“I do not recall any appointment with anyone named Spade.”
Spade laid one of his business cards on the desk.
Spaulding read it, began shaking his head slowly. Perspiration shone on his forehead. His narrow mouth had gotten more and more pursed, as if he were tasting a lemon.
Spade said, “I have been hired to arrange a time when Mr. Eberhard’s personal and business records may be examined. She — ah, my client has a legitimate interest in these affairs.”
“She does not! No one outside this bank does. Bank records are always kept confidential. Always.”
“Not from Eberhard’s heir,” said Spade coldly.
Spaulding’s face cleared. He said in an almost smug voice, “The police have instructed us to open Mr. Eberhard’s records to no one until their investigation is complete.”
“This morning Lieutenant Dundy of the Homicide Detail told me the Eberhard matter was ‘dead and buried.’ His words.” Spade was genial. “So the bank has no legitimate reason to sequester the records from” — a pause for emphasis — “my client.”
Spaulding was shaking his head again, this time stubbornly.
“Let her take it up with our attorneys.”
Spade stood, nodded pleasantly, put on his hat. “If I have to take more direct steps you will find them very distressing.”
Spaulding was on his feet also, face flushed. “Are you making veiled threats against me? Against this financial institution? I’ll have you know that...”
But Spade had walked away, leaving the banker rigid behind his desk, haranguing thin air. The old guard opened the door, said out of the side of his mouth, “Nasty sort, ain’t he?”
Spade grinned. “So am I, my friend.”
As he started up California Street, a swaggering Italian youth hopped off a streetcar while it was still moving. Spade hunched as if lighting a cigarette so he could watch the youth trot slantwise across California to the bank.
“Lemme in, you old goat,” he yelled at the guard.
“Gino Mechetti,” muttered Spade. “After hours at that.”
It was after 6 when he got back to his office. There was an orderly sheaf of folded newspaper pages on the front corner of his desk, with a note: “Collin Eberhard coverage to date.” Beside it were four memo slips with messages and phone numbers on them. Standing beside the desk he flicked through them, apparently found nothing of importance, tossed them aside.
Spade left the office with the newspapers folded under one arm. On Market he caught an F car up Stockton, got off at Broadway. At O Sole Mio at 506 Broadway, a small Italian restaurant redolent with garlic and spices, he checked his hat and bundle of newspapers with the coat-check girl. A wide, curly-haired man named Romeo Mechetti came trotting up to shake Spade’s hand, then took him by the elbow to lead him to a table.
“Mama, she ask, ‘Why Sam never come see us no more since we open up our new place here?’ ”
“Got a living to make, Romeo,” said Spade. “It looks like you’re doing well up here above Chinatown.”
“Wait till you taste the food,” boasted Romeo.
Dinner was forty-five cents. It was good and there was plenty of it. Spade made up for his missed lunch with a salad; an antipasto platter of salami, celery, olives, carrots, and peppers; ravioli; tripe with sausage and beans. He drank red wine served in a coffee cup, as was usual at the North Beach family-owned Italian cafés, to disguise that the cup held vino, not coffee.
People ate, laughed, talked loudly, smoked until the air was heavy with fumes. Spade contributed his share, finished with genuine coffee and homemade cookies. Twice Romeo came by to chat; the second time he sat down.
“I never got no chance to thank you, Mr. Spade.”
“Thank me for what?”
“For what you done for my oldest boy, Gino. Since he got out he’s going straight.” Romeo clapped Spade on the back. “Best thing ever happened to him, you sending him away for those two years on that warehouse break-in. Now he’s got a real job, night-time security at a bank.”
“That’s good news, Romeo.” Spade seemed struck by a sudden thought. “You know, if you tell Gino to come by my office, I might have a little day work for him as well. He can make a buck or two.” He winked. “An honest buck or two.”
“Ei, Sam, gli piacerebbe!“ Romeo gave a great laugh. “Scusi, sometimes I forgetta you no Italian. Gino, I tell him to come by your office.”
Soon after, Spade retrieved hat and newspapers. He got off the Stockton car at Sutter, rode the trolley out to Hyde, walked down the steep incline to 891 Post. The clanking, groaning elevator deposited him at the fourth floor. Spade went around the corner and down the hall.
In the corner apartment he had rented the year before, Spade hung his hat and topcoat on hooks behind the door, went down a short hall that right-angled into the living room, switched on the white bowl light hanging from three gilded chains in the center of the ceiling. He tossed his newspapers on the sofa under the Post Street window.
From the kitchen he got a wine glass and a bottle of Bacardi. He set them on the floor beside a padded rocker angled in the corner, sat down, poured, sipped, rolled a cigarette. Only then did he start going through his sheaf of newspapers.
The battered alarm clock on the table in the far corner of the room read 1:22 when Spade tossed the last of the papers aside. The clock rested on Criminal Investigation: A Practical Handbook by the Austrian criminal investigator Hans Gross, published in English in London the year before.
Spade stood up, stretched, yawned, and groaned.
“Waste of time,” he muttered to himself.
He got green-and-white pajamas from the closet, went into the bathroom for his ablutions, came out wearing the pajamas, and lowered the wall bed. He turned out the overhead light, wound the alarm clock, and threw open both windows. Shocking gusts of cold fog-laden air swept in, bringing with it the mournful bellow of the Alcatraz foghorn. He was soon asleep.
18
Drawing Blood
When Spade came into his office the next morning Miles Archer had a hip hooked over the corner of Effie Perine’s desk, was leaning his jovial red face down close to hers, chuckling at something he was telling her.
“So the girl says to him, ‘I don’t drink anything but champagne, and he says—’ ”
“ ‘Lo, Miles,” said Spade. “When did you hit town?” Archer quickly straightened up like an errant schoolboy, paused, extended his hand. Behind his back Effie Perine was making exaggerated faces of relief. Spade and Archer shook.
“Two days ago. Iva’s with me. We came down to see my brother Phil over in the East Bay.”
“I see you’ve met my secretary, Effie Perine.” Archer looked over appreciatively at her. “Sure did.” He invested his comment with more meaning than his words carried. He turned back. “Ah... Iva asked could we buy you dinner tonight?”
Spade shrugged. “Sure. I’ll pick the spot.”
They talked for another minute as Spade walked him to the door. They shook hands again, then he was gone.
“How do you know him?” Effie Perine asked in a neutral voice.
“He’s with Burns up in Seattle. He’s good at taking down Commies on the docks. You want to come with us tonight—”
“I’ve got a date to go dancing,” she said too quickly.
Spade chuckled and went into his private office.
Gino Mechetti was in his mid-twenties, olive skinned with high cheekbones, black snapping eyes, and a mop of raven-black curls. He wore a cheap, flashy tie and a bright polo sweater under his suit coat. He turned to appreciate Effie Perine leaving Spade’s office, then turned back to the desk.