19
The Chest of Bergina
Spade and the Archers were at a front corner table for four in Julius Castle on Telegraph Hill. Far below, the ferryboats were toys moving between the Ferry Building and the Oakland and Sausalito ferry terminals. Lights glittered over the water from Berkeley and Emeryville. Above rose the round turretlike wooden structure that gave the restaurant its name. Iva Archer sighed.
“It’s very beautiful, Sam,” she said in a wistful voice.
“No prettier than Elliott Bay up at Seattle,” boomed Archer.
“Oh, Miles, hush,” she said.
“I wouldn’t argue with you,” said Spade.
They were each having the two-dollar dinner, Iva the fillet of sole with sauce Julius, Spade the tenderloin steak with zucchini Florentine, Archer the lamb chops.
Archer poured more Riesling into each of their glasses, leaned back, and patted his belly.
“You can sure pick the good places to eat, Sam.”
Spade leaned forward to light Iva’s cigarette, leaned back and drifted smoke into the air. “How’s your brother Phil?”
“Got all the work he can handle,” said Archer.
“Lawyer, isn’t he?” asked Spade.
“He wants Miles to come down here and go in with him,” said Iva. “Do all of his investigative work.”
“Or I might transfer down with Burns. Like you transferred up to Seattle with Continental before the war, Sam.”
“Well, good luck with whatever you decide,” said Spade.
“You know, seeing your office today, Sam, maybe I ought to go out on my own like you did.” He winked. “Get a pretty little girl to do all my — ah, paperwork...” He leaned forward, suddenly serious. “You ever think of taking in a partner, Sam?”
Spade shook his head. “Nope,” he said.
It was midafternoon when Spade stopped at Effie Perine’s desk to ask his standard, “Any calls?” She looked up and shook her head, then raised a detaining hand when he started toward the closed door of his inner office. He stopped abruptly, scowling.
“It’s not Miles Archer, is it? You know better than to put anyone in there when I’m not around.”
“Not Archer. A — a friend. Of mine.”
Spade dragged the other chair over to sit down.
“OK, sweetheart, out with it.”
Fingering the little jeweled gold locket she always wore, Effie Perine looked up at him, looked away almost shyly.
“Remember the day you found me mooning over this locket and I showed you how it folded open into a sort of cloverleaf—”
“With pictures of your mother and your father and their wedding day. Sure, I remember.”
“And a picture of my best friend...”
“Penny... Penny Chiotras. Penelope. She’s six years older than you, right? Like a big sister to you.” Off her surprised look, he added with a grin, “I never forget a pretty face.”
“She’s not just pretty. She’s beautiful. You’ll see.”
He frowned, gestured at the closed door to his office. “So she’s the one who—”
“Yes. She showed up at my birthday party on Saturday. She looked terrible, haunted, like she wanted to look over her shoulder all the time. I got her alone and finally got her to admit that a sinister Turk has been following her.”
“A Turk.” Spade said it flatly.
“In Greece, Dad and Penny’s father had opposed the Turks, like everyone else. But her father was a true revolutionary; he fought as an andarte. They’re sort of bandits. After the war ended he went back to fight them again, and regularly sent money to her mother until he was killed, at Smyrna in nineteen twenty-two. I think it was stolen Turkish money, so it stopped and she had to take in boarders to make ends meet. That’s when Penny moved out so there’d be another room to rent, and found a job. Something secretarial, she said. We always knew she was all right because she makes those regular deposits into her mother’s account. But nobody knows where she lives or works, and I hadn’t seen her since — until the party on Saturday.”
“She told you about this Turk and you believe her.”
Effie Perine raised a defiant chin. “Of course I believe her. She doesn’t so much see him as feel him behind her in the street. And she can’t tell me where she’s working or living, not now. It wouldn’t be safe for her or for me if I knew.”
“Everybody lies, darling. You just have to keep chipping away at them until they wear down and finally get so tired that they end up telling you the truth.”
“She’s not lying. She’s truly frightened.”
“How do we get from there to her hiding in my office?”
She met his yellowish eyes with her clear brown ones and said in a sudden defiant rush of words, “Not hiding. I told her you could help her, and she showed up after you went out and I was afraid she might not come back later, so I told her to wait in there, out of sight.” Effie Perine impulsively reached a hand toward his arm, withdrew it. “Just help her, Sam. Please.”
“If she’ll tell me enough of the truth so I know what’s going on.” He checked his watch. “Go on home, sweetheart. I’ll talk to your Penny. Just don’t come around bellyaching if things go bad later on.”
Penny Chiotras started up from the client’s chair beside Spade’s desk, embarrassment giving added color to her cheeks. She was quick of movement, with huge brown eyes and long, utterly black hair. Her face was strong boned yet softly feminine. She wore a stylish brown and tan satin frock with embroidery and an antique-looking Greek coin as a buckle ornament.
“Effie told me it was all right to wait in here for you.” Her voice was low, throaty, well modulated. “But I’m afraid that I’m imposing dreadfully on you, Mr. Spade.”
Spade, at his most bland, bowed slightly to her as he took the hand she held out to him. Her palm was dry, her grip strong. The little finger of her left hand had been broken and set badly. He went around his desk to his swivel chair, waved her back into the oaken armchair from which she had risen.
“No imposition, Miss Chiotras, you being Effie’s best friend and all.” His words seemed utterly sincere, but his eyes were assessing. “She said you were being followed by a sinister man.”
Even white teeth glinted between full parted lips.
“Hearing you say it makes it sound very melodramatic.”
Spade smiled pleasantly, making all of the V’s in his long face longer. He put his elbows on the desk blotter, tented his fingers in front of his chin, and was silent. The silence became demanding.
“I–I think I am being followed after work by a man who looks... foreign to me. I almost see him out of the corner of my eye just disappearing around a corner, if that makes any sense.”
“Sure it does. Effie said you think he’s a Turk.”
“He’s not wearing a red fez and slippers with curled-up toes and a scimitar in a sash at his waist, if that’s what you mean. But, yes, a man with black hair and a swarthy face and glittery eyes.”
“Why a Turk? Why not a Russian or Syrian or Montenegrin?”
“You’re laughing at me,” she said.
Spade’s smile again lengthened the V’s in his face. “Not even if I felt like it.” Then he repeated, “Why a Turk?”
“Because of the chest of Bergina. It’s spelled B-e-r-g-i-n-a, but b in Greek is spoken as v, so it’s pronounced Vergina. It’s supposed to be a gold-bound metal box.”
Spade picked up a pencil, drew a pad toward himself. “The chest of Bergina.” His eyes had gotten very attentive, but his voice was flat, without nuance. “What’s supposed to be in it?”