A curtained black Cadillac touring car came from behind me, a car i thought had been parked down near City Hall when i took my plant here.
It curved around my coupe, slid with chainless recklessness in to the curb, skidded out again, picking up speed somehow on the wet paving.
A curtain whipped loose in the rain.
Out of the opening came pale fire-streaks. The bitter voice of a small-caliber pistol seven times.
Dashiell Hammett
1925
from
The Continental Op
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