The Maltese Falcon (20 page)

Spade smiled and bowed and opened the inner door. “Come in.” Before following the man in Spade asked Effie Perine: “Any news on that other matter?”

“No, sir.”

The swart man was the proprietor of a moving-picture-theater in Market Street. He suspected one of his cashiers and a doorman of colluding to defraud him. Spade hurried him through the story, promised to “take care of it,” asked for and received fifty dollars, and got rid of him in less than half an hour.

When the corridor-door had closed behind the showman Effie
Perine came into the inner office. Her sunburned face was worried and questioning. “You haven’t found her yet?” she asked.

He shook his head and went on stroking his bruised temple lightly in circles with his fingertips.

“How is it?” she asked.

“All right, but I’ve got plenty of headache.”

She went around behind him, put his hand down, and stroked his temple with her slender fingers. He leaned back until the back of his head over the chair-top rested against her breast. He said: “You’re an angel.”

She bent her head forward over his and looked down into his face. “You’ve got to find her, Sam. It’s more than a day and she—”

He stirred and impatiently interrupted her: “I haven’t got to do anything, but if you’ll let me rest this damned head a minute or two I’ll go out and find her.”

She murmured, “Poor head,” and stroked it in silence awhile. Then she asked: “You know where she is? Have you any idea?”

The telephone-bell rang. Spade picked up the telephone and said: “Hello…. Yes, Sid, it came out all right, thanks…. No…. Sure. He got snotty, but so did I…. He’s nursing a gambler’s-war pipe-dream…. Well, we didn’t kiss when we parted. I declared my weight and walked out on him…. That’s something for you to worry about…. Right. ’Bye.” He put the telephone down and leaned back in his chair again.

Effie Perine came from behind him and stood at his side. She demanded: “Do you think you know where she is, Sam?”

“I know where she went,” he replied in a grudging tone.

“Where?” She was excited.

“Down to the boat you saw burning.”

Her eyes opened until their brown was surrounded by white. “You went down there.” It was not a question.

“I did not,” Spade said.

“Sam,” she cried angrily, “she may be—”

“She went down there,” he said in a surly voice. “She wasn’t taken. She went down there instead of to your house when she learned the boat was in. Well, what the hell? Am I supposed to run around after my clients begging them to let me help them?”

“But, Sam, when I told you the boat was on fire!”

“That was at noon and I had a date with Polhaus and another with Bryan.”

She glared at him between tightened lids. “Sam Spade,” she said, “you’re the most contemptible man God ever made when you want to be. Because she did something without confiding in you you’d sit here and do nothing when you know she’s in danger, when you know she might be—”

Spade’s face flushed. He said stubbornly: “She’s pretty capable of taking care of herself and she knows where to come for help when she thinks she needs it, and when it suits her.”

“That’s spite,” the girl cried, “and that’s all it is! You’re sore because she did something on her own hook, without telling you. Why shouldn’t she? You’re not so damned honest, and you haven’t been so much on the level with her, that she should trust you completely.”

Spade said: “That’s enough of that.”

His tone brought a brief uneasy glint into her hot eyes, but she
tossed
her head and the glint vanished. Her mouth was drawn taut and small. She said: “If you don’t go down there this very minute, Sam, I will and I’ll take the police down there.” Her voice trembled, broke, and was thin and wailing. “Oh, Sam, go!”

He stood up cursing her. Then he said: “Christ! It’ll be easier on my head than sitting here listening to you squawk.” He looked at his watch. “You might as well lock up and go home.”

She said: “I won’t. I’m going to wait right here till you come back.”

He said, “Do as you damned please,” put his hat on, flinched, took it off, and went out carrying it in his hand.

An hour and a half later, at twenty minutes past five, Spade returned. He was cheerful. He came in asking: “What makes you so hard to get along with, sweetheart?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” He put a finger on the tip of Effie Perine’s nose and flattened it. He put his hands under her elbows, lifted her straight up, and kissed her chin. He set her down on the floor again and asked: “Anything doing while I was gone?”

“Luke—what’s his name?—at the Belvedere called up to tell you Cairo has returned. That was about half an hour ago.”

Spade snapped his mouth shut, turned with a long step, and started for the door.

“Did you find her?” the girl called.

“Tell you about it when I’m back,” he replied without pausing and hurried out.

A taxicab brought Spade to the Belvedere within ten minutes of his departure from his office. He found Luke in the lobby. The hotel-detective came grinning and shaking his head to meet Spade. “Fifteen minutes late,” he said. “Your bird has fluttered.”

Spade cursed his luck.

“Checked out—gone bag and baggage,” Luke said. He took a battered memorandum-book from a vest-pocket, licked his thumb, thumbed pages, and held the book out open to Spade. “There’s the number of the taxi that hauled him. I got that much for you.”

“Thanks.” Spade copied the number on the back of an envelope. “Any forwarding address?”

“No. He just come in carrying a big suitcase and went upstairs and packed and come down with his stuff and paid his bill and got a taxi and went without anybody being able to hear what he told the driver.”

“How about his trunk?”

Luke’s lower lip sagged. “By God,” he said, “I forgot that! Come on.”

They went up to Cairo’s room. The trunk was there. It was closed, but not locked. They raised the lid. The trunk was empty.

Spade went back to his office. Effie Perine looked up at him, inquisitively.

“Missed him,” Spade grumbled and passed into his private room.

She followed him in. He sat in his chair and began to roll a cigarette. She sat on the desk in front of him and put her toes on a corner of his chair-seat.

“What about Miss O’Shaughnessy?” she demanded.

“I missed her too,” he replied, “but she had been there.”

“On the
La Paloma?”

“The La
is a lousy combination,” he said.

“Stop it. Be nice, Sam. Tell me.”

He set fire to his cigarette, pocketed his lighter, patted her shins, and said: “Yes,
La Paloma.
She got down there at a little after noon yesterday.” He pulled his brows down. “That means she went straight there after leaving the cab at the Ferry Building. It’s only a few piers away. The Captain wasn’t aboard. His name’s Jacobi and she asked for him by name. He was uptown on business. That would mean he didn’t expect her, or not at that time anyway. She waited there till he came back at four o’clock. They spent the time from then till meal-time in his cabin and she ate with him.”

He inhaled and exhaled smoke, turned his head aside to spit a yellow tobacco-flake off his lip, and went on: “After the meal Captain Jacobi had three more visitors. One of them was Gutman and one was Cairo and one was the kid who delivered Gutman’s message to you yesterday. Those three came together while Brigid was there and the five of them did a lot of talking in the Captain’s cabin. It’s hard to get anything out of the crew, but they had a row and somewhere around eleven o’clock that night a gun went off there, in the Captain’s cabin. The watchman beat it down there, but the Captain met him outside and told him everything was all right. There’s a fresh bullet-hole in one corner of the cabin, up high enough
to make it likely that the bullet didn’t go through anybody to get there. As far as I could learn there was only the one shot. But as far as I could learn wasn’t very far.”

He scowled and inhaled smoke again. “Well, they left around midnight—the Captain and his four visitors all together—and all of them seem to have been walking all right. I got that from the watchman. I haven’t been able to get hold of the Custom-Housemen who were on duty there then. That’s all of it. The Captain hasn’t been back since. He didn’t keep a date he had this noon with some shipping-agents, and they haven’t found him to tell him about the fire.”

“And the fire?” she asked.

Spade shrugged. “I don’t know. It was discovered in the hold, aft—in the rear basement—late this morning. The chances are it got started some time yesterday. They got it out all right, though it did damage enough. Nobody liked to talk about it much while the Captain’s away. It’s the—”

The corridor-door opened. Spade shut his mouth. Effie Perine jumped down from the desk, but a man opened the connecting door before she could reach it.

“Where’s Spade?” the man asked.

His voice brought Spade up erect and alert in his chair. It was a voice harsh and rasping with agony and with the strain of keeping two words from being smothered by the liquid bubbling that ran under and behind them.

Effie Perine, frightened, stepped out of the man’s way.

He stood in the doorway with his soft hat crushed between his head and the top of the door-frame: he was nearly seven feet tall. A black overcoat cut long and straight and like a sheath, buttoned from throat to knees, exaggerated his leanness. His shoulders stuck out, high, thin, angular. His bony face—weather-coarsened, age-lined—was the color of wet sand and was wet with sweat on cheeks and chin. His eyes were dark and bloodshot and mad above lower lids that hung down to show pink inner membrane. Held tight against the left side of his chest by a black-sleeved arm that
ended in a yellowish claw was a brown-paper-wrapped parcel bound with thin rope—an ellipsoid somewhat larger than an American football.

The tall man stood in the doorway and there was nothing to show that he saw Spade. He said, “You know—” and then the liquid bubbling came up in his throat and submerged whatever else he said. He put his other hand over the hand that held the ellipsoid. Holding himself stiffly straight, not putting his hands out to break his fall, he fell forward as a tree falls.

Spade, wooden-faced and nimble, sprang from his chair and caught the falling man. When Spade caught him the man’s mouth opened and a little blood spurted out, and the brown-wrapped parcel dropped from the man’s hands and rolled across the floor until a foot of the desk stopped it. Then the man’s knees bent and he bent at the waist and his thin body became limber inside the sheathlike overcoat, sagging in Spade’s arms so that Spade could not hold it up from the floor.

Spade lowered the man carefully until he lay on the floor on his left side. The man’s eyes—dark and bloodshot, but not now mad—were wide open and still. His mouth was open as when blood has spurted from it, but no more blood came from it, and all his long body was as still as the floor it lay on.

Spade said: “Lock the door.”

While Effie Perine, her teeth chattering, fumbled with the corridor-door’s lock Spade knelt beside the thin man, turned him over on his back, and ran a hand down inside his overcoat. When he withdrew the hand presently it came out smeared with blood. The sight of his bloody hand brought not the least nor briefest of changes to Spade’s face. Holding that hand up where it would touch nothing, he took his lighter out of his pocket with his other hand. He snapped on the flame and held the flame close to first one and then the other of the thin man’s eyes. The eyes—lids, balls, irises, and pupils—remained frozen, immobile.

Spade extinguished the flame and returned the lighter to his
pocket. He moved on his knees around to the dead man’s side and, using his one clean hand, unbuttoned and opened the tubular overcoat. The inside of the overcoat was wet with blood and the double-breasted blue jacket beneath it was sodden. The jacket’s lapels, where they crossed over the man’s chest, and both sides of his coat immediately below that point, were pierced by soggy ragged holes.

Spade rose and went to the washbowl in the outer office.

Effie Perine, wan and trembling and holding herself upright by means of a hand on the corridor-door’s knob and her back against its glass, whispered: “Is—is he—?”

“Yes. Shot through the chest, maybe half a dozen times.” Spade began to wash his hands.

“Oughtn’t we—?” she began, but he cut her short: “It’s too late for a doctor now and I’ve got to think before we do anything.” He finished washing his hands and began to rinse the bowl. “He couldn’t have come far with those in him. If he— Why in hell couldn’t he had stood up long enough to say something?” He frowned at the girl, rinsed his hands again, and picked up a towel. “Pull yourself together. For Christ’s sake don’t get sick on me now!” He threw the towel down and ran fingers through his hair. “We’ll have a look at that bundle.”

He went into the inner office again, stepped over the dead man’s legs, and picked up the brown-paper-wrapped parcel. When he felt its weight his eyes glowed. He put it on his desk, turning it over so that the knotted part of the rope was uppermost. The knot was hard and tight. He took out his pocket-knife and cut the rope.