His biggest worry seems to be getting in trouble with his employer, the San Francisco branch of the Continental Detective Agency.

In a town where even the police and government are corrupt, he manages to stay alive and out of jail despite his primacy in the mayhem. Hammett's unnamed detective is as intuitively wise as Sam Spade (switching hotels and registering under assumed names often), as caustically observant as Nick Charles: 'His clothes were dark and unclean looking without actually being dirty.' He doesn't solve mysteries so much as relate events, and is the maestro orchestrating confrontations between rival factions. These grisly scenes play out over the course of several weeks yet fail to attract the faintest attention outside the city in which they occur until near the novel's end, when a few out-of-town reporters make inconsequential, almost rumored, appearances. Whereas his later novels limit themselves to serial individual murders, Red Harvest, true to its name, produces a cornucopia of dead bodies killed in myriad brutal ways - stabbed with knives and ice picks, machine-gunned, dynamited. Charles Proctor Dawn speak in pretentious riddles before you hear Sydney Greenstreet's personification of Kasper Gutman. No character in a modern novel describes drinking as such a detached act void of significance: 'I went into the kitchen, found a bottle of gin, tilted it to my mouth, and kept it there until I had to breathe.' And you don't have to listen long or carefully to Mr. No one writing today could get the sentence 'She looked as if she were telling the truth, though with women, especially blue-eyed women, that doesn't always mean anything.' published.

A Book From An Author You Love That You Haven’t Read Yetĭahiell Hammett's first novel Red Harvest is far from his best, but it sings with the same voice as his later works.

Cosecha roja by Dashiell Hammett