Dashiell Hammett's classic The Thin Man introduced the world to Nick and Nora Charles, further made famous by the popular Thin Man films. With a new introduction by Denise Mina.
Nick Charles seems to find trouble wherever he goes. He thinks his sleuthing days are behind him when Julia Wolf, a former acquaintance, turns up dead. Nick—thanks to some persuasion from his enchanting wife, Nora—finds himself falling back into old habits and making a few polite inquiries. The prime suspect, Julia’s lover and boss Clyde Miller Wynant, has vanished without a trace. Everyone is after him, but Nick is not so sure Wynant is the culprit. And when another dubious figure bursts into their bedroom, waving a loaded handgun, it seems Nick and Nora’s adventure is only just beginning.
Nick and Nora Charles are among Dashiell Hammett’s most alluring creations: a rich, glamourous couple who solve homicides in between wisecracks and martinis. At once knowing and unabashedly romantic, The Thin Man is a murder mystery that doubles as a sophisticated comedy of manners.
It's been over 20 years since I read this book but it was definitely an enjoyable read. Nick and Nora are the epitome of romantic comedic detectives. The pair has the kind of relationship we all hope to find.
RATING:
Chapter One
1
I was leaning against the bar in a speakeasy on Fifty-second Street, waiting for Nora to finish her Christmas shopping, when a girl got up from the table where she had been sitting with three other people and came over to me. She was small and blonde, and whether you looked at her face or at her body in powder-blue sports clothes, the result was satisfactory. "Aren't you Nick Charles?" she asked.
I said: "Yes."
She held out her hand. "I'm Dorothy Wynant. You don't remember me, but you ought to remember my father, Clyde Wynant. You-"
"Sure," I said, "and I remember you now, but you were only a kid of eleven or twelve then, weren't you?"
"Yes, that was eight years ago. Listen: remember those stories you told me? Were they true?"
"Probably not. How is your father?"
She laughed. "I was going to ask you. Mamma divorced him, you know, and we never hear from him-except when he gets in the newspapers now and then with some of his carryings on. Don't you ever see him?"
My glass was empty. I asked her what she would have to drink, she said Scotch and soda. I ordered two of them and said: "No, I've been living in San Francisco."
She said slowly: "I'd like to see him. Mamma would raise hell if she found it out, but I'd like to see him."
"Well?"
"He's not where we used to live, on Riverside Drive, and he's not in the phone book or city directory."
"Try his lawyer," I suggested.
Her face brightened. "Who is he?"
"It used to be a fellow named Mac-something-or-other-Macaulay, that's it, Herbert Macaulay. He was in the Singer Building."
"Lend me a nickel," she said, and went out to the telephone. She came back smiling. "I found him. He's just round the corner on Fifth Avenue."
"Your father?"
"The lawyer. He says my father's out of town. I'm going round to see him." She raised her glass to me. "Family reunions. Look, why don't-"
Asta jumped up and punched me in the belly with her front feet. Nora, at the end of the leash, said: "She's had a swell afternoon-knocked over a table of toys at Lord & Taylor's, scared a fat woman silly by licking her leg in Saks's, and's been patted by three policemen."
I made introductions. "My wife, Dorothy Wynant. Her father was once a client of mine, when she was only so high. A good guy, but screwy."
"I was fascinated by him," Dorothy said, meaning me, "a real live detective, and used to follow him around making him tell me about his experiences. He told me awful lies, but I believed every word."
I said: "You look tired, Nora."
"I am. Let's sit down."
Dorothy Wynant said she had to go back to her table. She shook hands with Nora; we must drop in for cocktails, they were living at Courtland, her mother's name was Jorgensen now. We would be glad to and she must come see us some time, we were at the Normandie and would be in New York for another week or two. Dorothy patted the dog's head and left us.
We found a table. Nora said: "She's pretty."
"If you like them like that."
She grinned at me. "You got types?"
"Only you, darling-lanky brunettes with wicked jaws."
"And how about the red-head you wandered off with at the Quinns' last night?"
"That's silly," I said. "She just wanted to show me some French etchings."
1
I was leaning against the bar in a speakeasy on Fifty-second Street, waiting for Nora to finish her Christmas shopping, when a girl got up from the table where she had been sitting with three other people and came over to me. She was small and blonde, and whether you looked at her face or at her body in powder-blue sports clothes, the result was satisfactory. "Aren't you Nick Charles?" she asked.
I said: "Yes."
She held out her hand. "I'm Dorothy Wynant. You don't remember me, but you ought to remember my father, Clyde Wynant. You-"
"Sure," I said, "and I remember you now, but you were only a kid of eleven or twelve then, weren't you?"
"Yes, that was eight years ago. Listen: remember those stories you told me? Were they true?"
"Probably not. How is your father?"
She laughed. "I was going to ask you. Mamma divorced him, you know, and we never hear from him-except when he gets in the newspapers now and then with some of his carryings on. Don't you ever see him?"
My glass was empty. I asked her what she would have to drink, she said Scotch and soda. I ordered two of them and said: "No, I've been living in San Francisco."
She said slowly: "I'd like to see him. Mamma would raise hell if she found it out, but I'd like to see him."
"Well?"
"He's not where we used to live, on Riverside Drive, and he's not in the phone book or city directory."
"Try his lawyer," I suggested.
Her face brightened. "Who is he?"
"It used to be a fellow named Mac-something-or-other-Macaulay, that's it, Herbert Macaulay. He was in the Singer Building."
"Lend me a nickel," she said, and went out to the telephone. She came back smiling. "I found him. He's just round the corner on Fifth Avenue."
"Your father?"
"The lawyer. He says my father's out of town. I'm going round to see him." She raised her glass to me. "Family reunions. Look, why don't-"
Asta jumped up and punched me in the belly with her front feet. Nora, at the end of the leash, said: "She's had a swell afternoon-knocked over a table of toys at Lord & Taylor's, scared a fat woman silly by licking her leg in Saks's, and's been patted by three policemen."
I made introductions. "My wife, Dorothy Wynant. Her father was once a client of mine, when she was only so high. A good guy, but screwy."
"I was fascinated by him," Dorothy said, meaning me, "a real live detective, and used to follow him around making him tell me about his experiences. He told me awful lies, but I believed every word."
I said: "You look tired, Nora."
"I am. Let's sit down."
Dorothy Wynant said she had to go back to her table. She shook hands with Nora; we must drop in for cocktails, they were living at Courtland, her mother's name was Jorgensen now. We would be glad to and she must come see us some time, we were at the Normandie and would be in New York for another week or two. Dorothy patted the dog's head and left us.
We found a table. Nora said: "She's pretty."
"If you like them like that."
She grinned at me. "You got types?"
"Only you, darling-lanky brunettes with wicked jaws."
"And how about the red-head you wandered off with at the Quinns' last night?"
"That's silly," I said. "She just wanted to show me some French etchings."
Release Date: December 25, 1936
Release Time: 112 minutes
Director: W. S. Van Dyke
Cast:
William Powell as Nick Charles
Myrna Loy as Nora Charles
James Stewart as David Graham
Elissa Landi as Selma Landis
Joseph Calleia as "Dancer"
Jessie Ralph as Aunt Katherine Forrest
Alan Marshal as Robert Landis (credited as Alan Marshall)
Teddy Hart as Casper
Sam Levene as Lieutenant Abrams
Penny Singleton as Polly Byrnes (credited as Dorothy McNulty)
William Law as Lum Kee
George Zucco as Dr. Kammer
Paul Fix as Phil Byrnes
Skippy as Asta
Awards:
9th Academy Awards - March 4, 1937
Best Adapted Screenplay - Frances Goodrick & Albert Hackett - Nominated
Notes:
The film's storyline was written by Dashiell Hammett based on his characters Nick and Nora, but not on a particular novel or short story so even though it was original story, the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay nominated After the Thin Man for this category as all sequels were also considered adaptations, being based on the story and characters of the original film.
Also wrote as Peter Collinson, Daghull Hammett, Samuel Dashiell, Mary Jane Hammett
Samuel Dashiell Hammett was an American author of hardboiled detective novels and short stories. Among the enduring characters he created are Sam Spade (The Maltese Falcon), Nick and Nora Charles (The Thin Man), and the Continental Op (Red Harvest and The Dain Curse). In addition to the significant influence his novels and stories had on film, Hammett "is now widely regarded as one of the finest mystery writers of all time" and was called, in his obituary in the New York Times, "the dean of the... 'hard-boiled' school of detective fiction."
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