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When the last honest citizen of Poisonville was murdered, the Continental Op stayed on to punish the guilty--even if that meant taking on an entire town. Red Harvest is more than a superb crime novel: it is a classic exploration of corruption and violence in the American grain.
“You can’t do that, Dinah.” Rolff’s voice was thick, but gently firm, as if he were talking to a child. “That would be utterly filthy.” The girl turned her face slowly toward him. Her mouth took on the look it had worn while talking to Thaler. “I am going to do it,” she said. “That makes me utterly filthy, does it?” He didn’t say anything, didn’t look up from the bottle. Her face got red, hard, cruel. Her voice was soft, cooing: “It’s just too bad that a gentleman of your purity, even if he
Marmon carried us toward it. “Polly De Voto is a good scout and anything she sells you is good, except maybe the bourbon. That always tastes a little bit like it had been drained off a corpse. You’ll like her. You can get away with anything out here so long as you don’t get noisy. She won’t stand for noise. There it is. See the red and blue lights through the trees?” We rode out of the woods into full view of the roadhouse, a very electric-lighted imitation castle set close to the road. “What
that, repeating: “Was she jealous?” “She was,” he said, not yelling now, “and domineering, and spoiled, and suspicious, and greedy, and mean, and unscrupulous, and deceitful, and selfish, and damned bad—altogether damned bad!” “Any reason for her jealousy?” “I hope so,” he said bitterly. “I’d hate to think a son of mine would be faithful to her. Though likely enough he was. He’d do things like that.” “But you don’t know any reason why she should have killed him?” “Don’t know any reason?” He
its side to us, and stopped. Out of the side, gun-fire. Another car came around the limousine and charged us. Out of it, gun-fire. We did our best, but we were too damned amalgamated for good fighting. You can’t shoot straight holding a man in your lap, another hanging on your shoulder, while a third does his shooting from an inch behind your ear. Our other car—the one that had been around at the building’s rear—came up and gave us a hand. But by then two more had joined the opposition.
them. Tell him I’ll sit here five minutes and then carry the rest of them to Tommy Robins of the Consolidated Press.” The chauffeur scowled at the letter, said, “To hell with Tommy Robins and his blind aunt!” took the letter, and closed the door. Four minutes later he opened the door again and said: “Inside, you.” I followed him upstairs to old Elihu’s bedroom. My client sat up in bed with his love letter crushed in one round pink fist, its envelope in the other. His short white hair