The hair curling from under her blue hat was darkly red, her full lips more brightly red. White teeth glistened in the crescent her timid smile made. Spade rose bowing and indicating with a thick-fingered hand the oaken armchair beside his desk.
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He was quite six feet tall. The steep rounded slope of his shoulders made his body seem almost conical--no broader than it was thick--and kept his freshly pressed grey coat from fitting very well. Miss Wonderly murmured, "Thank you," softly as before and sat down on the edge of the chair's wooden seat. Spade sank into his swivel-chair, made a quarter-turn to face her, smiled politely. He smiled without separating his lips. All the v's in his face grew longer. The tappity-tap-tap and the thin bell and muffled whir of Effie Perine's typewriting came through the closed door.
Somewhere in a neighboring office a power-driven machine vibrated dully. On Spade's desk a limp cigarette smoldered in a brass tray filled with the remains of limp cigarettes. Ragged grey flakes of cigarette-ash dotted the yellow top of the desk and the green blotter and the papers that were there. A buff-curtained window, eight or ten inches open, let in from the court a current of air faintly scented with ammonia. The ashes on the desk twitched and crawled in the current.
Miss Wonderly watched the grey flakes twitch and crawl. Her eyes were uneasy. She sat on the very edge of the chair. Her feet were flat on the floor, as if she were about to rise. Her hands in dark gloves clasped a flat dark handbag in her lap. She caught her breath and looked at him. She swallowed and said hurriedly: I thought--I--that is--" Then she tortured her lower lip with glistening teeth and said nothing. Only her dark eyes spoke now, pleading. Spade smiled and nodded as if he understood her, but pleasantly, as if nothing serious were involved.
Better begin as far back as you can. I mean I don't know where in New York. She's five years younger than I--only seventeen--and we didn't have the same friends. I don't suppose we've ever been as close as sisters should be. Mama and Papa are in Europe. It would kill them. I've got to get her back before they come home. Her hands mashed the dark handbag in her lap.
There wasn't anyone I could go to for advice. I didn't know what to do. What could I do? I sent it to General Delivery here. That was the only address she gave me. I waited a whole week, but no answer came, not another word from her. And Mama and Papa's return was drawing nearer and nearer. So I came to San Francisco to get her. I wrote her I was coming. I shouldn't have done that, should I? I wrote her that I would go to the St. Mark, and I begged her to come and let me talk to her even if she didn't intend to go home with me. But she didn't come.
I waited three days, and she didn't come, didn't even send me a message of any sort. I wrote her another letter, and yesterday afternoon I went to the Post Office. I stayed there until after dark, but I didn't see her. I went there again this morning, and still didn't see Corinne, but I saw Floyd Thursby. But how can I believe that? That is what he would tell me anyhow, isn't it? I do hope it is," she exclaimed. He wouldn't take me to her.
He said she didn't want to see me. I can't believe that. He promised to tell her he had seen me, and to bring her to see me--if she would come--this evening at the hotel. He said he knew she wouldn't. He promised to come himself if she wouldn't. The man who had opened the door came in a step, said, "Oh, excuse me! Miss Wonderly, this is Mr. Miles Archer came into the office again, shutting the door behind him, ducking his head and smiling at Miss Wonderly, making a vaguely polite gesture with the hat in his hand.
He was of medium height, solidly built, wide in the shoulders, thick in the neck, with a jovial heavy-jawed red face and some grey in his close-trimmed hair. He was apparently as many years past forty as Spade was past thirty. Miss Wonderly has seen Thursby and has a date with him tonight. Maybe he'll bring the sister with him. The chances are he won't. Miss Wonderly wants us to find the sister and get her away from him and back home. The embarrassment that had gradually been driven away by Spade's ingratiating smiles and nods and assurances was pinkening her face again.
She looked at the bag in her lap and picked nervously at it with a gloved finger. Miles Archer came forward to stand at a corner of the desk. While the girl looked at her bag he looked at her. His little brown eyes ran their bold appraising gaze from her lowered face to her feet and up to her face again. Then he looked at Spade and made a silent whistling mouth of appreciation.
It's simply a matter of having a man at the hotel this evening to shadow him away when he leaves, and shadow him until he leads us to your sister. If she comes with him, and you persuade her to return with you, so much the better. Otherwise--if she doesn't want to leave him after we've found her--well, we'll find a way of managing that. She's so young and his bringing her here from New York is such a serious--Mightn't he--mightn't he do--something to her?
I honestly don't think he'd stop at anything. I don't believe he'd hesitate to--to kill Corinne if he thought it would save him. Mightn't he do that? I promised him I'd never say a word to them about it if he helped me, but if he didn't Papa would certainly see that he was punished. I--I don't suppose he believed me, altogether. The girl blushed and replied in a confused voice: Corinne wrote me that, to explain why she had gone off with him. His hair is dark too, and he has thick eyebrows. He talks in a rather loud, blustery way and has a nervous, irritable manner.
He gives the impression of being--of violence. And--oh, yes--he has a marked cleft in his chin. He's broad-shouldered and carries himself erect, has what could be called a decidedly military carriage. He was wearing a light grey suit and a grey hat when I saw him this morning. Spade, could either you or Mr.
I don't mean that the man you'd send wouldn't be capable, but--oh! I'm afraid of him. I'd be--I'd expect to be charged more, of course. It'll help some if you either meet Thursby downstairs or let yourself be seen in the lobby with him at some time. Spade went to the corridor-door with Miss Wonderly.
When he returned to his desk Archer nodded at the hundred-dollar bills there, growled complacently, "They're right enough," picked one up, folded it, and tucked it into a vest-pocket. Spade pocketed the other bill before he sat down. What do you think of her? And you telling me not to dynamite her. A telephone-bell rang in darkness. When it had rung three times bed-springs creaked, fingers fumbled on wood, something small and hard thudded on a carpeted floor, the springs creaked again, and a man's voice said:.
A switch clicked and a white bowl hung on three gilded chains from the ceiling's center filled the room with light. Spade, barefooted in green and white checked pajamas, sat on the side of his bed. He scowled at the telephone on the table while his hands took from beside it a packet of brown papers and a sack of Bull Durham tobacco.
Cold steamy air blew in through two open windows, bringing with it half a dozen times a minute the Alcatraz foghorn's dull moaning. A tinny alarm-clock, insecurely mounted on a corner of Duke's Celebrated Criminal Cases of America --face down on the table--held its hands at five minutes past two. Spade's thick fingers made a cigarette with deliberate care, sifting a measured quantity of tan flakes down into curved paper, spreading the flakes so that they lay equal at the ends with a slight depression in the middle, thumbs rolling the paper's inner edge down and up under the outer edge as forefingers pressed it over, thumbs and fingers sliding to the paper cylinder's ends to hold it even while tongue licked the flap, left forefinger and thumb pinching their end while right forefinger and thumb smoothed the damp seam, right forefinger and thumb twisting their end and lifting the other to Spade's mouth.
He picked up the pigskin and nickel lighter that had fallen to the floor, manipulated it, and with the cigarette burning in a corner of his mouth stood up. He took off his pajamas. The smooth thickness of his arms, legs, and body, the sag of his big rounded shoulders, made his body like a bear's. It was like a shaved bear's: His skin was childishly soft and pink. He scratched the back of his neck and began to dress.
He put on a thin white union-suit, grey socks, black garters, and dark brown shoes. When he had fastened his shoes he picked up the telephone, called Graystone , and ordered a taxicab. He put on a green-striped white shirt, a soft white collar, a green necktie, the grey suit he had worn that day, a loose tweed overcoat, and a dark grey hat.
The street-door-bell rang as he stuffed tobacco, keys, and money into his pockets. Where Bush Street roofed Stockton before slipping downhill to Chinatown, Spade paid his fare and left the taxicab. San Francisco's night-fog, thin, clammy, and penetrant, blurred the street. A few yards from where Spade had dismissed the taxicab a small group of men stood looking up an alley. Two women stood with a man on the other side of Bush Street, looking at the alley.
There were faces at windows. Spade crossed the sidewalk between iron-railed hatchways that opened above bare ugly stairs, went to the parapet, and, resting his hands on the damp coping, looked down into Stockton Street. An automobile popped out of the tunnel beneath him with a roaring swish, as if it had been blown out, and ran away. Not far from the tunnel's mouth a man was hunkered on his heels before a billboard that held advertisements of a moving picture and a gasoline across the front of a gap between two store-buildings.
The hunkered man's head was bent almost to the sidewalk so he could look under the billboard. A hand flat on the paving, a hand clenched on the billboard's green frame, held him in this grotesque position. Two other men stood awkwardly together at one end of the billboard, peeping through the few inches of space between it and the building at that end. The building at the other end had a blank grey sidewall that looked down on the lot behind the billboard. Lights flickered on the sidewall, and the shadows of men moving among lights.
Spade turned from the parapet and walked up Bush Street to the alley where men were grouped. A uniformed policeman chewing gum under an enameled sign that said Burritt St. Well, they're back there. Half-way up it, not far from the entrance, a dark ambulance stood. Behind the ambulance, to the left, the alley was bounded by a waist-high fence, horizontal strips of rough boarding. From the fence dark ground fell away steeply to the billboard on Stockton Street below.
A ten-foot length of the fence's top rail had been torn from a post at one end and hung dangling from the other. Fifteen feet down the slope a flat boulder stuck out. In the notch between boulder and slope Miles Archer lay on his back. Two men stood over him.
One of them held the beam of an electric torch on the dead man. Other men with lights moved up and down the slope. One of them hailed Spade, "Hello, Sam," and clambered up to the alley, his shadow running up the slope before him. He was a barrel-bellied tall man with shrewd small eyes, a thick mouth, and carelessly shaven dark jowls. His shoes, knees, hands, and chin were daubed with brown loam.
Tom Polhaus poked his own left breast with a dirty finger. Mud inlaid the depressions in the revolver's surface. Spade took his elbow from the fence-post and leaned down to look at the weapon, but he did not touch it. They don't make them any more. How many gone out of it?
Standing where you are, with his back to the fence. The man that shot him stands here. He was coming down Bush, and just as he got here a machine turning threw headlights up here, and he saw the top off the fence. So he came up to look at it, and found him. Shilling didn't pay any attention to it, not knowing anything was wrong then. He says nobody didn't come out of here while he was coming down from Powell or he'd've seen them.
The only other way out would be under the billboard on Stockton. Nobody went that way. The fog's got the ground soggy, and the only marks are where Miles slid down and where this here gun rolled. Somebody must've heard it, when we find them. His overcoat was buttoned. There's a hundred and sixty-some bucks in his clothes. Was he working, Sam? I don't know what his game was, exactly. We were trying to find out where he lived. Tom, scowling, opened his mouth, closed it without having said anything, cleared his throat, put the scowl off his face, and spoke with a husky sort of gentleness:.
Miles had his faults same as the rest of us, but I guess he must've had some good points too. Now don't get excited You'll have to break it to Iva No, I'm damned if I will. You've got to do it That's a good girl And keep her away from the office Tell her I'll see her--uh--some time Yes, but don't tie me up to anything Spade's tinny alarm-clock said three-forty when he turned on the light in the suspended bowl again.
He dropped his hat and overcoat on the bed and went into his kitchen, returning to the bedroom with a wine-glass and a tall bottle of Bacardi. He poured a drink and drank it standing. He put bottle and glass on the table, sat on the side of the bed facing them, and rolled a cigarette. He had drunk his third glass of Bacardi and was lighting his fifth cigarette when the street-door-bell rang. The hands of the alarm-clock registered four-thirty. Spade sighed, rose from the bed, and went to the telephone-box beside his bathroom-door. He pressed the button that released the street-door-lock.
He muttered, "Damn her," and stood scowling at the black telephone-box, breathing irregularly while a dull flush grew in his cheeks. The grating and rattling of the elevator-door opening and closing came from the corridor. Spade sighed again and moved towards the corridor-door. Soft heavy footsteps sounded on the carpeted floor outside, the footsteps of two men. His eyes were no longer harassed. He opened the door quickly. They nodded together, neither saying anything, and came in. Spade shut the door and ushered them into his bedroom.
Tom sat on an end of the sofa by the windows. The Lieutenant sat on a chair beside the table. The Lieutenant was a compactly built man with a round head under short-cut grizzled hair and a square face behind a short-cut grizzled mustache. A five-dollar gold-piece was pinned to his necktie and there was a small elaborate diamond-set secret-society-emblem on his lapel. Spade brought two wine-glasses in from the kitchen, filled them and his own with Bacardi, gave one to each of his visitors, and sat down with his on the side of the bed. His face was placid and uncurious. He raised his glass, and said, "Success to crime," and drank it down.
Tom emptied his glass, set it on the floor beside his feet, and wiped his mouth with a muddy forefinger. He stared at the foot of the bed as if trying to remember something of which it vaguely reminded him. The Lieutenant looked at his glass for a dozen seconds, took a very small sip of its contents, and put the glass on the table at his elbow.
He examined the room with hard deliberate eyes, and then looked at Tom. Tom moved uncomfortably on the sofa and, not looking up, asked: The Lieutenant put his hands on his knees and leaned forward.
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His greenish eyes were fixed on Spade in a peculiarly rigid stare, as if their focus were a matter of mechanics, to be changed only by pulling a lever or pressing a button. I won't squawk--if you've got a search-warrant. Tom shifted his weight on the sofa again, blew a deep breath out through his nose, and growled plaintively: Spade, ignoring Tom, said to Dundy: Who in hell do you think you are, coming in here trying to rope me? If you want to know why we didn't talk turkey it's because when I asked you who this Thursby was you as good as told me it was none of my business.
You can't treat us that way, Sam. It ain't right and it won't get you anywheres. We got our work to do. Lieutenant Dundy jumped up, stood close to Spade, and thrust his square face up at the taller man's. Spade made a depreciative mouth, raising his eyebrows. Spade smiled and shook his head. His upper lip, on the left side, twitched over his eyetooth. His eyes became narrow and sultry. His voice came out deep as the Lieutenant's. What are you sucking around for?
Tell me, or get out and let me go to bed. Miles was--for the swell reason that we had a client who was paying good United States money to have him tailed. Placidity came back to Spade's face and voice. And here's something for you to not forget, sweetheart. I'll tell it or not as I damned please. It's a long while since I burst out crying because policemen didn't like me. Tom left the sofa and sat on the foot of the bed.
His carelessly shaven mud-smeared face was tired and lined. How can we turn up anything on Miles's killing if you won't give us what you've got? He smiled with grim content. The wariness went out of Spade's eyes.
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He made his eyes dull with boredom. He turned his face around to Tom and asked with great carelessness: Dundy withdrew the tapping fingers, but there was no change in his voice: Lieutenant Dundy raised his two bent fingers towards Spade's chest, quickly lowered them, and said: I give you ten minutes to get to Thursby's joint--Geary near Leavenworth--you could do it easy in that time, or fifteen at the most.
And that gives you ten or fifteen minutes of waiting before he showed up. The Lieutenant wagged his round head up and down. We tried to get you on the phone. Where'd you do your walking? You haven't finished your drink. Get your glass, Tom. Spade filled his own glass, drank, set the empty glass on the table, and returned to his bedside-seat. Having Miles knocked off bothered me, and then you birds cracking foxy.
That's all right now, though, now that I know what you're up to. Then the Lieutenant said angrily: Spade was rolling a cigarette. He asked, not looking up: You think I did know it? Spade looked up at him and smiled, holding the finished cigarette in one hand, his lighter in the other. Nobody saw it, but that's the way it figures. Spade made a careless circle with his limp cigarette. Spade looked at the Lieutenant with yellow-grey eyes that held an almost exaggerated amount of candor. He held his mustached upper lip tight to his teeth, letting his lower lip push the words out.
You know me, Spade.
If you did or you didn't you'll get a square deal out of me, and most of the breaks. I don't know that I'd blame you a hell of a lot--but that wouldn't keep me from nailing you. Lieutenant Dundy turned to the table, picked up his glass, and slowly emptied it. Then he said, "Good night," and held out his hand. They shook hands ceremoniously. Tom and Spade shook hands ceremoniously. Spade let them out. Then he undressed, turned off the lights, and went to bed. When Spade reached his office at ten o'clock the following morning Effie Ferine was at her desk opening the morning's mail. Her boyish face was pale under its sunburn.
She put down the handful of envelopes and the brass paper-knife she held and said: Effie Perine's brown eyes opened wide and her voice was irritable as his: Spade stood beside the girl, put a hand on her head, and smoothed her hair away from its parting. She was a blonde woman of a few more years than thirty. Her facial prettiness was perhaps five years past its best moment.
Her body for all its sturdiness was finely modeled and exquisite. She wore black clothes from hat to shoes. They had as mourning an impromptu air. Having spoken, she stepped back from the door and stood waiting for Spade. He took his hand from Effie Perine's head and entered the inner office, shutting the door.
Iva came quickly to him, raising her sad face for his kiss. Her arms were around him before his held her. When they had kissed he made a little movement as if to release her, but she pressed her face to his chest and began sobbing. He stroked her round back, saying: His eyes, squinting at the desk that had been his partner's, across the room from his own, were angry.
He drew his lips back over his teeth in an impatient grimace and turned his chin aside to avoid contact with the crown of her hat. He grimaced again and bent his head for a surreptitious look at the watch on his wrist. His left arm was around her, the hand on her left shoulder. His cuff was pulled back far enough to leave the watch uncovered. The woman stirred in his arms and raised her face again.
Her blue eyes were wet, round, and white-ringed. Her mouth was moist. Spade stared at her with bulging eyes. His bony jaw fell down. He took his arms from her and stepped back out of her arms. He scowled at her and cleared his throat. She held her arms up as he had left them. Anguish clouded her eyes, partly closed them under eyebrows pulled up at the inner ends.
Her soft damp red lips trembled. Spade laughed a harsh syllable, "Ha! He stood there with his back to her looking through the curtain into the court until she started towards him.
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Then he turned quickly and went to his desk. He sat down, put his elbows on the desk, his chin between his fists, and looked at her. His yellowish eyes glittered between narrowed lids. She came to stand beside the desk, moving with easy sure-footed grace in black slippers whose smallness and heel-height were extreme. He laughed at her, his eyes still glittering. He got up and stood close behind her. He put his arms around her. He kissed her neck between ear and coat-collar.
When she had stopped crying he put his mouth to her ear and murmured: You ought to be home. He kissed her mouth, led her to the door, opened it, said, "Good-bye, Iva," bowed her out, shut the door, and returned to his desk. He took tobacco and cigarette-papers from his vest-pockets, but did not roll a cigarette. He sat holding the papers in one hand, the tobacco in the other, and looked with brooding eyes at his dead partner's desk. Effie Perine opened the door and came in.
Her brown eyes were uneasy. Her voice was careless. The girl frowned and came around to his side. The girl took his hat from his head and put it on the desk. Then she leaned over and took the tobacco-sack and the papers from his inert fingers. When she ignored that question he said: Her thin fingers finished shaping the cigarette. She licked it, smoothed it, twisted its ends, and placed it between Spade's lips.
He said, "Thanks, honey," put an arm around her slim waist, and rested his cheek wearily against her hip, shutting his eyes. The unlighted cigarette bobbed up and down with the movement of his lips. Effie Perine bit her lip, wrinkled her forehead, and, bending over for a better view of his face, asked: Spade sat up straight and took his arm from her waist.
He smiled at her. His smile held nothing but amusement. He took out his lighter, snapped on the flame, and applied it to the end of his cigarette. She smiled a bit wryly. Suppose I told you that your Iva hadn't been home many minutes when I arrived to break the news at three o'clock this morning? I saw her clothes where she had dumped them on a chair.
Her hat and coat were underneath. Her singlet, on top, was still warm. She said she had been asleep, but she hadn't. She had wrinkled up the bed, but the wrinkles weren't mashed down. Spade took the girl's hand and patted it. I don't know how far I talked them out of it. He looked at her and laughed so that for the moment merriment mingled with the anxiety in her face. He sighed mockingly and rubbed his cheek against her arm. I'll be back in an hour, or phone you. Spade went through the St.
Mark's long purplish lobby to the desk and asked a red-haired dandy whether Miss Wonderly was in. The red-haired dandy turned away, and then back shaking his head. Spade walked past the desk to an alcove off the lobby where a plump young-middle-aged man in dark clothes sat at a flat-topped mahogany desk. On the edge of the desk facing the lobby was a triangular prism of mahogany and brass inscribed Mr.
He was in here last night, you know. He was sitting in the lobby when I came in early in the evening. I thought he was probably working and I know you fellows like to be left alone when you're busy. Did that have anything to do with his--? Anyway, we won't mix the house up in it if it can be helped.
Can you give me some dope on an ex-guest, and then forget that I asked for it? Freed nodded and went out of the alcove. In the lobby he halted suddenly and came back to Spade. Shall I caution him not to mention it? Spade looked at Freed from the corners of his eyes. That won't make any difference as long as there's no connection shown with this Wonderly. Harriman's all right, but he likes to talk, and I'd as lief not have him think there's anything to be kept quiet.
She hadn't a trunk, only some bags. There were no phone-calls charged to her room, and she doesn't seem to have received much, if any, mail. The only one anybody remembers having seen her with was a tall dark man of thirty-six or so. She went out at half-past nine this morning, came back an hour later, paid her bill, and had her bags carried out to a car. The boy who carried them says it was a Nash touring car, probably a hired one.
She left a forwarding address--the Ambassador, Los Angeles. When Spade returned to his office Effie Perine stopped typing a letter to tell him: He wanted to look at your guns. You're to ask for Miss Leblanc. Spade said, "Give me," and held out his hand. When she had given him the memorandum he took out his lighter, snapped on the flame, set it to the slip of paper, held the paper until all but one corner was curling black ash, dropped it on the linoleum floor, and mashed it under his shoesole.
Her face was flushed. Her dark red hair, parted on the left side, swept back in loose waves over her right temple, was somewhat tousled. His smile brought a fainter smile to her face. Her eyes, of blue that was almost violet, did not lose their troubled look. She lowered her head and said in a hushed, timid voice: She led him past open kitchen-, bathroom-, and bedroom-doors into a cream and red living-room, apologizing for its confusion: I haven't even finished unpacking.
She laid his hat on a table and sat down on a walnut settee. He sat on a brocaded oval-backed chair facing her. She looked at her fingers, working them together, and said: Spade, I've a terrible, terrible confession to make. Her eyes suddenly lighted up. She lifted herself a few inches from the settee, settled down again, smoothed her skirt, leaned forward, and spoke eagerly: Spade stopped her with a palm-up motion of one hand. The upper part of his face frowned. The lower part smiled. Spade, tell me the truth. Her face had become haggard around desperate eyes. Spade shook his head. Of course you lied to us about your sister and all, but that doesn't count: She said, "Thank you," very softly, and then moved her head from side to side.
Archer was so--so alive yesterday afternoon, so solid and hearty and--". What do you want to do? She put a timid hand on his sleeve. Spade, do they know about me? That's why I've been stalling them till I could see you.
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I thought maybe we wouldn't have to let them know all of it. We ought to be able to fake a story that will rock them to sleep, if necessary. She squirmed on her end of the settee and her eyes wavered between heavy lashes, as if trying and failing to free their gaze from his. She seemed smaller, and very young and oppressed. I can't explain now, but can't you somehow manage so that you can shield me from them, so I won't have to answer their questions? I don't think I could stand being questioned now.
I think I would rather die. She went down on her knees at his knees. She held her face up to him. Her face was wan, taut, and fearful over tight-clasped hands. Look at me, Mr. You know I'm not all bad, don't you? You can see that, can't you? Then can't you trust me a little? Oh, I'm so alone and afraid, and I've got nobody to help me if you won't help me. I know I've no right to ask you to trust me if I won't trust you.
I do trust you, but I can't tell you. I can't tell you now. Later I will, when I can. I'm afraid of trusting you. I don't mean that. I do trust you, but--I trusted Floyd and--I've nobody else, nobody else, Mr. You can help me. You've said you can help me. If I hadn't believed you could save me I would have run away today instead of sending for you. If I thought anybody else could save me would I be down on my knees like this?
I know this isn't fair of me. But be generous, Mr. Spade, don't ask me to be fair. You're strong, you're resourceful, you're brave. You can spare me some of that strength and resourcefulness and courage, surely. Help me because I need help so badly, and because if you don't where will I find anyone who can, no matter how willing? I've no right to ask you to help me blindly, but I do ask you. Spade, who had held his breath through much of this speech, now emptied his lungs with a long sighing exhalation between pursed lips and said: It's chiefly your eyes, I think, and that throb you get into your voice when you say things like 'Be generous, Mr.
She jumped up on her feet. Her face crimsoned painfully, but she held her head erect and she looked Spade straight in the eyes. I do want it, and need it, so much. And the lie was in the way I said it, and not at all in what I said. Brigid O'Shaughnessy went to the table and picked up his hat. She came back and stood in front of him holding the hat, not offering it to him, but holding it for him to take if he wished. Her face was white and thin. I suggested that so Mr. Archer could see him.
We stopped at a restaurant in Geary Street, I think it was, for supper and to dance, and came back to the hotel at about half-past twelve. Floyd left me at the door and I stood inside and watched Mr. Archer follow him down the street, on the other side. It would be nearly a dozen blocks out of his way if he was going from your hotel to his.
Well, what did you do after they had gone? And this morning when I went out for breakfast I saw the headlines in the papers and read about--you know. Then I went up to Union Square, where I had seen automobiles for hire, and got one and went to the hotel for my luggage. After I found my room had been searched yesterday I knew I would have to move, and I had found this place yesterday afternoon.
So I came up here and then telephoned your office. He laughed impatiently and said: Haven't I offered to do what I can? For instance, I've got to have some sort of a line on your Floyd Thursby. He was--he had promised to help me. He took advantage of my helplessness and dependence on him to betray me. He wouldn't even let me know where he was staying. I wanted to find out what he was doing, whom he was meeting, things like that. I know he always carries one there. I didn't see it last night, but I know he never wears an overcoat without it.
There was a story in Hongkong that he had come out there, to the Orient, as bodyguard to a gambler who had had to leave the States, and that the gambler had since disappeared. They said Floyd knew about his disappearing. I do know that he always went heavily armed and that he never went to sleep without covering the floor around his bed with crumpled newspaper so nobody could come silently into his room.
The vertical creases over his nose deepened, drawing his brows together. He took his fingers away from his mouth and ran them through his hair. She looked at him with frightened eyes and shook her head in silence. Her face was haggard and pitifully stubborn. Spade stood up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and scowled down at her.
I don't know what you want done. I don't even know if you know what you want. I've made myself God knows how much trouble standing them off. For some crazy notion that I could help you. All I've got to do is stand still and they'll be swarming all over me. Well, I'll tell them what I know and you'll have to take your chances. She rose from the settee and held herself straight in front of him though her knees were trembling, and she held her white panic-stricken face up high though she couldn't hold the twitching muscles of mouth and chin still.
You've tried to help me. It is hopeless, and useless, I suppose. I--I'll have to take my chances. Spade made the growling animal noise in his throat again and sat down on the settee. The question startled her. Then she pinched her lower lip between her teeth and answered reluctantly: She hesitated, looking timidly at him. He made angry gestures with mouth, eyebrows, hands, and shoulders. She went into her bedroom, returning almost immediately with a sheaf of paper money in one hand.
She looked pleadingly at him. His yellow-grey eyes were hard and implacable. Slowly she put her hand inside the neck of her dress, brought out a slender roll of bills, and put them in his waiting hand. He smoothed the bills out and counted them--four twenties, four tens, and a five.
He returned two of the tens and the five to her. The others he put in his pocket. Then he stood up and said: I'll be back as soon as I can with the best news I can manage. I'll ring four times--long, short, long, short--so you'll know it's me. You needn't go to the door with me. I can let myself out. The red-haired girl at the switchboard said: He stood beside her with a hand on her plump shoulder while she manipulated a plug and spoke into the mouthpiece: Spade to see you, Mr. He squeezed her shoulder by way of acknowledgment, crossed the reception-room to a dully lighted inner corridor, and passed down the corridor to a frosted glass door at its far end.
He opened the frosted glass door and went into an office where a small olive-skinned man with a tired oval face under thin dark hair dotted with dandruff sat behind an immense desk on which bales of paper were heaped. The small man flourished a cold cigar-stub at Spade and said: So Miles got the big one last night? Can I hide behind the sanctity of my clients' secrets and identities and what-not, all the same priest or lawyer?
Sid Wise lifted his shoulders and lowered the ends of his mouth. An inquest is not a court-trial. Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, et al wrote books in this style and Humphrey Bogart was one of the biggest stars. Six short, humorous stories of Em Spayed, basset hound detective, as she takes on crime in the Los Angeles of the 's - 's. Read more Read less. English Similar books to Em Spade: Product description Product Description In the nineteen forties and fifties, Hollywood released a plethora of low budget crime pictures shot in black and white, featuring dark plots and hard-boiled detectives, policemen and flawed heroes and heroines.
Kindle Edition File Size: Rosewood Enterprises 25 February Sold by: Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a product review. Most helpful customer reviews on Amazon. I've always been a big fan of film noir. My other love is animals I snatched it up as soon as I saw it and thoroughly enjoyed it.