“Don’t you dare!” Her eyes were flashing. “It would be a — a betrayal of trust.”
“Like all the trust she’s giving me? Nu-uh, sister.”
“So that’s it? That’s all you’re going to do for her?”
“Are all Greeks as hard to get along with as you are?” asked Spade. “I’ll follow her again tonight, just to make sure.”
The phone rang. Effie Perine reached across the desk, picked up the receiver, said, “Samuel Spade Investigations.” She listened for a moment, said, “I’ll see if he’s come in yet,” put her hand over the mouthpiece, said, “Ray Kentzler.”
Spade took the phone. “Jovanen finally figure out that I’m on the payroll?”
“He did indeed, and hit the roof. Even wanted me to pay you out of my own pocket! I talked him out of that, but you’re off the case.”
“You’re the one wanted me on it.”
“I was tilting at windmills.”
“Well, I’ve got a couple of feelers out, but since I don’t work for you anymore, Ray, I’ll just have to let ’em drop.”
He hung up. Effie Perine was wide-eyed.
“You quit?”
“Was fired.” Without a pause he said, “Those Cal-Cit bank records are the key, darling. They’d tell us what we really have to know: did Eberhard suddenly go broke, and if he did, why?”
“What difference does it make? We don’t have a client.”
“Give the merry widow a call, tell her I need her backing to get into those bank records if I’m going to find out the truth about how and why her husband died and be able to prove he didn’t commit suicide. Tell her I’ll find the mistress at the same time.”
The phone rang again. Effie Perine went through her standard formula, again covered the mouthpiece, said, “Charles Hendrickson Barber this time, sounding angry.”
He took the phone from her, said into it, “It’s Spade.”
The banker’s voice was cold and tight.
“I’m calling you on behalf of the Banking Commission, Spade. We want to know what the devil you’re playing at.”
“Yes, nice to hear from you too, Mr. Barber. I’ll be at your office in half an hour.” He hung up without waiting for a reply. “Progress,” he told Effie Perine. “I’ll get more out of Barber than he’ll get out of me.” He was on his feet. “Your Penny’s coming in this morning to find out if I saw anyone shadowing her last night. Tell her no, but that I’ll try again tonight. Tell her no more silly little tricks like ditching me. See can you get her to open up about a few things. Maybe take her to lunch for a nice girl-to-girl chat.”
21
That Fire’s Out
Tobias Krieger led Spade through the labyrinth of bank offices to the door bearing the legend:
In four years the minor bank official’s pencil mustache had flourished and thickened over his pink upper lip. He knocked on Barber’s door. A voice rumbled from within. Krieger opened it. Barber, now sixty-four, was still walrus mustached, distinguished, tall, thick. He stood up behind his ten-foot-long teak desk and bellowed.
“Get out!”
Krieger evaporated. Spade crossed to the padded hardwood chair in front of the desk, sat down.
“It’s been what, Charles? A bit over four years?”
“Goddamn your insolence, Spade!”
Spade leaned forward, took a cigar from the box on Barber’s desk, sniffed it, took out his penknife, cut off the end, and lit it with the fancy lighter on the desk.
“Insolence? I don’t work for you. I don’t work for your bank. I don’t work for the Banking Commission.”
Barber slowly sat back down, still outraged. “One phone call to City Hall and you don’t work for anybody, Spade.”
“If it comforts you to think so.” Spade leaned back, blew luxurious smoke into the air. “But I’m the boy who kept your son out of trouble and your family name out of the newspapers.”
“That was four years ago. I don’t owe you a thing now.”
“Tell your wife that.”
“Leave Rose out of this! She has nothing to do with it.”
“If it comforts you to think so.” Spade made as if to rise. “Just leave me out of it too, Barber.”
“Sit down, damn it, man.” The banker’s voice had taken on a querulous note. “I’m under a lot of pressure on this. You running all over town asking questions, alienating people, upsetting people—”
“Somebody has to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Eberhard’s death. Who else is doing anything about it?”
Barber was getting hot again.
“I resent your implication, sir! Collin Eberhard was a great good friend of mine, and poor Evelyn is a dear friend of my Rose. If there was something irregular about his death I would be the first one urging a full investigation. The very first. But that is not the case. The coroner’s jury returned a verdict of death by strictly natural causes.”
Spade puffed his cigar. “You mean that a roomful of Eberhard’s cronies returned a finding of death by natural causes so his widow would get that big insurance payout.”
“Collin had an eye for the ladies and led Evelyn a pretty dance over the years with his string of mistresses. It’s only right she should be... comfortable now.”
“Who was the most recent one?” Spade asked it idly.
“A gentleman doesn’t inquire into such things.”
“Was Eberhard ruined financially?”
“Not Collin! He was addicted to gold speculation, but—”
“Gold specie, like the San Anselmo’s missing gold coins?”
“Of course not. And don’t tell me you’re still looking for the San Anselmo gold four years later.”
“I’m still looking for the man who stole it.”
Barber chuckled. “Well, it wasn’t Collin. He speculated in gold-mining stocks, and he was shrewd, no man shrewder.”
“If he was ruined, somebody was shrewder.”
“Damnable lies by the tabloids.” Barber made a sweeping gesture. “You aren’t stirring up this mud for the newspapers, are you, Spade? No one else could have any reason to hire you.”
“So all of this bellowing and blustering is to find out who I’m working for? You should have just asked.” Spade knocked ash off his cigar. “Until two hours ago, Ray Kentzler at Bankers’ Life. Now, nobody. Jovanen canned me.”
“But— but—” Barber was almost stuttering. “Jovanen was asking the commission if we had hired you.”
“Jovanen didn’t know. Kentzler hired me under the table to find out if there was something fishy about Eberhard’s death.”
Barber leaned back, hands laced across his middle, and said in a relieved voice, “Then that’s the end of it.”
“Nope. The cops have closed the file on Eberhard’s death and someone with a lot of influence is trying to keep it closed. When I started asking questions everyone was suddenly shy, or had amnesia, or was hostile. The coroner says natural causes, hands me off to his troubleshooter. The insurance company finds out I’m working for them and fires me. California-Citizens throws me out on my ear. Now you tell me the Banking Commission wants me to desist. And the Neptune Bath House won’t even tell me which of Eberhard’s pals were with him on the day he died.”