“I was, for one,” said Barber unexpectedly. “Collin looked glum when he arrived, but not suicidal. And after he talked with some chap off in the corner he looked like his horse had come in at Tanforan. Got out his bottle, insisted we all have a drink with him.” He shook his head. “No. No suicide there.”
“Poison in his drink?”
“Hell, man, we all drank from the same bottle. We’d have all gone down. Do you have a single fact that says it was not from natural causes?”
“Yeah, two. First, the man who was huddled off in the corner with Eberhard. He drank with you, easy to drop something into Eberhard’s glass. I bet you don’t even know his name.”
Barber was frowning, enmity forgotten.
“Now I think of it, it’s strange Collin didn’t introduce him.”
“A week before Eberhard died this guy was at the house. In the study. Evelyn Eberhard heard raised voices but no words. I think he was in business with Eberhard.”
Barber shook his head contemptuously. “That gigolo?”
“Second, Cal-Cit won’t open Eberhard’s financial records.”
“Damn it, man, the tabloids—”
“—will be yelling about some other crisis in the body politic in another week.”
Barber shook his head. “Bankers are notoriously conservative, Spade, and adverse publicity is bad for business.”
“Why not at least open the books for the cops? They’re good at keeping secrets for the power people in this town.”
“Since there is no active investigation of Collin’s death, the police couldn’t get a judge to issue a warrant.”
“What about your precious Banking Commission?”
“Like the D.A., we have no probable cause for such a demand. California-Citizens Bank is solvent. And powerful.”
“Why refuse his widow access to her husband’s accounts? She’s his heir after all.” Spade paused, a suddenly speculative look on his face. “She is his heir, isn’t she?”
“Of course she’s his heir. Who else could it be? The will hasn’t been made public, but I’m sure Evelyn... Hmph. Damned odd Evelyn hasn’t mentioned it to Rose, now you say it. She could initiate legal action to become administratrix of Collin’s affairs, but it would be messy... damned messy.”
“I spoke with her about that. She doesn’t want to do it.”
Barber looked relieved again.
“Tell you what, Spade. I’ll drop by California-Citizens informally, have a chat with Vice President Spaulding. Banker to banker, learn what I can. He’s acting president for the moment. Evelyn at least should be able to see those records.”
As Spade emerged into Montgomery Street, a low voice called urgently behind him.
“Mr. Spade.”
It was Henny Barber, no longer the gangly kid Spade had hauled out of the San Anselmo’s lifeboat four years before. Now a sturdy youth of twenty-one, conservatively dressed. He grabbed Spade’s hand and wrung it with a ferocious fervor.
“I heard you’d been summoned by Pater for a dressing-down.” He drew Spade almost furtively up the street. “I’m dying of boredom and I’m hoping there is something, anything, I can do to help you in your investigation of Mr. Eberhard’s death.”
“Aren’t you already working at Golden Gate Trust?”
“Not a real position. Just looking over shoulders.”
“You knew the Eberhards, didn’t you?”
“He was an unofficial uncle when I was growing up. I liked him.” Henny grinned. “I like Aunt Ev a lot better.”
“OK,” said Spade. “You want to help, go get a tellertrainee job at California-Citizens Bank. Tell your old man you want to try it there — but don’t tell him it came from me.”
His face lit up. “Undercover? At Uncle Collin’s bank?”
“Just for a few days. When can you be in place?”
“Tomorrow. Banks always need tellers.”
“Don’t be disappointed if nothing happens,” said Spade.
Effie Perine, watering the vase of African violets she kept on her desk, answered Spade’s inevitable “Any calls?” with “Three, nothing important. But a beautiful Chinese girl was in.”
His eyes quickened. “Chinese? They usually go to their own people for help. She want an appointment? Leave a name?”
“No appointment. She said her name was Mai-lin Choi and that she is here on a student permit that’s running out. She has to go back — to China, I guess — but said she’d return.”
“That sounds straight enough. The Chinese Exclusion Act bars all Chinese except teachers and students and diplomats and the clergy from entering the country from China. I doubt we’ll hear from her again.”
He made a beckoning gesture, went into his private office.
“How was your lunch with Penny?”
Effie Perine didn’t meet his eyes. “I had a sandwich at my desk. She had to get to work.”
“That’s it? Open up. It’s like pulling teeth.”
“She is playing some game, isn’t she?” Her face was troubled. “She told me the same things she told you and said she’ll come in tomorrow morning again to find out if you learn anything tonight. She promised no more games.”
“Still a believer?”
“She’s honestly scared, Sam.” She made a visible effort to change topics. “How did it go with Barber?”
“That fire’s out.” He smiled without mirth. “He’s going to talk to Cal-Cit Bank tomorrow. Did you get the merry widow?”
“The housekeeper said she was out.”
“Keep trying.”
Effie Perine returned to the outer office. Spade smoked cigarettes, various expressions passing across his face. He finally left, stopping at Effie Perine’s desk to tell her he’d make sure that no terrible Turks were following Penny that night.
22
Everybody Lies
Spade was in a coffee shop across Montgomery when Penny Chiotras emerged from the Russ Building’s ornate front entrance at 5:07 p.m. She went down to Bush, turned toward Grant Avenue and the Gypsy Tea Shop. No one followed her, not even Spade. He left a dime on the counter, dodged quitting-time traffic to the Russ Building to consult the directory beside the elevator bank.
“Six, please.”
Spade left the elevator, went down the sixth-floor hall to a lighted pebbled-glass door that read HARTFORD & COLE in blocky capitals, with STOCKS AND BONDS below in smaller cursive writing.
A tall sharp-featured dark-haired man already wearing his hat was coming from an inner office, pulling on a tweed topcoat.
“I was hoping to catch one of your employees before she left,” said Spade. “Penny Chiotras.”
“Sorry, chap, you’re a month too late.” He belatedly stuck out his hand. “Desmond Cole, junior partner of the firm.”
Spade shook. “Eric Gough.”
“Like the street?”
“He was a great-uncle.”
“Native son? A rarity. Anyway, Penny’s mother died, she had to relocate to Brentwood over in the East Bay to look after her aging father. We hated to lose her. Penny was a whiz.”
“My secretary quit, and I remembered Collin Eberhard some time ago was raving about how competent Miss Chiotras was.” Spade smiled ruefully. “I was hoping to steal her from you.”
“Penny started out as a secretary right enough, but she soon became a de facto broker, near as damn to swearing. We were urging her to get her own license when she had to leave. We specialize in timber and mineral stocks — copper, tin, silver, and gold, and she had the touch. She handled some of Collin’s speculative gold-mining stocks and his bank prospered mightily because of her during the past four years—” He broke off, looking guilty. “I shouldn’t be telling you all of this, but I guess it doesn’t matter now that Eberhard is dead and Penny has moved on.”