 Crime Novels of All Time. Five years later, four out of five of his novels made The Top 100 Mystery Novels of All Time as selected by the Mystery Writers of America. His novels and stories also had a significant influence on films, including the genres of private eye/detective fiction, mystery thrillers, and film noir.

Red Harvest
The Dain Curse
The Maltese Falcon
The Glass Key
The Thin Man
Table of Contents
Red Harvest
I. A Woman in Green and a Man in Gray
II. The Czar of Poisonville
III. Dinah Brand
IV. Hurricane Street
V. Old Elihu Talks Sense
VI. Whisper's Joint
VII. That's Why I Sewed You Up
VIII. A Tip on Kid Cooper
IX. A Black Knife
X. Crime Wanted-Male or Female
XI. The Swell Spoon
XII. A New Deal
XIII. - $200.10-
XIV. Max
XV. Cedar Hill Inn
XVI. Exit Jerry
XVII. Reno
XVIII. Painter Street
XIX. The Peace Conference
XX. Laudanum
XXI. The Seventeenth Murder
XXII. The Ice Pick
XXIII. Mr. Charles Proctor Dawn
XXIV. Wanted
XXV. Whiskeytown
XXVI. Blackmail
XXVII. Warehouses
The Dain Curse
Part One: The Dains
I. Eight Diamonds
II. Long-nose
III. Something Black
IV. The Vague Harpers
V. Gabrielle
VI. The Man from Devil's Island
VII. The Curse
VIII. But and If
Part Two: The Temple
IX. Tad's Blind Man
X. Dead Flowers
XI. God
XII. The Unholy Grail
Part Three: Quesada
XIII. The Cliff Road
XIV. The Crumpled Chrysler
XV. I've Killed Him
XVI. The Night Hunt
XVII. Below Dull Point
XVIII. The Pineapple
XIX. The Degenerate
XX. The House in the Cove
XXI. Aaronia Haldorn
XXII. Confessional
XXIII. The Circus
The Maltese Falcon
I. Spade & Archer
II. Death in the Fog
III. Three Women
IV. The Black Bird
V. The Levantine
VI. The Undersized Shadow
VII. G in the Air
VIII. Horse Feathers
IX. Brigid
X. The Belvedere Divan
XI. The Fat Man
XII. Merry-Go-Round
XIII. The Emperor's Gift
XIV. La Paloma
XV. Every Crackpot
XVI. The Third Murder
XVII. Saturday Night
XVIII. The Fall-Guy
XIX. The Russian's Hand
XX. If They Hang You
The Glass Key
I. The Body in China Street
II. The Hat Trick
III. The Cyclone Shot
IV. The Dog House
V. The Hospital
VI. The Observer
VII. The Henchmen
VIII. The Kiss-Off
IX. The Heels
X. The Shattered Key
The Thin Man
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Publisher: Andrii Ponomarenko © Ukraine - Kyiv 2023
ISBN: 978-617-8289-71-3
Red Harvest
I.
A Woman in Green and a 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.
"Will you come out to my house at ten this evening?" He had a pleasantly crisp voice. "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 crepe came to the door. When she smiled her blue eyes didn't lose their stoniness. I repeated my explanation to her.
"My husband isn't in now." A barely noticeable accent slurred her s's. "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.
"Do you live in Personville?" she asked first.
"No. San Francisco."
"But this isn't your first visit?"
"Yes."
"Really? How do you like our city?"
"I haven't seen enough of it to know." That was a lie. I had. "I got in only this afternoon."
Her shiny eyes stopped prying while she said:
"You'll find it a dreary place." She returned to her digging with: "I suppose all mining towns are like this. Are you engaged in mining?"
"Not just now."
She looked at the clock on the mantel and said:
"It's inconsiderate of Donald to bring you out here and then keep you waiting, at this time of night, long after business hours."
I said that was all right.
"Though perhaps it isn't a business matter," she suggested.
I didn't say anything.
She laughed-a short laugh with something sharp in it.
"I'm really not ordinarily so much of a busybody as you probably think," she said gaily. "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 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 coupй. 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.
"I'm awfully sorry," she said, her tight-lipped mouth moving jerkily, "but you've had all this waiting for nothing. My husband won't be home tonight."
I said I would 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.
"What's the rumpus?" I asked him.
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.
"Don Willsson's gone to sit on the right hand of God, if G