“The Maltese Bacon”: Dashiell Hammett Meets Freddy the Pig

An editorial (by Michael Cart) in the newsletter of Friends of Freddy discusses “One of the saddest might-have-beens in literary history”:

“Alfred A. Knopf, publisher of both [Walter R.] Brooks and [Dashiell] Hammett, contracted with the latter to write an introduction to the forthcoming Freddy the Detective. Alas, Hammett, a procrastinator to rival Freddy himself, failed to deliver despite notes from an increasingly impatient publisher, such as the following, written April 2, 1932: “We have to have that Introduction of yours immediately . . . do you think you can manage this?”

But if Hammett had been a bit more sober and a bit more industrious...

I was leaning against a fence, happy at my discovery that while the moonshine in upstate New York would cause even the most hardened habitue of a Manhattan speakeasy to blench the stuff was at least plentiful, when a voice reached up to me from the vicinity of my ankles. “Aren’t you Dash Hammett?”

“Yes,” I said without thinking. Then I looked down.

It was a cat. A black cat. Talking. To me. “I’m Jinx,” the cat said. “You don’t know me, but you know our publisher, one Knopf. And Brooks, the guy who writes about us.”

I admitted the truth of this. Brooks had said some nice things about me. “Well,” the cat said, “I want you to meet someone. I’m thinking maybe you can do him a favour. Returning the favour to Brooks, see.”

I said I saw. And then the cat pointed with its tail, and I really saw.

A pig was walking towards me. On its hind legs. Oh, and wearing a deerstalker hat. You know, one of those things Sherlock Holmes never wore.

“Freddy, Hammett,” Jinx said. “Hammett, this is Freddy. He’s a detective. We want you to write a little something about him.”

“A pig detective.” I held out my glass, which mysteriously seemed to have emptied itself. “I’m going to need at least six more of these before I can happily converse with a pig,” I said.

"Oh, he's not that bad," the cat said. "A bit pompous from time to time, but he never resents it when you point that out."

"You mean I never let on to you," said the pig.

"What makes you a detective?" I asked. I knocked back another drink. Didn't even pause to reflect on the fact the fellow pouring was a mouse. A team of mice, in fact. "Besides the hat."

"Well, I solve mysteries. That's what detectives do, isn't it?"

"In the day of your great-grandfather Conan Doyle, maybe. These days a detective has to do a bit more than tell people whodunnit." I raised my glass. "This, for instance."

"Weight-lifting?"

"Don't be a smart-ass, cat. Drinking's what I mean. Now, you look at the Continental Op. Or Sam Spade. Hardly a dry moment among 'em. And then there's Gabrielle and her morphine addiction. When was the last time you had a snootful, Freddy?"

"Never," the pig admitted, hanging his head.

"Good thing, too," said Jinx, pointing a paw at the porker. "That's one darned impressive snoot. The idea of Freddy on a bender gives sober cats paws."

"We'll have no more of that," I said. "But speaking of Gabrielle Leggett, where’s the woman?"

“Woman?” Detective he may have been, but this pig wasn’t quite firing on all cylinders where modern life is concerned. I finished my drink, held out the glass for a refill. The mice obliged.

“Any modern detective story needs a woman. Ideally, a dangerous woman. You know, like Dinah Brand, or Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Someone who gets your man into trouble if he’s not careful.”

“Well, we’ve got Henrietta,” the pig mused. “She’s certainly dangerous.”

“Mostly to Charles the Rooster,” Jinx said. His laugh was a low yowl. “She’s not going to get anyone else in trouble because nobody else will go near her."

"Mrs. Wiggins?” Freddy asked. He didn’t seem very hopeful.

"A wonderful old girl, that cow,” said Jinx. “But she’s only dangerous if she steps on you. Or sits on you, I suppose.”

"In short," I said, because this had gone on long enough, "you don't act like a modern detective, you don't run the risks of a modern detective, and you sure don't look like a modern detective. Why in the name of the Continental Detective Agency should I endorse you?"

"Because," said Freddy, standing tall, "I'm funny. My friends are funny. And people who read about us laugh." To my surprise, on his hind legs he was nearly as tall as me. Equally surprising, the pig had a point.

A laugh might be sour as pickle juice or bathtub gin, but it was still a laugh. Maybe a guy could stand to lighten up now and then.

I put my glass, upside down, on the fencepost and waved so long to cat and pig. "I'll send you that endorsement," I said. But I was already thinking about a detective who knew how to be funny. Nick would be a good name. Especially if I gave him a woman who wasn't going to try to kill him. Nora: that would work. And let's make her rich, too*. By the time I'd got on the train back to the coast I'd forgotten all about my promise.

*I know that The Thin Man wasn't written until more than a year after this. But pigs and cats can't talk either, so get knotted.