“Mrs. Eberhard, meet Sid Wise, your new attorney.” They both looked surprised, but Wise extended his hand.
“Delighted, Mrs. Eberhard,” he said.
She was looking at Spade with fire in her eyes.
“I did not come here to hire an attorney, Mr. Spade.”
“You can expect client-attorney confidentiality even if you later decide to seek other counsel,” said Wise.
She sat down, removed her stylish clipped velour hat. It also was black, but without the widow’s veil that was de rigueur for mourning. She crossed her legs, showing knee.
“Isn’t anyone going to offer me a cigar?”
Spade gravely brought a corona del Ritz from his inner suit-coat pocket. He offered it to her with a flourish.
“George Sand to the very end,” he observed.
She took the cigar with a low laugh.
“How sweet. You remembered.” Spade gave a slight bow. He was holding his lighter to the tip of the corona when she said, “All right, who was his mistress and where can I find her?”
“Forget the mistress. She’s irrelevant.”
Abruptly, any playfulness Evelyn had shown was gone. She started to rise, said angrily, “This meeting is over.”
“Sit down,” snapped Spade, sudden iron in his voice.
She looked astounded. Sid Wise looked astounded. But she sat back down. Spade stood, started to lift his briefcase.
“Since I don’t represent Mrs. Eberhard,” Wise said quickly, “I have to see these papers before you show them to her.”
“You’re now my attorney,” she said just as quickly.
“I withdraw my offer of representation,” said Wise.
“Jesus God!” Spade burst out. He leaned his hips against the windowsill so he could take in the lawyer and the widow. Then he pointed at Evelyn. “All you want to do is get back at the girl who stole your favorite toy.” He pointed at Wise. “You, you’re afraid of losing your license. Neither one of you seems to give a damn about what the mistress has to say about Eberhard’s death.”
Evelyn began, “My husband was not a toy. That woman—”
“—can give testimony proving he was murdered. Not by you.”
The words hung in the air for long moments before Wise demanded, “How?” at the same time Evelyn demanded, “Who?”
“How? Poison. Opium in his drink at the Neptune Bath House. Who? Devlin St. James.”
They looked at each other blankly. Wise said, “Who’s he?”
The widow said, “Why did he do it?”
“Why do they always do it? For the money.”
“Wait a minute, Sam.” Sid’s lawyer’s mind seemed to be getting belatedly back in gear. “Why do you posit murder, and why opium? There was no indication of poison in the autopsy.”
“Four years ago the Marin County coroner found opium in two dead men. He did a good job; it can’t always be found.”
“Ah.” Wise eased back in his swivel chair. “The San Anselmo heist. I see. Devlin St. James is St. Clair McPhee.”
“Yeah. I finally have a chance of sticking him with those four murders from back then with this murder now.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Evelyn weakly.
Spade got his briefcase. “You don’t have to. Let’s go.”
As the trio went past him, the young man who had been a teller the last time Spade had officially been in California-Citizens Bank started up from his chair.
“Wait! You aren’t allowed in there.”
But Spade had flung open the door to Eberhard’s office and the others had crowded in behind. Spaulding stood up from behind Eberhard’s desk. His face was red with anger. He barked at the bewildered young man behind them, “Call the guards!” To Spade he blustered, “We’ll see what the bank’s attorneys have to say about this outrage.” He reached for the phone.
“Why don’t you stamp your foot?” said Evelyn Eberhard.
“As her husband’s heir,” said Spade, “and thus majority stockholder in this bank, Mrs. Eberhard is replacing you and all of the other officials, effective immediately.”
“But she isn’t the bank’s majority stockholder,” said Spaulding with a suddenly smug look on his face. He turned to Evelyn, who was still gaping at Spade. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Eberhard, but the bank felt that the terms of your husband’s last will and testament made it too delicate for disclosure at this time. Since you’re here, however, I can tell you that the will leaves you the house, but his holdings in the bank go to—”
“To his widow, like the will says,” said Spade.
“I don’t know how you learned of the first will, but that will was superseded by one dated just a week before Mr. Eberhard’s death.”
From his briefcase Spade brought out a sheaf of papers like a magician bringing a rabbit out of a top hat and tossed them on the table. Wise sat down, looking numb. Spaulding was still standing, looking indignant.
“Here’s the original,” Spade said. “And the forged one you’ve been planning to palm off on everyone as genuine.”
“That’s impossible!” Spaulding was feverishly unlocking desk drawers. “You — you burgled this office! The police—”
“Mrs. Eberhard, was I acting with your permission when I secured these documents for safekeeping?”
“Certainly,” said Evelyn Eberhard.
“How big a piece of the pie did St. James offer you to help steal the bank away from her, Spaulding?” asked Spade.
“That is a libelous canard that—”
“Not that it matters. Within the hour St. James will be arrested for committing five murders, and you will be arrested as accessory before and after the fact of one of them.”
“Fi— five murders?” Spaulding’s face had turned ashen. He sank back down in the swivel chair.
“Get out from behind my desk!” snapped Evelyn Eberhard.
Spade laughed aloud. “Never get between a widow and her husband’s money.”
She shot Spade an angry look, then had to chuckle herself. Numbly, Spaulding obeyed her. Evelyn sat down in his place. There was ownership in her movements.
“Five murders,” repeated Spade. “Eberhard and four men in Sausalito four years ago. There’s no statute of limitations on homicide.” He cocked a heel on the desktop, looked at Spaulding. “You might have a chance to get out from under the murder-accessory rap for a lesser charge of embezzlement if you turn up St. James for us — right now. Otherwise Mrs. Eberhard will bring civil suit against you for... what, Sid?”
“Fiduciary mismanagement for a start.” Wise warmed to his task. “There are some interesting statutes that—”
“Eleven fifty-five Leavenworth,” said Spaulding very quickly. “Third floor, rear corner apartment. He... he’s waiting for my call about finalizing the money transfers.”
“Damn!” Spade was at the desk, snatching up the phone. To central he snapped, “Connect me to the Homicide Detail in the Hall of Justice. Quick.” His hand over the receiver, he said to Evelyn, “Your husband’s love nest...”
He removed his hand.
“Tom? Get over to eleven fifty-five Leavenworth, right now... Yeah, that’s right, up behind Grace Cathedral. Go in quiet but go in quick. The murderer of Collin Eberhard is in the third-floor rear corner apartment, waiting for a telephone call... Yeah, I’m sure. Bird calling himself Devlin St. James... That’s right... St. James. Also, under the name St. Clair McPhee he’s good for that slaughter over in Sausalito four years ago. Surround the place before you go in or he’ll give you the slip. Don’t let Dundy hog all the glory.”